Robocalypse: No Matter, It’s Just Anti Matter - Part 1

The vibrations from the speakers rattled through the tin can of a control room, sound waves bouncing off metal walls like echoes in a cosmic void. “Space 1 Alfa, this is Astro Base. What’s your status? Over.” Astro Base’s Communication Officer leaned into the mic, his voice a plea laced with mounting dread. No reply. “Space 1 Alfa, this is Astro Base. Do you read? Over.” The words hung in the silence, sinking deep into the empty ship. Several hours had passed without a whisper from Space 1 Alfa, the pride of the fleet, now swallowed by the indifferent stars.

The Commodore nodded slowly to the Officer, his heavy boots clanking against the metal walkway as he turned away—a stoic figure in the face of uncertainty, though his mind raced with the fragility of human endeavors in this vast, uncaring expanse. “Attention all Space units, this is Astro Base. We have lost contact with 1 Alfa, commence search and rescue. Over.” The command rippled out to neighboring spacecraft, a desperate bid to reclaim order from chaos.

“Roger that, Astro Base. This is 2 Alfa. Changing course and heading to 1 Alfa’s last radio transmission. Over.” The ship’s captain responded with effortless confidence, his tone cutting through the static like a well-tuned riff.

“2 Alfa? Home so soon? Aren’t you supposed to be in diplomacy meetings in the Sax Quadrant?” The Communication Officer blinked in surprise; 2 Alfa wasn’t due in radio range for another 38 Falcon hours.

“Let’s just say the Sax Quadrant is seeing things our way… Or what’s left of ‘em.” A boisterous laugh boomed across the line. “I’m totally kidding, Astro Base. The meetings went well and we’re home early.”

“2 Alfa, joking about Galactic War 8 is not something this Officer wants to be apart of. Start your search for 1 Alfa and report your findings.” The Officer’s voice was unamused, edged with fear—a mirror to the collective unease at Astro Base, where one lost ship could unravel the thin veil of control humanity clung to amid the machines' silent march.

Meanwhile, on the far side of Astro Base—tucked away from the gleaming Communication and Command towers—sat the zero-gravity ship dock, a underfunded relic of rust and forgotten dreams. This was the mechanical wing where the unorthodox were exiled, their insubordinate sparks kept from igniting the daily grind. Here, in the hum of obsolete engines, a misfit crew tinkered away, always on the edge of readiness for a call that never came.

“Hey James, hand me that Serpentine Wrench.” Schuyler’s voice dripped condescension, his youthful chubby face half-hidden under a black beanie, shaggy black hair spilling out like defiant strands against the sterile order of space. As the mechanic, he could coax life from scrap, turning transistors into speed demons—but right now, fueled by a simmering frustration with this sidelined existence, a punk rebellion bottled up in the hangar’s shadows.

“Why…?”

“So I can beat myself to death, that’s why. What the hell do you think is going on here, Jimmy? We’re stuck in this stupid space dock, no one talks to us or gives us the time of day, and I have to sit here and look at your ugly mug.” Schuyler kicked over empty anti-matter fuel drums, the clangs exaggerating their isolation more than any rage could. It was theatrical, a way to vent the cosmic joke of being brilliant misfits in a universe that prized efficiency over soul. “I’m sick of it, man. Sick of it…”

“I’m not that ugly, am I? I mean, no one here has been on the cover of Astro Base GO! but I don’t think I’m that bad…” Jimmy fidgeted, his skinny white frame swallowed by a plain white t-shirt, tattoos peeking from the sleeves like faded battle scars. His shoulder-length stringy hair framed a face—raw, rockstar grit in a mechanic’s life, always the lead crewman ready to rally, even if his voice quivered with insecurity. Astro Base GO! was the glossy rag from the High Society Wing, a reminder of the glamour they were barred from.

“Uhmm, that’s, ah, actually not true, Jimmy. I’ve been on the cover once and have been featured in the mag several times…” Brian called out from under the undercarriage of a nearby personal spacecraft, his handsome features and fit build emerging like a male model from a fashion spread—stylish even in grease, his charm a weapon against the dock’s drudgery.

“You know what- fuck you, Brian. Here I am trying to have a conversation on how we need to better our lives and all you can do is make Jimmy feel bad about himself. God may not have blessed us with good looks or any functional talent, but at least we’re not assholes.” Schuyler’s frustration peaked, then crashed into despair. He set the wrench gently on the table, slumping into a seat, head hung low— a poignant glimpse of the mechanic’s deeper ache, dreaming of piloting stars while fixing scraps, his chubby cheeks flushing with the weight of untapped potential.

“Don’t worry about it, Brian. He didn’t mean it.” Jimmy whispered, his stringy hair swaying as he shot a supportive glance. “You know how he gets, every time one of the Alfa Ships goes on a mission he thinks we should be the crew. Everyone knows you’re the best pilot Astro Base has ever seen. And Schuyler, he can turn a garbage can and couple of transistors into fastest race buggy in Sandex 7.”

Brian’s face softened with empathy, nodding at Jimmy in quiet agreement before sliding back under the craft. Jimmy left Schuyler to his silence, resuming work amid the hum of tools. The three lingered in that fragile quiet, bonds unspoken but unbreakable—misfits united in their rebellion against the void’s indifference.

Several minutes passed until the alert siren blared over the loudspeaker, shattering the stasis.

“Attention Astro Base, this is the Commodore. Space 1 Alfa has gone missing. Space 2 Alfa is on a search and rescue mission after returning home early from diplomacy talks in the Sax Quadrant. May your prayers be with them all…”