PleshaCore

By Micah R. Sisk

They tell him his name is Captain Pierre Jacobs of the Merchant Corps rigger TH-2401. OK. So why the hell has he just woken up in the body of a lesbian who people keep calling Mrs. Magdalene Benson?

He’s also told that after a long journey through hyperspace with his mind digitally stored in TH-2401’s virtual reality “womb,” he and his crew have had their minds reintegrated with physically ideal cloned bodies—“knockouts”—on a decadent pleasure planet called PleshaCore for one month of anything-goes R&R.

But there’s a catch: Mother, TH-2401’s AI overseer, demands to know why the fundamentalist theocratic corporate-state Terra Corporation is paying for this morally repugnant R&R. Captain Jacobs must find the answer or Mother will cancel all planet leave, and yet he doesn't even know who he is.

Prescribed medication for his memory loss and ostensibly married to his ship’s first mate, Captain Jacobs decides to enjoy himself until his memories fully return. That enjoyment comes to an abrupt end, however, with a series of rapid and disturbing shocks: mysterious kidnappers, assassins claiming to be him, betrayal by loved ones, and a growing paranoia that he may not be Captain Jacobs after all—or even genuinely human. Assisted by Alan Willsham Ortmeyer, a former sea captain turned innkeeper, Captain Jacobs must work his way through a tangled web of conspiracy, covert operations and obfuscations while struggling with a shifting sense of his own identity and gender.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Micah R. Sisk
• Release date: Jan 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311717986

Micah R. Sisk

Micah R. Sisk was born at the U.S. Army medical hospital in Landstuhl, West Germany (there was a West Germany at the time) in 1958, and has lived most of his life since in Frederick County, Maryland, U.S.A. After a close encounter with Engineering, Micah received a Bachelor of Science degree in Art from Virginia Tech. He now makes his living as a database analyst at a major U.S. corporation, while in other incarnations he is, or has been, a landscape painter, real estate agent, assistant gallery director, retail sales manager, microfilm quality control tech, musician, composer, and builder of electronic musical instruments.Micah is married with cat(s) and is often seen puttering around Frederick, Maryland on his bicycle, hanging out at coffee houses reading and writing science fiction tales.

Book preview

PLESHACORE

—A Merchant Corps History Novel—

By Micah R. Sisk

Copyright © 2013 & 2015 by Micah R. Sisk.

Published by Micah R. Sisk at Smashwords

Cover design by Damonza

Smashwords Edition

ISBN – 9781311717986

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. So let it be written. So let it be done.

The right of Micah R. Sisk to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

To K.K.P., and in memory of Philip K. Dick’s missing robotic head.

Table of Contents

Title & Copyright

Dedication

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

About the Merchant Corps Histories

About The Author

Other Works by Micah R. Sisk

Chapter I

…section is the White Paper report: raw data only, that’s why it’s so large. This section is the Green Paper report. As usual, it contains the full analysis of your reintegration. Pretty standard stuff really, I’m sure you’ve been through all this a hundred times before.

The nurse helped him flip through the stack of papers on his lap in a hurried but business–like manner. This was a mandatory process, repeated by the nurse many times throughout her day. She looked up at him to make sure he didn’t need her to slow down—some visitors, no doubt, actually wanted to review their reintegration reports. She stopped, stared into his eyes with concern, though her sense of haste did not disappear. Mrs. Benson, are you alright? You seem confused.

Mrs. Benson. Was she talking to him? She was certainly staring at him. Why had she just called him Mrs. Benson?

Now, the Blue Paper report, of course, contains all the required legal disclaimers and accreditations, the nurse continued as if she hadn’t asked a question at all. We may be outside Terra Corporation’s rule of law, but we still have to abide by interplanetary copyright agreements. She smiled at him with practiced humor, then let the smile drop into a professional frown, a slight rise coming to one eyebrow. Oh, dear. You really are still out of it aren’t you? The nurse hefted the stack of multi–colored reports off his lap and turned them around so she could leaf through them herself.

Opening the Pink Paper report, she ran her finger quickly down and then across several lines of type, reading to herself silently.

Flip, flip, flip.

Repeated the process on a different page.

Flip, flip.

A small powder–blue note appeared, stuck between two pages.

Oh, here we go. She paused to read the manually scrawled note, and then continued: Mm, hmm. That’s what I thought. We ran into some neural loam with this knockout during your personality gestation. The reintegration process is in a latent or slow burn BPL, bio–phaselock–loop. You’ll come to in a couple of days. No problem, happens from time to time as I assume you know. This is a prescription for 20mg of Neuriflexcirol. It’s a mild stimulant and neural growth hormone. Brand new, made on–planet. Not marketed on Terra Corp—not yet, anyway—we haven’t gotten it approved through their World Drug Echelon.

She handed him the prescription with a smile. He couldn’t read the writing on it. There you go. You can have it filled by the pharmacy dispenser in the hall on your way out. One pill a day for five days, planet time.

The nurse redeposited the pile of reports on his lap and placed her clipboard on top facing him, pulled a stencil stick from behind her ear and waved it at him. If you would just sign on the bottom, there…

Mrs. Benson, he interrupted dully.

…I beg your pardon?

You called me Mrs. Benson.

Yes?

For the first time he looked down at his own body, eyes trailing over perfectly styled dark brown hair that flowed over thin shoulders to rest on a remarkably well–developed bosom. His eyes traveled down to his lap where the reports sat heavily atop his knee–length form–fitting navy–blue–with–white–trim skirt. His shapely legs were encased in silky hose. He could just barely make out the tips of pointed blue shoes that comfortably hugged his feet, navy–blue and matching his dress perfectly.

"I’m a…I’m a woman?" His voice rose in surprise and disappointment.

Yes, Mrs. Benson, that’s what you ordered. Or, rather, that’s what your ship ordered. The onboard psychologist said you needed to get in touch with your feminine side. It’s nothing to get upset about. I assume you’ve been a woman before? The nurse spoke calmly and reasonably. She was a well–seasoned professional, after all. Nothing a newly reintegrated patient said or did could throw her off her guard.

I…uh, that is, of course I have, he stumbled. Or at least I think I have.

There was an uncomfortable pause for a few seconds. The nurse, however, was obviously not going to let this scene stretch out. There were other patients to attend to. She heaved an impatient sigh, which he failed to recognize, and then offered, I’m sure all this will work itself out once the reintegration gels. Just give us your signature and I’ll see you into the hall. Your husband is waiting for you.

Husband? He took the stencil stick and sketched out his signature on the piezopaper, his writing appearing instantaneously with the pressure of the stencil stick. An electronic copy of his signature was also stored in the processor pad that made up the ridged part of the nurse’s clipboard.

There we go! she said with cheerful satisfaction; normal processing speed had been resumed. She stood up and offered to help him off his chair, then led him to the door with a gentle but insistent hand on his elbow. Now, let’s see, you’ve got your reports and the prescription…and, it looks like we’re all done here! Thank you for choosing the services of…

He stopped as she put a hand on the door, interrupted her: Can I…can I just ask you one thing?

…Yes, Mrs. Benson?

"Who the hell am I? I mean…who am I really—not this Benson chick, but me?"

The nurse laughed a light chirping sound. Why Mrs. Benson, you’re Captain Jacobs, of course!

Of course. Yeah. Captain Jacobs.

Who the hell was Captain Jacobs?

* * *

Captain Jacobs, qua Mrs. Benson, stepped into a wide, brightly–lit hallway. The double doors of the reintegration room swung closed behind him. The matronly tread of the nurse rapidly receded behind the doors, presumably to usher another patient inside for post–haste processing and release. Jacobs found himself staring blankly down the corridor without actually seeing it—rather like some dazed animal caught in the headlights of an onrushing vehicle—and wondering just who and where he was.

Captain! The sound of energetically clicking heels approached from the other direction.

Jacobs turned and saw a very tall, smart–looking young woman approaching, an intimate grin on her wide lips. She seemed vaguely familiar.

All processed and ready for some old fashioned R&R?

She stood a good half a head taller than the Captain, her short reddish–bronze hair cut in a pixie hairdo with simulated sideburns that ended in curving points plastered to her cheeks. Long golden hoop earrings hung from her well–formed ears, a form–fitting blouse all aglitter in copper and gold clung to her body revealing a firmly muscled abdomen and small athletic breasts. She wore a short–short metallic flake skirt that barely covered her hard–as–rock buttocks. Her legs were bare and her skin medium brown, as if she had been sun tanning for several weeks. A mid–sized gold and copper purse hung from one shoulder, decorated with dangling medallions and bangles.

Janine? Jacobs had no idea where that name had come from. It just popped into his head.

Sure, who’d you expect?

How do I…How do I know…

How do you know my name? She didn’t wait for him to answer. She just pulled up next to him, exuding a supreme air of confidence and intimacy, slid an arm around his waist and landed a none–too–paternal kiss on his lips. This is PleshaCore, remember? The knockouts they gestate here have built–in recognition patterns. You’ll know all the crew the minute you see them, even in their new bodies.

Oh.

What’s the matter, dear, don’t you like your new husband? She pirouetted before him, displaying her newly acquired form.

Husb…Oh, for crying out loud! You mean we’re…

Yeah, sure. We’re married! Mrs. and Mrs. Benson. Janine, she pointed at herself. And Magdalene, she indicated Jacobs.

So we’re frickin’ gay?

Oh, don’t be such a prude. You’ve been out of sphere before. Should be quite a kick. A lot of the crew’s gone cross–gender. Does you good to see what the other half is like.

So, what, that means you’re really a guy, too?

Janine gave him a wry look. You’re joking, aren’t you, cap’n? I mean, you really don’t remember? He shrugged slightly and shook his head.

What’s that you got? She plucked the prescription from his left hand and studied it briefly.

Neural loam in the knockout’s BPL, they said in unison.

Well, honey, looks like you’re going to be loopy for a little while. Bound to happen sometimes, I suppose. PleshaCore’s reintegration facilities are state of the art. They aren’t incompetent by any means, but with the nature of their tourism—pleasure and fantasy trade, you know—they’re bound to have a lot of ‘unannounced’ guests that need a quick reintegration. She took Jacob’s arm and led him down the hallway following exit signs.

So they have to keep a lot of knockouts on hand? Jacobs asked. Normally knockouts were gestated only a few days before an anticipated reintegration with a stored personality. Excessive storage of knockouts made reintegration more difficult. The neural pathways of a fresh knockout were much better suited to gestating a stored personality.

Right! There, you’re not so bad off, are you? Sure. They have to keep a lot of knockouts all primed and ready. But since they can’t plan ahead, they need to store the knockouts with virgin neural landscapes. When a big order like ours comes in, they have to rush to reintegrate us all. So it’s only reasonable some loam will crop up in the BPL sequence. Here, give me that. Janine relieved him of his reintegration reports.

But knockouts with neural loam…aren’t they unstable? I mean, I could die or something, couldn’t I?

No, not a chance in the short term. You wouldn’t want to spend ten years in a brain like that, but nobody stays longer than a few months on PleshaCore. You’d burn yourself out on too much sex and drugs and…whatever else you’re into.

Janine dropped Jacob’s reintegration report into a waste bin as they walked by it.

Hey, won’t I need that or something?

Jacobs, uh, I mean, Magdalene, you’re off duty. No need for all that protocol here!

But the Green Papers…I should probably skim those at least, make sure they didn’t fuck anything up.

Janine stopped, arm still locked in the Captain’s. They paused, looking at each other. Well, she said. Go on and get it if you have to.

Jacobs went back and pulled out the heavy stack of papers. He paused a while, then stripped off the bulky front sections and thumbed quickly through the two inches of Green Papers. He stopped and looked back at Janine, who stood with a hand on her hip and a twisted look of exasperation on her face. Jacobs grinned, ripped out the Green Paper’s Conclusion section—two pages—and the last page of the Pink Papers, the one with his signature on it, before defiantly tossing the rest back in the bin. What the hell, huh? Can’t spend my entire R&R reading same–old, same–old like that, can I?

Janine’s smile erupted wide across her face again. That’s the spirit! She hooked her arm back in his and they turned and walked on.

Soon they found a pharmaceutical dispenser and fed it the Neuriflexcirol prescription, then waited as the machine chugged through its processes.

Okay, Jacobs said with growing ease of mind, if no greater memory of himself. So, I’m the captain. You must be my first officer. Janine nodded approval at his deduction. You really are a woman, and…Janine is really your name.

Right so far, see what else you can remember. Janine bit her lower lip and kept a close eye on the pharmaceutical dispenser, which seemed far less worried about discharging its duty rapidly than the nurse had.

Well, let’s see…We’re just in from a ship that’s flying the Terra Corporation flag. All the way out at PleshaCore? Must be big. Military?

Uh, uh, no hints, Janine chided, but nodded an affirmation to his question all the same.

Military. Hmm. But not regular military or we wouldn’t be seeking R&R on a private world like PleshaCore. Merchant Corps, then, we must be Merchant Corps.

Janine didn’t indicate whether his guess was correct, her attention was diverted by the odd churning and gurgling sounds now coming from the hesitant pharmaceutical dispenser.

Big. Merchant Corps ship under commission to Terra Corp’s military…Holy shit, we probably have a crew of, what, fifteen hundred?

Bingo! Janine cried, though whether it was in response to Jacob’s deduction or the fact that the dispenser had finally dropped a small paper cup into a receptacle and was now more or less filling it with a dribbling shot of water was hard to tell.

We’re not granting R&R to all fifteen hundred are we?

Fourteen hundred and sixty–three to be exact. Janine plucked the cup of water from the machine and handed it to Jacobs. A small paper pouch then slid out of a chute followed by a plastic disk. She ripped the paper pouch open and extracted a small pink pill from inside, which she stuck in Jacob’s mouth. Drink, she said.

Jacobs swallowed the pill with the water, crushed the cup and tossed it into a waste bin next to the machine. Fourteen hundred and sixty–three reintegrations? Must have taken weeks!

Janine then handed him the plastic disk. It flipped open via a small latch to reveal four more pink pills inside. Actually it’s only taken them two days planet time to process us all. You’re the last, as usual. Mother’s been watching from above.

Our ship’s Overseer?

Naturally.

Can I check in?

Can you? If you don’t she’s going to sublimate the whole lot of us back into her womb and there goes our chance at a solid month of debauchery on the best damn private pleasure planet in all the explored regions of the galaxy!

How do I…

Oh, fuck me naked, Jacobs, your PDC’s in your breast pocket!

Jacobs pulled out his Proprietary Data Card feeling rather embarrassed. He held the thin gray–green plastic card up to his forehead until it buzzed against his skin, then held it in front of him and watched its surface transform into a three dimensional window displaying the interior of a ship’s main control room. He spun in a slow circle and the PDC’s display spun the view of the control room in a matching rotation. The room, of course, was empty, but all the machinery was aglitter with dancing lights and status monitors.

Everything okay, Mother?

Everything is just fine, Captain Jacobs. May I say how lovely you look in this particular knockout?

No, you may not, Mother, let’s keep this conversation on a professional level, okay?

There was a pause. Sorry to offend you Pierre. Jacobs glanced at Janine questioningly. She mouthed the words your first name in response. Meanwhile, Mother continued: I didn’t mean to get too personal, it’s just that your—

Yeah, yeah, I know. The nurse told me; you ordered me up a female body. And a lesbian at that.

You are mistaken, Pierre, I didn’t order you that knockout. Your psychologist did.

Same thing. The psych’s just another aspect of your personality.

True, but you know we maintain strictly separate routines, files and databases. Internal firewalls prevent us from cross–referencing except in emergencies.

I know, Mother. That was odd, he did know. Hmm, maybe those pills actually helped. Anyway, I just wanted to check in with you. Is this communication enough to fulfill my official obligations?

Another pause. I’m afraid not, Pierre. There is a question I must ask you first.

A question? Yes? He looked at Janine, but she shook her head. She didn’t know what it was.

Why was the entire crew given shore leave?

Why…well, Mother, uh, because they needed a good mental break. You know, a little actual physical contact, emotional bonding through…corporeal stimulation and real–world release. Mother didn’t respond. Wasn’t it?

Finally the ship’s Overseer said. Thank you, Pierre.

That’s it?

That’s it for now.

Jacobs felt a panic rise inside him. But, I mean, that was the correct answer, wasn’t it? Janine didn’t show any sign at all.

Pierre, you seem to be exhibiting symptoms of BPL sequencing problems.

Right. Sorry. They gave me drugs for it.

I’ll get back in touch with you, then.

Um. Okay. How soon?

I’ll get back in touch with you. Over and out. Jacobs’s PDC went opaque again.

Son of a bitch, he whispered.

Janine took his arm again and tugged him toward the exit. Come on, sweetie. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. We’ve got fun to attend to!

Janine?

Yes, dear?

What’s the name of our ship?

She