Copperfox
Well-known member
I'm already setting up a _parody_ of David Weber's far-future military novels, this version being related to my own "Dystopian Earth." But what I _now_ offer is explicitly fan fiction, universes removed from any "Spacebullies" material. Thus, David Weber's canonical characters will be portrayed under their original author-bestowed names. I make no ownership claim to characters invented by Mister Weber or his co-author Eric Flint. This novelette takes place years after the events of To End In Fire.
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"Confound me if it ain't weird havin' a pulser shaped like my old chemical-propellant six-gun."
"Technically, Bill, it's a nine-gun," Anton Zilwicki drily observed. "Rail-gun physics, purely penetration. If the pulser darts had even the diameter of a B-B, the same velocity would send each dart through twelve centimeters of ceramacrete."
Catherine Montaigne-Zilwicki, a slender, dignified woman, a head taller than the computer hacker plus heavyweight wrestler to whom she had finally gotten married, hugged him from behind. "Anton, darling, once little Priscilla reaches fifteen standard years, you'll be asking Mister Steadman to lend the pulser back to you."
Twirling the verified-as-unloaded handgun, the interstellar beef merchant holstered it while addressing the Manticoran parliamentarian. "No plainsman on Planet Montana would ever misbehave toward a female."
A younger woman, around the age of Anton's daughter Helen, joined the conversation. "But what if a marine biologist visiting this sector wanted you to misbehave a little? Honestly, I think you'd be putting me off even if you didn't have Prolong giving you more time to decide on a mate." 00000000
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"Confound me if it ain't weird havin' a pulser shaped like my old chemical-propellant six-gun."
"Technically, Bill, it's a nine-gun," Anton Zilwicki drily observed. "Rail-gun physics, purely penetration. If the pulser darts had even the diameter of a B-B, the same velocity would send each dart through twelve centimeters of ceramacrete."
Catherine Montaigne-Zilwicki, a slender, dignified woman, a head taller than the computer hacker plus heavyweight wrestler to whom she had finally gotten married, hugged him from behind. "Anton, darling, once little Priscilla reaches fifteen standard years, you'll be asking Mister Steadman to lend the pulser back to you."
Twirling the verified-as-unloaded handgun, the interstellar beef merchant holstered it while addressing the Manticoran parliamentarian. "No plainsman on Planet Montana would ever misbehave toward a female."
A younger woman, around the age of Anton's daughter Helen, joined the conversation. "But what if a marine biologist visiting this sector wanted you to misbehave a little? Honestly, I think you'd be putting me off even if you didn't have Prolong giving you more time to decide on a mate." 00000000
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