It’s been over 50 years since they attacked – yet here I am. Twelve hours a day I chain smoke an overly expensive, filthy pack of Camel’s. My laces undone, feet propped up on my controls and my uniform undone to the navel. It’s easy money considering. “Keep an eye on the sky” they always said.
This shift seemed particularly long. I stared at all the books on the floor. Ruffled pages and dirty from years of finger prints and skin cells. Boredom came sharply. I had four hours to kill in this shift, and have to keep busy.
I stood up slowly, arching my back in a jerking twisting motion to hit the knot above my buttocks. Bent my neck left, then right, popping sounds echoed through the hull. As I looked around with my hands on my hips pondering what to do, the luminescent sun came through the glass at just the right angle. I could see skin dancing in the light, dust peering to the rear of the ship. All my controls haven’t been touched in months – only the ones used for take off and landing. Frankly, it’s rather disgusting.
As I moved hastily to the back of my ship, my feet began to lose traction. Looking down confused, I begin to be pulled towards the ceiling. Artificial gravity is in the green, yet I am being pulled. The ship dips and yaws towards the sun as I grab anything to try and stabilize myself. Peering through a port hole, I see space bending before me.
A large flash fills the sky, and I slam back onto the floor belly first. Shaken and bloodied with my nose dripping I crawl to the pilot seat and pull myself up. “Fucking scanner is down…” I mutter.
Shadow covers my ship, blocking out the sun. Peering up I see the large vessel lumbering forward, nose pitched down.
The warship Watchtower is in position.
We’re going to war.