Cadet Jackson, Episode I
“Dammit…” the cadet tucks his space-wrench into his trousers as we wipes sweat from his brow. His struggles have been in vain, and he’s running out of precious time.
“Fine, I guess it comes down to this; let’s pray this works… it’s, like, my only hope…” in a gesture clearly indicative of doubt, despair, and unmistakable intoxication, Cadet Jackson reaches for his communicator.
“Space command, this is the XR003-Cock-Stallion, requesting immediate support. This is a crisis. I repeat, CRISIS.”
Radios silence. Our cadet is running out of hope, and a preemptive hangover is coming on, when all of a sudden:
“Sorry cadet, I was running validation on your ship’s credentials. It’s… it’s actually called the Cock-Stallion…”
“Yeah, thank you! I wanted to name it Glorious Manticore, but I’m pretty sure all those things do is sleep and have sex.”
“Do you even know what a manti--”
“Anyways, now that you’re on the phone, I need help, I’m in a sticky situation – the nutrient paste and vodka supply lines have gotten a little mixed up, and I personally don’t think I have the technical capacity, patience, or sobriety to fix this. Help, dude?”
There’s a steely silence as the voice on the other end contemplates the overwhelming predicament he’s just been handed.
“Did y… did you just say that the vodka and nutrient -- HOW, and I mean HOW is that remotely possible?!?”
“We got bored sir, all we do is transport goods back and forth, day in day out, so you come up with fun games and challenges. This time, Cadet Sanchero and I tried to see how quickly we could convince our higher command to take us to Bitch Planet.”
“You realize that’s a complete myth made up in cadet training school, right?”
“ANYWAYS, they got kinda pissy when we brought up the topic, saying dumb crap like ‘that’s not even a real thing’ and ‘aren’t you married’. So we realized that the only way to loosen up these nerds was to get them hammered. So we proceeded to--”
“-- spike the damn food line…”
“Yeah… and next time? Don’t interrupt me. Dick. Alright, so we switched out the water supply with this Arcturian Vodka that we’ve been hauling for ever --”
“Arcturian’s don’t make alcohol potable for human consumption, the only thing we get from the Arcturians is…”
Even on the other end of the galaxy, through a two way communication could you feel the dread that had flooded the responder’s being.
“You spiked your food supply with your damned fuel supply…”
“So once upper command was nice and tipsy, we tried to get them to take us to Bitch Planet, but they all wanted to go to the Whore Nebula, which EVERYONE knows is a myth! So we had to settle accounts the only way that boys from Texas know how.”
“”You do realize you’re, like, not even the first in a long line of clones bred in a colony on Mars, right?”
“Russian Roulette’s the name of the game, but unfortunately we didn’t have conventional firearms, so Sanchero -- hahahahaha, that idiot, lays down his ray gun, and says ‘let’s rodeo’. Wait, what was that ‘clone thing’ you said?”
“Holy crap… you played Russian Roulette, with your entire upper command, with a ray gun. Do I need to even ask how that went? And yeah, you’re like ALL clones. Don’t they tell you guys that?”
“… man am I glad I’m drunk… I’m a clo – Wait, no, this is more important. I’m about to die, and everyone else is already dead. After upper command died in the most blatantly rigged game of Russian Roulette I’ve ever seen, we set a course for Bitch Planet. The first week was fine, and I was a kick ass captain. But then freaking Sanchero started to get jealous, and started a damn uprising. ”
“That sounds intense.”
“It was. Very. So it takes about a month to calm down the civil war that’d erupted, and it boils down to just me and Sanchero. Fortunately for you, I’ve read classic war literature a la The Hunger Games and got the sneak on that ass. Anyways, as I’m kill- - - bzzzt Huhhh huh”
“Sorry command, I completely forgot to mention the oxygen thing… haha, I’m like out…”
The responder feels actual sympathy for this ass, although he would not be the last of his kind to go out, potentially even in a particular fashion.
“You’re… you’re kinda screwed man… I’m sorry…”
“It’s cool dude, I was gonna eat it eventually. This ain’t too bad, drunk and captain of a kick ass ship. Oh, and by the way, command?”
The voice on the other end hesitates – this conversation has gone on for too long, and might potentially adversely impact his health; but it may very well be the last that he can afford cadet Jackson.
“Go ahead cadet.”
A teary, wheezing voice on the other end continues.
“There is no Bitch Planet."