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Help, They've made me a Starship Stormtrooper (In progress)

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  • manmiles
    Eternal Companion
    • Dec 2003
    • 509

    Help, They've made me a Starship Stormtrooper (In progress)

    (With apologies to Mike for stealing the title of his great essay.)

    Since my last few stories (both those seen and not seen here) have not been the most happiest of stories, I've decided to write something which if anything, is more comedic than anything else. It's also WIP

    Help, They’ve made me a Starship Stormtrooper!
    By Miles Reid

    The recruitment officer caught me in the only place he could, between the bar and my table. He was dressed in the crisp, blue dress uniform of the Earth’s military force- the Starship Stormtrooper, Earth’s ultimate and only defence against any other intelligent life-form which did not have two arms, two legs, one head and a Judeo-Catholic God (that fact this automatically excluded 99% of the Universe is never brought up.)
    ‘Hey son, how would you like to serve your planet like a real man?’

    As he moved at me, I instinctively stepped back; the pint had to be protected at all costs. He grasped me by the shoulder and shook me with patriotism.
    ‘Well…’ I murmured, more worried about dropping my drink than wanting to serve my planet. The office smiled a row of perfect teeth, so perfect that they defiantly weren’t genuine.
    ‘I know you do son, everybody wants to be a Starship Stormtrooper… wear cool uniforms, carry guns, blow up aliens in the name of Earth.’

    He grasped me and shook me again, this time much harder as if somehow, the more he shook me the more the patriotism would flow from his fingers into my shoulders and from my shoulders into my brain. As his fingers dug into my shoulders, I then realised that his hands were actually artificial replacements, obviously the free reconstructive surgery was something they left out of the sales pitch.

    ‘I’m really not interested,’ I said, pulling away from his iron grip. I tried to get away, but with the smooth, sleekness of military training, he blocked the path to my booth as his foot came crashing down onto mine.
    ‘Why not?’ he asked, ‘are you one of those…’ he spat with disgust, into my drink.
    ‘One of those what?’ I asked, getting incredibly annoyed.
    ‘I… I can’t say it,’ he spat again, this time onto my shoe. ‘Part of military training is the inability to say…’ he spat a third time.
    ‘Inability to say what?’ I ventured, ‘pacifist?’
    He squawked like a parrot at the mere mention of the word.
    ‘Hypnotic subliminal training. We have our brains treated to remove any kind of…’
    He spat.
    ‘thoughts from our minds. Plus anything which might distract us from the enemy out there. They’re trying to kill us!’
    ‘Who is?’ I asked, more to humour him than anything else.
    ‘Everything!’ he cried, ‘the aliens… the dirty stinking aliens from outside our beautiful solar system.’
    It was at this point that I wanted to ask ‘what aliens?’ After five-hundred years of space travel, we had yet to come across even an intelligent life-form on the planet Earth let alone on the colonised worlds of Earth-42, Earth-2956 and Earth 69.

    ‘Hang on,’ I asked, ‘how did you lose the hands?’
    He grinned happily,
    ‘I lost them in a training exercise. We were training to kill small blue blobs from a high-gravity planet with our Very Large Guns when mine went off, blew my arms clean off.’
    The man was quite obviously deranged and if this was the quality of people they were sending out to recruit people into the Starship Stormtroopers (never the S.S- not a good connotation there.) what did that have to say about the people who were in the actual bits which did all the fighting?
    ‘I’m… sorry about your drink,’ he said, ‘let me buy you another one.’
    And he did, he brought me several drinks.
    Several strong drinks.
    Several strong drinks which had the strange talent of sending your common sense to sleep.