Eyes opened. With difficulty. Guduza had briefly tried smart-eyeballs as elective surgery but like most everyone else, dispensed with them. They were annoying, and unless you had a real-honest-to-Apollo incurable eye impairment, mostly illegal in a UFP that was scared shitless of enhancements.
But he missed them, now. The world came back visually, grogilly, like eyes viewing the world though gauze. He smelled the air. Someone’s underwear was on his face. Eww.
“Gaggh!” he gahhed, tossing whoever-it-was’s mentioned unmentionables on the floor, sitting up from a mattress that was not his, hearing the ventilation and thrum of a ship at warp. There were other people asleep, passed out, or just lolling about in various places in the room. “What did I do?” he said out loud, looking quickly for his clothes.
“DRUGS” the ship’s computer answered in perfect-Standard school holomarm accent. “WOULD YOU LIKE AN ANI-TOXICANT?” It sounded more like a statement than a question.
“Yeah.” Guzuda said, slipping into his gold and black skant, putting his feet shoes that were not his, but fit well enough. Hey, it’s a socialist utopia, right?
“Make that two,” said the Vulcan, sitting up, rubbing his forehead, and feeling about for his shirt, instead grabbing a dozing Denobulan woman’s bare butt who only replied “mmph” to the intrusion and went back to snoozing.
Guduza saw his friend had that intricate tattoo on his shoulder that some Starfleet types got when and if they rounded Antares Maelstrom. It was really interesting, words cannot describe it accurately enough and he decided not to think about what it looked like, in all its majesty and descriptive power as @Greg Cox should be only one ever allowed to write about Antares Maelstrom. Seriously, the book is that damned good. You should read it.
“I feel like I am in two realities, Kapok” Guduza said before injecting the hypo offered by the ship’s conductor. Reality hit like a watermelon stripped of rind, and it all came back.
“Oh!”
They were on the ECS Your Mom’s Spice Rack (ECA’s insistence on unique ship registration having lead to a need for ever more creative names) . The Carnivale Celestial had broken down and stopped at Rigel for repairs. Parts were delayed. Kapok had been edgy in dock, finally admitting he had people in Rigel that wouldn’t be happy about him returning. There was a smaller tramp-freighter leaving for Bajor with a mixed manifest of non-self-sealing stem-bolt covers, and passengers heading for a Love Instructors Union convention. Guduza faked them ID’s and got them aboard.
“I didn’t know you were ever in..”
“Shut up, Guduza.”
“Yeah but how old are..”
“Shut up, Guduza.”
You didn’t get to be producer of something as big as Where’s My Mip Blorp!? without having some kind of shady past. It was fine. Everything was fine.
Their cabin was interior and didn’t have a window. Instead, a viewscreen showed warp stars flashing at a by speed probably much faster than the Spice Rack had ever actually traversed. In fact, the screen was broken and showed this pattern whether the ship was at warp, or impulse, or docked and moored.
Kapok had briefly affixed a stolen ECS recruitment poster from the crew’s mess hall (Why did ECS want to recruit people who already worked for them? For that matter, why DID anyone work or the ECS?) over the view screen, but the flimsy biopaperplas was opaque and let as much light into the room as the lover instructor’s undershorts.
There was something disconcerting about a bare chested human looking grimly into the future, one leg atop a standard cargo crate while "Hauling is Life" in italics and an image of joyous people down below like enthusiastic fans were animated by the light of fake subspace effects. They took it down, rolled it up, and left it near the crew replicator with “Sorry” written in gravy on replicated mashed potatoes.
“We should be about halfway to Bajor.” Kapok said, getting out of the sonic shower and into some cleaner clothes.
Guduza was plasma-wanding his teeth to perfect brightness and letting the hovering groom-bot remove his hair for that perfect Aging Balding Man look that the ladies all went delta-wave for.
Suddenly the ship rocked, and there was the sensation that it was dropping out of warp, not that the viewscreen would tell you any better.
“ALERT ALERT WE ARE UNDER PIRATE ATTACK. ALL SENTIENT PASSENGERS OVER THE AGE OF (GARBLED) ARE CONSCRIPTED TEMPORARILY TO CREW STATUS. YOU ARE AUTHORIZED AND COMPELLED TO DEFEND MOM’S SPICE RACK FROM HOSTILE BOARDING UNDER THE UNITED EARTH PARLIAMENT CODE 192.26 SUBSECTION 47B OF THE EARTH CARGO ADMINISTRATION CLAUSE PURSUIENT TO SPECIAL ADMINISTRATION SUBSEQUENT TO UNITED EARTH’S ADHEARANCE TO ALL APPLICABLE CLAUSES OF THE UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS TREATY, THE SECOND GENEVA PROTOCOL OF 2155, THE KHITOMER ACCORDS, AND YOUR CUSTOMER-CLIENT SERVICE AGREEMENT. PACIFIST SPECIES PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY WITHOUT WOUNDING TO THE SICK BAY FOR ALTERNATE SERVICE. PACIFIST RELIGIOUS OBSERVANTS ARE REMINDED THAT YOUR DEITY WILL NOT SAVE YOU AT THIS MOMENT. YOUR PERSONAL DEFENCE WEAPON WILL APPEAR ON THE TRAY ABOVE YOUR EXCRETORIUM TRANSPORTER..”
“Holy shit, ‘Pok, this is for real!” Guduza said, as two disruptors appeared on the shelf above the crapper. He’d been wondering what that shelf was for.
Kapok too his, with casual Vulcan certitude, checked the power levels, set his authoritatively to the sangria colour level and stuffed it in his waistband. Gauduza set his to chartreuse level, not quite so sure of himself. The ship announcer continued on.
“THAT WE NEVER THINK WE WILL BE IN THIS SITUATION. WE’RE NOT LIKE HYENAS. WE DON’T GET BORN IN A LITTER OR LAUGH AT AKWARD MOMENTS. BUT WHEN I SAW THAT GAZELLE BABY COMING OUT THAT GAZELLE’S BABYMAKER I THOUGHT TO MYSELF, MARIA, I AM SOOO GLAD I AM NOT A XENO-VETRINARIAN. AND THAT’S HOW I BECAME THE CONSTRUCT FOR AN ECS AI SYSTEM. AS AN UPDATE THE PIRATES ARE ABOUT HALFWAY TO CUTTING THROUGH THE DEFENSE BULKHEAD. THEY SEEM MOSTLY INTERESTED IN THOSE NON-SELF SEAING STEM BOLT COVERS SO WE MAY HAVE HAD A BREAK. STARFLEET IS ALERTED. WORD TO THE WISE, ANY STARFLEET DESERTERS MIGHT WANT TO THINK ABOUT THEIR ESCAPE PLAN IF, AS USUAL, WE HAVE TO SAVE OUR OWN ASS AND STARFLEET SHOWS UP LATE AND DOES A SHIP INSPECTION JUST TO SHOW THE ADMIRALTY THAT THEY AT LEAST ACCOMPLISHED SOMETHING."
Guduza looked at Kapok, as the both crouched behind their compartment hatch. “Something you want to say?”
“I do not.” the producer, answered.
IT IS WITHIN MY JOB DESCRIPTION TO DOUBLE CHECK ANYONE ON THE PASSENGER LIST FOR VARIANCES, AND IT IS NOT LIKE I HAVE A LOT ELSE TO DO, BEFORE ANYONE STARTS TO COMPLAIN TO CORPORATE. WE ARE HAPPY THAT YOU CHOOSE TO FLY WITH US, AND WE HOPE IF YOU SURVIVE THIS ENCOUNTER WITH PIRATES ALIVE AN UNENSLAVED THAT YOU WILL CHOOSE TO USE MOM’S SPICE RACK MANY TIMES IN THE FUTURE
There were sounds of disruptor and phaser fire outside in the corridor.
“Death to the love instructors!” someone yelled.
It was personal.
“We have to get out of here!” Kapok said urgently. He opened the hatch, firing blindly.
Guduza felt the top of his head with dread, realizing the groom bot only balded him on the left-side. "Shit!":
But he missed them, now. The world came back visually, grogilly, like eyes viewing the world though gauze. He smelled the air. Someone’s underwear was on his face. Eww.
“Gaggh!” he gahhed, tossing whoever-it-was’s mentioned unmentionables on the floor, sitting up from a mattress that was not his, hearing the ventilation and thrum of a ship at warp. There were other people asleep, passed out, or just lolling about in various places in the room. “What did I do?” he said out loud, looking quickly for his clothes.
“DRUGS” the ship’s computer answered in perfect-Standard school holomarm accent. “WOULD YOU LIKE AN ANI-TOXICANT?” It sounded more like a statement than a question.
“Yeah.” Guzuda said, slipping into his gold and black skant, putting his feet shoes that were not his, but fit well enough. Hey, it’s a socialist utopia, right?
“Make that two,” said the Vulcan, sitting up, rubbing his forehead, and feeling about for his shirt, instead grabbing a dozing Denobulan woman’s bare butt who only replied “mmph” to the intrusion and went back to snoozing.
Guduza saw his friend had that intricate tattoo on his shoulder that some Starfleet types got when and if they rounded Antares Maelstrom. It was really interesting, words cannot describe it accurately enough and he decided not to think about what it looked like, in all its majesty and descriptive power as @Greg Cox should be only one ever allowed to write about Antares Maelstrom. Seriously, the book is that damned good. You should read it.
“I feel like I am in two realities, Kapok” Guduza said before injecting the hypo offered by the ship’s conductor. Reality hit like a watermelon stripped of rind, and it all came back.
“Oh!”
They were on the ECS Your Mom’s Spice Rack (ECA’s insistence on unique ship registration having lead to a need for ever more creative names) . The Carnivale Celestial had broken down and stopped at Rigel for repairs. Parts were delayed. Kapok had been edgy in dock, finally admitting he had people in Rigel that wouldn’t be happy about him returning. There was a smaller tramp-freighter leaving for Bajor with a mixed manifest of non-self-sealing stem-bolt covers, and passengers heading for a Love Instructors Union convention. Guduza faked them ID’s and got them aboard.
“I didn’t know you were ever in..”
“Shut up, Guduza.”
“Yeah but how old are..”
“Shut up, Guduza.”
You didn’t get to be producer of something as big as Where’s My Mip Blorp!? without having some kind of shady past. It was fine. Everything was fine.
Their cabin was interior and didn’t have a window. Instead, a viewscreen showed warp stars flashing at a by speed probably much faster than the Spice Rack had ever actually traversed. In fact, the screen was broken and showed this pattern whether the ship was at warp, or impulse, or docked and moored.
Kapok had briefly affixed a stolen ECS recruitment poster from the crew’s mess hall (Why did ECS want to recruit people who already worked for them? For that matter, why DID anyone work or the ECS?) over the view screen, but the flimsy biopaperplas was opaque and let as much light into the room as the lover instructor’s undershorts.
There was something disconcerting about a bare chested human looking grimly into the future, one leg atop a standard cargo crate while "Hauling is Life" in italics and an image of joyous people down below like enthusiastic fans were animated by the light of fake subspace effects. They took it down, rolled it up, and left it near the crew replicator with “Sorry” written in gravy on replicated mashed potatoes.
“We should be about halfway to Bajor.” Kapok said, getting out of the sonic shower and into some cleaner clothes.
Guduza was plasma-wanding his teeth to perfect brightness and letting the hovering groom-bot remove his hair for that perfect Aging Balding Man look that the ladies all went delta-wave for.
Suddenly the ship rocked, and there was the sensation that it was dropping out of warp, not that the viewscreen would tell you any better.
“ALERT ALERT WE ARE UNDER PIRATE ATTACK. ALL SENTIENT PASSENGERS OVER THE AGE OF (GARBLED) ARE CONSCRIPTED TEMPORARILY TO CREW STATUS. YOU ARE AUTHORIZED AND COMPELLED TO DEFEND MOM’S SPICE RACK FROM HOSTILE BOARDING UNDER THE UNITED EARTH PARLIAMENT CODE 192.26 SUBSECTION 47B OF THE EARTH CARGO ADMINISTRATION CLAUSE PURSUIENT TO SPECIAL ADMINISTRATION SUBSEQUENT TO UNITED EARTH’S ADHEARANCE TO ALL APPLICABLE CLAUSES OF THE UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS TREATY, THE SECOND GENEVA PROTOCOL OF 2155, THE KHITOMER ACCORDS, AND YOUR CUSTOMER-CLIENT SERVICE AGREEMENT. PACIFIST SPECIES PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY WITHOUT WOUNDING TO THE SICK BAY FOR ALTERNATE SERVICE. PACIFIST RELIGIOUS OBSERVANTS ARE REMINDED THAT YOUR DEITY WILL NOT SAVE YOU AT THIS MOMENT. YOUR PERSONAL DEFENCE WEAPON WILL APPEAR ON THE TRAY ABOVE YOUR EXCRETORIUM TRANSPORTER..”
“Holy shit, ‘Pok, this is for real!” Guduza said, as two disruptors appeared on the shelf above the crapper. He’d been wondering what that shelf was for.
Kapok too his, with casual Vulcan certitude, checked the power levels, set his authoritatively to the sangria colour level and stuffed it in his waistband. Gauduza set his to chartreuse level, not quite so sure of himself. The ship announcer continued on.
“THAT WE NEVER THINK WE WILL BE IN THIS SITUATION. WE’RE NOT LIKE HYENAS. WE DON’T GET BORN IN A LITTER OR LAUGH AT AKWARD MOMENTS. BUT WHEN I SAW THAT GAZELLE BABY COMING OUT THAT GAZELLE’S BABYMAKER I THOUGHT TO MYSELF, MARIA, I AM SOOO GLAD I AM NOT A XENO-VETRINARIAN. AND THAT’S HOW I BECAME THE CONSTRUCT FOR AN ECS AI SYSTEM. AS AN UPDATE THE PIRATES ARE ABOUT HALFWAY TO CUTTING THROUGH THE DEFENSE BULKHEAD. THEY SEEM MOSTLY INTERESTED IN THOSE NON-SELF SEAING STEM BOLT COVERS SO WE MAY HAVE HAD A BREAK. STARFLEET IS ALERTED. WORD TO THE WISE, ANY STARFLEET DESERTERS MIGHT WANT TO THINK ABOUT THEIR ESCAPE PLAN IF, AS USUAL, WE HAVE TO SAVE OUR OWN ASS AND STARFLEET SHOWS UP LATE AND DOES A SHIP INSPECTION JUST TO SHOW THE ADMIRALTY THAT THEY AT LEAST ACCOMPLISHED SOMETHING."
Guduza looked at Kapok, as the both crouched behind their compartment hatch. “Something you want to say?”
“I do not.” the producer, answered.
IT IS WITHIN MY JOB DESCRIPTION TO DOUBLE CHECK ANYONE ON THE PASSENGER LIST FOR VARIANCES, AND IT IS NOT LIKE I HAVE A LOT ELSE TO DO, BEFORE ANYONE STARTS TO COMPLAIN TO CORPORATE. WE ARE HAPPY THAT YOU CHOOSE TO FLY WITH US, AND WE HOPE IF YOU SURVIVE THIS ENCOUNTER WITH PIRATES ALIVE AN UNENSLAVED THAT YOU WILL CHOOSE TO USE MOM’S SPICE RACK MANY TIMES IN THE FUTURE
There were sounds of disruptor and phaser fire outside in the corridor.
“Death to the love instructors!” someone yelled.
It was personal.
“We have to get out of here!” Kapok said urgently. He opened the hatch, firing blindly.
Guduza felt the top of his head with dread, realizing the groom bot only balded him on the left-side. "Shit!":
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