It was the year 2831 AD, although many people disagreed. It was silly and confusing, they argued, to base the system of dating upon the conventions of a religion that had been dead for more than 700 years, ever since the dicator Alpho McCarthur had taken over America and conquered much of the world, all the while carrying out his infamous anti-Christian genocide. (McCarthur died before his Tupperware party could rule the entire Earth. There was a freak accident, or so the officials claimed, in which he fell down a flight of stairs onto 17 bullets. Nevertheless, the Tupperware genocide had killed 98% of Earth’s Christians, and the religion never regained its former popularity.)
Why, they asked, should its outmoded customs still be observed, when there are more sensible timescales around? The general response to their suggestion was ‘Because,’ which just goes to show.
Many years before, the late scientist Tyron Feldspere had suggested that the leaders of the Earth should develop some sort of defense against meteorite impacts. His proposal fell on deaf ears due its extravagant cost. It is generally agreed that the former inhabitants of the Earth now take meteorites much more seriously, wherever they’ve gone.
Luckily for the human race, [wo]mankind had long before visited the stars, expanding across the galaxy like a particularly malevalent cancer.

Jiran Lockton sat in one of the many bars in Outpost Centauri™, drinking Antesian Brandy™. The Outpost was a huge, self sufficient space station, owned and operated by the Coca-Cola™ company, the closest thing there had been to a government since the destruction of Earth. Coke™ owned about 10% of the inhabited portion of the galaxy, with the rest split among Microsoft™, Disney™, Ford™, and various smaller companies.
Jiran was Coke’s™ young Secretary of Defense, a small and excruciatingly boring job in this day and age. No one fought wars anymore, they just arranged mergers. War had been made unprofitable, and despite the fact that Coke™ had replaced ‘employees’ with ‘citizens’ in its terminology, it was still all about profit.
The Defense job had been foisted upon Jiran 2 weeks ago, because he had taken a minor course on military history with Professor Kriegel at Coke University™. His best friend and former classmate from the University, Qan Talay, was in his entirety Coca-Cola’s™ standing army, except when he was sitting down, as was currently the case. He was patriotically drinking a glass of Alcoholic Coke™, and listening to Jiran rant:
“I mean, I mean, at leasht you do training excershishesh at your job,” Jiran’s brandy was saying, “My job ish jusht writing reportsh shaying how many of you there are, and whether you have enough equipment.”
Qan nodded sympathetically, while trying not to catch the eye of the pink giraffe that was now sitting in Jiran’s place. It had been a long day, and the traditional method of fixing this is by drinking huge quantities of alcohol. It doesn’t actually help, of course, but after a few glasses you don’t really care anymore.

It was the next day, if day had any particular meaning on the Outpost.™ Jiran was sober again, despite everything he had done to prevent it. He had woken up to a message from the CEO authorizing an increase in the Coke™ armed forces from 1 man to 30,000. He had been requisitioned 2,000 starships. Their previous concession to a fleet had been Qan’s ‘17 Ford Epsilon™ shuttlecraft, which had a modified handgun bolted to the nose and a shield system Qan had rigged up in Applied Gravimentrics class at the University™. Somewhere in the frenzy, he had managed to absorb the following fact: aliens had invaded.
Now Jiran was sitting at his new desk, while various people shouted at him, at each other, and at various galactic charts depicting the trail of destruction that the aliens had already blazed through human-inhabited space.

Qan was sitting in the captain’s chair on the fleet’s flagship. As the only member of the star fleet with any training, he had been given command of the advanced cruiser C.C.S. Interphase. It was said that even a child could fly it. He examined the captain’s console. There was just one button, large and red and friendly. Someone had felt it necessary to pain the word “Push” on it. Qan did so. A voice spoke:
“Welcome to the Microsoft™ Computerized Flight System ‘31. Now disengaging docking mechanism.“
There was a series of clangs as the Interphase separated from the Outpost™, and then the ship began to glide smoothly out into space.
“Now entering hyperspace, destination: Task Force Plaid rendezvous point &Mac185;.”
The ship lurched.

Hyperspace, known to scientists as zero dimensional space, had made travel to the stars possible. The ship jumped into hyperspace, where there was no length, width, depth, or time. The ship then would instantaneously drop back into real space at the point with the exact same gravimetric signature as the graviton matrix within the ship’s hypernodes. At least, that’s what the scientists said. Not even people who were constantly going around the galaxy really knew how it worked; calculations for the correct matrix necessary for the jump were done by computers, because the slightest mistake could be deadly. (It all boiled down to Hindenburg’s uncertainty principle, which said that an object in zero dimensional space could remember where it was or what it was, but not both. The lucky early hypernauts were the ones who were merely transported to a random location in space and time. One particularly infamous ship arrived at its destination as 678,000 cubic meters of elephant dung.)

Qan blinked. He was still alive, and apparently the same shape as before. He had just experienced the unique feeling of the universe being momentarily switched off. Other than that, the only change was a slightly different starfield and the contents of the Interphase’s Hindenburg matter cell, designed for just this purpose, which had ended up as a large quantity of cream of mushroom soup.
He looked at the viewscreen. The rest of Task Force Plaid was appearing around the Interphase. Now that he was looking for it, he could make out what was unmistakeably the alien fleet in the distance.
“Initializing Microsoft Combat Assistant ‘31 v. 0.99 Beta Revision C.”
“Beta? It isn’t fin--” began Qan.
“Now processing voice commands. Please state your orders.”
That seemed to be it. Qan looked around at his crew. Each of them had their own console, with a microphone in the center. He shrugged.
“Over to you, lieutenant.”
“Er... Computer, ‘Attack’,” said the tactical officer, Lieutenant Dehrens.
“That command has not been implemented in this version. We are sorry for any inconvenience.”
“How about ‘Ready Weapons’?”
“That command has not been implemented in this version. We are sorry for any inconvenience.”
“Computer, open help files,” tried the ship’s engineer.
“That command has not been implemented in this version. We are sorry for any inconvenience.”
“What the hell is going on?” said Qan.
“That comm--”
Qan pressed the Button again.
“Now shutting down. Thank you for using Microsft™ Computerized Flight Assistant ‘31 Have a nice day!”

Jiran was at a meeting. There had been plenty of them lately, but this one was different. At the meeting were the heads of the other companies, plus their diplomats and other wretched defense secretaries. They were discussing a merger. The biggest ever.
Jiran had been asked to give a report on Coke’s™ military situation to the various envoys. He was now standing at the front of the room, by a holo-starfield depicting the territory held by the various corporations. In red was the huge blob of stars representing Coke™ space, except for a growing portion of the blob, which was in blue, and represented stars whose planets were under control of the aliens. Occasionally another star would flash from red to blue, as it was updated based on incoming news reports. The chart needed little explanation. The assembled officials stared at it.

The Interphase was heading in to dock at Outpost Centauri™. Eventually, the ship’s prostitute for long voyages had found the owner’s manual, which had explained the two commands that were implemented in this version: Self-Destruct and Return to Base. Attack and Maneuver were expected to be completed in the next revision of the software.
The ship’s docking clamps connected with those of the station, bringing the cruiser to a stop. The slightly battered remains of the fleet followed close behind. The aliens had pursued them part of the way to the Outpost™, before mysteriously turning back.
Qan stepped out of the ship, and sighed.

The merger had been carried through, uniting all of humanity under the Coca-Cola™ monopolarchy. The Interphase’s software had been updated by Coke’s™ new Microsoft™ division. It still didn’t work, but at least it appeared to work. The fleet had been upgraded by the addition of thousands of Ford™ ships, although the frequent breakdowns were a major problem. Morale had been lowered considerably by the addition of in-flight movies-- compliments of Disney™. Other than that, things were pretty much the same. Yet, somehow, the once graceful and almost invincible alien fleets were now retreating rapidly through Coke™ territory. It was inexplicable.
Qan carefully maneuvered his modified Ford Epsilon™ through the wreckage of the latest battle. There was debris everywhere, floating in space. He stopped by a disabled alien ship, and pulled on his spacesuit. He attached the tether and opened the driver’s side door. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he was positive that he would find it. He floated over to the ship. Its shape was oddly melted looking and assymetrical, but-- and then he found it.

Jiran was sitting at his desk, procrastinating on paperwork by staring at the holographic starchart. Occasionally a star would flash from blue to red. He looked up when Qan entered, carrying a pice of slightly burnt equipment. He pushed the stacks of forms onto the floor and put the equipment on Jiran’s desk.
“Well?” said Jiran. “It’s a hypernode. Slightly damaged.”
Qan nodded. “Do you know where it came from?”
“A ship, of course. It’s just a hypernode. It says Ford™ on it. What about it?” Jiran yawned.
“This was installed in an alien ship.”
Jiran bit his tongue.

Qan and Jiran walked quickly through the shining silver corridors of the Outpost™ toward Qan’s apartment in the Tertiary habitat ring. When they arrived, the door slid open, . In the middle of the floor was a sizeable chunk of an alien vessel. The outer hull was undoubtedly alien, bedecked with the aforesaid melted motif. The inside, however, could have passed for the inside of any human ship. It had Ford™ parts. It had a Microsoft™ computer console. It even had a cup holder with a bottle of Coke™ in it.
Jiran found his voice. “Are you saying that someone is trying to make it look like aliens are invading?”
“But who?” Qan mused. “Why would anyone do this?”
“Er... I might be able to hazard a guess. Haven’t you noticed the way we were losing for just long enough for Coke™ to end up dominating the galaxy? Suddenly, when the war’s objective was fulfilled, they don’t have any fight in them anymore.”
“Hah, it’s too obvious. I can’t believe no one has figured it out already. We’ve never even beaten them in a battle; they’ve just started running away.”
“We have to tell someone--” Jiran stopped short.
Qan’s door had opened smoothly to reveal two enormous men. They stepped in, each ducking under the doorframe, and surveyed the room blankly. One signalled outside, and a moment later, a very, very, old, stick-thin man stepped into the dingy room with the aid of a cane. He was Anton Culiero, CEO of the Coca-Cola™ Company. He wore a glimmering personal shield, which to a 20th century viewer would appear as if he was wearing reflective sunglasses over his entire body.
“Well, well,” he said softly, “A little conspiracy, perhaps? Did you really believe anyone on this station had the slightest privacy?” He had a friendly smile, although for some reason this was not comforting. He appeared to notice their frozen expressions for the first time. “Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “Nothing’s going to happen to you. You aren’t the first. Twenty people have already found out-- but what does it matter? I have left them all with their lives, and even their livelihoods. I simply come here to make sure there are no... misunderstandings.” He chuckled again. Well, it may have been a chuckle. Then again, it may have been a death rattle.
Qan spoke up, “S-sir, we, uh...” He gave up in the face of that terrifyingly calm, benign gaze, and decided that honesty was the best policy. “You faked an entire war?” he managed.
“Of course not. It was a perfectly real war-- you yourself fought in it, I understand. It was simply against a fake enemy. It was very useful, however. Mankind is now united under one rule, the dream of centuries. Is that not worth it?”
Jiran stared at him, his eyes wide.
“So we’ll have none of this sillyness, eh?” Culiero continued. “I’m sure I wouldn’t want to see anyone hurt.” He glanced briefly at the men who flanked him. They looked as though they had gotten their jobs because, at the interview, they had eaten the chair. The man on Culiero’s left, who was idly tossing a gravimetric flow stabilizer from among the mess into the air and catching it, grinned at Jiran.
“Glad to hear it,” said Culiero, and he walked out. One of his goons pointed a phase disruptor at the fragment of the ship, and neatly vaporized it, before following Culiero. The door closed again with a faint ‘swish’.