| |
|
Time on a space station is a construct. Days are no longer determined by a planet's spin and orbit but predetermined by the whims of those who run and design these lonely metal boxes of life.
As her dreams of blood and transcendentance slowly blur into the reality of her cabin, the Captain Priestess gives some serious consideration to deferring the morning for another few hours. What's so urgent that it can't wait in comfortable darkness until the meteor shower in her head subsides and her mouth no longer tastes like the soles of Qal Yn's work boots? Duty, sadly is a stern mistress and our Captain is still sterner. Groping for the communications module, she activates a channel to her personal service bot.
"Send a Bloody Mary to my quarters, stat, and make sure it has a stick of celery in it - I feel health-conscious today."
"Immediately, your blooming glory of morning radiance. May I be of any other service to your beneficent majesty?"
"I very much doubt it. Have there been any deaths during the night?"
"No, your eternal vision of decadence. No corpses, deactivated A.I.s or suspicious sticky splatters have been detected since you passed out. We appear to have survived the night unscathed."
"Curious. Most disappointing. Now stop chattering and BRING ME MY DRINK.”
Clutching her bedclothes to her and staggering to her feet, the Captain makes her unsteady way across the room to the closet. Activating the DNA reader, entering the 12-digit code and leaning against the retina scanner she finally gains entry to the seven-room suite that houses her wardrobe. Even in her alcohol-deprived state she senses that there is something not quite right.
“Let’s see. Shoes and boots annexe, hall of jumpsuits, lingerie wing, human corpse, millinery room. Everything seems in order.”
With a resigned sigh she activates the comms system.
“I need a clean-up crew to the Captain's wardrobe, and place the med droids on standby.”
Shortly afterwards in the WTF medlab, a perplexed Phrenian medic synth tosses its rubber gloves into the disposal chute and turns to deliver the verdict.
“Captain, we’ve given the body a thorough autopsy and we’re ready to state categorically that it’s John Flyboy.”
“Do you have any idea how he died?”
“It’s not entirely clear when dealing with such primitive life-forms, but all indications point to a catastrophic failure of his Sci-Fi channel resulting in premature termination and plotline interruptus.”
“Damn it! That interesting eye-and-pyramid buttock tattoo indicates that he was one of our Masons, too! You mean…”
“Yes. There can be no doubt. The MAFIA have struck again.”
 |
|
|
Arf!