Escape Velocity and the Art of Panic: Sergeant Salty and The Misfits Crew Go Warp Speed
The bridge of the starship was not usually a place of Zen-like calm. It was typically a mix of mild incompetence and low-grade dust allergies. Right now, however, it sounded less like a functioning vessel and more like a bag of spanners being tumbled down a flight of emergency escape chutes while a thousand angry cats sang opera. The reason? A very large, very persistent energy signature filling the aft viewscreen, belonging to the Glactic Enforcers —a group whose zeal for minor customs violations was only matched by their appalling taste in synthesized elevator music. Their current offense? Sergeant Salty couldn't even recall. Something about an expired interplanetary spice permit , or perhaps it was the uncertified atmospheric filters on the ventilation unit. Whatever it was, the penalty was a mandatory twenty-year sentence in a penal asteroid colony, which was enough to override anyone's sense of professionalism. “Warp—Speed, Mr. Zulu, and step on it!” Stg. Salty barked,...