Screw the Universe (3 page)

“Captain,” said the computer.

“Yes, milady.”

“It’s been two weeks since we left Federation headquarters and thirteen days since you regained consciousness. Shouldn’t we finally start our mission?”

“We haven’t?”

“No, sir.”

“And what was it again?”

“To find a suitable replacement for chicken,” answered First Lieutenant Duknerts.

“Why?” asked the Captain.

“We used them all up.”

“It was all over the news,” said Private Redshirt, sitting on the floor.

“Six months ago,” added Private Naughtyplaces, also sitting on the floor. They were playing jacks.

“Damn. Could have gone for a nugget right about now.”

“The Lunchlady-bot could make you a fish nugget,” replied the computer.

“What do I look like? A vagetarian?”

“I don’t think you’re pronouncing that correctly,” Duknerts replied.

“I think I’m pronouncing it more than correctly.”

“That doesn’t... You can’t...”

“Sirs,” said the computer, “prepare for evasive action.” The bridge was bathed in red light as the emergency systems kicked in.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” said Captain Tyler. “I still have this burning in my eye.”

“You don’t hear through your eyes,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.

“No?”

“Collision imminent,” said the computer.

“I don’t know what imminent means,” said the captain.

“It’s not good,” said the lieutenant.

“Collision occurring...” said the computer, “now.”

The Zdravo collided. With a flock of space chickens. The bridge’s external window was coated with a surprisingly bright neon pink goo.

“BAM!” replied the captain.

“Probably could have used those,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.

“What do you mean ‘could have?’ Get the janitor-robot out there and scrape that onto a bun for me.”

Private Naughtyplaces threw up behind one of the control panels.

“Have it clean that up first.”

“This... is... DELICIOUS,” said Captain Tyler, seated at the captain’s formal folding table in the Zdravo’s cafeteria. He took another bite of his space chicken sandwich and proceeded to chew with his mouth open.

“We should find out where these space chickens come from,” he continued. “Find their home planet. And then eat it.”

“That last part doesn’t even make sense,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.

“It doesn’t have to.”

“It kind of does. You’re the captain. Besides, we can’t use the space chickens for –”

“Your mom.”

“How is that helpful, sir?”

“If you want me to be helpful, help me stop this itching in my eye. Call Dr. Sodomy.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the computer.

“Maybe we should call a real doctor,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts. “I can get Equipment Manager Springs up here to –”

“How many times have we been over this, Duknerts?” scolded Captain Tyler. “He can’t be a real doctor because he’s an equipment manager. And I don’t like him anyway. His magnificent rack and his dirty mouth keep making me all uncomfortable. And confused.”

“Who’s uncomfortable when now?” asked Dr. Sodomy, approaching the captain and first lieutenant.

“I am. Whenever Equipment Manager Springs is around. Have you met him?”

“You mean ‘her,’ right?”

“No! You fool!” shouted First Lieutenant Duknerts.

“Her, you say? Springs is a...” Captain Tyler stood up. And then he got up from his chair. “Computer!”

Three days later, Equipment Manager Sarah Springs was fired, out of a torpedo tube, for sexual harassment. This was all the more impressive considering she was the one who filed the suit against Captain Tyler. And had an astounding stable of witnesses and video proof. And that it took five days for the paperwork to be processed.

On the plus side, her rocketing body had managed to take out an approaching Crabulon Death Cruiser, so she died a war hero. They named an interstate rest stop in Oklahoma after her.

“Computer,” said Captain Tyler from his chair on the bridge, “run a search for all inhabited planets in the quadrant where we hit the space chickens. We need to find their home world. And eat it.”

“Sir,” began First Lieutenant Duknerts, “that still doesn’t –”

“Your mom.”

Private Redshirt jumped in, literally, saying, “I think what First Lieutenant Duknerts is trying to say is –”

“Your mom.”

“Captain,” shouted Private Naughtyplaces, “we can’t go –”

“YOUR MOM.”

“My mom’s dead...” she sniffled.

“Then, your dad.”

“He’s... he’s dead, too.”

“If I may, sir,” interrupted Private Marvin Pantyliner, “we, uh, we can’t just go to the Space Chicken Homeworld. It’s a Galactic Nature Reserve and part of the Federation. Space chickens are a protected species.”

“Protected by who? Hippies?”

“By the Federation. We can’t eat them.”

“But I just did.”

“What?”

“Who?”

“Sir?”

“Part of the Federation, you say,” said Captain Tyler. “Do they have a drive-thru?”

A short documentary film later, Captain Tyler was brought up to speed on the myriad reasons his plan for a cheap – *cough* free *cough* – substitute for Earth chicken was, in fact, a terrible and illegal idea.

The space chickens were responsible for manufacturing the material that was used to make the screen protectors for iPhones. If by “manufacturing,” one meant “crapping it out of their butts.” The protectors were, in fact, space chicken poo, refined and flattened several hundred times. And then re-fed to the space chickens. And then they had some Indian food, crapped it out again, and the whole process repeated itself. It was a large, ungainly, and borderline inhumane process, but, seeing as how Apple straight up purchased the planet decades ago, no one had ever complained. Except the space chickens. A formal complaint was lodged with the Federation’s Sentient Being Rights Department, but, after much analysis, it was concluded that if the chickens were given better working conditions the screen protectors wouldn’t be as good and the universe would have a shit-ton of scratched screens, so, man, fuck the space chickens and their well-being.

The other problem was the Federation embassy posted on the Space Chicken Homeworld. Well, not so much the embassy – the Federation didn’t give a flying fuck about humans or architecture, either – but the Neptunian Devil Bear stationed there as an ambassador.

Neptunian Devil Bears were actually stationed at every Federation embassy in the galaxy. They were incorruptible, nationalistic, and had a way with words. Also, they were twelve feet tall, had four sets of arms, and savagely mauled anyone and anything they made eye contact with.

“So what do we need to do to take this beast down?” asked Captain Tyler.

“Sir,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts, “the movie! We can’t –”

“I was asking the computer, not you.”

“Oh, well,” began the computer, “I’d say everything we have, sir. And then a lot of prayer. But, as First Lieutenant Duknerts was saying, I wouldn’t –”

“Hmm…” said Captain Tyler. “I don’t think God is a fan of capturing an entire species to make it fast food. He’s probably rooting for the space chickens. Probably got one of those beer helmets too. Is anyone else thirsty?”

“Sir, might I interject?” asked First Lieutenant Duknerts.

“Sure, I’m all eyes.”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t do it.”

“My vote is for violence,” replied Captain Tyler.

“Weren’t you listen—”

“VIOLENCE!”

***

“The whole fucking planet, Tyler?!”

Space Marshal Orr was catastrophically pissed. He had initially been pleased to see the Zdravo docking back at Federation headquarters, years ahead of her scheduled return. That quickly changed when he discovered what Captain Tyler had deemed a suitable replacement for Earth chicken. And what he did to Todd Quinlan, the Neptunian Devil Bear stationed at the Space Chicken Homeworld. And, for that matter, what he did to the embassy and the rest of the planet.

“How was I supposed to know we had three hundred nukes on board?” asked Captain Tyler.

“There is a giant red button that says ‘NUKES’ on it. Below that is a screen that says ‘INVENTORY OF NUKES.’ It’s not fucking rocket science.”

“Well, technically...”

“Technically, you can shut the fuck up. We dumbed this down as much as possible for you, Tyler.”

“Marshal, seriously, I didn’t see the inventory screen. The sticky note must have been covering it.”

“Sticky note?”

“I think I still have it...”

Captain Tyler began ruffling through his small, patent leather “satchel,” found a Post It and a marker, and covertly scribbled something down. Then he handed the note to the Marshal.

Space Marshal Orr read it aloud: “Hey Captain Guy, it’s perfectly fine to hit this. Just thought you should know. Dockman Johnson Somethingorother.”

“You’ll note that the arrow is pointing up,” said Captain Tyler. “Which was toward the NUKES button.”

“Indeed.”

“My point is,” continued the captain, “it wasn’t my fault. It was this Somethingorother fellow.”

“I don’t recall hiring anyone by that name,” said Marshal Orr, flipping through the paperwork on his desk. “And we don’t actually have a ‘Dockman’ position...”

“Well, clearly this fellow was damaged mentally. Probably got his own name wrong!”

“That will make it difficult to track him down...”

“Yes, yes it will,” said the captain. “Probably best to just give up now.”

“Probably,” replied the marshal. “But what about the chicken situation? While highly illegal, the space chickens would’ve at least been food. If you were going to commit genocide you could’ve at least made it useful. And tasty.”

“Funny you should mention that, Marshal. On the way back, we swung past Abor Feti...”

“Ah,” said Space Marshal Orr, “the aborted fetus planet. I’ve been there numerous times.”