My First Day in the Space Force

A satirical twist on the new concept of the potentially upcoming United States Space Force. A new "Spacer" arrives to Gladius Station for his first day and realizes it's not all he thought it would be

0830, 10 August, 2053

Gladius Station, High Earth Orbit

“So tell me, Private First Class, why did you join my glorious Space Force?” First Sergeant Jennings floated at the foot of his office module on Gladius Station. His module was adorned with various trinkets from a long career on the Force. Going away presents from previous commands were securely fastened to the walls. A large assortment of challenge coins from a multitude of units, events, and various training exercises were magnetically attached to their custom wooden display box. He sipped his morning coffee from a sealed mug through a straw designed for the lack of gravity.

“I asked you a question, PFC,” First Sergeant Jennings’ voice was endearing, but stern.

“I’m sorry, First Sergeant. I still feel like I’m just getting oriented.” My voice sounded weird--tiny and juvenile as I stood in the best parade rest posture I could muster in the presence of the First Sergeant. The top half of my body was drifting ever so slowly while the First Sergeant, clearly a zero-G veteran, just floated completely motionless, arms folded across his chest, not even utilizing his Force-issue mag boots.

A few months ago, I had never been in zero-G before. Eighteen years spent living on Earth, feet firmly planted on the ground, looking up at the stars, then suddenly you join the Space Force and up is now relative. Walls are also ceilings and floors. You’re issued your mag boots, uniforms, and underwear and that’s all you have to your name. You are stripped down to the bare essentials and built back up into a Spacer--bred to serve American interests in space, and protect freedom and the American way of life.

You spend three months in Recruit Training (“boot camp”) learning about military tactics, Space Force etiquette, and becoming part of the Force, but they only give you two weeks of actual zero-G training to prepare you for a potential career spent in it. Now here I was, standing on the brand new “Pride of the Force”: Gladius Station. Still fresh out of boot camp and expected to perform my job to the best of my 18 year old ability.

“Get used to it.” First Sergeant Jennings straightened his posture as much as the lack of gravity would allow. “I remember my very first day at my first unit.” He plucked one of the coins from his collection and stared at it for a second before slowly nudging it towards me. Weightlessly, it drifted end over end until I grabbed it with my hand and looked it over. It was a black and red coin with the Space Force logo on one side, with the writing, “Guardian Angels” and “Since 2026.” On the reverse side, a unit logo from the first Space Force orbital combat unit, the Black Vipers.

“Back then, we didn’t have all these fancy stations to train in or those p***y-a*s mag boots you’re wearing. We had to figure it all out on our own, maneuvering through corridors half the size of any you’ll find on the Gladius, puking our damn guts out for weeks before we got used to zero-G, all the while dodging incoming enemy fire and learning orbital mechanics on the fly. And we had to use hand-me-downs from the Marine Corps and Navy...”

The First Sergeant went on a long tangent, talking about his long and eventual career in the Space Force. He talked about his first time blasting off in the old Falcon rockets to get into space. He touched on his deployments to Mars and the men he’d lost in orbital combat. How the rifles back then kicked your entire body back and they had make sure their backs were against something in order to fire accurately. None of this modern “recoil-compensation” technology existed back then. His voice and demeanor expressed incredible pride in a career well lived, in service to one’s country and to one’s Force.

Finally he asked me where I’ll be working.

“I’ve been assigned to work with work center 550, First Sergeant.”

The First Sergeant chuckled lightly.

“I’m an Orbital Facilities Maintenance and Sanitation Technician, First Sergeant.”

The First Sergeant chuckled again as he heard my official job title, betraying the fact that he was about to lie.

“Well, son, every job in the Force is vital to the mission as a whole,” He said, clearly quoting the recruitment ads. “Even the ones that...lack in the glory and flair that other Spacers are used to. Very well, Private First Class. Show up on time, do your job, and don’t get f*****g stuck in the trash compactors. Dismissed.”

I snapped to attention and followed the proper military dismissal procedures taught to me in Space Force Recruit Training. It was difficult enough getting them perfect in gravity, and it must have looked like s**t in zero-G, but I did my best at a proper military dismissal.

Slowly, I exited the office modules that made up the Commanding Officer and First Sergeant’s modules, walking on the bulkhead that had been designated the “floor,” passing by a few young enlisted office clerks along the way.

Gladius Station was huge--the biggest, most advanced station the Space Force had ever conceived. It acted as the central transportation hub for ships heading off on deployment to Mars, the moon, and other celestial destinations the Force deemed necessary to visit or protect. And I was extremely excited to be a part of its mission and serve my country with honor.

The new mag boots were still a challenge to use, but they were better than the original models and I still liked wearing them. It filled me with an overwhelming sense of pride to be a part of something greater than myself, and to serve my country. Plus, it was incredible to be in space. Thirty-five years ago, only highly-trained, hyper intelligent masters-of-their-field astronauts got to visit space and experience true weightlessness. Now here I was, a basically-trained 18 year old Spacer. This was sure to be an incredible experience.

I passed by many other members of the Space Force, giving each of them a crisp, proper greeting of the day and saluting those who wore shiny rank insignias. Some were walking on the same bulkhead I was, much more gracefully using the mag boots than I could. Others were floating down the corridors “old school-style,” using handrails and propelling themselves in a certain direction. All were wearing the proper uniform of the day--deep grey multi-camouflage blouses, trousers, and covers, all designed to blend in with the empty void of space...not that our daily uniforms were ever actually used in orbital combat. There were ultra special, badass, armored pressure suits for that.

I was in my perfectly-fitted, freshly pressed formal check-in attire--a slate grey suit-like jacket and pants with polished black military-issue magnetic-heeled boots, a shiny gold belt and a black tie. A single colorful ribbon was fixed to the left breast, indicating that I joined the military during a time of war, and a shooting badge was pinned underneath it, displayed for all to see that I did pass rifle qualifications, even if only just barely. On each shoulder, a single chevron indicated my rank of Private First Class. I had worked hard in boot camp to earn that rank, gaining the prestige and respect of the drill instructors as my platoon’s Guide--the leader of leaders in a boot camp platoon. I felt a strong sense of pride getting to wear my hard-earned chevrons.

After winding through many corridors on the station, sometimes having to unclamp my mag boots to jump “up” into a new direction, since the lack of gravity does not limit designers to merely build along the horizontal axis, I finally arrived at the hatch to work center 550.

I approached the hatch and hesitated for a split second. My heart pounded as my hand reached for the thick latch that secured the hatch. This is everything that I joined for--to serve my country and advance American interests and dominance in space. I was about to meet a group of like-minded individuals, who all joined for the same reasons as myself, who all just want to serve honorably and make a difference.

I put a big smile on my face and opened the hatch.

Immediately as I opened the door, I heard the piercing sound of a child-like scream echo off of the bulkheads and my head hit a floating metal cylinder as I stepped through. A small, young Spacer was curled up in a ball barreling towards me, weightless, screaming at the top of his lungs. My eyes widened and I froze. Before the man impacted me, he came in contact with a group of these metal cylinders that had been neatly arranged just in front of the hatch that I had entered through. I couldn’t duck in time and the man went straight through the cylinders and knocked the wind out of me. My mag boots came unlatched from the deck and I flew backwards out of the hatch. I faintly heard the Spacers yell, “Strike!” as I toppled out of the doorway and back into the entrance corridor.

It took me a few seconds to gain my bearings--figure out which way I was oriented. My check-in papers had scattered all across the “room” and it took a few minutes to gather them all up. I could hear my soon-to-be colleagues in the shop laughing their asses off as I composed myself and floated back towards the entrance.

One of the men was waiting for me at the entrance as I secured my boots back onto the bulkhead designated as the floor. He, however, wasn’t magged onto the floor, but rather spinning slowly in the entryway.

“Welcome to 550, dumbass,” he said, still chuckling from the fun. “Daniels got extra points for getting a strike plus knocking your a*s out.”

The only response I could muster was, “Uhh…”

“I’m Lance Corporal Jacobson and I’ll be your daddy from here on out,” he continued.

A loud voice rang out from one of the modules further back. “Cleanup on aisle nine!”

“I got it, Staff Sergeant!” Lance Corporal Jacobson yelled back. He presented a rather eerie smile to me as he motioned for me to follow him, grabbing an electronic tablet along the way. He led me a to a double wide module in the back of the work center.

This module was filled with tool boxes, cleaning supplies, and various other items and screens, all securely magged, bolted, or even duct taped to all five walls in the module.

Lance Corporal Jacobson handed me a black backpack, still smiling deviously. He tapped a few times on the tablet, then handed it to me, pointing to a white box. “Sign your name, new kid.”

Before I finished my hard-practiced signature, Lance Corporal Jacobson snatched the tablet away from me. He pointed at the tablet, “These are the active work orders. Then here are the maps, publications, and procedures. You are now active in work order 1311-53. Don’t f**k it up.”

I made my best attempt at a protest, “But Lance Corporal, I’m still in my uni…”

“You think I give half a flying f**k, PFC?! We’ve got mission-vital work to do here and the best way for you to learn your f*****g job is some hands-on f*****g goddamn training. Go do your f*****g job.” Lance Corporal Jacobson’s voice was stern, but it was easy to tell he was holding back a smile. I hadn’t been yelled at since boot camp, and like any Force recruit, I had never enjoyed it. I didn’t expect more of that.

I straightened my posture. “Aye aye, Lance Corporal.” I took the backpack and strapped it to my back. Holding the tablet in my hand, I strode out of the work center and back into the corridor.

It took me 45 minutes to find the location of the work request, but I finally arrived: the men’s restroom adjacent to the enlisted dining facilities of the station. When I opened the hatch, my senses were immediately overwhelmed and I almost vomited. What I saw was the most horrifying scene I’d ever experienced.

S**t.

S**t everywhere.

On all five walls and floating weightlessly midair, slowly spinning almost as if it was enjoying itself. Clearly, someone’s liquid business hadn’t fully flushed, and the toilet had malfunctioned. Back on Earth, it wouldn’t have been a big deal--maybe a small mess around the toilet as it flooded. Annoying, yes. But still not a huge issue.

But in zero-G? It’s a crisis. The vacuum suction on the toilet had failed, and apparently reversed, causing the s**t to be distributed throughout the entire room.

At that exact moment, my tablet beeped. A message appeared on the screen. It was from Lance Corporal Jacobson: “Welcome to the Space Force, dumbass. Make your country proud.”

I sighed deeply as the reality of my situation sunk in.

“Goddamnit.”