S.P.E. 02 - Dead Dudes Tell No Tales: Space Post Express, #2

By Seagull Editions

The two best (not really) couriers of Space Post Express, cyborg Tod and human Phil, are ready for another dull day at the job. To their elation, they're given a special mission—one where they'll need to accompany Ariana, the stunning officer that saved them last time, and Phil's (supposed) soulmate!

Complications (predictably) arise when Phil, in his endless pursuit to impress Ariana, tries to "save" them from their "pursuers." Of course, that ends up with the unlikely trio stranded on an ex-prison planet taken over by its inmates—smugglers, slave traders, mobsters, and criminals of all kinds—and transformed into a pirate planet. Will they manage to complete their mission without blowing their covers, or will things blow up on their faces?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seagull Editions
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223915027

Book preview

COURIERS TURNED SPIES

Ahh, Phil sighed in relief, staring down his space truck’s cargo hold. There was a special joy in seeing it empty after a day full of deliveries around their route of the galaxy. It had been full to bursting in the start of their shift, and now it was finally empty, finally delivered.

Delivered, he said to himself. When had a word sounded so good before? Had he conditioned himself to like it? It hadn’t happened to any of his previous jobs. Maybe it was because interacting with the clients was so stressful, and having fulfilled those obligations created an equally strong positive emotion. Or maybe, thinking of finally going home to see a holographic film of his favorite actress made—

Dude? came a sound right by his ear. Phil jumped aside, tightening his hands in fists and raising them before his face, ready to defend himself. He wouldn’t go down without a fight, his combat training would make sure of that.

What are you daydreaming about, dude? Tod told Phil. Phil’s cyborg partner—well, cyborg lying partner, since Tod hadn’t told him he was a cyborg until he found out in the strangest way possible—was looking at him with his head cocked to the side. Do you plan on staring down the empty hold for longer, or do you want to grab a beer?

Phil lowered his hands, feeling ridiculous. He had been so lost in his head that he hadn’t noticed Tod approaching, or calling him. He did that sometimes, thinking things through in his methodical way, trying to reach the end of every line of thought, trying to discover what lied at the end.

Truth be told, his slow and methodical way of thinking had saved him various times. He had managed to escape almost by himself when captured by that corrupted doug politician, he had thought his way out. And countless times before, during his short time in the military, or when a recipient—a swear word to most couriers like him—would try to scam them somehow, or when—

Dude? shouted Tod, waving his hand in front of Phil’s eyes. Space station calling to Phil? Do you plan to dock or will you loiter by the hatch until you run out of fuel?

But we have docked, Phil muttered, turning back to see their ship. Yes, it was docked into the Space Courier Express headquarters space station, next to rows of similar turquoise ships. He saw the thick cables connected to it, recharging its internal systems, refueling it, running diagnostics—

"Are you trying to make me angry? Tod said through clenched teeth. You can’t be that stupid. It’s just an expression."

I haven’t heard it, Phil replied, then shrugged. Besides, it sounds too sexual.

Tod opened his mouth to reply, then slowly closed it without saying anything. A moment later, he opened it again. You know what? You’re right. It does.

Anyway, Phil said, since we’re docked, we should go clock out. You know that the boss doesn’t like us wasting time while on the clock. Come on, he started walking away, don’t just stand there.

You mouth-breathing lout, Tod said to Phil’s retreating back, then seemed to force himself to stop. Phil instantly knew what his friend was planning. Tod would want to get his revenge in the pub later, using his cybernetic enhancements to outdrink Phil to oblivion and hold that over him. The station’s pub served strong alcohol as couriers were habitual drinkers and had quite the tolerance, but Phil had seen Tod outdrink even the heaviest drinkers among them.

It was not a time for daydreaming, though, nor remembering fun encounters. Phil focused back on reality and walked through the simple metal corridors from the SPE corporate docks to the main offices. There were various pieces of machinery filling the tight spaces, most in disrepair. Phil often wondered how the courier company’s ships actually managed to fly. Judging from the quality of their equipment, the space trucks were probably flying thanks to sheer force of resentment and indignation at those... recipients.

The main office was a cavernous room with small cubicles. Most of the cubicles were empty with people either out on deliveries or clocked out. Space stations followed standard time and the near-universal three-shift schedule, as most organisms needed their sleep and their free time—well, most except the quani, the insectoid race that worked around the clock. To Phil, they looked like ants on crack, but they personified the corporate dream: doing the job of three men for the price of one.

As it happened, SPE was employing a quani at the main desk. A pleasant woman whose name was unpronounceable for anyone without her clicking mandibles, who people just called Sue.

Hey Sue, Phil said, approaching the woman’s desk. He heard Tod’s low groan from behind. His cyborg partner didn’t like Sue.

Phil, click, you have, click, four customer complaints today, Sue said, the clicking of her mandibles over her mouth adding a pleasant rhythm to her words. A new record. Click. I don’t think I’ve seen, click, any less than, click, six about you. The words were spoken in a flat and toneless voice, as the quani woman was forcing her mouths to emit sounds not completely compatible with their usual mode of operation.

While she was speaking, her four thin, exoskeleton-covered arms were each doing something different. Phil saw her typing on her computer, another hand writing down notes on small pieces of paper, the third patting a purring cat on her lap, and the fourth filing forms in three trays at the edge of her desk.

Her ambidexterity—if the term could be applied to four hands, which etymologically couldn’t, and Phil was sure that Tod probably knew the correct term (Quadexterity? Tetradexterity?)—was mesmerizing. Phil could stare at her, and often did, lost in the precision of her movements and the speed of her reactions. In her own language, she spoke quickly using clicks and chirps, and Phil always wondered how easy it would be for him to learn it. He wondered what quani talked about between themselves.

Tod, click, you haven’t replied in any, click, of the office message chains. Click. You should be, click, more sociable. Click. But anyway. Click. You two have a meeting.

Keep it in your pants, Sue, Tod shot back. Phil was impressed by the threat in his tone, despite his flirting words. When’s the meeting? Tomorrow?

Now. Click. She raised one of her arms and pointed. The boss, click, is expecting you.

But it’s the end of our shift, Tod whined. It was a long day. There’s a beer with my name on it down at the pub.

Poor human cyborg, click. Do you want a hug? Click. Four arms, click, means two hugs at the same time.

I’ll file for sexual harassment in the workplace, Tod muttered and turned to walk away.

See you later, Sue, Phil waved and skipped to catch up with Tod as the quani clicked to him in what Phil chose to interpret as a pleasant farewell. Could it easily have been irritation? Sure. But that’s what he choose to believe anyway.

Tod was seething inside as he led the way to their boss Joan’s office but maintained an air of quiet resignation. That thirsty quani couldn’t keep her exoskeleton-covered fingers off of him. It wasn’t that quani weren’t beautiful in their own way, it was that this one was very weird about her flirting. Especially after she had learned that he was a cyborg. She had made quite a few jokes about robotic male members, about sex machines, and about unlimited stamina.

He tried to push his irritation aside and focus on the matter at hand. The fact that despite it being the end of their shift, they were marching right towards Joan’s office for more work. At least they were still on the clock, which meant that they were getting paid for it.

Tod could hear Phil’s tired steps behind him. Phil skipped a few steps to walk right next to Tod. The office of their boss, Joan, was in a room further inside the space station and the corridors leading to it were much neater than the ones near the docks. The fact that couriers and bosses were not equal was far from surprising, of course.

Phil sighed next to Tod. Tod knew what that meant. His very next words would be complaints.

So, you even told Sue? What, are you two an item now? Phil grumbled.

Tod felt a migraine coming. He had never had migraines ever since replacing parts of his body with machines, only in the presence of Phil’s grumbling. No. She learned it from your whines.

I don’t whine, Phil whined. I state my thoughts. It’s healthy.

Not for the people around you, Tod countered, and certainly not for me.

Do cyborgs even have ‘health?’ I wouldn’t think the term would apply. You’d probably call it something like processor state or circuit function— Phil shot back.

I’m a cyborg. Not a robot, Tod said for what felt like the thousandth time. I’m still mostly human.

Then why— Phil started, but he shut his mouth abruptly as they arrived in front of Joan’s office door. Tod almost found himself thanking the gods of his home planet’s religion for the blessed silence.

They stared at the metal door. A large plaque read Joan Rossand, Space Post Express Administrator. The area around the door was spotless, even the door itself looked as if it had been cleaned recently. It was an old school door that opened on a hinge and didn’t get recessed inside the wall. There was even a handle. They didn’t make doors with handles anymore.

Ready? Tod muttered, raising his hand to knock on the door. Phil dry gulped audibly, then nodded. Meeting Joan was never easy. Tod felt a slight tremble in his hand. He had to clench his teeth and push through the sense of impeding doom. He knocked the door lightly with his knuckles, three quick taps. Reserved but demanding attention. The door was metal and so where his fingers, so the sound was thin and piercing.

He heard the sound of an electric buzzer and the door unlocked. Come in, came a female voice from inside. Tod took a deep breath. Time to meet his boss. He grabbed the handle and turned it awkwardly, opened the door, and entered.

Joan’s office was massive for the standards of the space station. In the center of the room was a rectangle desk. A large chair sat behind it, and two in front of it. Two couches nestled near the door, with coffee tables in front of them. Shelves lined the walls behind the desk, and glass cases covered the walls on either side.

And everything was pink.

The faux leather of the chairs, the fabric of the couches, the glass and metal desk, the shelving, the carpeting on the floor, the hue of the lights. And worst of all, shelves and display cases were filled with dolls.

About a century ago, a multi-system corporate group called Micro-Applied Trans-Temporal Engineering and Logistics created a daughter company that started making toys. Their objective was to make a doll for every sentient species, race, sex, and any other subcategorization possible. The massive undertaking soon bankrupted the daughter company, but not before producing thousands of unique dolls. They became a collector’s item, and quite expensive ones at