The graduating class of 2183 awaited Fleet Admiral Sanchez's commencement speech. 'Ladies, gentlemen, faculty, staff and graduates. Let me start out by stating the most important thing that you'll ever hear in your careers: space travel 'aint for pussies. That's right. You think you're going to graduate and eagerly head out into the stars to plant your seeds in every green or purple or green-purple with stripes alien bitch that you encounter…well it's not going to be like that at all. More than likely you'll become a spore receptacle for a Six-tongued Noctarian Flame Sponge at your first port of call. If you're lucky enough to be one the 10 percent who survive the harvest, you'll be transferred to a mental ward where you'll undergo a six month protocol of intra-cranial neural reconstruction. After that, you lucky few will be sent out again on one of those heaps of shit we call a space cruiser where you'll probably be blasted into dust by a Zaphnarian attack frigate. Or you could again get lucky like I was and only have a bulkhead collapse on your pelvis as your ship decompresses. That way you survive knowing that your legs, schlong and balls burned up in the atmosphere of Zaphnar 7. But don't worry, you'll get a new synthetic mechanical lower half just like I did. And you get promoted, then redeployed once again to some far away shithole where you will later enjoy the painful 8 month journey traveling through the bowels of a Tobarian Snow Devil. Then you'll get shit out and re-ingested by a female Snow Devil during mating season. That's right kids. You should have stayed home and become farmers. But it's too late for that cause now you belong to the Fleet.' email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com