tagSci-Fi & FantasyGod of the Hunted

God of the Hunted

byNigel Debonnaire©

Science Officer's Log, First Entry, 371231

Begin official log for Science Officer Hedwig Larson, Consortium Space Ship Jay Hook, serial number 23-333-6476. Accepted commission as Science Officer and Ship's Counselor on Stardate 371125, serving under Captain Francis Montezuma and First Officer Cosmo D'Antonio.

Inspected science sensors and recording media; found them satisfactory. Ship's complement of exploratory probes missing five, expect delivery within the hour before departure. All escape pods present and test in working order. Library computer in excellent condition, bio equipment substandard; I hope replacement can be found en route. Work station satisfactory and living quarters adequate. Stowed my personal gear at 1310 hours and prepared for mission start.

As per regulation 4634, Consortium Regula Beta Division, I hereby absolve the Consortium from any responsibility for personal liability due to circumstances that may occur on Exploratory Mission #13234 to Sagittarius VI Delta, whether from equipment failure, negligence, consequences of entering an alien environment, acts of war, incompetence of captain or crew, exposure to radiation, or preexisting medical conditions. I hereby declare that my preexisting medical condition is Wortinger's disease, contracted 7 standard years ago in Thompson's Nebula on Exploratory Mission #11298 and treated by standard gene therapy cycle Gamma ending 371119.

My physical condition: height, five foot five; weight, 200 pounds, hair, absent as a result of Wortinger's disease; eyes, grey, also a result of Wortinger's disease; age, 45 standard years; marital status, unattached.

I declare my nearest living relatives as follows: daughter Rowena Salisbury, 28, resident of Centauri III Beta, and son, Jason Harris, 21, enrolled at New Canaan University on Hart's Planet.

As per regulation, I accept standard Ship's Discipline as outlined in Consortium Consula Standard Regulations for Exploratory Vessels and agree to any justified application of punishment as regulations specific for infractions, with Captain Montezuma as immediate authority and the Corporate Arbitration Board Alpha for all appeals.

I have accepted my commission of my own free will and will abide it to the duration of my commission or death.

Personal Log, 371231

It was a Friday night when I came aboard; raining at Terra Del Fuego station. The ship already stank. I made my way up to the bridge, and Captain Monty swung his big chair around to greet me. He was a large man, very overweight, with a huge salt and pepper beard, long arms that ended in fat fingers, and huge legs. His overall was stained with many hued splotches, and his long grey hair was already greasy with sweat. "Well, if it isn't my favorite Science officer coming on board. Hello Tits, welcome home. You know the drill." His toes wiggled in anticipation.

"Good evening, Captain Montgomery. I trust everything is well with you and your family."

"Oh, my family, yeah, they're okay. Meet the rest of the crew you'll be serving under." He gestured to the first mate's station. "This is Cosmo, First Mate and weapons officer, and the roughest motherfucker this side of Orion's belt. Cosmo, this is Heddy Larson, ship's counselor and science officer, and nicest piece of ass you'll find in hyperspace. Tits, this is Wadface."

"We've met," Cosmo said, turning his aquiline face and big nose to face me. He was tall and thin, his hands orange with nicotine stains. "Hello. How's the Wort?"

"I"m surviving Wortinger's disease, thank you. It's isn't as fatal as it used to be. They're come up with some new therapies."

"Which you can't afford yet. Pity. Well, don't get in my way or I'll kick the shit out of you."

Damn the cost of radiation therapy that left me so broke I had to sign for another trip to Hell under Monty Montezuma. Shit, health care used to mean you didn't spend every spare credit on treatment.

"Let's call the others up from the engine room," Monty said, punching a button on his command console. "Hey, Jackoffs One and Two. Get your asses up here."

The comm crackled in reply. "Why?"

"Cause I said so, Jackoff. Meet the Company Tit ration, just come on board. "

"Roger," came the reply, with a strain of despair.

"Roger," he whined in imitation. "Damned idiots. If they get us killed, I'm going to haunt them till they shit their pants." The lift hissed and two men emerged, one tall and thin, the other short and scrawny. "Tits, these are the crew we're putting up with. The tall piece of shit is Greg Jones. He's the brains of the outfit, which isn't saying much. He's from Mars, that's why he's so fucking tall. The short piece of shit is Paul Dingle, who plays with his dingle while sniffing ether every chance he gets. He's from Akron. Both of them have been in space before, though you'd never know it. Boys, this is Tits Larson, the only science officer who knows her shit in the universe. She outranks you, so if you disobey her she gets to fry your nuts. She's also your counselor, so if you miss you mommy or want to jackoff with a brillo pad with your nuts on fire, talk to her. And she's morale officer, and you'll find out what that means a week from today. Questions?"

They shook their heads sheepishly. "Then get below and get this goddamned rust bucket into hyperspace."

Monty turned away and started inspecting his monitor, his practiced hand bringing out a pinch of marijuana snuff and bringing it to his nose. A long sniff, a few walrus shakes of his head, and a sneeze and he started typing. After a moment, he turned and looked at me like I was an idiot. "Dismissed. Shit, don't stand on ceremony here, you know that. Get your ass downstairs and get your nest made. You don't have to worry about anything till next Friday."

I went below and found my quarters. Company standard: a barely upholstered closet with a sink and a bucket. My small bag produced three changes of overall and a spare pair of shoes, which went into the locker above my bed. Then came a holoreader, personal log recorder and two prints of my children and grandchildren, the only personal items I ever bring. I put them on the ceiling and lay down to stare at them.

Rowena said I could live with her, but her little girl is in the terrible twos and we'd kill each other inside a month, and Jason's too close to the standard student existence to want his old mother hanging around. No place else to go, and thanks to exclusivity agreements, I can't work for anybody else than the Consortium. The plagues of retribution were completed when I was assigned to work for Monty again.

We're going to the Sagittarius VI system, which hasn't been explored that much. There's a rare element there that a new broadcast power generation system depends on, so if we hit a big strike, my money worries are over. The initial probe results were promising, so I hope we can bring it home with the rusty equipment we have.

No sign of intelligent life, so there'll be no limit what we can take away. Damn Consortium. Being based on Keptman II, they can sashay around Federation regulations any damn time they want, and even if there is intelligent life, they've got no chance. Monty's mean enough to wipe them out if they give him any trouble and thanks to his connections they will be non entities without a whimper.

I just have to hope he's got enough Marijuana snuff to forget holding Party Nights.

Science Officer's Log, Second Entry, 38113

Progress through the wormholes toward Sagittarius VI Delta is on schedule, with arrival in 12 standard days. All systems are now adequate, and ready for use. Have reviewed all crew profiles and interviewed same for fitness reports; all crew members in good condition and fit for duty.

Enthusiasm for the Mission is riding high, and the crew has high expectations of profit from the cruise.

Personal Log, 38114

Comso still believes in overkill. He's got more firepower on this ship than we need, going to an uninhabited world away from the Cartesian Empire, and I bet we've got enough to blow a whole fleet out of the sky Some Security officer, and he's First Mate as well.

The twerps in the engine room must have barely passed their exams. Greg Jones is a six five rail thin dork who loves to tinker and babble about capacities. Paulie Dingle (what a stupid name!) is good at finding things not to do, and spending all his free time on morphine masturbating to his collection of interspecies copulation videos.

Monty's still a pompous ass, who thinks he's the Universal Despot. His father's a bigwig in the Consortium, so regulations are something I can wipe my ass with. Party Night is basically Get Drunk and Fuck Me night.

Damn Party Night. Monty hasn't changed at all; I'm sailing the wormholes with a bunch of rancid goats who are more desperate than the drunks of Blenheim colony.

I hung there in the Zero G area: strung up naked with my wrists and ankles bound to lines that kept me spread out. Looking at the video, I can't believe what they see in me. I'm five foot nothing fat woman, completely hairless, my skin a battlefield of green, yellow and blue splotches due to Wort's syndrome, my face caved in with no dentures (the bastards took them out), and a huge red boil on my ass. They stood around beating off and drinking as they contemplated my availability.

Monty started the seduction. "Ya know, Tits, you look like the old Goodyear Blimp."

"Really? You really know how to charm a girl."

He took a snort of Mary Jane's snuff and sputtered. "Yeah, like the old blimp. Guys, I think we should have some fun. Jackoff Two, get the tattoo gun."

"Yes, boss." Paulie screeched and bolted off. He came back momentarily with an old fashioned tattoo device, loaded with black ink.

"I think we need to have some decoration here before we get off. Humor and Sex go together, don't they boys?"

"Sure, Monty," Cosmo purred. "Let me, I have some experience with this."

Paulie handed him the gun and Cosmo entered the weightless zone, floating over to my huge side. It took him forever, the fire on my skin lasting an eternity, before he pronounced himself satisfied.

"Excellent, Wadface, excellent. Now she looks the part. Let's go fuck a blimp."

They fucked me, of course, Cosmo sending his pencil thin dick into my vagina, Greg showing his nine inches up my ass and Monty taking 20 minutes to fill my mouth with foul tasting goo.

Yeah, it's harassment and exploitation, and under company policy I could get the lot of them fired. The connections Monty has and the Consortium Arbitration board would guarantee I'd never work again. Yeah, I knew what I was signing on for in this trip. Shows you how desperate I am for work.

As ship's counselor, I can honestly attest that I'm working with a bunch of hopelessly sick bastards. I'm not sure I'm not one myself. I almost enjoyed it.

Science Log, 38201

Entered orbit, Sagittarius VI Delta, at 0500 Standard Galactic Time. No exceptional local phenomena approaching destination, and initial scans from orbit confirm large amounts of Tirillium near the surface. This availability is what makes Sagittarius VI Delta so valuable; the ship's share of this voyage will be enough that all crew members should be able to retire on return to Terra

Personal Log, 38202

Damn this company. Just got a message from Rowena three weeks old, telling me my latest payment on my medical plan is due last week. Shit, I'm going to have to re-enroll when I get back at twice the cost. After the company docks me for living expenses for the trip, in flight treatments for my disease, and any other piddly shit they feel like, I'll be lucky to be in the black for two years.

The boys are creaming their jeans over this planet. Paulie has been giggling like an idiot since we got the first readouts. Little do this idiots know the telemetry on the planet is only one third online, so it will take forever to do the analysis of how we're affecting this planet while we screw it over. Hope there's no sentient life there: we won't know until we set down if anything's out there.

Greg had a present for this week's party night, just before orbit. Flashing nipple rings. He said the blimp needed some headlights. The bastards used an old fashioned needle, and the fucking jewelry was thick. I have to leave them in, or Monty'll dock my pay. They're ridiculous, flashing under my tunic.

We looked like a spastic accordion in the Zero G room. Paulie got the privilege of being in the middle, and his face looked like he was in heaven while Greg's dick was up his ass and his was up mine. Damn Cosmo did the Goodyear tattoo with Gothic lettering, which made my sorry naked body even more pathetic.

Cosmo looked up at me while fucking me and talked. "Having fun?"

"Mmm?" I had a mouthful of Monty, so it wasn't a good time for exchange of pleasantries.

"I hear fucking a Wort's patient makes you sterile."

"Hmm mm mmm."

He gave an evil smile. "I hope so, too. Got seven bastards already, and can't afford to get fixed."

"Mmmm mmm."

"Do Jones and Dingle know 'bout this?" Paulie was whimpering in delight, ejaculating into my rectum; Greg was grunting like a caveman as he worked Paulie's butt over.

"Mmm mmm mmmm."

"Well, it's a Darwin award if they don't. The universe'll be better off without their spawn."

I spent three cycles in the shower cylinder afterward. When we make planetfall it will be worse: I'll have take something for the muscle cramps being on all fours for half an hour. Monty's dick is still awful tasting, between the Marijuana snuff and all the damn garlic he eats. I hope I don't run out of universal lubricant.

Science Log, 38203

Initial scans of the surface indicate an ideal area for the first experimental extraction. It's an unusual island of a half mile circle surrounding an inner lagoon that appears to be isolated from the planetary oceanic system. We will touch down tomorrow to begin operations; the crew is working hard to prepare for planetfall. All equipment has been checked and found satisfactory.

Planterary flora and fauna appear to be within expected limits. A large amphibian seems the highest form of life, and is probably semi-intelligent at best, rating around 2.3 on the 5.0 Universal Intelligence scale. No real threats to the crew's safety are apparent.

Personal Log, 38204

Well, we set down without killing ourselves. I'm always amazed these rustbuckets travel the universe without blowing up. The computer system needs rebooting every three hours, and only half the hand scanners work. The worst is I have to lie in my official logs: the company hates looking bad and people who've been too honest in their official logs have had bad things happen to them. I've gotten sodomized by the company enough to know better. The universe would have been better off if we blew up in transit.

The mammals playing in the water outside are so lovely. All new species look beautiful to me: this one is a cross between Earth's Walrus and Manatee, although there is a huge bulge behind the eyes that probably holds a huge brain. If there's intelligent life here, they're it. Their eyes are huge as well.

The sky has an orange hue, which is lovely at daybreak and dusk. In a couple of days when the ship's dork squad gets into full exploitation mode, I'm going swimming.

Science Log, 38205

Equipment set up for Tirillium extraction working at 70% efficiency and producing industrial grade product. No indigenous infections or contagions threatening human life present. Crew morale still high. Solar and background radiation within acceptable limits.

Indigenous species #867799 is showing some ill effects due to local environment change from extraction process. Ship scan's inconclusive; crew planning on capturing two for testing.

Some random radio signals around 0200 hours. Probably the nearby gas giant passing by; I will work up the telemetry tomorrow.

Personal Log, 38208

The Walrus-Manatees are getting sick. Some analog tests show our process is turning the lagoon from salt to fresh water; this species may not be able to survive the transition. Monty said, "Fuck 'em" when I told him about it. Cosmo stunned a couple and brought them in. They're docile and easily intimidated; their main food source seems to be a underwater tuber that grows thickly around here. The WalManas peel the fruit back and suck the nutrients from it; the plants normally replenish themselves in 48 standard hours, although this process seems disrupted by our operations.

I went out at dawn this morning, slipping naked into the water to watch the sunrise. It was warm and soft and made my skin tingle. My flashing nipple rings looked strange underwater, and it was even funny to watch them bob up and down.

A new world always makes me feel nostalgic for Proxima IV. It was a heaven there for Mark and I, the kids running around the lake, and the universe was young and full of possibility. Then the Consortiums started taking over resources, and labor lost its power. Enough of that. . .

As I lolled in the lagoon, floating in the high salt content, a native swam up to me. I swear, there was intelligence in those big eyes, we stared at each other and it seemed I almost understood what the creature was thinking. If I don't get gangbanged tonight, I'm going out tomorrow morning to understand what this race is about.

Science Log, 38217

Extraction process going as scheduled, maximum output reached. Local flora changing colors and withering; mammals growing more and more lethargic. Situation should recover after departure.

Crew in excellent health and morale, except the science officer. Relapse of Wortinger's disease making concentration difficult; standard stimulants are compensating.

More random electrical discharges and radio signals. Gas giant is not the cause, probably solar wind affecting the biosphere atypically.

Personal Log, 38219

Business as usual for the most part. We're halfway done with our little rape of the planet; the big rapists are waiting at Starbase 2003. The dork squad's working hard to get things done; their arrogance still strong.

The WalManas are suffering greatly. Most of their young have died, as well as several older sickly individuals. They were fairly placid when we first arrived, but their competition for food has increased their aggressiveness geometrically. Two were captured several days ago, and scans have confirmed that our process is killing their food supply and them quickly. In a month, all the WalManas will be dead and the lagoon sterile.

The perverts have discovered the creatures are more fun to fuck than me. A human penis resembles their food enough to appeal to them, and the WalManas have no teeth or oral structures that would harm a human. It is clear that human semen is causing their systems great stress, but the bastards don't care. I have mixed emotions: I feel for the animals suffering, but I'm enjoying the vacation from being a universal fuck cushion.

Last night, I saw a giant figure silhouetted against the fading sunlight. He looked like the old Terran deity Herne the Hunter. I gazed at it from just after sundown until full night, just to be sure it was real. Captain Clueless and his crew saw nothing but a thunderstorm.

Science Log, 38229

Extraction process almost complete, analysis of product is still within industrial quality. Lift off for Starbase 2003 expected in 3 Standard Days.

Effects of process on the planet appear to remain within acceptable Consortium regulations. No scientific obstacles to comprehensive systematic extraction of Tirillium exist at this time.

Captain and crew in good spirits, and work at top efficiency. Ship's discipline is within Company regulations.

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