Nelson could attribute every success and disaster in his life to Nash.
This guy could bullshit a steer's asshole, Nelson had thought the first time he'd hung with Nash. He watched his good-looking new mate talk his way into a VIP party in Manhattan. Soon they each had a cocktail in hand and a supermodel by their side.
Nelson could count on a wild ride every time he hung with Nash. But things didn't always go their way. However, Nelson had stuck with Nash even when the chips were down.
Nash usually won big when he gambled, but the house always wins. The guys Nash had borrowed money from in Vegas did not like hearing he was broke. Nelson got pummeled too but not as bad as Nash. He'd managed to drag a bloodied Nash to the hospital.
But Nash always rebounded, and here they were on a planet 110 light-years from earth. Sure the duo had cut a few corners to get through astronaut training, perhaps had even forged degrees to get into the program, but they were space cowboys on the new frontier–part of a team to get K2-18b.
Their mission: to modify K2-18b's atmosphere to allow human life to live upon its surface. Nelson and Nash were ecstatic beyond their wildest dreams, taking selfies and dreaming of the women who would want to sleep with them when they arrived on one of the many starcraft already enroute from earth.
Until an accident with an airlock killed all of the crew.
Well, not all of the crew. Nelson and Nash had overslept that morning. Still drunk from the night before, Nash had hurled the alarm clock against the wall.
"So in a way I saved your life," said Nash laughing and pouring himself a hair of the dog.
Nelson swallowed hard. He tried not to picture the lifeless bodies of the crew hurtling through space. Now the fate of the mission (and arguably the fate of humanity) rested upon their shoulders.
"This is mission control," boomed the comlink. "Initiate atmospheric protocol 59-33A."
Nash and Nelson looked at eachother.
"Which one is that?" Nelson whispered to Nash.
Nash leaned forward and spoke into the comlink with suave confidence. "Which one is that?"
A pause.
"What do you mean what is atmospheric protocol 59-33A?" said an irritated voice from mission control. "This is the moment you have been trained for."
"Oh, yeah...right...right," said Nash with a chuckle. With desperation, they surveyed the equipment that lay before them.
"I think we mix three of these beakers together, put it in the delivery capsule which should be programed to fly around the planet to make the atmosphere breathable," whispered Nash.
"But there are four beakers," whispered Nelson. "I remember something about the fourth being only for the capsule fuel tank. Mixing it with any of the rest would likely blow up the planet.
But Nash had already mixed two of the four beakers together. A blue bubbling froth glowed before them.
"Cheers," said Nash holding a third beaker. And with a wide grin on his face, he dumped it into the mix.
