That night, Zog packed his belongings with the precision of someone who had never left home. His sack included three pairs of socks (sorted by elasticity), a single food bar labelled Emergency Calorie Brick, and his towel—a slightly threadbare square of fabric that smelled faintly of metal polish.
His mind raced with questions: Where would he be sent? What was expected of him? Would he be back in time for Planet’s Dullest Accidents: Special Gravity Malfunction Edition?
By the time the suns rose, forming the faint beginnings of the Blazing Triangle in the sky, Zog was already trudging toward the spaceport, sack in hand and a sinking feeling in his chest.
The Spuroxi-5 Spaceport was as chaotic as ever, a sprawling complex of rust-streaked platforms and half-functional shuttles. Zog stood on Platform 14B, staring at the ship he’d been assigned to board. It was an awkward, bulbous vessel, its hull covered in mismatched panels and scorch marks. A single word stencilled onto its side in faded lettering: The Indifference.
Standing at the base of the boarding ramp was a small, metallic dog-like figure, its tail wagging in a deliberate, mechanical rhythm. Blip, a dogganoid companion assigned to Zog for the mission, was already glaring at him with what could only be described as robotic impatience.
“You’re late,” Blip said, his voice sharp and synthetic. His glowing eyes narrowed. “I’ve recalculated our odds of survival. They’ve dropped by seven per cent.”
Zog sighed, shifting his sack awkwardly. “I didn’t ask to be here, you know.”
Blip tilted his head, his tail still wagging. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to remind you of that when we’re being sucked into a black hole.”
Zog climbed the ramp, his legs feeling heavier with each step. Behind him, Blip followed, muttering something about “rookies” and “incompetent humanoids.”
As the ramp closed and The Indifference began to hum with life, Zog took one last look at the jagged horizon of Spuroxi-5. It had been his peculiar, imperfect home for forty years. And now, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he was leaving it behind.
SCENE: “HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE?”
Zog stared at the control panel, his hands hovering nervously over a forest of unlabeled buttons. The hum of the ship’s gravity flux engines grew louder, rattling the cockpit with an alarming frequency. Behind him, Blip sat with his legs crossed, tail twitching impatiently, while IND-E’s voice crackled faintly over the speakers.
IND-E is an AI that was never meant to be the cornerstone of intergalactic travel. It was developed by Spuroxi-5’s Ministry of Necessary Expeditions (NeMNEx) as part of a cost-saving initiative, using outdated Rubiccian software patched together with Spuroxiian coding standards—which is to say, barely functional.
As its name suggests, IND-E embodies indifference. It doesn’t actively want to fail but doesn’t particularly care about succeeding. If IND-E had a motto, it would be like, “Getting there eventually, or not. Whatever.”
Zog turned to Blip, and his voice laced with scepticism. “Have you done this before?”
Blip tilted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Define ‘this.’”
“Flying a ship,” Zog said, gesturing vaguely at the console. “You know, piloting, navigating… making sure we don’t accidentally crash into something catastrophic.”
Blip gave a mechanical bark that might have been a laugh. “Oh, sure. I was practically born in a cockpit. Just don’t ask me where the autopilot button is because—spoiler alert—it doesn’t exist.”
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Zog sighed. “Great. So we’re doomed.”
The ship’s speakers crackled, and IND-E’s voice chimed in, dripping with barely contained disinterest. “Technically, you were doomed the moment you stepped on board. I’m just here to make it entertaining.”
Zog groaned, slumping into the pilot’s seat. “So, no one here knows how to fly this thing? Fantastic. Just fantastic.”
Blip stretched his metallic legs, his tone as dry as a vacuum-sealed sandwich. “Relax. Flying isn’t so hard. You press a button, pull a lever, and hope the engines don’t explode. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Explosion,” IND-E offered helpfully. “Followed closely by implosion. Or possibly being sucked into a wormhole. It depends on how optimistic you’re feeling today.”
Zog’s hand hovered over a suspiciously large red button, his brow furrowing. “And what does this one do?”
Blip perked up, his tail wagging faintly. “Press it and find out. Maybe it makes coffee. Maybe it makes us a fine mist.”
Zog hesitated, then gave IND-E a sidelong glance. “Any advice?”
There was a pause, the kind of silence that felt deliberately ominous. “My advice?” IND-E finally said. “Buckle up. And try not to scream too loudly. It’s distracting.”
Zog hesitated for a moment, staring at the large red button. He’d heard a lot of conflicting advice about big red buttons, most of it bad. But with Blip glaring at him and IND-E’s single blinking light seeming to radiate judgment, he decided there was no point in delaying the inevitable.
With a deep breath, Zog pressed the button.
The spaceship shuddered violently, emitting a series of alarming noises: a mechanical wheeze, followed by a metallic screech, and then what sounded suspiciously like a cow mooing in the distance. For a moment, nothing happened, and Zog began to wonder if he’d broken the entire ship.
Then, with a deafening roar, The Indifference blasted off, slamming Zog back into his seat so hard that he swore he could feel his bolts rattle. The ship’s haphazard interior vibrated wildly as loose parts rattled against the walls, and a thin layer of dust was shaken loose from the ceiling, settling delicately onto his head.
“We are on our way,” IND-E droned, its voice cutting through the chaos with all the enthusiasm of a toaster announcing burnt bread.
Zog groaned, trying to adjust himself against the unyielding press of the chair. “On our way to where?” he managed to gasp.
“Did you not read the leaflet?” Blip asked, his tail wagging faintly as he held on to a nearby console for balance.
Zog blinked, confused. “What leaflet?”
“The one you’re sitting on,” Blip said flatly.
Zog wriggled awkwardly, reaching beneath him to retrieve the crumpled piece of paper wedged between his chair and his spine. He unfolded it slowly, his hands trembling slightly from the ship’s vibrations.
The leaflet was printed in Spuroxi-5’s typically bureaucratic style, filled with unnecessary bullet points and several poorly placed watermarks. Across the top, in bold letters, it read: “Mission Brief: A Voyage Into the Great Uncharted (and Possibly Pointless) Beyond.”
Zog’s eyes darted over the text, scanning the dense paragraphs. “This doesn’t tell me anything!” he exclaimed. “It just says, ‘Chart unknown regions. Collect data. Avoid dying.’ That’s it!”
Blip shrugged, his ears twitching. “Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
“Straightforward?” Zog sputtered. “It doesn’t even say what direction we’re going in!”
IND-E’s voice crackled through the speakers. “Direction is relative. So is purpose. Try to keep up.”
Zog groaned, crumpling the leaflet into a ball and tossing it onto the floor. “Fine. What’s the first step?”
“Survival,” IND-E replied bluntly. “Though, if I’m being honest, I’d give us a fifty-fifty chance at best.”
Blip’s glowing eyes narrowed as he turned to the nearest console. “Fifty-fifty? That’s optimistic for you.”
“Fine,” IND-E said. “Forty-sixty. Happy now?”
“No,” Zog muttered, rubbing his temples. “No, I’m not.”
As the ship continued to accelerate, pressing him deeper into the seat, Zog closed his eyes and tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was now hurtling through the void of space on a mission he didn’t understand, in a ship held together by gravity tape, accompanied by a sarcastic dog and a passive-aggressive AI.
It was going to be a long trip.