Gunnery Sergeant “Gunny” John Doe reached his huge hands toward the ceiling and stretched. Several vertebrae popped, as did his knees, elbows, and, to his surprise, his eyebrows. The automatic drying unit evaporated the water from his muscled form using technology he didn’t understand and didn’t care to.

A few moments later, he stepped from the shower into his one-room berth aboard the Big Stick and admired his body in his full-length mirror. He studied the girth of his neck, curled his huge biceps, and noted the rope-like muscles coiled beneath his tanned skin.

His eyes moved down to his pecs. He flexed them one at a time, causing the ring on his left nipple to sparkle and flash. Gunny became concerned, though, and he leaned forward to get a better look. Yup, he thought, the left one is bigger than the other. How did I manage that? I hope nobody notices.

Standing straight again, he admonished himself for his momentary weakness and for the crimson spreading across his face. I’ll have to figure something out.

Then his eyes traveled down his reflection, past his well-defined stomach muscles, until they reached his groin. He frowned and squinted before a moment of panic set in. Bending at the waist, Gunny thrust his hips forward to get a better look. The digital readout on the wall indicated the temperature in his room was 68 degrees Fahrenheit. He released the breath he’d been holding in a huff.

That’s all it is. It’s just cold in here. That’s all. No way it’s the steroids.

His eyes continued traveling down his body, caressing each crease, bulge, and hairless inch… until they got to his left ankle.

Gunny felt a frown curl down the corners of his mouth and his throat grow a little tight. His light blue eyes welled up with tears as he cocked his left leg inward to get a better look. A scar. Hard-won and earned. A horrible mark on his otherwise god-like body. A scar that might as well be a mustache scribbled onto the Mona Lisa.

Gunny turned his head to the small table next to his bunk. On top was a small vial of nanobots. I could fix this scar before anyone notices. Or, I could fix my left pectoral muscle in short order. He thought hard about it, then stopped. Thinking hard sometimes gave him a headache.

Turning back to the mirror, he glanced between his pectorals and the scar. Nope, the scar was still more obvious. He turned to the left. Nobody could see the scar at all… but he couldn’t always keep people on his right when it was exposed. He turned to the right and had to avert his eyes, so terrible was the assault on them.

With a resigned sigh, he picked up the small, glass ampule, broke the tip off, and poured the microscopic robots onto his ankle. The treatment would do nothing for the psychological wound of having to go a whole day with uneven pectoral muscles. He’d have to wear a shirt to make sure nobody noticed. How embarrassing.

A few seconds later, the pain set in, and he welcomed it. The little robots began separating cells, urging others to grow. The scar started sloughing off one microscopic piece at a time. It felt like his leg was on fire. It was almost more than he could stand. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The tendons stood out on his neck. He held his breath.

Technically, scars weren’t a proper use for nanobots. The microscopic robots were provided to heal battle wounds, but since the pharmacy was allowed to dispense one vial per day per Marine, he decided that he could use them for whatever he wanted.

The nanobots, apparently, had collectively decided that what the scar tissue really needed was a good dose of heat. Gunny hissed at the new sensation and reminded himself pain was just weakness leaving the body. A few moments later it was all over, and the scar tissue hung from the healed spot on his ankle like a thick, peeling sunburn.

After carefully removing the dead cells and used nanobots, he deposited the pieces into the room’s trash tube, which sucked the mess away. Then he inspected their work. His leg was flawless, and he felt a big, perfectly-white toothy smile spread across his tanned face.

Then Gunny had an idea – a way to fix his pecs. It wouldn’t take long, and it was something he could do on his own. He examined each of the muscle groups closely, studying them in detail. He bent at the waist, flexed, and bent backwards in an attempt to find exactly which of the muscles needed the most work. In the end, he decided that one-arm push-ups while having his feet elevated on his bed was the best method. One hundred one-arm push-ups and a few minutes later, hardly breaking a sweat, the fix was complete.

A few nanobots must have still been swimming through his veins from the last application, because the muscle was already healing and the burn from the lactic acid was almost gone. He admired himself for another minute before folding the mirror back into the wall, leaving nothing but a dull, gray, metal panel in its place.

His small rack was already made and was tight enough to bounce a coin off, naturally. He loved being a Starhead. Although he hadn’t seen any major battles in over a year, he also loved the small skirmishes he got to be involved in when pirates decided that Stick looked like it might be easy prey. To his dismay, it didn’t happen often enough.

After he pulled the covers back, Gunny climbed in and tried to tuck his feet up so they wouldn’t touch the cold, metal wall. His bed was more than a foot too short for his seven-foot stature and the room hadn’t been designed for someone so tall. He was used to it, so he wasn’t bothered.

His thoughts turned to the real enemy he’d enlisted to fight but hadn’t seen in his nearly twenty years of service. Their red and white ships – obviously designed to be intimidating – along with their black and white uniforms, dangerous close-quarters weapons, and kinetic strike capabilities were what he’d been looking forward to. He was born to fight. The Space Corps suited him well.

The enemy, the Amish Theocracy, was ruthless, organized and single-minded, much like a colony of ants. Each ship was crewed by a single-family unit who’d trained together for years, possibly generations, before being allowed to travel outside their home system of New Pennsylvania. The larger the family, the larger the vessel. As the family outgrew their ships, the entire population of New Pennsylvania would work together to build them a new one, some as large as Super Battlecruisers. Gunny’s mouth watered at the idea of fighting an Amish Super Battlecruiser.

Their motivation, ironically, was to purge the universe of what they considered to be unholy technology. Things like nanobots, whorebots, and automatic flushing toilets were abhorrent to them. Yet they’d somehow managed to create spacecraft and had obviously learned to embrace violence.

Even simple things like electric ground transportation or nano-manufacturing were considered taboo. The Amish cooked their meals, like, with fire. Nobody did that anymore. Nobody.

In their perfect world, all communities would be united in a cause for the common good. Nobody would be more important than anyone else. Nobody would be stronger, smarter, faster, be able to jump higher or grow old before having at least a dozen kids. To Gunny it sounded a lot like commies. Damn commies.

He consoled himself by counting sheep, dressed like communists, jumping from a cliff into a huge blender. Seventeen… eighteen… nineteen… It wasn’t until he woke to the sound of an alarm klaxon that he realized he’d slept at all.

For a few seconds, Gunny wasn’t sure where he was, if the she-devil in his dream, the one with no gag reflex, was real or not. He didn’t know what time it was and wasn’t even sure who he was. Once his brain caught up to his senses, he spat out his drool-soaked pillow and shot to his feet.

A blood-red glow illuminated his room. It set deep, crimson shadows in the corners, of which there were four, and set the proper tone and mood for a fight. There was only one reason for sounding klaxons and activating the red lights, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He couldn’t stand the disappointment if he was wrong.

He took a few more seconds to study his surroundings, taking it all in. He could hardly believe what was happening. Excitement flooded his veins, followed closely by adrenaline which sent the last surviving nanobot careening through a vein somewhere near his puckered butthole.

“Battle,” he whispered into the small, empty room.

“Attention all stations,” a voice announced over the ship’s intercom. “General quarters, general quarters, general quarters! This is not a drill!”

Gunny could hardly believe it. He squealed, dancing back and forth on his feet and clapping his huge hands together while trying to remember what to do first. It took him a moment, but he was able to gather his wits and run through the procedure in his mind. The first step was to get dressed.

He regretted not having the time to check to make sure his pectoral muscles matched but also understood that even if they didn’t, he wouldn't have time to correct the issue. There was a battle to be fought, and he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

The undergarment worn by all Starheads was fabricated from nanofiber. The material was capable of stretching to fit all but the largest bodies. His was a little small, even though it was the largest size produced. He had to cut the sleeves off, along with all of the material below the knees, just to get it all the way on. What he ended up with was a close approximation to a wrestling onesie like he’d worn when he was three years old and competed in the high-school leagues back on Earth.

He turned to admire his figure in the mirror and was disappointed when he remembered that he’d folded it back into the wall. Next time, he told himself. Or after the battle.

The next step was his battle armor. It was light but strong and only took a few seconds to don once he pressed the button labeled “DON” on the wall-mounted automatic donner. Spidery arms erupted from the device and attached each piece, adjusted for his larger size, and sealed the suit against the threat of exposure to vacuum. A few seconds later, a small but powerful battery was inserted in the back, and the stimpacks were loaded.

Mmm, stimpack. He hadn’t had one in a few days, and since he hadn’t been afforded the luxury of a good night’s sleep, eating one immediately wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.

Using his tongue, he activated the STIM switch in his large helmet. A second later, a small panel under his chin opened up and a stim-crayon popped out. He craned his neck to see the color but couldn’t get the angle just right, so he took a breath, plucked the waxy treat from its socket and chewed.

Crayons had come a long way since the early days. No longer were they just for children, Marines, and others. No longer were they used to incorrectly color giraffes, Philadelphia Eagles fans. and other extinct creatures. Now, after decades of research, crayons were primarily used as stimpacks. They didn’t have an expiration date, a box of them contained 3,600 calories, and they could be loaded with everything from caffeine to industrial-grade mouthwash. The one he’d been provided with was, he decided, blue. Not his favorite flavor.

The klaxons stopped a few moments later, but the red lights remained illuminated.

Gunny slapped the OPEN button next to his hatch and stormed out into the hallway. Only a few Marines were standing outside their berths awaiting orders. He allowed a deep, dark, menacing expression to settle on his chiseled visage and inhaled deeply, straining the ballistic fabric of his uniform.

“Get out here, you rust-picking, squid-humping sea-dogs before I come in there and drag you out by your short hairs!”

Several Navy personnel darted around the corner and fixed eyes with Gunny. A glance and a flinch in their direction sent the swabbies scrambling like a freshly opened nest of space-roaches.

Four seconds later all his troops were outside of their berths, some only halfway dressed. He marched down the line, yelling at one for not having his uniform completely on. Another he punched in the gut when the man smirked at the first Marine’s ass-chewing.

The last Marine in the line, Private Joe Tate, looked forlorn when his gunnery sergeant stopped in front of him.

“And you,” Gunny grunted. “The Amish won’t want to invade once they get a look at you, Tate! Therefore, we’re going to stick you in the front and save us all a lot of trouble. Sound like a plan?”

“Yes, Gunny,” Tate moaned.

A beep from a nearby, wall-mounted console called for his attention.

“Weapons!” Gunny ordered. “Now! Prepare to repel boarders!” Before he turned toward the armory, he stopped at the console and pressed the button to access a recording from the bridge.

The Stick’s captain, a pasty-white politician with smooth skin, a perfectly-trimmed gray beard, and hair that was barely within regulation length had centered himself on the screen and cleared his throat. To Gunny, the man looked like he’d been pulled away from a romance novel or soap opera.

“This is your captain,” Captain Drew Avera announced. “Our outer defenses have been attacked. Three of the four pickets deployed to guard our port side have been destroyed. The drones only got a few images of the attackers, but we believe we know who they are.” He paused. Probably for effect. “Our enemy appears to be a Heresy-class Amish Navy frigate. It’s approaching fast, and we expect to engage them in less than five minutes.” He paused, probably for effect again, before squeaking out, “Prepare for battle!”

Gunny caught himself hopping back and forth between his feet again and stopped, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. One sailor had, but a glance as powerful as a proton-beam sent the skinny little swabbie skittering down a hallway and around a corner.

After ensuring the sailor was gone, Gunny marched down the hallway, through a door, down another hallway, then took a left, a right, and another left. He entered the armory and was pleased to see Starheads lined up for inspection, each carrying the standard M-334 laser rifle and dressed in their space-armor. The rapid-fire weapons had a range of nearly a mile, which far outdistanced the mere kilometer the Amish rifles were capable of… he was pretty sure… though he didn’t understand or care to do the conversion.

He turned to the weapons racks, walked right past two dozen perfectly capable M-334 rifles and instead selected his personal firearm: a modern reproduction of the classic 1861 Springfield 58-caliber muzzleloader. The surviving originals were all in private collections, so he’d spent five paychecks getting this one manufactured.

The M-334 rifle, he surmised, would make quick work of any enemy who happened to cross his path. But the fight would be grossly unfair. The muzzleloader used percussion caps, sort of, black powder, almost, and a real lead ball. He’d have to get close and personal to have any chance at accuracy. It took nearly twenty seconds to reload, especially if it were in zero gravity. It was all just the way he liked it.

He ran one finger down the inlaid brass letters mid-way down the synthewood stock. “Ouchmaker,” the letters read. He’d named it after his other favorite gun, which he’d broken a few years ago while bashing-in enemy heads. The rifle before that had also been Ouchmaker, as had the one before that one. This one, however, held the promise of lasting more than a dozen battles, if they ever came. He whispered to it, staring at it dreamy-eyed like he would a lover.

If the worst were to happen and he had to use it as a club, this one, like the ones before it, would be effective. It was a glorious weapon, and he embraced it without shame. He admired its long barrel, stroked it a couple of times, and reverently attached it to a hardpoint on the back of his armor.

Then he pulled two pouches containing the caps and balls, and a horn reproduction that held the black-powder-substitute. These he attached to his space armor as well.

Just for fun, he selected two grenades. They weren’t supposed to be used aboard ship, but he decided that if it became necessary, he’d apologize for the damage later.

He stared at his personal cavalry sword for a moment but didn’t pick it up. It was better suited for ground engagements where he could swing it madly and not have to worry about friendly body parts. “Next time,” he promised the sword as he patted it.

All the Marines were staring at him. A few smirked. One looked downright confused. They were doing something, but what they weren’t doing was checking their own gear to make sure they had everything they’d need. After that, they were supposed to check their buddy’s gear to make sure he had everything he needed.

Gunny decided he’d check it for them. He also decided it would hurt.

The platoon commander, Lieutenant Jenner Fitzwell, rushed into the armory as Gunny was finishing the inspection of his troops. Two Marines lay prone on the ground, obviously unconscious. Another was applying nanobots to a split in his lip. One seemed to be in a fugue state while two more were doing push-ups.

“What happened to them?” Fitzwell asked, hands on his hips.

Gunny didn’t answer right away. He was too confused, watching the hand-to-hip gesture and wondering why the move looked so feminine. It might be the man’s size, he decided. The thin arms, visible even under the armored space armor, were like most civilian women’s arms, at least the ones who he met at a gym.

Those women tended to have a picture in mind of what they wanted to look like. What couldn’t be accomplished with a few hours on the treadmill was achieved through surgery as nanobots were reserved for military use. Some of the surgeons were masters at their craft. They could turn a woman who resembled a mud fence in a rainstorm into a voluptuous beauty. He spent several long moments thinking about one in particular. So long, in fact, that his lieutenant snapped him from his warm, soft, squishy memories by rapping gauntleted knuckles on his helmet’s clear visor.

“Why do you do that every time I walk into a room?” Fitzwell asked. “I swear, it's every single time.” He still had his hands on his hips and Gunny could have sworn he saw a slight curve to the man’s frame.

“I… uh… was thinking of our battle plan, sir. I wanted to make sure I could give you a proper and prompt update.”

Fitzwell did not look convinced, but he did look satisfied. Then he turned to address the Marines. “Listen here, pleathernecks, this is the situation.”

The lieutenant kept talking, but Gunny was no longer listening. Instead, he was studying his commander out of the corner of his eye. He tried to imagine what the man did all day when there weren’t any enemies to kill. The lieutenant looked like he sat around eating gluten-free marshmallows and watching soap operas with the captain. Has this guy even seen the inside of a gym? How hard did he have to work to keep that girlish figure? When he gathered his wits about him again, he had two realizations.

First, he realized that he’d been on ship way too long. He had to get a port call in or some leave as soon as possible. He was thinking about his commander’s body way too much.

Second, all the Marines were still standing at attention, and he had no idea how long they’d been there. Fitzwell wasn’t anywhere in sight, and those he’d “corrected” had recovered from their injuries. Luckily, he was staring in the general direction of the weapons rack and noticed something out of place. He pretended like he’d been looking at it the whole time.

“Who the hell left cleaning supplies unsecure?” he bellowed as he snatched a mop from the rack. He spun on his Marines, holding the mop as if he were brandishing a flaming sword capable of killing a man then cutting his soul when it tried to go to Heaven.

One brave, or stupid, Marine stepped forward, and Gunny’s smile grew wide. It was Tate, and he looked scared. Good.

Then a thought occurred to him that was more devilish than anything he’d ever thought of before. In fact, he was proud of the thought, even. So proud, in fact, that he decided to take a moment to bask in his own glory. The sight of it made the frown on Tate’s face droop even lower.

“Leave another mop in a weapons rack again, and I swear I’ll stick it up your butt and break it off! Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!” the Maines shouted in unison.

“Good! Get to your assigned stations. Except you,” he said, pointing to one of the troops. “You take mine. I’m covering engineering this time.”

Two minutes and two stairwells later, Gunny was outside of engineering, guarding the long hallway leading to the engines and power plants. He held his muzzleloader at the ready and did his best not to look too excited.

Gunny was suddenly distracted from his battle-lust again by regular, old, generic, ordinary lust. The Stick’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Jane Bloggs, was approaching. She was wearing a standard-issue naval insta-vac suit that was supposed to protect the wearer from sudden decompression. What it did not protect her from was the penetrating stare of the Marines under her command.

Her almost-white-blonde hair was pulled back in a perfect, tight bun. Her dark brown, almost black eyes quickly scanned the room, and her lips… oh her lips… The bottom one was bigger than the top. It made her look like she was pouting. Gunny found it enchanting.

“Attention on deck!”

Gunny barely heard it but snapped to attention anyway, clumsily assuming the present arms position, rifle in front, held vertically. He was too busy watching the XO to check to see if he was holding Ouchmaker correctly.

The insta-vac suit was made from some kind of material that had to be thinner than paper. He’d never worn one. He’d never even touched one, the Marines preferring, or forced, to use old-style space suits of woven Kevlar and heavy trauma panels. The result was effective, but nothing could compare to thin insta-vac suit material stretched tight over a body accustomed to the rigors of a gym.

“Gunny,” she said, hands on her hips, “my face is up here.”

He managed to peel his eyes off her body by imagining what his commander might look like in the same uniform. After that, focusing on what she was saying was easy. So was not sleeping well for a few nights as he did his best to poke out his mind’s eye.

“Aye, ma’am!” he said as he snapped his eyes forward and focused on an imaginary spot about a hundred feet in front of him.

“Are your troops ready for some action?” she asked.

There was an audible swallow from at least two of the Marines, Gunny included. When the Marines didn’t answer, Jane tried again.

“I said, are your troops ready to get nasty and stick it to them?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded. No matter how she’d meant it, he was certain his troops would be ready for it. Him too.

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m ready for some action. Is that clear?”

That was a preview of Vacuums Suck Hard! The Adventures of the USS Big Stick. To read the rest purchase the book.

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