Space Relations Pt. 01

I recently revised this work and thought to post the entire thing here. It is a long story! I'm breaking it up into segments, so I'll be submitting a new part every couple of days or so. Leave your comments here or stop by my official thread in the forums.

http://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?t=1285980

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Date: January 1

Year: 2500

Location: Space Corps Academy, Coronado Island, California

Tyrone Boom-Boom Washington was a very angry black man. He wasn't your typical angry black man, however, as his grievances and perturbations were in no way similar to the grievances and perturbations of a typical black man. Adding to that, his specific situation was atypical, to say the least. Therefore, Mr. Washington was an atypically angry black man, not to be confused for a typically angry black man.

This particular black man sighed, looking down at the components that made up his spiffy uniform. He wore a long-sleeve gray shirt, tight and without buttons, and a pair of black, pleated pants, slightly loose. Adorning his feet were ankle-high leather boots. Every bit of Washington's uniform showcased his lean and muscular frame. On his right shoulder he wore a black patch with two golden bars designating him as a lieutenant. On the left side of his chest, he had another patch that designated him as part of the Altruistic Subdivision of Space Corps, better known as the A.S.S. Had he a mirror nearby, the black man would have seen in its reflection the face of an ambitious man, with a stern brow, defined cheekbones and a complexion of dark chocolate. His hair was always kept short, and his face was always neatly shaved.

Now, back to the story. The reason that Tyrone Washington was atypically angry was because he was being held back, and he'd been aware of this for some time. He'd spent the last four years at the west coast Space Corps Academy, excelling in the studies of officer training and in the instruction of commanding a space vessel. He'd passed all of the tests the academy had thrown at him, he'd jumped over all of their hurdles, and he'd even kissed an ass or two when he felt it might advance his position. So far everything he'd done had gotten him a big, fat zero as far as promotions went.

This after he'd witnessed a couple of other junior lieutenants, both pale-skinned Anglos and neither one as qualified as he was, being awarded commissions on their own small star-frigates or light transport vessels. Washington thought he'd figured out why. Perhaps he wasn't as atypical as he liked to think, because he was starting to feel that he was intentionally being passed over for command of his own vessel primarily due to the darker pigmentation of his skin.

The anger flared up inside of him, as he took in the simulation command center around him. The mock center's layout was roughly equivalent to that of most small, space-faring vessels. It had a revolving command chair centered behind two tactical stations: one for combat and defense assessment, and the second for systems analysis and integrity. Surrounding these three stationary chairs at a distance of ten feet, and in a wider arc, were six other revolving chairs. Most of the additional seats remained unoccupied unless there was some sort of security breach elsewhere in the ship, as the command center was known to be the safest area of the vessel. The only exception to these crash dummy chairs was the chair across from Washington's right side, which was reserved for an experienced navigator. The total was eight seats for the crew and one for the captain. Everything worked in the command center just as it would in a real ship.

Despite that Washington had long ago passed the course where he trained within the flight simulator, he would still occasionally make his way there and with great pomp and circumstance take the center seat. It made him feel like a bona fide starship commander when he sat in the captain's chair. He imagined himself giving orders to some pleasantly figured ensign, and her returning a welcome smile and flirty wink in return.

Ah, Washington sighed again. If only he had his own starship, he thought, he could get his lean, black ass out of the simulated captain's chair and actually go out into space to do some real commanding.

The door to the command center creaked slightly as it slid open. One of his former instructors, Lieutenant Commander Hedeby, stepped in wearing a similar gray shirt to the one Washington had on. At his heels came an eager flock of young cadets wearing newbie green shirts.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Washington." Hedeby grinned. "I see that you have returned to the simulation room once again. As our training session is about to begin, would you kindly remove yourself from this room voluntarily? Or will I have to ask security to escort you out as I did the last couple of times?"

Among the many things that got Washington's ire up, was Hedeby's condescending attitude. Now that he was no longer a trainee, he could very well pop the man in the jaw. While he would undoubtedly face disciplinary action for striking a superior officer, he could no longer be expelled from the academy.

Washington answered the man's question with a long and loud "Sheeeeeit."

"I don't understand that dialect." Hedeby said, both to taunt him and to impress the young cadets, who all looked like they were in their late teens or early twenties. "It sounds primitive."

It was a provocation on Hedeby's part. Both men knew it.

Washington slapped his palms on the thick, leather covered armrests of the simulated captain's chair, and forced his lean, muscular frame up on its feet. At his height of five-eleven, he towered over the instructor by a good four inches. "Have you heard the wise proverb from the venerable philosopher, Confusion? It goes like this: Do not pusheth a black man too far, or thou may soon findeth a black fist rammed up thine ass."

"I also see that you're still speaking of yourself in the third person." Hedeby nodded. "I take that you didn't heed my previous advice and make an appointment with the academy psychiatrist?"

"Nigguh, I don't need no psychologizing." Washington growled. He could have stayed and bantered back and forth with the instructor, but he really wasn't in the mood for it. He willfully strode away from the faux captain's chair. "What I need is a mother-fucking starship!"

Washington went to the sliding door opposite the one where the instructor and his band of cadets had entered. Since reparations at the academy were few and far between those days, the door didn't automatically open like it was supposed to. The angry black man kicked it twice, before the trained hamsters that ran the little pulley system woke up and started running inside the mechanism. Eventually, the door did start to slide open, but it was skewed enough that Washington had to slide through the open space at an angle in order to leave the room.

The lieutenant strode purposefully through a solitary corridor. He came to another, larger passage where cadets busily shuffled around on their way to classes, and where other academy personnel took more leisurely strides. Washington languidly took in the scene, because he had no real destination in mind.

This is what he did nearly every day, Washington reminded himself, which was to walk around to different points in the academy complex and harass the people that ran the place. He did this because he knew that one day, and due to his staunch perseverance, someone would finally get fed up enough to assign him to a vessel he could call his own.

Where else can I cause a scene today? He wondered. His first inclination was to visit the academy cafeteria. Fondly, he remembered the time when he'd taken a stand atop one of the sturdy benches there and given a stirring speech regarding his flightless plight. To the throng of cadets and unsuspecting instructors and executive personnel present, he'd called out, "My fellow Altruists, I have a dream, and my dream is to boldly go where no black man has gone before..."

Washington was still trying to recall the rest of his impassioned soliloquy, when he heard his voice being called out behind him. He turned, and gulped when he saw a very official-looking official scurrying in his direction. The man was short, dressed in the manner of an academy courier, with a balding head, a pasty face, and eyeglasses more becoming on an old woman.

"Mr. Washington!" The courier bustled over, holding out an official looking Manila folder.

It really looked like an official folder. Washington cringed even further when he read the initials over the man's shirt. They were P.S.S.

Before the man could even speak, Washington held his hand out to halt him. "I have told you people a thousand times, that is not my kid. An alien Zorg mentally implanted the idea of a fetus in that woman, and this alien's mind was so powerful that an actual fetus came into existence. It was all done through the power of telepathy, I swear. Matter of fact, the kid's already had his blood tested twice. He has Zorg blood!"

"Mr. Washington, what in the name of heaven are you talking about?"

The black man's brow furrowed with confusion. "Aren't you with Paternity?"

"No sir. My name is Guetta. I'm with Personnel, as in Personnel Subdivision of Space Corp."

"Oh, well in that case I apologize." Washington replied and held out his hand in welcome. "I thought you were someone else for a minute. What can I do for you?"

Guetta looked perplexed, as if he was trying to figure out what a Zorg was, when he finally gave up and shook his head clear. He presented Washington with the Manila folder. "I have some good news for you. You have been commissioned to pilot a Space Corps starship!"

Washington couldn't believe his ears. He looked around suspiciously in case someone was filming him while they played their little practical joke. When he didn't see anyone paying him undue attention, he cautiously took the folder, noticing the P.S.S. ink-mark that identified it as being an official communication.

Growing increasingly nervous, he flipped the folder open and started scanning over the first page. The first box had his name on it, Tyrone B. B. Washington. Right under that was a second box that read 'Commissioned to SCS Space Relations'.

"The SCS Space Relations?" He asked, half in shock. "I'm being put in command of a starship named the Space Corps Spaceship Space Relations?"

"That is correct, Mr. Washington." The little man confirmed.

"I really don't know what to say." Washington stood in awe of the unexpected revelation. "I mean, I've been waiting for this notification for five months now. I was starting to give up hope. But the news has finally arrived!" He felt elated, as if he'd just won a lottery. "I am about ready to do my happy dance!" He raised his long arms high into the air and shouted. "Yes! I've got my own starship!" Washington glanced down at the bearer of the good tidings. "I hope you don't think I'm gay for doing this, but I have got to give you a hug!"

To the astonishment of the herd of passerby, Washington not only hugged the little man, but he picked him and swung him around a couple of times as well. Once the newly promoted man's cries of joy died down into near tearful whimpers, Washington finally released the official.

"I think I love you, Mr. Guetta, in a non-gay sort of way." He said, before he cleared his throat. "Okay, let me get my shit together. What is the ship's primary mission?"

"You are to take the helm of the Space Relations, Mr. Washington, and to travel to the furthest reaches of outer space." Guetta informed him. "Your assignment is to seek out any unknown and intelligent species, and to do your utmost to promote good relations between us and them. As in way out there. Way, way, way out there."

Washington nodded. "I like the sounds of that. It's kind of like a galactic peace sort of shtick. Is the starship docked and ready to soar the heavens?"

"Not quite." Guetta replied. "The Space Relations is actually a very small craft. It was formerly known as the Deathtrap Of Doom. It was used as a sort of errand ship here at the academy, and as a hands-on training vessel before that. Lastly, it was stationed over at our east coast counterpart academy, where they left it to rust in one of their salvage yards. Apparently, some of the administrators here felt that this ship should be retrofitted with the most advanced engines and weaponry currently available, and that you, Mr. Washington, should be the person to captain it. The elite here at the academy wish to send you to the furthest end of the known galaxy, and as far away from this place as is humanly possible."

"That's all right." Washington actually agreed with the statements. "Because that's exactly where I want to go. I mean, who really wants to fly out and explore shit that's already been explored? What's the point in doing that?"

"I understand your sentiments completely." Guetta concurred. "The ship is still in the process of being upgraded. It will be flown here to be transferred into your care in less than a week."

"Nice, very nice." Washington smiled, and began rubbing his hands in anticipation. "How about a crew? Does she have a crew yet?"

"There is no crew as of this moment." Guetta pointed at the folder still tightly clutched in the black man's hand. "If you browse through the last few pages of your official communication, the heads of the academy have included a list of several candidates that you may approach. In your capacity as starship captain, you are hereby authorized to offer a post to any member of that list as you see fit."

"Just like in the old days," Washington thought back to the long gone era of wooden ships, unfurling sails and cannons spouting fire. "When a captain had to interview and hire his own scallywags." Just the thought of him belonging, finally, to the ancient fraternity of maritime and space explorers brought another cry of joy out of him. "Yes! I get to pick my own crew and I get to fly my own starship! Can I hug you again, pretty please?"

Guetta stepped back anxiously. "Oh, that won't be necessary, Mr. Washington. Once was quite enough for me, thank you."

The two men spent another quarter hour discussing further details about the assignment, the latest additions to the academy's football team, and the general state of affairs of the country, before they parted ways.

Anyone watching Tyrone Boom-Boom Washington heading for the academy's exit that morning would have said that they were looking at a very jubilant and no longer atypically angry black man.

Date: January 2

Location: University City, San Diego, California

Lieutenant Washington stepped out of his 2492 Thugster sedan and absently straightened his gray Space Corps shirt. The newly appointed captain wanted to make the best impression possible on his prospective crewmember. He even deliberated whether to approach the man, one Ramiro De La Cruz, with empty hands, or with the Official P.S.S manila folder in his grip. He decided that the folder in hand image looked more presentable.

Strangely enough, Washington was standing before a convalescent home loosely affiliated with Space Corps. He double-checked the building's address with the address in his folder, just in case he'd made a mistake. It was the correct domicile.

Deciding that he'd been deliberating long enough, Washington took wide and confident strides toward the structure. Smoothly, he opened the wood framed glass doors, took a quick assessment of the interior, and made his way to the nearby receptionist's desk.

"Good morning." He said to the woman he found there, whose face looked like a pumpkin that had been left out in the sun too long.

The woman grunted back.

Apparently, this receptionist wasn't as impressed by his spiffy uniform and cool demeanor as he'd hoped. He got straight to the point. "I'd like to speak with a Mr. Ramiro De La Cruz, please."

"That hoser? What the hell for?"

"It's official Space Corps business." Washington said.

"Three doors down, in the ballroom to the left."

Even though Washington didn't feel that the woman deserved it, he still smiled and thanked her before he went on his way. The ballroom's two large doors were wide open. Inside, the lieutenant observed a large room full of senior citizens, all facing away from him and toward a center stage.

As Washington observed, the plethora of mature men placed their hands on their sides, and leaned their hips forward. The older women standing beside these men then reached over and started rubbing the men's crotch area, as if they were attempting to stimulate their cocks through their pants. The lieutenant watched this interaction for as long as he could stomach it, which wasn't very long at all, before he turned to head back over to the receptionist and possibly slap her for having sent him on a wild goose chase.

That's when Washington heard a man's voice shouting above the steady murmur of the older crowd. "That's right, baby! Don't let anyone tell you that you're too old to get it up! It's time to clean out those cobwebs, to sweep up that dust, and to show the rest of the world that you've still got the spunk!"

Wondering if that voice belonged to the man he was there to see, Washington started winding through the multitude of wrinkles and walkers. Three separate times, he had to pause and fight off an older woman who was reaching out to stimulate his crotch, before he made it to the opposite side of the room.

"All of you men, turn to the woman who just fondled your pecker, and say, give me some red hot love, baby!"

"Give me some red hot love, baby!" Was chorused throughout the room.

The lieutenant took in a single man standing on a small stage, with a cordless microphone in his grip. The man wore a simply orderly uniform, and eyeglasses in the shape and color of late twentieth century Ray-Bans, but with clear lenses instead of dark. To one side of the stage, stood a quartet of very mature women who were fawning over the speaker as if they were groupies. The speaker went over and whispered something to these women before he scanned across the great crowd. His eyes gaped momentarily when his gaze came across the exemplary Lieutenant Washington, standing there tall and proud in his neatly pressed Space Corps attire. The speaker turned to one of his groupies.

"Oh, Getrude," He called out. "Could you come up here for me, please, darling? Have the women do the invisible hula hoop routine, yes? You're a sweetheart, thank you so very much for doing this."

As the woman began twirling a finger into the air and whooped it up to the appreciation of the crowd, the orderly stepped over quickly to address his visitor. He held out his left hand in salutation.

"What's with the left hand?" Washington wondered.

"Oh, I was doing a hands-on demonstration on correct masturbation techniques a little earlier, with some of my students." The orderly frankly admitted. "I may have gotten a bit of Vaseline on the fingers of my right hand." He paused to smell it. "Or maybe it was spunk. I can't quite remember."

Washington grimaced. "But you didn't use your left hand, I mean, at all?"

"Well, I would have, if I were trying to demonstrate the downhill skier method," The orderly replied. "But as you can see, the ratio of males to females is about even today, and I didn't have to do that after all."

"I see." Washington said, graciously taking the left. "I am Captain Tyrone Boom-Boom Washington, commander of the SCS Space Relations." His face glowed with pride as he mouthed the words. Merely saying them made him feel like a brand new man! Yes, he was a Starship Captain now!

"Good to meet you. Ramiro De La Cruz, at your service."

"Is there somewhere that we could speak a little more privately, Mr. De La Cruz?"