Here's something I did a while ago. I dunno if it's worth pursuing. Crits needed.
Preamble.
There is no sound in space, unless you count the sound of the spaceships entering and coming out of warp speed; those and the constant hum of lesser space faring vessels such as those used by StarPost. In short, there is sound in space, most of the time. For a small percentage of the time there is no sound in space, but not very often. But sound is not Why you’ve chosen to read this tale, we’re coming to the Why shortly, and the Who and When and Where.
First we must find out What, and in order to do that we will briefly encounter some of the Who’s and Where’s and at some stage the When.
Now, here’s How (this particular bit of) it all began:
Chapter One. – How.
It isn’t very often that you get to be late for your own funeral, but for Max it looked like luck was on his side. At least for now.
In his rearview display window he could see jetbikes and spacecars backed up for miles, and the view up front wasn’t much better. Luckily this didn’t worry Max, because he wasn’t in a hurry to get to his funeral and was happy to wait in traffic.
He’d slept in til 10.95 (in space, time runs for an extra 40 seconds per minute) and despite the fact that he knew he was late for work, he didn’t actually care. You see, Max was in trouble, he knew he was in trouble and getting to work would make his troubles triple. It wasn’t even his fault; well not really, not when you considered the whole story and looked at all the facts. But Max knew Post Marshall Garrett Fritt, and Post Marshall Garrett Fritt was not a man who considered much of anything.
Fritt was more of a doer than a thinker and less considerate than the least considerate thing in the universe. And everyone knows that the least considerate thing in the universe is a Grump from the Inconsiderate Sector; a creature so inconsiderate it would rather eat you than have to listen to you.
So, Max was definitely taking his time this morning. He made sure he took twice as long as normal in the shower, and twice as long to get himself ready. He tried about four or five hairstyles, but in the end went with messy; he brushed his teeth up and down and side to side a hundred times, he shaved and went over it twice to make sure it was extra smooth and was finally ready to choose a work outfit. That took him an extra 15 minutes on top of the 45 he’d spent grooming; he chose a red pair of socks, his blue work shirt, his extra high-vis florescent yellow and orange safety cuff straps and belt, and his blue work pants with the right side cargo pocket for extra storage, and trudged his way to his DT 4K1 model jetbike (a modified version of standard StarPost issue DT 4K), which was parked, as always, in the driveway at his home; and that was how he found himself stuck in traffic, late for what he was sure was his own funeral.
As he waited, he contemplated how best to approach his story, with the truth, or with some spicy lies thrown in for extra flair.
He decided with Fritt that the truth was probably the best option, because really, even the best spicy lies wouldn’t sound any better than the circumstances leading up to the truth.
Everything would have been great if only he had read “Concealing Yourself from The Unevolved” at StarPost boot camp; but he was too busy doodling a sketch of a naked Venusian and generally not caring to read it at the time, and hadn’t bothered to go over his induction manuals since.
Which is why he knew that Fritt would be signing his death warrant the minute he discovered a StarPost agent (Max being that agent) had been discovered by none other than a university student in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, Earth, The Universe; and those are the worst of the unevolved, because they think they know everything about everything; when really they know everything about not a whole lot more than the average Earth human. What they certainly didn’t know is that there’s life beyond their own planet. Sure, they’d made guesses and assumptions, but none had ever been proven as fact. Not even the last time there had been an accidental discovery. At least Roswell was more of an accident than Melbourne, you can’t exactly blame a sloppy concealment job on engine failure; at least those guys had that excuse. All Max had in his defence was; “Uh, sorry boss, forgot to hit the stealth button.” That and he’d also forgotten that jetbikes don’t exist on earth yet, and that there’s a stealth button on the heads-up panel on the dash readout. The only things he had remembered were that he had to change his clothes to fit with those of a postal worker on Earth and that he had packed his lunch into his under-seat storage compartment.
His mission was simple, deliver a package of overdue library book stamps to the head of the State Library and be on his way. He didn’t count on a university student choosing the roof of the library as a study nook, nor did he count on the student having a mobile phone with a camera. What sort of university student was this that could afford such a phone? And so, that was how he had ended up being caught on film, and just as he found the stealth button too. The shame of it all was enough, but what he faced once he finally got to work was much worse. How much worse? Worse than if the moon weren’t made of cheese. Worse than canned chicken. Worse than just about anything. Unless he could come up with a plan. Just now though, he was stuck in traffic, with no way out or in, and only one place to look forward to: The Central Business District.
Preamble.
There is no sound in space, unless you count the sound of the spaceships entering and coming out of warp speed; those and the constant hum of lesser space faring vessels such as those used by StarPost. In short, there is sound in space, most of the time. For a small percentage of the time there is no sound in space, but not very often. But sound is not Why you’ve chosen to read this tale, we’re coming to the Why shortly, and the Who and When and Where.
First we must find out What, and in order to do that we will briefly encounter some of the Who’s and Where’s and at some stage the When.
Now, here’s How (this particular bit of) it all began:
Chapter One. – How.
It isn’t very often that you get to be late for your own funeral, but for Max it looked like luck was on his side. At least for now.
In his rearview display window he could see jetbikes and spacecars backed up for miles, and the view up front wasn’t much better. Luckily this didn’t worry Max, because he wasn’t in a hurry to get to his funeral and was happy to wait in traffic.
He’d slept in til 10.95 (in space, time runs for an extra 40 seconds per minute) and despite the fact that he knew he was late for work, he didn’t actually care. You see, Max was in trouble, he knew he was in trouble and getting to work would make his troubles triple. It wasn’t even his fault; well not really, not when you considered the whole story and looked at all the facts. But Max knew Post Marshall Garrett Fritt, and Post Marshall Garrett Fritt was not a man who considered much of anything.
Fritt was more of a doer than a thinker and less considerate than the least considerate thing in the universe. And everyone knows that the least considerate thing in the universe is a Grump from the Inconsiderate Sector; a creature so inconsiderate it would rather eat you than have to listen to you.
So, Max was definitely taking his time this morning. He made sure he took twice as long as normal in the shower, and twice as long to get himself ready. He tried about four or five hairstyles, but in the end went with messy; he brushed his teeth up and down and side to side a hundred times, he shaved and went over it twice to make sure it was extra smooth and was finally ready to choose a work outfit. That took him an extra 15 minutes on top of the 45 he’d spent grooming; he chose a red pair of socks, his blue work shirt, his extra high-vis florescent yellow and orange safety cuff straps and belt, and his blue work pants with the right side cargo pocket for extra storage, and trudged his way to his DT 4K1 model jetbike (a modified version of standard StarPost issue DT 4K), which was parked, as always, in the driveway at his home; and that was how he found himself stuck in traffic, late for what he was sure was his own funeral.
As he waited, he contemplated how best to approach his story, with the truth, or with some spicy lies thrown in for extra flair.
He decided with Fritt that the truth was probably the best option, because really, even the best spicy lies wouldn’t sound any better than the circumstances leading up to the truth.
Everything would have been great if only he had read “Concealing Yourself from The Unevolved” at StarPost boot camp; but he was too busy doodling a sketch of a naked Venusian and generally not caring to read it at the time, and hadn’t bothered to go over his induction manuals since.
Which is why he knew that Fritt would be signing his death warrant the minute he discovered a StarPost agent (Max being that agent) had been discovered by none other than a university student in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, Earth, The Universe; and those are the worst of the unevolved, because they think they know everything about everything; when really they know everything about not a whole lot more than the average Earth human. What they certainly didn’t know is that there’s life beyond their own planet. Sure, they’d made guesses and assumptions, but none had ever been proven as fact. Not even the last time there had been an accidental discovery. At least Roswell was more of an accident than Melbourne, you can’t exactly blame a sloppy concealment job on engine failure; at least those guys had that excuse. All Max had in his defence was; “Uh, sorry boss, forgot to hit the stealth button.” That and he’d also forgotten that jetbikes don’t exist on earth yet, and that there’s a stealth button on the heads-up panel on the dash readout. The only things he had remembered were that he had to change his clothes to fit with those of a postal worker on Earth and that he had packed his lunch into his under-seat storage compartment.
His mission was simple, deliver a package of overdue library book stamps to the head of the State Library and be on his way. He didn’t count on a university student choosing the roof of the library as a study nook, nor did he count on the student having a mobile phone with a camera. What sort of university student was this that could afford such a phone? And so, that was how he had ended up being caught on film, and just as he found the stealth button too. The shame of it all was enough, but what he faced once he finally got to work was much worse. How much worse? Worse than if the moon weren’t made of cheese. Worse than canned chicken. Worse than just about anything. Unless he could come up with a plan. Just now though, he was stuck in traffic, with no way out or in, and only one place to look forward to: The Central Business District.
