Yes, handshakes all around -- a shame, but understandable -- starting just before thanksgiving probably did not help our cause.
At least I have an interesting character to play around with as a result of it all... Though I really wanted to fly that damn ship.
And wanted to see someone's face get melted off. My bets were on the doctor first.
Keep safe all.
Clumsywordsmith
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Oooh -- studying. Oops. I think I was supposed to be doing that tonight.
There was something disconcerting about her accent that I could not quite make out – I pursed my lips a moment, furrowed my brow – sent my mind spinning back through the dozens of sleepy years of dream-infused hypersleep.... how many it had been at this point I no longer dared say; enough that Dr. Halitzer in her ever helpful dissertation on “Hypersleep and longterm effects of faster than light travel on the human psyche...” hadn't bothered to find any test subjects that far along...
And then I was hurtling through a sparkling field of blue flowers against crystalline glass – a little child runs toward me through the grass, trailing a stream of broken petals in her wake. She laughs, jumps and then springs into the air – I catch her. Catch her in my arms. And even in that moment find myself caught up in the whirlwind of a storm, the blue petals of the flowers turned all to shards and the droplets of rain turned to acid on my skin... I scream, and she screams, and from the depths of our cry I float back just long enough to see the entirety torn away in the scouring hail of burning rain.
A single drop hovered. Quivered. Finally tumbled down... down from the spout of the coffee machine to -plop- into the depths of Raymond's cup.
No more time had passed, either – or so I surmised. Blinked several times. Noted that Annie had already done me the courtesy of quietly tucking the dream-memories away into her storage banks; god knew how many I'd left down there. Something comforting, I think, about having the machine handle the uncomfortable memories for me... it made me feel less guilty about forgetting them myself, knowing she would always be there to provide the details if I erred.
Raymond turned about with a smile as he gestured toward Alice with his freshly 'brewed' mug-of-whatever:
“I see we are in perfect agreement then, Miss (a momentary pause) Triskin; perhaps between the two of us, then, we can keep our dear engineer convinced it's all a good idea?” Here Raymond shoots a glance sidelong toward Zelda before adding: “And it's a pleasure to remake your acquaintance a few years on the flip-side – Raymond... Charles.” Shuffling the mug of coffee from his right hand to his left, he makes as if to offer it for the woman to shake.
And just at that moment Reddick finally strolls into the room.
I saved the rest of the chit-chat for later; business was as business does, and this time around things looked like they really -were- going to get interesting. After the briefing and our glorious leader's perfunctory demand for questions (Demons below help the man who had any, I figured!), I swirled the remnants of what had been my fourth mug of coffee for that 'morning' as I trotted back to the machine and then made my way to the bridge. It was going to be a long... well... whatever time passed for a day out this far from anywhere.
And then I was hurtling through a sparkling field of blue flowers against crystalline glass – a little child runs toward me through the grass, trailing a stream of broken petals in her wake. She laughs, jumps and then springs into the air – I catch her. Catch her in my arms. And even in that moment find myself caught up in the whirlwind of a storm, the blue petals of the flowers turned all to shards and the droplets of rain turned to acid on my skin... I scream, and she screams, and from the depths of our cry I float back just long enough to see the entirety torn away in the scouring hail of burning rain.
A single drop hovered. Quivered. Finally tumbled down... down from the spout of the coffee machine to -plop- into the depths of Raymond's cup.
No more time had passed, either – or so I surmised. Blinked several times. Noted that Annie had already done me the courtesy of quietly tucking the dream-memories away into her storage banks; god knew how many I'd left down there. Something comforting, I think, about having the machine handle the uncomfortable memories for me... it made me feel less guilty about forgetting them myself, knowing she would always be there to provide the details if I erred.
Raymond turned about with a smile as he gestured toward Alice with his freshly 'brewed' mug-of-whatever:
“I see we are in perfect agreement then, Miss (a momentary pause) Triskin; perhaps between the two of us, then, we can keep our dear engineer convinced it's all a good idea?” Here Raymond shoots a glance sidelong toward Zelda before adding: “And it's a pleasure to remake your acquaintance a few years on the flip-side – Raymond... Charles.” Shuffling the mug of coffee from his right hand to his left, he makes as if to offer it for the woman to shake.
And just at that moment Reddick finally strolls into the room.
I saved the rest of the chit-chat for later; business was as business does, and this time around things looked like they really -were- going to get interesting. After the briefing and our glorious leader's perfunctory demand for questions (Demons below help the man who had any, I figured!), I swirled the remnants of what had been my fourth mug of coffee for that 'morning' as I trotted back to the machine and then made my way to the bridge. It was going to be a long... well... whatever time passed for a day out this far from anywhere.
I think the majority of us were MIA for the duration. So the holdup was mutual.
I found myself rather distracted for a time; I was never much of one for that initial barrage of interpersonal firing-squads that the less neurotic might have termed “Socialization”. Besides, the slue of system diagnostics that Annie had finally downlinked from the ship's mainframe kept me more than busy. Not, of course, that I'd have a hope of navigating the disastrous spew of information on my lonesome – but that's what a personal AI was for, anyway. She and I might not have flown for years, but old habits die hard: I wanted a personal look at the readings myself. Sometimes even the finest computer will make the mistakes that a human never would.
Besides, what better way to make acquaintances than by uploading my personal system specs and then convincing the remainder of the crew it was a fine idea? I can't say I'd ever liked the default settings on any ship I ever piloted, and in this one in particular was no exception: flew like a pig, but with a few tweaks above the 'Recommended' thresholds the bird could shed a few pounds. Having flown more than my fair share of hours in the initial test flights -did- confer a few advantages over the uninitiated.
Come to think on it, it's not like the company ever had a lack of solid, capable and (perhaps most importantly in my case...) reliable pilots. Many doubtless coming far more recommended than I could ever claim to be. I couldn't help but fail to hide a kind of sly, self-satisfied smile at my own irrational logic: perhaps if they chose me, it means they -need- someone who had been in the initial test run, which I figure by extension implies I've the right to push the ship a little harder than the final specs company engineers had come up with after those early test runs.
* * * * * *
“Sir, you're doing it again – “ a nominal grunt in response, during which the AI politely paused before continuing: “cognitive anomaly: lying to yourself as affirmation of invented causality...”
“Oh give it a rest, would you? That's just called being a human!” Raymond gave a dismissive flick of his fingers at that, words no more than mouthed in response: perhaps talking aloud to an AI was more of an accepted norm than it might have been not too many years in the past... But holding a conversation with a personal implant? Probably not much different than talking to oneself.
Catching a whiff of Preacher's remarks to our Navigator, I sent along a wireless request of my own to his personal system:
“Attn: Incoming Request from Pilot Raymond Charles, Handle: Ridgeback”; it was just a simple request for the navigation logs and current planetary scans – no doubt we'd all have a wonderful gander at them after making the inevitable exodus to the bridge, but some preparation beats none at all. I added verbally, afterward:
“And please tell me we're not landing this beauty in the middle of some kind of rock-shard-cyclone-shitstorm; preliminary readings from that moon look like hell.” Was never fond of lunar landings myself, no matter the nature of the moon; there was something inherently wrong about touching down on what seemed no more than a little chunk of rock in comparison to whatever monster of a gas giant it might be hurtling about at inane speeds. At least something like, say, a comet was generally so goddamn far away from anything that you couldn't really -tell- how insignificant you were.
Seeing the last of my personal overrides for the default protocols put in place, I leaned back and pivoted my chair about by one leg: swung until sitting more or less at an angle toward (as Annie helpfully reminded me moments before I came up with my words) the Engineer known as Zelda; Preacher just seemed on the tail end of having said something – and between the mirth in his eyes and her abjectly startled look, I couldn't quite make out whether I were saving her or ruining the man's fun: I spoke anyway.
“And excuse my interruption, if you would – but – “ the space between his words was punctuated by a swift series of sweeping hand-gestures, the altered specs tabulated and then sent immediately to Zelda's own personal processor “if you could do me the favour of making certain our system access points agree on a few... modifications... I've made to default settings? Nothing major, just a few places I learned she can put out a bit more than the books state...”
There is another pause here while Raymond tilts his gaze toward where Alice sits; offering a cordial nod, he ventures to add:
“Though I must say that a few of the modifications listed under the name 'Alice Triskin' are quite well-placed; the additional heat deflection array for extended vectoring are something they should've had on this damn thing from the start – especially with the number of roasty-toasty landings the company seems to expect these things to make.”
Taking another sip from his mug, Raymond finally ticks his gaze back toward preacher, remarks:
“And it's good to finally make your acquaintance, Preacher – I've heard quite a bit about you... I hope you brought your God along for the ride. Heaven knows we'll probably need him out here!”
“Perhaps you could've found words faintly more... political, Sir?” Annie's gentle remonstrance almost made me want to laugh; I didn't bother to respond.
Besides, what better way to make acquaintances than by uploading my personal system specs and then convincing the remainder of the crew it was a fine idea? I can't say I'd ever liked the default settings on any ship I ever piloted, and in this one in particular was no exception: flew like a pig, but with a few tweaks above the 'Recommended' thresholds the bird could shed a few pounds. Having flown more than my fair share of hours in the initial test flights -did- confer a few advantages over the uninitiated.
Come to think on it, it's not like the company ever had a lack of solid, capable and (perhaps most importantly in my case...) reliable pilots. Many doubtless coming far more recommended than I could ever claim to be. I couldn't help but fail to hide a kind of sly, self-satisfied smile at my own irrational logic: perhaps if they chose me, it means they -need- someone who had been in the initial test run, which I figure by extension implies I've the right to push the ship a little harder than the final specs company engineers had come up with after those early test runs.
* * * * * *
“Sir, you're doing it again – “ a nominal grunt in response, during which the AI politely paused before continuing: “cognitive anomaly: lying to yourself as affirmation of invented causality...”
“Oh give it a rest, would you? That's just called being a human!” Raymond gave a dismissive flick of his fingers at that, words no more than mouthed in response: perhaps talking aloud to an AI was more of an accepted norm than it might have been not too many years in the past... But holding a conversation with a personal implant? Probably not much different than talking to oneself.
Catching a whiff of Preacher's remarks to our Navigator, I sent along a wireless request of my own to his personal system:
“Attn: Incoming Request from Pilot Raymond Charles, Handle: Ridgeback”; it was just a simple request for the navigation logs and current planetary scans – no doubt we'd all have a wonderful gander at them after making the inevitable exodus to the bridge, but some preparation beats none at all. I added verbally, afterward:
“And please tell me we're not landing this beauty in the middle of some kind of rock-shard-cyclone-shitstorm; preliminary readings from that moon look like hell.” Was never fond of lunar landings myself, no matter the nature of the moon; there was something inherently wrong about touching down on what seemed no more than a little chunk of rock in comparison to whatever monster of a gas giant it might be hurtling about at inane speeds. At least something like, say, a comet was generally so goddamn far away from anything that you couldn't really -tell- how insignificant you were.
Seeing the last of my personal overrides for the default protocols put in place, I leaned back and pivoted my chair about by one leg: swung until sitting more or less at an angle toward (as Annie helpfully reminded me moments before I came up with my words) the Engineer known as Zelda; Preacher just seemed on the tail end of having said something – and between the mirth in his eyes and her abjectly startled look, I couldn't quite make out whether I were saving her or ruining the man's fun: I spoke anyway.
“And excuse my interruption, if you would – but – “ the space between his words was punctuated by a swift series of sweeping hand-gestures, the altered specs tabulated and then sent immediately to Zelda's own personal processor “if you could do me the favour of making certain our system access points agree on a few... modifications... I've made to default settings? Nothing major, just a few places I learned she can put out a bit more than the books state...”
There is another pause here while Raymond tilts his gaze toward where Alice sits; offering a cordial nod, he ventures to add:
“Though I must say that a few of the modifications listed under the name 'Alice Triskin' are quite well-placed; the additional heat deflection array for extended vectoring are something they should've had on this damn thing from the start – especially with the number of roasty-toasty landings the company seems to expect these things to make.”
Taking another sip from his mug, Raymond finally ticks his gaze back toward preacher, remarks:
“And it's good to finally make your acquaintance, Preacher – I've heard quite a bit about you... I hope you brought your God along for the ride. Heaven knows we'll probably need him out here!”
“Perhaps you could've found words faintly more... political, Sir?” Annie's gentle remonstrance almost made me want to laugh; I didn't bother to respond.
Should be back in action tonight. Finally got around to picking up a copy of "The Picture of Dorian Grey", which would be silly of me not to recommend -- but surely everyone knows this already? Hopefully will make for a relaxing Saturday evening of reading after back to back days of excessive drinking and repeated games of Setters, Risk and other such novelties.
If this mobile Xcom port doesn't totally steal me away, that is... I almost forgot gaming could have its fun moments
If this mobile Xcom port doesn't totally steal me away, that is... I almost forgot gaming could have its fun moments
I honestly prefer consuming alcohol to energy drinks -- healthwise -- but maybe that's just my stomach talking.
I tend to drink both anyway.
I tend to drink both anyway.
Blackbeard said
So many walls of text D: I think mine need to be longer. Does anyone follow football at all? Association football that is, not the american sort (I don't mind that either though)
Brief is fine. I am usually shorter. First posts tend to get long winded, simply because there's so much ground to cover at a stretch.
And I only pay attention to football once every four years.
Raymond Charles, Pilot
“Dreams are strange, in hypersleep – or so they've always told me; I'm not convinced I'll ever know myself... seeing as I've never had them. But you? What might you tell me of yours?” I paused in that moment, hand cradling the mug of coffee, a particular arch of my eyebrow – just enough!-- to register my interest at the question; she leaned back, settled into the comforting depths of warm black leather, steepled her fingers and propped them beneath her chin. Watching, as she was wont to do after asking a question.
I did not respond at once. Rather, took a slow sip. Waited. She seemed convinced I needed encouragement (you should know me better by now, woman!); tilted her head to the side and added encouragingly: “Or perhaps I merely forget them, is all... because there is always -something- to be found in the darkness, wouldn't you say?”
“Perhaps, or maybe just more darkness?” Yet the words were spoken only to the blank emptiness of swirling walls, the room and my thoughts and existence altogether running away, dripping and pooling – sluicing in ever growing streams toward the drain at the floor of the room he found himself thrown to; the only sound that of the dull thud of plasteel bars slamming-to as he lands, and so I watched – watched in detached interest as the figure clasped his hands over his ears. Shook and quivered, crying perhaps. But I could hear nothing. Only see the tears, watch as they ran down the yellowed surface of scum-coated tiles... could almost hear each droplet as it hung – balanced – for but a moment before tumbling through the edge of the drain and beyond. Then he turned, turned and... and as I looked at myself, I felt the urge to scream. To reach out and erase, to shove away the blank face of sealed lips and lifeless eyes. It was me. It was not me. I shuddered, then cursed as I – too – felt myself shoved into the room; hurled from whatever strange plane from which I had been watching, and crashing toward the outstretched arms and babbling, toothless mouth of this abomination.
And then Raymond woke. The room was quiet. Nothing but the gentle hum of machinery, quiet pulse of the ship's life-support systems cranking away. Easing his feet over the edge of the pod, he pushed upright – thanked the gods for the lack of nausea (he was an old campaigner, anyway); bare feet planted on the coldly metallic tiles. Pushed upright.
It was odd, Raymond considered, as he plodded past the remaining pods – all empty – toward his locker. Late to the party, apparently. Overslept, perhaps? Was that even possible? He should have been woken precisely along with all the others...
Despite pushing these thoughts from his mind -- instead mechanically dressing and heading on toward the canteen -- he could not help but feel a singular sort of unease. The emptiness of it all, as though perhaps he had been duped – tossed out into space on an entirely empty vessel. Left to drift for years and then...
I saw her – maybe I was not alone after all! But the unease did not leave, only grew – grew as I increased my gait and strode on toward the departing woman, took a turn down a corridor and found myself face-to-face with... the same blank stare. Empty eyes, a toothless mouth spread wide in smile as the featureless face moved as if to swallow mine. The arms swept upward and about, crushing me in a cold embrace that cut off all air at once... and just before the jaw opened wide – grew to unholy proportions – then I heard the soft voice of the psychologist once again.
“Raymond! Raymond!” Several loud clicks – snapping fingers. I blinked. Saw her face. Blinked again. Saw -its- face. Blinked again. Saw white.
*****
Raymond woke with a curse and a sudden start upward – too fast! His head connected with the solid lid of the pod, a dull thud resonating as his torso was slammed back to the cushion at the unexpectedness of the blow.
“Christ...” was the murmured expletive, one hand reaching to rub at what he reckoned would soon enough create a sizable lump; he couldn't quite help but roll his eyes at the soft chime of the pod computer, followed by the gentle tones of a synthesized voice:
“Good day, Raymond Charles – Please be patient; wait for the final system check before your pod opens. Feelings of claustrophobia are not abnormal at this stage. Shall you require a sedative, to ease the transition?”
“No, damnit” was the grumbled reply as the pilot began tearing away at the pads and wires secured to his chest, then reached for the small bottle of water he had brought into the pod with him some two years past... Hangovers and Hypersleep – they both had one thing in common, anyway. And why the hell couldn't the goddamn computer offer a man some painkillers? Sedatives. Shit. It could feel free to shove those up its hypothetical ass...
By the time the pod had finally opened, Raymond was three-quarters of the way through the bottle, up and on his feet with a grunt as he stalked toward his locker. The nausea wasn't so bad to fight off... not when you'd been there plenty of times before; a few of his fellow crewmates – shit! Couldn't remember a name amongst them!-- but a few didn't seem to be doing quite so well.
I played my usual game. Looked uninteresting and uninterested. Kept that sternly standard face that the uninitiated seemed to consider “angry”; convenient, anyway? Not entirely untruthful. I certainly was in no mood for pleasant conversation so soon after waking from some two years of insanely over-complicated dreams. Two years!
“Christ...” Raymond muttered under his breath again – barely audible to anyone who might be standing near – before clutching his hands over his ears and shaking his head several times. How many times -had- he been in that room? It was difficult to say. Perhaps it had been the same dream, over and over and over.
*****
At least the coffee in this canteen was real enough. And convincing enough. And the people, too, though I was quite content to mind my own business. Wolf down several helpings-full of what passed for ham and eggs, suck down just as many helpings of the diesel-strong ship's coffee.
“Good for what ails ye...” I muttered to myself, before offering a perfunctory nod to anyone I might pass on my way out of the canteen, final, steaming mug of brew in hand as I stalked off for my personal sanctuary. I couldn't quite help but hold back a smile as the soft buzz of my internal speaker announced Annie's awakening – I'd been forewarned it was best to schedule start-up protocol for AI implants a good ten minutes after awaking from hypersleep at the least.
“Good morning... What's the word?” The response was immediate.
“Well Sir, to be precise, it is currently fourteen-oh-seven on earth, which I would scarcely consider morning...”
“Shit, Annie – forget about it! What's the word?”
“Still fully integrating with ship's systems... but thus far everything checks out. It seems the engineer has already checked in with the power system – everything online and fully functional; ship's logs state you are to be expected for briefing shortly.” I curled a lip a that. Briefing my ass! Two years asleep, and finally a ship worth flying...
“How short is short?”
“Probably enough time for whatever it is you intend, Sir.”
By the time Raymond had finished his customary inspection of the ship's bridge – -his- particular station in particular (as well as another mug of coffee) – he seemed in a much more amiable mood. The disconcerting years of hypersleep were already a distant memory, and it was with a bit more purpose to his generally jaunty stride that he stepped back into the canteen – grabbed another mug of what he'd by now become convinced was straight caffeine in liquid form – and straddled the first available chair without much ceremony; arms resting against its back, steaming mug held out before him (clothes a bit disheveled – the standard of perfection clearly leaving much to be desired; shirt far from tucked in, sleeves loose and dangling – not to mention the rising lump, evidence of his close encounter with the pod's glass exterior). Only then did he pause to give a further glance to the crewmembers who had assembled thus far.
Smoking hot somebody – mechanic, engineer maybe?... gorgeous doctor... stunning captain... someone else, all-to-perfect... I narrowed my eyes briefly – tried not to stare -too- obviously hard – yeah, too-perfect. I'd seen enough Synthetics to know one when I saw one. Interesting. She looked like one hell of an expensive job, whatever the case. Hell, what'd I gotten myself into? I was feeling a bit outnumbered.
But one of the faces seemed familiar – Natan, ship's navigator. At least I'd managed to remember that much. I raised my mug in the man's direction, offered a friendly nod, but beyond that didn't speak.
“Dreams are strange, in hypersleep – or so they've always told me; I'm not convinced I'll ever know myself... seeing as I've never had them. But you? What might you tell me of yours?” I paused in that moment, hand cradling the mug of coffee, a particular arch of my eyebrow – just enough!-- to register my interest at the question; she leaned back, settled into the comforting depths of warm black leather, steepled her fingers and propped them beneath her chin. Watching, as she was wont to do after asking a question.
I did not respond at once. Rather, took a slow sip. Waited. She seemed convinced I needed encouragement (you should know me better by now, woman!); tilted her head to the side and added encouragingly: “Or perhaps I merely forget them, is all... because there is always -something- to be found in the darkness, wouldn't you say?”
“Perhaps, or maybe just more darkness?” Yet the words were spoken only to the blank emptiness of swirling walls, the room and my thoughts and existence altogether running away, dripping and pooling – sluicing in ever growing streams toward the drain at the floor of the room he found himself thrown to; the only sound that of the dull thud of plasteel bars slamming-to as he lands, and so I watched – watched in detached interest as the figure clasped his hands over his ears. Shook and quivered, crying perhaps. But I could hear nothing. Only see the tears, watch as they ran down the yellowed surface of scum-coated tiles... could almost hear each droplet as it hung – balanced – for but a moment before tumbling through the edge of the drain and beyond. Then he turned, turned and... and as I looked at myself, I felt the urge to scream. To reach out and erase, to shove away the blank face of sealed lips and lifeless eyes. It was me. It was not me. I shuddered, then cursed as I – too – felt myself shoved into the room; hurled from whatever strange plane from which I had been watching, and crashing toward the outstretched arms and babbling, toothless mouth of this abomination.
And then Raymond woke. The room was quiet. Nothing but the gentle hum of machinery, quiet pulse of the ship's life-support systems cranking away. Easing his feet over the edge of the pod, he pushed upright – thanked the gods for the lack of nausea (he was an old campaigner, anyway); bare feet planted on the coldly metallic tiles. Pushed upright.
It was odd, Raymond considered, as he plodded past the remaining pods – all empty – toward his locker. Late to the party, apparently. Overslept, perhaps? Was that even possible? He should have been woken precisely along with all the others...
Despite pushing these thoughts from his mind -- instead mechanically dressing and heading on toward the canteen -- he could not help but feel a singular sort of unease. The emptiness of it all, as though perhaps he had been duped – tossed out into space on an entirely empty vessel. Left to drift for years and then...
I saw her – maybe I was not alone after all! But the unease did not leave, only grew – grew as I increased my gait and strode on toward the departing woman, took a turn down a corridor and found myself face-to-face with... the same blank stare. Empty eyes, a toothless mouth spread wide in smile as the featureless face moved as if to swallow mine. The arms swept upward and about, crushing me in a cold embrace that cut off all air at once... and just before the jaw opened wide – grew to unholy proportions – then I heard the soft voice of the psychologist once again.
“Raymond! Raymond!” Several loud clicks – snapping fingers. I blinked. Saw her face. Blinked again. Saw -its- face. Blinked again. Saw white.
*****
Raymond woke with a curse and a sudden start upward – too fast! His head connected with the solid lid of the pod, a dull thud resonating as his torso was slammed back to the cushion at the unexpectedness of the blow.
“Christ...” was the murmured expletive, one hand reaching to rub at what he reckoned would soon enough create a sizable lump; he couldn't quite help but roll his eyes at the soft chime of the pod computer, followed by the gentle tones of a synthesized voice:
“Good day, Raymond Charles – Please be patient; wait for the final system check before your pod opens. Feelings of claustrophobia are not abnormal at this stage. Shall you require a sedative, to ease the transition?”
“No, damnit” was the grumbled reply as the pilot began tearing away at the pads and wires secured to his chest, then reached for the small bottle of water he had brought into the pod with him some two years past... Hangovers and Hypersleep – they both had one thing in common, anyway. And why the hell couldn't the goddamn computer offer a man some painkillers? Sedatives. Shit. It could feel free to shove those up its hypothetical ass...
By the time the pod had finally opened, Raymond was three-quarters of the way through the bottle, up and on his feet with a grunt as he stalked toward his locker. The nausea wasn't so bad to fight off... not when you'd been there plenty of times before; a few of his fellow crewmates – shit! Couldn't remember a name amongst them!-- but a few didn't seem to be doing quite so well.
I played my usual game. Looked uninteresting and uninterested. Kept that sternly standard face that the uninitiated seemed to consider “angry”; convenient, anyway? Not entirely untruthful. I certainly was in no mood for pleasant conversation so soon after waking from some two years of insanely over-complicated dreams. Two years!
“Christ...” Raymond muttered under his breath again – barely audible to anyone who might be standing near – before clutching his hands over his ears and shaking his head several times. How many times -had- he been in that room? It was difficult to say. Perhaps it had been the same dream, over and over and over.
*****
At least the coffee in this canteen was real enough. And convincing enough. And the people, too, though I was quite content to mind my own business. Wolf down several helpings-full of what passed for ham and eggs, suck down just as many helpings of the diesel-strong ship's coffee.
“Good for what ails ye...” I muttered to myself, before offering a perfunctory nod to anyone I might pass on my way out of the canteen, final, steaming mug of brew in hand as I stalked off for my personal sanctuary. I couldn't quite help but hold back a smile as the soft buzz of my internal speaker announced Annie's awakening – I'd been forewarned it was best to schedule start-up protocol for AI implants a good ten minutes after awaking from hypersleep at the least.
“Good morning... What's the word?” The response was immediate.
“Well Sir, to be precise, it is currently fourteen-oh-seven on earth, which I would scarcely consider morning...”
“Shit, Annie – forget about it! What's the word?”
“Still fully integrating with ship's systems... but thus far everything checks out. It seems the engineer has already checked in with the power system – everything online and fully functional; ship's logs state you are to be expected for briefing shortly.” I curled a lip a that. Briefing my ass! Two years asleep, and finally a ship worth flying...
“How short is short?”
“Probably enough time for whatever it is you intend, Sir.”
By the time Raymond had finished his customary inspection of the ship's bridge – -his- particular station in particular (as well as another mug of coffee) – he seemed in a much more amiable mood. The disconcerting years of hypersleep were already a distant memory, and it was with a bit more purpose to his generally jaunty stride that he stepped back into the canteen – grabbed another mug of what he'd by now become convinced was straight caffeine in liquid form – and straddled the first available chair without much ceremony; arms resting against its back, steaming mug held out before him (clothes a bit disheveled – the standard of perfection clearly leaving much to be desired; shirt far from tucked in, sleeves loose and dangling – not to mention the rising lump, evidence of his close encounter with the pod's glass exterior). Only then did he pause to give a further glance to the crewmembers who had assembled thus far.
Smoking hot somebody – mechanic, engineer maybe?... gorgeous doctor... stunning captain... someone else, all-to-perfect... I narrowed my eyes briefly – tried not to stare -too- obviously hard – yeah, too-perfect. I'd seen enough Synthetics to know one when I saw one. Interesting. She looked like one hell of an expensive job, whatever the case. Hell, what'd I gotten myself into? I was feeling a bit outnumbered.
But one of the faces seemed familiar – Natan, ship's navigator. At least I'd managed to remember that much. I raised my mug in the man's direction, offered a friendly nod, but beyond that didn't speak.
Prisk said
Haha, I'm not young. I was in my early twenties when Dubstep began to take shape, somewhere around 2008? That's when Datsik, Excision, and all those guys started to drop some heavy stuff, I think! Can't remember.Oh, haha! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that! The music itself is still good, but most of its culture is a bit... well, I'm not going to get into details!
Oh yeah. I know what you mean; I've listened to and enjoyed electronic music for years, but was horribly disappointed by the harsh dose of reality when I camped out at the USA Tomorrowworld this year. I mean, I had a blast, but I had not at all expected to find myself in the midst of an overgrown-frat-boy sausage fest. I guess all the intelligent people are smart, and save their festival money for a decent set of speakers so they can just listen in the comfort of their own home.
Plus, I don't dance. I suppose the 'Dance' in EDM should've clued me in... But I never actually pictured anyone dancing to that shit.
I'll have plenty of time to get a post up tonight, though I'll give advance warning that I'll be pretty much AWOL from Wednesday through Friday. Thanksgiving here in the states, and up in these parts we only know about one way to best give thanks.
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