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!"
