Jacob Starling's Day Off

DECEMBER- 2519. MICRO-SHORT. OLD FRIENDS, NEW PROBLEMS.

Art by Snazz (@lordquince on Twitter and @heroicmeep on tumblr)

The Colonel looked up in stunned silence. Rows and rows of tubes, seemingly hewn— or grown— from the metal itself pulsed with an eerie light underneath frost. The shoulder light on his Hoplite rig cut through a lingering mist, hanging uneasy in the long night of the void outside.

“What the hell is this?” Lieutenant Teague raised her rifle. “I don't like this, Colonel!”

Colonel Winters reached out a hand and pushed the barrel of the L14 down. “Stand down, Marine.” He shook a helmeted head. “We're guests here.”

“Guests?”

“Look around, kid. This stuff doesn't look Minervan.” He paused. “I think you and I both know we're not in Kansas anymore.”

Lieutenant Teague walked up to one of the tubes. A misshapen form lay on the other side of the metal-glass. It was long, lanky, and grey, as if a squid had become human. It floated and bobbed inside the vial, rolling around as three inky pools of blackness came into full view of her.

“No, sir. I think… I think we're somewhere much weirder.”

“Cut!”

The cameraman sighed, the gaffer lowered the boom mic, and Colonel Vance Winters shook his head, took off his helmet, and became Martyn Glassner-Fontana again. Martyn glared down the two writers on set, and cocked his head with a raised eyebrow. “Not in Kansas, eh? We're riffing on the bloody Wizard of Oz now?”

“We wanted a few takes for the reshoot, and… well, we're still workshopping that one.” Avery shrugged.

“By the by. Who’s that bloke?” Martyn gestured at a tall, lanky man hugging the shadows with his salt-and-pepper stubble, wearing a well-fitted Serapis Ridge University sweatshirt and a Navy ballcap. He caught his gaze. It was a sharp grey, one that belied a honed, refined wisdom that had been brought to bear on problems and people unfortunate enough to have crossed him. Martyn took a step back without even noticing.

The director, Michael Kromhoff, spun on a foot and stumbled back in shock. “Woah, what the hell are you doing here, man?” He walked up to the man, slapped him on the shoulder, and brought the now smiling stranger in for a hug. “Bring it in, Cap’n!”

“Woah, Mike. I’m just Jake to you. No need to get all formal.” He glanced over to Martyn. “Oh, shoot, I loved you in Bond.”

“You actually watched those?” Glassner-Fontana strolled over, a quizzical look about him. “I didn’t think we had an audience for our lovely little 1960s period pieces. Not back then, anyways, before the… well, you know. That dreadful technogroove craze.”

“You did, and it was me and my wife Amanda. And that, to my knowledge, was about it.” There was a warmness in the man’s eyes he hadn’t quite seen before— a chuckle breaking across his face. “I liked ‘em a lot. It was good to see some good old fashioned First Cold War espionage on the silver screen instead of the same ol’ slop these days.”

Martyn mumbled under his breath. “Well, I hate to disappoint, now.”

“Oh, come on.” Jake smiled. “I’ve known Mike since elementary. Born storyteller. I trust him. So. Tell me about the new project, Mike. Tango Green, that the name?”

“Really? You haven’t heard yet? Navy’s been real cooperative… They’re letting us film with real stuff. It’s saved us a fortune on props. And the advisors they’ve been giving us. I mean, wow. Utter professionals. And fun guys, too!” Mike grinned.

“Those are real Hoplite suits?” Jake raised an eyebrow. “I think I might have to report this to the bean counters. They’ll be wondering where so much of our money went.” As if on cue, one of the cleaner-shaven men standing around the prop table walked over, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Captain Starling?”

“And here, you’ll see why I wear a ballcap in public.”

“Anonymity? Jake, it says NAVY on it.” Mike elbowed his old friend. Jake rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, sir. Big fan of what you’ve done.” The sailor, one of the show’s military advisors, gulped. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Don’t worry, son. What’s your name?” He slipped a coin from his pocket into his palm, admittedly a bit clumsily— he hadn’t done this in a while, and he was never very good at it.

“Habib. Habib al-Tayeb. Morrocan Navy, sir. Just finished a tour out in the Frontier. I’d love to serve on one of the Tharsises, one day, it’s a beautiful ship you’ve built.”

“Hold on a tic, Captain Starling. I’ve heard of you. You’re the guy all those nutters won’t shut up about.” Glassner-Fontana looked him up and down. It looked like he could be a particularly tall face in any East African crowd, perhaps excluding the characteristic lanky build of an Outer Planets kid.

“Yup, that’s me,” Starling didn’t even turn to face Martyn, opting instead to give Habib a firm handshake, the commemorative coin slipping out from between their hands. “Ope, my bad.” He shook his head, disappointed, as he crouched down to pick it up. “Haven’t done this in ages. Forgive me… and I didn't build that ship. Elysium Island did, and they did a damn fine job.” He gave his head another shake. “That is me, though, Martyn. Mr. Deep State himself.” He glanced over, giving Martyn a sly grin. “Or so every wackjob on Chirpsong and the talkpods would have you believe.”

“Oh, actually, Jake,” Mike tapped Jacob on the shoulder. “If you’re in for a few days, ya gotta meet Tess. Oh, she’s great, you’d love her. We got her from the Marines, she’s one of our military advisors, but she’s a total creative sounding board. I just mean, wow. I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody with her creativity. We rewrote a lot about the aliens because she’d just keep coming up with this deliciously funky stuff. I just don't know what to tell you. She's got the juice. I’ve actually gotta get her a writing credit now.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “I think I ran into her on the way in. Tess Hart, right?”

“That’s the one,” Mike nodded. “Huh, that’s weird. I didn’t think she was in today.”

“I think she said she was just popping in to get something,” Jake chuckled. “Quick in-and-out, y’know?”

“Yeah, I guess. Shame, I was hoping I’d be able to talk to her soon, I had a few rewrites for the Tyrexi podship scene I wanted to run past her. We’re in reshoots. Some of it’s cheaper to do digitally, but you know how I feel about in-camera work. I want as much as I can get physical. Only real shortcut we took was using this crazy new holography tech for a lot of the scenery and in-camera mocap work. It’s nuts stuff, man… We should get you in as a Tyrexi!”

“A… what now?” Jake stared with his mouth ever so slightly ajar.

“Tyrexi. The aliens. Bad guys. Well there’s some good guys, but most of ‘em are bad. Got all these other alien species under their boot. Nasty customers. We’re going to the stars to go meet new friends and set ‘em free out from under the Tyrexi.”

“We invite the Minnies?”

“Not really, no. They met the Tyrexi too but they got convinced they were the good guys, and they get swept up as puppets.”

“Damn. We could use some reconciliation these days, even if it’s just on a TV show.”

“Yeah, Tess said so too, but Minervan antagonists screen well. You seen the focus group numbers? The people want evil Minnies.”

“That's a shame.” Jake shook his head.

“How's Mandy and Jessie, by the way? And Chris! You’ve barely told me anything about him!”

“Oh, Amanda’s good. We've been spending a lot of time together since we had Chris. It's been nice, paternity leave. Mars is treating us well, Jessie’s starting at U Bradbury. Chemical engineering.” Jake threw up his hands. “Chris is Chris, what else can I say? He's less than a year old. He's adorable and he's been easier than Jessica, and that's all there is to it.”

“And that first one didn't scare you off? Proud of her, though, she always was smart. Good to hear. When am I going to meet Chris?”

“All in due time, man. All in due time.” He shrugged. “Hey, by the way, how's your catering?” Jake nudged Mike. “I didn't exactly brown-bag it today, y’know.”

“Look at you, Jake. Captain in the Navy and you're still bumming lunches off me. Never change, man. Never change.” He shook his head. “Nah, man. Fuck catering, I oughta treat you to something local. Something iconic. We're hitting In-n-Out.”

“I thought you’d have a good caterer. Hollywood production and all.” Jake scowled. “You wanna take me to a fast food place?”

“Dude, it's groovy as fuck.”

Jake shivered. “Say that again and I'll drop-kick you.”

“You two enjoy yourself,” Martyn sighed. “I'll be eating well.”

---

“Can I get roadkill fries with that?” The two Ganymeders towered over the counter and the teenaged cashier at the register, the leading lady of a poppy Draconis Daze tune emanating from a phone set down by the grill.

“Uhhhh… we don't have anything called roadkill fries, sir.”

“Yeah, you do, I get it here all the time.” Mike put his hands on his hips and leaned in ever so slightly, squinting at the kid’s nametag. “Brian. Quit messing with me.”

“I uh,… I dunno, sir. Do you… do you mean animal fries?”

“No, I mean roadkill fries. You're. You're fucking with me, Brian. You've gotta be.”

“This is my third—”

“Everybody knows what fucking roadkill fries are. They're animal fries with a fucking burger crumbled in—”

“Mike. The kid’s shivering,” Jake shot his old friend a glare with a tap on the shoulder. “You’re better than this, man.”

“Ope, shit. I. Uh, sorry, kid. Let my temper get away from me.” He tapped the 20% button on the register. “Yeah, sorry. Brian.”

“Sixty five dollars and sixty-two cents,” the kid at the register gestured to the reader. Quaint, having a kid at a register. Jake guessed it was essential for In-n’-Out’s brand, or some corporate slop like that. Whatever. It keeps the kids busy.

He tapped his friend on the shoulder. “I'll go get us a table, Mike.”

He walked over to a corner table, sitting in the booth against the wall. He looked out the window into the sky, that endless blanket of blue and white that enveloped this world so gently. A deep jealousy panged in his stomach.

Mike sat down across from him, and he kept looking to the clouds. “They don't know how good they have it here, do they?”

“Huh?” Mike raised an eyebrow. “Oh, here. On Earth. Yeah, no, they really don't. It's not all cozy and comfy, though.”

“I know. But it's… different, here, man. Back home there was no ‘outside’. You go outside and you're a goner.”

“It took me a while to get used to. Not having a roof over your head.” Mike paused. “The first time I got here, I couldn't look up. I was afraid the air would float away. You're doing better than me, brother.”

He turned back to his friend. “I won't lie to you, Mike. I've been here a few times before, on business. I just can't get used to it.”

“Oh?” His eyes lit up. “Where to?”

“Washington, Brussels, Luxembourg, and Abuja.”

“State or DC?”

“DC. Pretty city. Got its demons, though.”

“Don't we all.” He turned his gaze, once more, to the clouds.

“So… what have they got you doing these days? You're on that big ship, right?”

“MFV Tharsis, yeah. Only one like her. For now.” He grinned, shuffling in his seat to face his friend. “One point six kilometers of freedom and democracy.”

“For now? So you won?”

“Yeah, they actually listened to our recommendations. Thank God. That was a brawl, and it's still not really over. Destroyer Mafia’s looking over our shoulders for even a whiff of incompetence or failure.” He shook his head. “So everything has to go perfectly. We only got what we wanted because Orions shit the bed in ‘06. I mean, they were a century old, but the principles are the same. I won't bore you with the details.”

“No! This is interesting,” he leaned in. “You'd love Tess, man. She's on your wavelength.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, another time, man. I'm here to see you.”

“Whatever. Continue.”

“Well, basically, I’ll give you the abbreviated version of what I gave the Navy Times. the issue is that the destroyers need to dramatically outnumber a capital ship in order to win a fight. There's just too many weapons, signals warfare, and defensive mounts on capital ships for subcapital ships to really have a chance against them except in overwhelming numbers, which from our wargames, we're looking at eight to one to take out even a last generation Minervan battleship.”

“Shit,” Mike’s eyes widened. “That's no good.”

“Nope. Especially because the new generation destroyer designs— even though they're good, and we still need them— only raise those odds to five to one. But our carriers have a significant edge. By using massive fighter and decoy swarms, we can overwhelm sensors and processing systems.”

“So you throw too much stuff at them to track at once.”

“Yeah, basically. There's a lot more to it than that, but that's the basics, and that's not even getting into how they match up against Minervan carriers. They've advanced a lot in the last while, and… odds aren't good for the little guys.”

“Damn, and here I was hoping Vince Wolf was right and you really were a secret agent. Shame. You’re a fucking nerd in a uniform.” He grinned.

“Don't believe everything you hear on talkpods, Hollywood.”

“Oh, but it's so much more fun.” Mike grinned, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Food’s up, by the way. Order sixty-five.”

“I’ll get it. No worries.” Jacob stood up, taking in the white-and-grey tiled floors, the red accented moulding, the smell of fries, burger grease, and grilled onions.

He stretched his legs in the fullgee gravity of Earth— it wasn't quite as bad as the first time, but it always took some of the vigor out of him. THARSIS’ gravplates were designed to hold .7 to .8g even into a 12g burn, so he'd been accustomed to most of the gravity this time. He walked over to the counter and looked through bags of food until he found two bags marked 65, and two cups for the fountain.

He brought the bags back to the table, nodding as he set them down. “I’m gonna go get some pop.”

“No one calls it that here, man.”

“Oh, whatever. You know what I mean.”

He walked up to the soda fountain, pushing the button for ice— only three cubes, any more and it'd water down the drink— tapping the option for orange soda before letting out a sigh. He looked into his reflection in the screen, before being shaken out of it by a yell.

“Hey!” A man next to him, grabbing some salt packets, grit his teeth. “You're that fucking Minnie-lover.”

Really? He sighed. I really, really don't want to do this. “You must have me confused.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, man. I know you're Starling. I've seen your face too many times not to. I've had it with people like you Deep State shitheads, making our military soft and bleeding us broke.”

He took a step back, putting the orange soda in his left hand and reaching around for a holster that wasn't there. Shit. “Listen, why don't we sit down and talk. This is all just a misunderstanding. Things aren't what you think they are.”

“You think I'm fucking stupid?” The man was shorter than him, barely coming up to his collarbone. A local, then. He took a breath out and glanced over to the countertop. He stanced up. “I ain't stupid, man. I know you're following in the footsteps of your traitor fucking gramps, selling us out to the Minnies, but I ain't gonna stand for it. I ain't gonna let you fucking Skinnies—” An onlooker, watching with a phone in hand, gasped.

He grit his teeth, dumping the open cup of orange soda over the other man’s head. Captain Starling smirked, staring down the belligerent, sopping Californian. The other man dropped the salt on the floor, audibly fuming.

“Get fucked. You're bringing my family and my homeworld into this? C’mon, man. Get the fuck out of my face.” Jake glared at him, malice in his voice. “Yeah, we are taller out there. What of it? Fuckin’ asshat.” Jacob puffed out his chest, and in his moment of smug superiority, got clocked across the face by a fist sticky with orange soda.

“Ah, what the fuck, man?” He stumbled back, falling on his butt against the floor tile. The Californian sloppily kicked at him, as he scooched back to grab the countertop on his way back to his feet. He took another step back, rummaging the condiment rack for an improvised weapon, ducking under a stumbling haymaker and grabbing the first bottle he could find, a tiny squeeze bottle of Tapatío sauce. Seriously? Was glass too much to ask for?

He scrambled back and opened the bottle of hot sauce, shoving a hand forward towards the man’s eyes, and doing his best to empty it. The sauce fell impotently on the ground, weighed down by the force of Earth’s gravity. The Californian stopped for a second and cocked his head with a confused squint.

“That, uh. Would have worked back home.” He glanced back at the empty bottle, the sombrero-sporting man grinning back towards him.

The Californian shuffled towards him, a balled fist raised for a swinging punch. “Are you fucking re—” He slipped on the small pool of Tapatío at his feet and smacked his head on the wall tile with a crunch. Jacob jolted back.

“Ope,” he blinked, walking away cautiously from the man before, panged with guilt, putting two fingers on his neck. “He's still alive, everybody. I'm calling an ambulance.”

He speed-walked through the crowd of onlookers, nervously chuckling and pulling down his ballcap as he saw the sheer number of lenses turned his way. He grabbed Mike by the shoulder. “This burger better be fucking delicious.”

Mike sighed. “This is what I get for not going through the drive-thru.”

---

The first season of Tango Green (2520-2527) drew a combined 30 billion viewers across the United Nations for its premiere, dropping off to 8.3 billion by its finale. Panned by reviewers as little more than a ridiculous fantasy in spite of precious few strong performances, it quickly gained a cult following, doing especially well with fans of science fiction and the age 12-23 demographic. Some criticisms of the show’s first season called it a thinly veiled recruiting ad at best, and outright propaganda at worst. There was, noticably, a slight boost in COMPMARFORCOM constituent services’ recruiting in the year 2520, but little serious scholarship exists to suggest meaningful correlation in light of mounting tensions between the UN and FMR. The show’s first season would win the 2520 Primetime Emmy for Best Visual Effects, and was nominated for Best Sound Design the same year. Iago Pritchett, who played the alien defector Sumaktri, was nominated for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama Series, but lost to Son Dae-Hyun in the critically acclaimed sword & spell K-drama Sword of the Alchemist (2512-2525). It was not until Season Five that it developed a following in Minerva, let alone a significant one; the addition in Season Six of a Minervan character, Major Amanda Guan-Decker, played by Minervan actress Imahara Kei, reflected the new viewership demographic. A tie-in movie, Tango Green: The Tyrexi Menace (2530) was produced to tie up loose plot threads that would have been conluded in the show’s completed but lost eighth season. It is, however, an enduring piece of UN popular culture, with Colonel Vance Winters having entered the pantheon of sci-fi heroes, and the show maintaining a cult following, only reaching the peak of its popularity sometime after it left the air.