Pa – 5 – Samuel L. Jackson
In 30 years, planetarion.com will be played with hand gestures and fully voice activated. A voice will call out at hh:00:20 (after tick has been processed): “forty thousand, three hundred twenty six INCOMING HOSTILES”, with the capitalized letters read / red with full effect. Everybody will pick the Morgan Freeman voice probably, but Margaret Thatcher’s a good second. DEATH from Terry Pratchett’s the de-facto voice, if you don’t pick one.
Me: Activate Samuel L. Jackson’s voice.
“FORTY THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX incoming goddamn hostiles. You better fucking move.”
Me: Where the hell am I supposed to go? All slots in use and only 60k spiders at base.
“Yo ass is toast in less than twelve hours if you don’t haul it. You better slap some antiDe and antiBS on ETA 8 and 9 right fuckin’ now, motherfucker.”
Me: Shit, I forgot. Run a calc on those two waves, Jules.
“Run a calc? RUN A CALC? Motherfucker, you shoulda run that calc ten goddamn minutes ago! I ain’t yo fuckin’ secretary, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive out here!”
Me: Hey, I’m paying 6 pounds a round for you to help me out here, brother.
“Six pounds? Shiiit. For six pounds, you get exactly this much Jules — sarcastic judgment and tactical brilliance, in equal measure. Now shut the hell up and listen.”
Me: …okay.
“Fleet tags read ‘Marcellus’ and ‘Wallace.’ That’s some Pulp Fiction shit. What the hell you hidin’, Marvin?”
Me: Nothin’, man. Nothin’.
“Mm-hmm. That’s what they all say before the first wave lands and paints yo base like a Jackson Pollock made o’ fire and regret.”
Me: Look, alliance is busy—can’t reach most of ’em.
“Yeah, they out there dealing with another one hundred and two destitute degenerate incomings. BUT listen up — ain’t nobody else in your galaxy gettin’ hit. You hear me? Not. A. Fuckin’. One.”
Me: Wait, what?
“That’s right. You sittin’ in a goddamn fortress of bored motherfuckers. They ain’t got shit goin’ on. You need to light up that gal channel like it’s the Fourth of July and scream for DEFENSE!”
Me: I thought I was alone in this…
“You ain’t alone, Marvin. You just too chickenshit to ask for help. Ping those lazy-ass neighbors o’ yours before I jump through this HUD and slap you upside the head.”
Me: All slots jammed up and only spiders at base. You’re stuck with what you got unless you pull something out of your ass, and quick.
“Exactly. And if you don’t move now, them ships gon’ be roastin’ your planet like Sunday dinner at yo grandma’s — crispy, smokin’, and full o’ regret. But hold up… you got VGN boys sittin’ all comfy in your gal, right?”
Me: Yeah, I’m the only TiT in here.
“Shiiiit, then it’s time to sing for your supper, motherfucker. Get that VGN HC on speed dial — I’m talkin’ beg, bribe, bleed if you got to. Promise them glorious bastards free lifetime entry to Club Slut, forty amps worth of pristine P to A scans, and morale speeches delivered amidst stunning, hi-res visuals of topless babes ridin’ unicorns through plasma storms.”
Me: …that’s oddly specific.
“Damn right it is. Specifics sell. And you make damn sure their fleet names get carved into history — in bold, baby. Not some quiet-ass line in a report, but banner headlines with fireworks and jazz hands.”
Me: Got it. And when they come?
“When they show up, you thank ‘em like they cured cancer, landed a punch on God, and taught a drunk Newton how to invent the goddamn science of fluents and fluxions with a crayon and a half-burnt napkin.”
Me: That’s… actually inspiring.
“Of course it is. Now go inspire some fuckin’ backup before your base turns into cosmic compost. Tick’s comin’, Marvin. Be ready.”