Read Online Screw the Universe by Stephen Schwegler, Eirik Gumeny - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Schwegler, Eirik Gumeny
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this task,” declared Marshal Orr, “than you, Captain Tyler, and the platoon of miscreants you call colleagues.”
The Zdravo was double-space-parked at the Space Federation Space Headquarters to receive her next mission. A few members of the crew had assembled in the space station’s dimly-lit Conference Room A for a briefing. The remainder were re-stocking the ship or using the station’s toilets. The ones on the Zdravo were... honestly, there’s not even a word for it.
“Just to clarify,” said Captain Oswald Van Vanderhoort Van Tyler, standing up, “you want us to eradicate all stupidity and ignorance in the known universe. That’s the mission?”
“Correct. Where are your pants?”
“Right here,” answered the captain, holding his pants in his right hand. “You are aware that this mission could take awhile, right?”
“We’re prepared to carry on without you in the meantime,” said Marshal Orr. “Please put your pants on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Against my religion to wear pants on a space station.”
“But you’re an atheist.”
“Recently converted.”
“To what?”
“Pantstheist.”
“That sounds like you just made that up.”
“How is that different than any other religion?”
Marshal Orr grinned. “Maybe I’ve been too hard on you, Tyler...”
“That’s what she said.”
“No, no,” continued Marshal Orr, reverting back to his nearly perpetual frown, “I’ve been exactly as hard as I should have been.”
“That’s also what she said.”
The marshal raised an eyebrow.
“Are you sure these ‘ladies’ of the evening you’ve been seeing are actually ladies?”
“Pay them enough and they’ll be whatever you want,” replied Captain Tyler. “Are you, you know, interested? Because this one gal, Steve, hoo-wee, you wouldn’t believe what she can do with an egg beater.”
“Uh, no. No. I’m okay without Steve, Captain.”
“Your loss.”
Steve got up and ran out of the room in tears, shrieking, “Why doesn’t anyone love me?!”
“Why was she even in here?” asked the space marshal. “This is a highly classified meeting. She could know things. She could squeal to the media.”
“Oh, she can squeal all right,” added Tyler.
“Duknerts!”
“Yes, Space Marshal?” said First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts, stepping forward from behind where Steve had been.
“Why is he here?” asked Tyler.
“Chase her down and bring her to the memory-erasing lab,” continued Orr.
“Right away, sir,” said Duknerts, running from the conference room.
“Okay, now, before we continue, who else is in this room?”
Private Yvette Redshirt, Private Heather Naughtyplaces, and a clown all raised their hands.
“You’re going to have to speak, out loud. I can hear you moving, but that’s it.”
“Maybe you should turn the lights on, Marshal,” suggested Private Yvette Redshirt.
“I was trying to cut down on the electric bill.”
“You could try limiting the arcade’s operating hours. I don’t think it needs to be open 36 hours a day. There aren’t even that many hours in a day.”
“I’m afraid I simply can’t do that,” replied Marshal Orr. “Lights! On!”
The lights came on.
“Right, so,” continued the marshal, surveying the conference room, “privates, you can go. But first, escort that clown to my dorm.”
“Why?” asked Private Naughtyplaces.
“What?” asked Space Marshal Orr. “Are you questioning me?”
“No, I was just curious as to —”
“Shh!” interrupted Private Redshirt. “You don’t ask those sorts of things here. Especially not when a clown is involved.”
Naughtyplaces looked over at the space marshal, his face aching with anticipation.
“Oh...” she said. “Ohhhhh!”
“The Federation hierarchy is based on
The Zdravo was double-space-parked at the Space Federation Space Headquarters to receive her next mission. A few members of the crew had assembled in the space station’s dimly-lit Conference Room A for a briefing. The remainder were re-stocking the ship or using the station’s toilets. The ones on the Zdravo were... honestly, there’s not even a word for it.
“Just to clarify,” said Captain Oswald Van Vanderhoort Van Tyler, standing up, “you want us to eradicate all stupidity and ignorance in the known universe. That’s the mission?”
“Correct. Where are your pants?”
“Right here,” answered the captain, holding his pants in his right hand. “You are aware that this mission could take awhile, right?”
“We’re prepared to carry on without you in the meantime,” said Marshal Orr. “Please put your pants on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Against my religion to wear pants on a space station.”
“But you’re an atheist.”
“Recently converted.”
“To what?”
“Pantstheist.”
“That sounds like you just made that up.”
“How is that different than any other religion?”
Marshal Orr grinned. “Maybe I’ve been too hard on you, Tyler...”
“That’s what she said.”
“No, no,” continued Marshal Orr, reverting back to his nearly perpetual frown, “I’ve been exactly as hard as I should have been.”
“That’s also what she said.”
The marshal raised an eyebrow.
“Are you sure these ‘ladies’ of the evening you’ve been seeing are actually ladies?”
“Pay them enough and they’ll be whatever you want,” replied Captain Tyler. “Are you, you know, interested? Because this one gal, Steve, hoo-wee, you wouldn’t believe what she can do with an egg beater.”
“Uh, no. No. I’m okay without Steve, Captain.”
“Your loss.”
Steve got up and ran out of the room in tears, shrieking, “Why doesn’t anyone love me?!”
“Why was she even in here?” asked the space marshal. “This is a highly classified meeting. She could know things. She could squeal to the media.”
“Oh, she can squeal all right,” added Tyler.
“Duknerts!”
“Yes, Space Marshal?” said First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts, stepping forward from behind where Steve had been.
“Why is he here?” asked Tyler.
“Chase her down and bring her to the memory-erasing lab,” continued Orr.
“Right away, sir,” said Duknerts, running from the conference room.
“Okay, now, before we continue, who else is in this room?”
Private Yvette Redshirt, Private Heather Naughtyplaces, and a clown all raised their hands.
“You’re going to have to speak, out loud. I can hear you moving, but that’s it.”
“Maybe you should turn the lights on, Marshal,” suggested Private Yvette Redshirt.
“I was trying to cut down on the electric bill.”
“You could try limiting the arcade’s operating hours. I don’t think it needs to be open 36 hours a day. There aren’t even that many hours in a day.”
“I’m afraid I simply can’t do that,” replied Marshal Orr. “Lights! On!”
The lights came on.
“Right, so,” continued the marshal, surveying the conference room, “privates, you can go. But first, escort that clown to my dorm.”
“Why?” asked Private Naughtyplaces.
“What?” asked Space Marshal Orr. “Are you questioning me?”
“No, I was just curious as to —”
“Shh!” interrupted Private Redshirt. “You don’t ask those sorts of things here. Especially not when a clown is involved.”
Naughtyplaces looked over at the space marshal, his face aching with anticipation.
“Oh...” she said. “Ohhhhh!”
“The Federation hierarchy is based on
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