Never Insult Science Fiction Fans

  • Posted on March 17, 2006 at 5:29 pm

Especially those who also write…

Flash fiction inspired by this comment on Kevin Drum’s blog…

They’re made for gawky teenagers who haven’t been laid. Anyone reading sci-fi after busting their cherry is a complete tool.
Posted by: NSA Mole on March 17, 2006 at 9:05 AM

***

Neville Samole awoke in his gelcel, still groggy from last night’s moodfest. What in the seven galaxies made me think that was a good idea? he thought blearily.

The mood emitters had gone from cheerful to romantic to sloppy sentimentalism then back to romantic and finished up with a long bout of manic lust. His serotonin levels still hadn’t caught up. But, there was no better way to insure that he would sleep through the transition. And he hated being awake during transition. It always gave him a monster headache. If he’d known that before he’d signed up with Space Force… Bah. Too late now.

Of course, he hated being encased in the acceleration-cushioning gel almost as much, but there was no escaping from that, awake or asleep. So, all in all, he decided the moodfest hadn’t been such a bad idea. Besides, it got him laid, albeit with an assist from the mood emitters. What was that Rigellian’s name, anyway? Neville considered looking her up for an unassisted assignation during their next off-duty shift.

Ah. No. He rejected the thought nearly before he’d completed it. In his current state, he was bound to be disappointing. Not that he’d ever been anything other than disappointing, outside of a moodfest, but he really didn’t want to be reminded of that just now. He was two galaxies away from the love of his life, and it depressed him to think that she was probably happy about that. Maybe when he came back a war-hero…

Battlestations, all hands to battlestations.

The volume of the alert along with the attendant klaxons gave Neville the headache he’d hoped to avoid by going to the moodfest. Crap, already? We just got here, he grumped to himself. Didn’t even give us time to clean off. He scrubbed the gunk from his eyes, squelched over to the battle suits lined up against the barracks wall, and found the one with N. Samole emblazoned on the front. The ship shuddered around him as he reached for his helmet. He heard the whistle of escaping air a split second before the bulkhead blew out, sending him, his grumpiness, and his headache into the vacuum of interstellar space.

Sorry, the comment form is now closed.