Shep’s First Day on the Job.
Shep' crossed his arms and rolled his eyes for the fortieth time in the 2 days of hypertravel on the Zephyr. His grandfather had been cogitating on and on about how big this particular interstellar ship was. It was the 3rd largest ship the fleet had ever built, and was the largest active ship in the fleet. Poseiden's Fury, or Fury for short, was so large it generated a gravitational pull that actively stressed the outside of the ship with the centerward pull it generated.
Currently, Shep's grandfather was wildly gesturing towards a void in space where no stars could be seen. "The reason we can't see any stars in that area, is because that's where the ship is!" He waved his finger in a circular pattern against the computer tablet in his lap displaying a view of of space. "Just wait until light hits it!"
Shep' couldn't be bothered by that, though. He had just received his assignment, and he was one of the Fury's shield ships. Shep's mind somersaulted over the idea that he was the captain of his own ship at the impressive age of 18. The Fury was gargantuan on a scale that most humans can't understand. So large, in fact, that the Fizz's laws of inertia dampening demonstrated that a shield could not be generated large enough to cover the ship.
For a moment Shep' could hear Professer Fizzburn's German accent describing the laws and formulas that described why an inertia dampener could never be generated that was much larger than a house. "Joo zee, zat iz vhy vee cannot chenerate a chield vit greater diameter zan an averache houze." He circled several Greek letters following an equals sign at the bottom of a holoboard with red laser pen. "Zo instead, zee Fury eez protected by a sphere of shield ships"
Shep's daydream came to a screeching halt as angry red light flooded the bay. "All protective unit pilots report to transport bay B for immediate dispersal, this is not a drill. Repeat. All protective unit pilots report to transport bay B for immediate dispersal, this is not a drill". He glanced through the viewer as a great green laser lanced through several shield ships and into the Fury.
"Who would be attacking the Fury?!" His grandfather clutched at his chest.
"Dad are you OK?" Shep's father shifted seats sitting next to the old man. "Son you have to go. We'll be OK." Shep's father was lying, but Shep' had a duty to attend to. The blue med emergency light started blinking above their seating cubicle as Shep' stood frozen unable to decide between duty and family. "Go!" his father shouted.
The sprint down the transport ship to the transport bay was quite eventful. He tripped over another cadet sprinting to the bay, bloodying his nose. In the fall he jammed his thigh into the armrest of one of the seats, giving him a charlie horse that rivaled those of his youth playing speedball. He limped and hobbled to the bay and logged into the terminal. Master Chief Iolta stood at a hatch where a loaded transport pod was waiting. "Glad to see you could make it Captain." Master Chief Iolta spat on the floor "Smell the daisies on the way?" Shep' ignored him and hopped into the pod and buckled in "The pod will sync into your T3 Trident Shield Unit. You are to deploy and engage hostiles."
"God speed" Shep' saluted with 3 fingers to his temple.
"I hated you the most, Sheppard." Master Chief Iolta grinned "Kick some ass out there."
Iolta slammed the pod shut, and engaged the chemseals on the hatch. Shep put his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. "Who the fuck would be attacking us? It can't be the Golgons. " Shep said aloud as the Pod counted down to launch. The humanoid race of Golgon's had been nearly wiped out nearly a decade ago, but they had also been blown back into the stone age.
"The attackers appear to be human" Shep's computer chimed. "Their ships appear to be IndoRussian, and their flight and engagement tactics suggest the same." Shep thought about the idea for a few moments before dismissing the thought. Russia had signed a space nonaggression pact nearly a decade ago. This had to be a ruse of some sort. Shep took a moment to gather his thoughts in the chaos. Several laser lances flashed through space, cutting Trident shield ships in two, and separating pieces of the Fury from itself. Whoever had attacked knew that the Fury would be nearly invulnerable once the shieldships were manned. Attacking during the transition was really their best window.
Shep realized he hadn't felt being launched into space, and marveled at the feeling of flight in space for a moment. His Trident was maneuvering to intercept his pod, the ship pitched and rolled onto its back exposing an indent meant to house the pod. For a moment all was well, and the pod was simply going to slip into the housing mechanism, the maglocks would engage, and he would have control of his very own Trident.
A quick flash of light, and a laser lance changed all that, though. His pod slammed into the ship, but instead of the maglock catching, the ship snapped in half, shooting gouts of oil and battery lithium into space as it froze, clinking off the spherical pod. Panic washed over Shep' moments before his training kicked in.
Hundreds of lance ships began to focus on the central bridge of the Fury, working together to sever the Fury's engines from the rest of the ship.
Shep flipped a few switches and took over the pod's flight control module. "Scan for all available ships that will accept a TMU 38 pod, prioritize Trident model ships first" The collision with what would have been his first ship had sent him into a head over heels tumble that he fought to regain control over. Thousands of hours in a simulator took over, and he was able to stabilize his point of view into his current vector.
"No available Trident model ships." the computer chirped. Shep' held his breath "Six available Vulture longrange gunships."
"Vector on the nearest one." Shep' commanded. The ship did a few moments of silent calculation before bringing up a green target reticule on the bottom of Shep's head's up display
"Please enter command code to engage autopilot" Shep gave his authorization code. "Authorization code is not valid for Vulture longrange gunship, please enter command code to engage autopilot."
"Shit" Shep cursed under his breath. He and his buddies had figured out as first year students at the academy if you were able to direct your pod into the ship's pod bay, and engage your maglocks, you would have control over any ship that could accept your module. The issue with this maneuver was that it was like throwing a sewing needle through the eye of another sewing needle, in space.
Shep engaged the thrusters on full, he needed to get the pod close enough to visually see the vulture and determine where he needed to aim for. He glanced at the Maglock screen. Both Maglock levers showed green on the HUD. He could focus on landing instead of dealing with a damaged Mag. Things would be a thousand times worse if his initial collision with the trident had destroyed the Maglock mechanisms.
The next 30 seconds passed by slowly. Giant flaming chunks of the Fury were drifting away from the hulking ship. Several men and women in space suits had mounted a defense from a point on the hull, firing explosive lightrounds from behind bulkheads. A few whizzed bye, glowing golden and leaving behind a trail of golden dust. Deadly, yet beautiful. The pod's collision detector began to whoop, one of the enemy ships had detected him, and was bearing in on a direct course!
Shep's heart sank as he realized he was flying towards the belly of the Gunship. The Pod receptacle was on the other side. He reacted quickly, and set the pod into a lateral spin. Engaging one of the maglocks, he sent himself into a sort of sideways slide rolling towards the Vulture. Two short bursts of laser lance snapped past the pod. He held his breath and waited. The Pod collided with the ship, but instead of the ship bouncing away from the pod, the magnet from the Maglock kept the vulture close. The pod's momentum carried it again forward, rolling the Magnet over the apex of the pod, and then back against the ship. The pod was rolling against the skin of the Vulture, The pod violently shuddered and the glass against the bottom of his pod cracked, hemorrhaging atmosphere into space threatening to blast him out into the void of space again. A laser lance whipped by as the enemy ship careened past narrowly avoiding a collision and killing both Shep and itself. The Pod rolled again and with a loud snap settled into the indentation for the pod. The 2nd maglock engaged with the Vulture's magloc, and the Vulture came to life.
"Pod synchronization successful" the pod's computer chirped. A second canopy envolped the pod as the lightboard and HUD booted up. Shep's seat integrated with the vulture, and the pod opened like a blossoming flower in front of him, ejecting the unused parts of the pod behind him into space. The enemy pilot was coming in hot, straight ahead, Shep' grabbed the stick and pulled the trigger, the lance missed by a wide margin, as the enemy pilot evaded. Shep' nudged the ship to swing in the direction of the enemy ship and fired again, this time the lance swung with the ship creating a wave of death slicing the enemy in half.
Shep's nerves couldn't hold, he shouted and cheered in his seat. "Computer, status of the Zephyr"
The ship hesitated for moment "Destroyed."
Shep sat silent for a moment "Survivors?"
"Several pods ejected before comm's went offline" The computer said coldly.
"So my parents could be alive?"
Before the computer could answer, the Fury exploded into a ball of white hot plasma. The fireball collapsed in on itself, a beautiful blue and green hue, growing smaller and smaller, until it was nothing more than a prick of light the size of any one of the other of thousands of stars in the background. Then the light expanded, and exploded outward. Shep flicked his wrist and began flying away from the center of where the Fury used to be. He had never taken the time to appreciate how big the Fury really was, but he swung his head around and watched the expanding fireball engulf everything in its bloated path.
"I've never seen one that big before"
They Promised Me
Battle was all I knew. Perhaps that is why I find myself in the predicament I am in now. It is not a position of glory (which I was promised) and it's not a position of honor (which I am due). It is a position of circumstance.
The dim lights hurt my eyes, I should probably stop staring at them. My swollen left eye is hazing in and out of focus. I can still taste blood on the back of my throat, and my nose won't stop sending me fungal orders. I can hear muffled footsteps beyond the door. That'll be my Thanatos, coming to judge me.
I find myself thinking about all the propaganda I had bought into. I’d like to blame it for bringing me here, but it was actually just youthful ignorance. Years later, I know the truth. Too bad one can't turn back time. A shame really.
My whole life I had lacked a voice. As a child I was taught that children were to be seen and not heard. My very function was to play arm candy to my mother in family portraits. I shouldn't say that my parent's didn't care, they just cared more about their own ambitions.
Condensation falls from the ceiling bringing me back to my senses, or maybe I am sweating. Pushing my auburn hair from my face, I hear the door crack open. Enter the Grim Reaper.
For being the very picture of Death, he looks oddly like the old grocer I remember from down the street in my hometown. Homely in nature, with a dark complexion and thick eyebrows. He makes eye contact with me as he enters, seating himself at the table across from me. "Missing your scythe aren't you?" I sneer.
He ignores my remark. "Can I get you anything before we begin?" he asks.
"If you happen to have a Frank Sinatra vinyl I can listen to, that would be sublime. ... Sir"
He eyes me for a moment gauging if I am serious. Finally he says "If there is nothing lets continue."
I nod, "Yes. Sir."
"Do you understand why you are here?"
"Because I was arrested, Sir."
"Do you know why you were arrested?" he presses. His chin wiggles when he talks, not a very intimidating feature for Death to have. I choose to ignore his question, looking up and closing my eyes; trying to envision my barracks. My cot...how nice it would be to be laying there right now. Death clears his throat.
"Private Schultz..."
That brings me back to the present. "You know," I begin. "Joining the service was the first and only decision I ever made by myself. I worked hard to get here, and I deserve to be here, but I have definitely come to some realizations."I put my hands behind my head and kick back the chair, putting my feet on the table. He is obviously offended. Good. "I know how it all works and yet I continue to fight. I hate myself for that. I am a pawn of the system and my lack of action makes me as bad as they are."
"Who are?" Death asks. I ignore him.
"They'll tell me that my contributions make a difference, but I know better. I continue to do mission after mission, duty after duty. Upon my return I am rewarded with a 'job well done solider', but really what they mean is 'good job not dying'. I hate false praise, reminds me too much of home.
"I think you misunderstand." He interrupts. I bolt my head straight up and bring my fists down on the table. BOOM!!!! It echoes off the empty room.
"Don't patronize me! Just because I am a drone doesn't mean that I lack intelligence." I shout. Inhale. Breath out. Inhale. The door is opened by one of Deaths’ servants coming to check on my fit. Death nods to dismiss him, similar to what he is doing with my words. It's hot in this room. The longer this conversation goes on, the more irritable I find myself becoming. I think I can hear wind chimes, but that could just be wishful thinking.
"Private Schultz." Death starts again. I blink, looking at him, his chin still vibrating. "I'll ask you again. Do you know why you've been arrested?" I know. I just don't want to say it. To relive it. Silly Death, why must we play these word games, just be done with it already. I used to believe strongly in God, but what God would let me live on in this hell.
"You know D…. May I call you D?" He shrugs so I continue."All soldiers say they serve for their country and their country alone, but we detest ourselves for putting on that front. In truth we hate what we do, and could care less about the millions of unappreciative civilians back home, or the politicians who pretend to have our best interest in mind. " I shift in my seat, reflecting for a moment before continuing, Deaths’ gaze is unwavering. "The down and dirty of it is, we really care and respect our fellow peons the most. The peons who wage war on your behalf. We replace one sense of self-loathing with camaraderie. Our country says they'll never forget us, but they will. So that's why we hold onto each other so tight, because we will remember.”I miss my platoon. I miss the cold showers. I miss the freeze dried food, but now is not the time. Not when Death is visiting.
"Private Schultz, I won't pretend that I don't understand what you're saying" he starts. You'd better not, I think. This is right up your alley. The side of my face almost twitches in a nervous smile.
He continues, "but unless you speak to me more directly about the incident, I won't be able to help you."
That's true... only Death can help things at this point. "I was arrested for..." The flashbacks start. "Killing a fellow soldier..."Make the images stop."Who forced himself upon me..." Please God, if your still listening..."Beat me..."I still feel his fists." and proceeded to rape me."See.. I told you I only ever made one decision for myself. "So, after he was done with me..." My self worth depleted. "I struck him repeatedly in the head with a rock..." I don't remember if he screamed or not. I remember the warm splash on my face, like a fall rain. Might have struck him repeatedly in the crotch too. "Until he stopped breathing. "
Death almost seemed sympathetic with my confession, not that he didn't already know. I turned away from him. I hated him. Even though he was there to help me. I hated this place. The way it smelled, mold hinging in the air. I hated the pain I felt in my face and the rest of my body. I hate him. I hate me. I hate everything.
I got up from my chair and knelt in the corner of the room, clutching my knees to my chest, breathing heavily. I heard the door close behind me but I dare not look. I retreated into my subconscious trying to survive, but all I could think was...
They promised me glory...freedom...independence...
They promised me...........
Ode to a Fox
Your hazel eyes so loudly speak
of the mischief in your mind.
Long and slender and bright
They hide the truth of what you seek.
Your frosted hair shimmers of secrets
Red and brown burn slyly from below.
The black on your toes is whispering
Hunt little friend, but do not speak.
Words may ruin this encounter
Your curiosity amuses as your intelligence shines.
Tilt your head with those pointed ears
The black heart on face revealing
A secret smile as you sneak
But remember, remember...do not speak.
How To Get Out of Jury Duty
At some point in your life, no doubt at the most inopportune moment, you will be served with a jury summons. This is, of course, assuming at some point in your life you've registered to vote. In hindsight it will be such a silly thing. Then, there will come a moment when you receive the notice. It will come in the mail to your home, proving they know where you live. The envelope will have extra postage to ensure its timely arrival to your doorstep. You will open the letter hoping it was misaddressed, but you will know better. Chances are you will get a paper-cut during this process and blood will spill onto the summon, making a new type of contract. Escape is now impossible.
You will spend your days counting down. Food will lose its taste, water will make you thirsty, and you will become bitter towards everything. You will blame fate for giving you a summons a mere week after you retire. Retire after 50 long years of working. You knew it was too good to be true, kids grown and gone, no man to grind your nerves, no underpaid responsibilities to attend to, freedom, freedom to watch TV and become amalgamate with your sofa. You will begin to scheme. A plot will be needed, as necessity has just become your bedfellow.
The day of jury duty will begin with an ominous feeling. Persevere! You must ignore it. Today will be a day of your victory. Step one of the plan, make sure to misplace your makeup. Step two, in the process of looking for your make up you will lose your hairbrush. Given your age and the wear on your face from a tough life, you will probably resemble something like a meth head. This, after all, is a fashionable look nowadays. Just for good measure, make sure not to shower at least four days prior to jury duty.
You will arrive at the courthouse and sit with the other victims. Most will have properly prepared themselves for this civic responsibility; others will seem just as disinterested as you. The well-groomed in their suits and ties will occupy one part of the pew, the housewives and middle class citizens the middle, and toward the end you will seat yourself where you get to play the who's who of smell games. Not because you belong in this section, but because it is part of a grander plan.
As the judge enters the room, you will give him a once over, as he does the same to the room. He will sit himself above in his high perch, a shepherd overlooking his sheep. He will introduce himself to the flock, and give a brief description of why you have all gathered today. Listen only half-assed with your eyes glazed over. Make sure to save the complete lack of listening for when the lawyers begin to speak. The interrogation of the lawyers will commence, but you will be too busy looking around the courtroom to take any notice of what they are actually saying. Counting ceiling tiles will be your priority at this moment .. 44, 45, 46. The judge will clear his throat, be prepared for this."Miss, do you not take this seriously?" Point at yourself and give him a quizative look. You'll notice the slight nod of his head.
"Of course I do. What would make you think otherwise?"
"Your clothes."
You'll look down at your outfit; dirty moccasins, worn sweat pants, and a dingy white t-shirt you've used for painting in the past. "What about them?" He will roll his eyes at you, but you'll endure. "I got dressed. Normally I just run around in the skin God gave me; drooping breasts, gray hair, and wrinkles galore. Must keep the goods aired out or they will sweat and stink, you see? So the mere fact that I got dressed is proof of my dedication to this endeavor.” The judge will eye you, trying to gauge if you are serious or not. Contempt will cross his mind. Not the emotion but the judicial action. He will begin to motion with his hand that you should sit down; when a sudden sound will halt his hand and you feel his scrutinizing gaze upon you once again.
"Miss"
"Yes, your Honor?"
"What was that noise that just came from your bag?" he'll ask.
"My bag, sir?" Be sure to act innocent. Your choice of words will shape this entire situation.
"Yes Ma'am."
"Why your Honor, that is my cat, Sir Felinicuss, and the noise you heard was him talking."
"Meowing you mean?"
"No, talking Sir."
The judge will shake his head with irritation. "Regardless, why would you bring a cat into the court room?"
"Sir Felinicuss needs me, sir. Once I retired I decided I was going to take on a special needs child. Felinicuss here is diabetic. He needs his insulin at set intervals. I had to bring him with today so he could get his injections. My vet was very adamant that I should be religious with his insulin schedule. Don't want any funky glucose readings, ya see?" About this time another meow from your bag will echo throughout the courtroom. The judge's brow will furrow, his face will begin to turn red, and you'll feel a spasm of panic begin to creep up your spine, but stand firm. 'Just let me go home', you'll think.
With a sign of reservation, the judge will instruct the attorneys to question you next. He will desperately want you out of the courtroom at this point, annoyed by your appearance and your companion. At the same time he will be intrigued by how you hold yourself up and speak with no hesitations, you are so sure of yourself. Regardless of how he thinks of you, your mind will be preoccupied thinking of how the evil twins on your soap will reveal each others identity. Oooo Drama! The desire to escape this judicial prison will heighten ten fold.
The lawyers will reiterate you will be hearing a case of petty theft and larceny, a case involving stolen tires. You’ll grunt to yourself, reminded by what a waste of time this is. You mind will sweep you away; back to your home, where the TV is waiting with bated breath for your return, such a loyal device. The lawyer will interrupt your happy daydream with a tedious question, “Have any of you here today been accused of breaking and entering, theft, or larceny?” You will shoot your hand into the air faster than diarrhea shoots from a bodily orifice. ”Which one of those applied to you Ma’am?”
”Breaking and entering, Sir.”
”Were you convicted?”
”No Sir, only accused.”
”Is it on the record?”
”I doubt it, Sir. My Sister accused me of breaking into her home. Where I supposedly proceeded to fold her husband's jeans, and then left. It seems far-fetched, but you just can’t make this stuff up. And I assure you, Sir, I never do laundry whenever at all avoidable.”
The lawyer will give you a look similar to the judge. “Is that all Ma’am?” You’ll nod and sit down, with a proud grin covering your face.
The interrogations will continue from person to person and people will be excused here and there. Your anxiety will increase as the numbers dwindle, and you may in fact get stuck serving as a member of “one’s peers.” Finally, when it seems that all hope is gone, a miracle will happen.
”Do any of you here today know the defendant, John Stevenson?” A murmur will go out amongst the remainder of the flock, but ultimately no one will know him. Lean over to your neighbor and comment on how if this was a soap opera, it would be giant conspiracy. Everyone would be in cahoots.
”Do any of you here today know the victim, Alfred Roberts?” A similar murmur will spread like the plague among the sheep but you will stand.
”I was married to him!” you’ll exclaim. The attorneys and the judge will stop and gawk at you, like a charmed cobra swayed by a flute. “I swear it, check the records. It was many…many years ago, but we are still friends.”
Like a hymn to a heavenly chorus the words “You’re excused” will be uttered. Freedom will be yours. Fly quickly from the courtroom as if you’re a virgin trying to catch the bridal bouquet. In the midst of your getaway you will find yourself pondering about all that time you spent plotting and scheming, it will feel as if it’s been for nothing. Leaving a slightly bitter taste in your mouth. Persevere. Head towards home, to the TV and the newest episode of Days of Our Lives, but remember to first return Mittens to your neighbor. His identity is safe, his alias will last for another day.