BASE SPACE ACE 427,024 AD, NOVEMBER 19, 2024
LIFE, NON-LIFE, SPACE, AND NON-SPACE 1
PLANET PLOVDI, SOME SECTOR, CITY ALPHA 3
So there I was, 5000-plus years old, without any skills worth mentioning in my boss’ office on Plovdi… Again. The office was just a small room with unnecessary holographic posters of the dirty kind because it was that kind of business.
(Planet Plovdi is an excellent planet by the way. If you believe in the literal Garden of Eden (not to offend you or anything but), Planet P is a much better place to be. That’s why all the tourists come here. They have to travel for thousands of years, as you know. Since you can’t cheat the laws of nature and cryonics is totally impractical, you can do this trip only once in a lifetime. I did that too when I was eighteen years old. For those youngsters who don’t know about you-know-what…. We can slow aging, but it’s a taboo subject. Some use words like unethical, homicide, and genocide. Obviously, genocide is the wrong word but…)
“By Urt, you’re fired, Arthur,” my boss said. An obese, balding man, with disgusting hairs growing out of his nose, and a voice that would scare Dracula of about my age which without Slow Aging would be comparable to fifty years old in natural terms.
I couldn’t be bothered to answer. Those days I got fired once a month. April of the previous year, they fired me twice—my personal best.
(What a bad way to start my story, right? Sooo not like the standard Holowood Formula. Should have started with a battle in a proper war. The final battle preferably. So imagine lots of warships. Not some measly miners but jaw-dropping giants with thousands of cannons. Pew pew, explosions, a sailor screaming, limbs flying in all directions, blood, guts, and so on and so on.)
“Get out of my office, Marx,” my ex-boss said. “Or do you want me to call security?”
I got up and the door slid open. I was out without saying a word. Five of my colleagues were in the somewhat larger room where I used to work. They ignored me completely and pretended to be busy. I left as though I was going out for a quick break.
(At this point, Holowood would have served you a good fight to show how awesome the hero is. There were seven children outside. I could beat them up, but that’s not my style. To follow the successful Formula, imagine they’re impressive thugs, and I beat them up with ease. Because I’m just that kind of a guy. Not some 5K yo with a bad back and a bit of a belly.)
I walked through the Garden of Eden full of tourists and locals. It was surreal. You know, Planet Sofi was full of pretty girls and the grass was green and everything, but it’s hell compared to Plovdi.
(Let’s skip to the mandatory sex scene. If sex upsets you, I must tell you, you’re not the only one, but the Formula works. You can’t argue with it. So there I am with all kinds of hotties (female, male, non-binary, it doesn’t matter). We’re wearing as little as possible natch. Doing what they have been doing on Urt for eons. Mammal mating rituals. Someone is moaning, No, all of them are moaning except for moi because I’m afraid someone will hear me. So I hold my moan. We find our release (or whatever you’re supposed to call it) and then we cut to VIPs discussing fiscal policies in a boring office.)
My quantum holographic communicator (just kidding:-) ) pinged me with a message from a recruiting firm:
ARTHUR MARX, YOU ARE HIRED. REPORT TO DOCK FOUR DELTA.
Then some more information. The gist of it was that a mercenary company was hiring military pilots for a stealth mission. Probably a war. There was mention of Ozruskis and Asraels. Never heard of them.
So I know as much about flying as anyone who has been on an interstellar voyage lasting millennia. Practically nothing. But I could fake it.
I guess there was another Arthur Marx—an ace pilot—living near me. This wasn’t the first time I received his messages. Technology is hard. AI is harder. If not, I would have been unemployed and starving. I could barely afford Slow Aging. Slow Aging was the only god-like tech we had.
(Time for another gratuitous sex scene…)
Oh, what the hell! I replied to the message. Told them I was eager to start. The real Arthur Marx was bound to show up, but I had nothing to lose. There was a small chance he didn’t receive the message. And I sort of wanted to meet him too.
My feet walked all the way to an android brothel. Oh well, there were worse ways to spend my severance pay.
(Roll credits. Some handsome guy plays me. Tall, intelligent, well-dressed, voice that drives the opposite sex wild. Or the same sex, or NBs. No need to exclude anyone.)