The Castaway.

Dragging himself up the beach, John spat out a mouthful of sand, his head still reeling from the whirlwind of events that had led to him finding himself stranded, naked on a small island in the South Pacific. What had started as a quiet and romantic cruise ended in disaster as the ship struck first a reef, then the wreckage of a battleship that had last seen the light of day in 1943, then sunk straight down with a loss of all hands – except John. Having swum for nearly six hours, his joints screaming at him, he pulled himself onto dry land and passed out.
The next morning (it had to be morning, the sun never usually looked that mercilessly cheerful any other time of day), John sat up, looking round. There seemed to be some flotsam washed up further down the beach, so he scrambled to his feet to see if he could find anything of use. Several empty suitcases, they’d suffice as the basis for a shelter of some kind. A rather large embroidery box, all sorts of needles and threads for all occasions. Which would be great if he had anything to sew. Finally, a small loom; his loom to be precise. Well, that was a start. As a professional tailor, John could quite easily manufacture himself a suit to keep the sun’s relentless rays at bay, and his hobby of weaving would also come in handy. If only he could find something to weave. . .
Then he saw it – a small patch of some native grass which, upon further inspection seemed to have just the right tensile strength and attributes to weave into a rudimentary cloth. Gathering up great handsful of the grass, he set up his loom and started to work.
The loom clickety-clacked into the morning, the odd native grass turning into a surprisingly good cloth which John, after having cut to size and shape, turned into a rather fetching two-piece suit; comfortable, protective and stylish to boot. Folding the two lapels of the jacket together, he noticed the suit’s one downfall – a distinct lack of buttons. Another quick beachcombing exercise came up with the solution: three small stones, each with a small hole which would be perfect for the purpose. And so, seated on a nearby rock, he started stitching his makeshift buttons onto the jacket.
So intent, so focused on the task, John never noticed the tiny sparks jumping from the needle as it struck the stone. The light was starting to fade, so he sewed faster. Without his even noticing, his trousers had started to smoulder and soon, his lap was ablaze. Gripped with a haze of panic, John first tried to take off the trousers, then made a last-ditch attempt to leap into the nearby sea, but it was no good. The fire had taken hold. He died in a fury of flames, the needle still threaded held in his outstretched hand.
It was three days later when a search and rescue ship showed up. The lifeboat slid ashore with a muffled crump, Captain Bright stepping off first. Surveying the scene, Bright motioned to his first officer, a haggard-faced old seadog named Carl. “What do you make of it?”
Carl studied the tableaux – a body burnt to a crisp amidst the ashes of his improvised clothing, the needle, the ersatz buttons. He nodded grimly. “Seems like people in grass trousers shouldn’t sew stones.”

Future-Past-Present History of the Russian Empire (Space Captain Flight)

As I have stated previously, the world Space Captain Duncan Flight inhabits is not like our current world. For those of you who may be interested, here is what happened to Russia…
1948 – As Hitler kept to his side of the bargain, so did Stalin. Not getting involved in the war the Russian economy stagnates.Eventually Stalin is ousted by the Slavograd Independent Beetroot and Borscht Combine in the Capitalist Revolution.
1956 – The Russian Capitalist Empire is overthrown by fascists in the Fascist Revolution. This lasts for two years until:
1958 – The fascists are overthrown by anarchists, who accidentally overthrow themselves twice in the space of one week with the Anarchist Decemberist Revolution Trilogy.
1959 – Just six months into anarchist rule, they are overthrown during another Revolution by the Surrealists. Moscow is renamed Bwah, which leads to enormous arguments as to how it is spelled, and for two weeks everyone is required under punishment of death by tickling to wear a fish. This ends when -
1959, two weeks later – Rodney Stiles, a taxi driver from Islington arrives in Bwah with documents proclaiming him to be a long-lost distant relative of Tsar Nicolas II. As the whole fish thing is starting to get a bit tired, the people embrace him and the surrealists are kicked out. Bwah becomes Moscow again and the Russian Empire is reborn. Tsar Rodney creates impressive policies which help the floundering Russian economy and gets the country back on its feet.
1987 – Tsar Rodney dies peacefully in his sleep. He is buried in Moscow with full state honours. His son, Tsar Rodney the second takes control amidst wide public approval.
Today – Tsar Rodney the Second is still in charge of a Russian Space Empire which extends over many star systems.

The Warrior's Lament

If you should choose to follow me,
Know that I am bound for Hell.
For the gates of Hades open’d wide,
As we all march’d on side by side,
Into the flames eternal.
Left for the shores of Bloody Hell,
Ten thousands strong and true.
But when we reached upon the scene,
Not one sole man stood whole nor clean,
Cast into flames eternal.
We fought the throng of daemon souls,
Two thousand still survived.
But still the daemons forth they came,
They bore Old Sinister’s evil name,
The Horde of flames eternal.
Then Sinister himself did rise,
He stood unholy ground.
His hordes, their spirit out had run,
And then at last Our will be done,
Down in the flames eternal.
Our mission spent, we turned to face,
The dawn of morning’s eye.
But morning’s sun it would not face,
The visage of Our bloodied race,
Back to the flames eternal.
For forty nights we fought and died,
The Sun did crack a frown.
And shed her tears not lightly,
Forever we battled nightly,
To quench the flames eternal.
And now men talk of deeds and words,
Forever from that day.
We are those who they call the damned,
Those souls that ever were condemned,
Unto the flames eternal.

Personal Journal of Space Captain Damien Drake, R.S.N.

Captain’s Blog, Stardate 12…29…add 6, carry the three…take away the first…erm… Tuesday.
Space Captain Damien Drake here, I know you’re probably expecting something from that Flight fellow, but never mind. It’s my show right now, not his.
Right, where was I? Ah yes, Stardate Tuesday… and a bit. Headed off to the Epistule Diem system to do a bit of morale boosting amongst the peoples, thought we’d drop by and give them a show they’d never forget. So we arrived in system, deployed our escorts (give ‘em a bit of show of force to show ‘em how well protected they are) and headed straight for the system’s capital, New Lymington, ignoring (as was our wont) the usual calls for identification – for heaven’s sake, we’re Royal Space Navy! We shouldn’t even have to identify ourselves!
Anyway, thought we’d start off our visit with a bang, so sent out a squadron of stealth Spacefires to drop pyrotechnic charges in the upper atmosphere: nothing like a good old fireworks show to get the ball rolling. I was watching from my unusually comfy command chair on the bridge, by Jupiter you should have seen those locals down in the city centre; running round cheering and jumping for joy, diving into the air-raid shelters (presumably to drag out the bunting and decorations in honour of our arrival), screaming like maniacs they were. Well, after about half an hour of this, they decided to join in, firing their old anti-spacecraft guns in celebration. Must say though, they really ought to watch where they’re pointing those things, nearly hit us a couple of times.
After a couple of hours of fireworks, I beamed down to the planet’s surface to talk face-to-face with the Mayor of New Lymington and present him with a memento of our visit; so I got our entire Marine contingent, all dressed up in their new uniforms (ones I’d designed myself. I was particularly proud of the new H.M.S.S. Pelican Mobile Ground Force insignia – a red armband with a bold black swastika on it, with a big black cross through the swastika – shows everyone what we think of the damned space Nazis.
We beamed down, all two hundred and fifty of us at once. I can tell you, the Mayor was so pleased to see me I swear he actually lost control of his bladder and genuinely wet himself. And he kept on gibbering in some strange sort of language that our universal translators couldn’t understand. At first I thought he was talking in Italian – something about ‘Viva Zrendra’ or something.  Fortunately mister Savage, my number One took him to one side and gave him a little help and he returned after an hour or so in a much more coherent state.
Quick cup of tea with the Mayor and his councillors later and we left for the stars once more, with the praises of the locals still ringing  in our ears – I was particularly fond of their cries of “Don’t Come Back!”, obviously wanting us to refrain from wasting time on such small trivialities until we’ve actually won the war. Ah, the simple lives of simple folk. There’s nothing quite like it.
(This log was recovered from the databanks of the H.M.S.S. Pelican,  June 15th 2016. It has been unaltered in any way. Copyright is held by Her Majesty’s Royal Space Navy. Any views and opinions in this log are those of Captain Drake and do not represent those of the Royal Space Navy or any associated organisations.)