"Eric, you're not getting any more coffee."
I scowled at the machine, punching the button. Nothing happened. So I hit it again, this time holding it down with the palm of my hand, daring the appliance to defy me.
"Coffee," I growled, "ONE cup of coffee. Jeng kang kor meh?"
Nothing. Not a drop.
"I'm serious, Eric."
Taking a breath, I set my empty mug on the counter, and counted slowly to ten. Patience, patience. Patience was good. "Simon, you aren't allowed to override the life support systems."
"Your coffee machine isn't life support."
"The HELL it isn't," I grumbled.
"Eric..."
"My bladder," I said, "I can bloody well do what I want with it!"
I gave the appliance the evil eye, and pounded it hard. It shuddered slowly to life.
And, just as abruptly, the machine went dead. "Not the fluid," retorted Simon, "the caffeine. Any more and your heart will explode."
I grabbed the coffee maker and shook it. "They make wonderful replacements these days."
"You're not putting any more handwavium into your system."
"Why," I snapped, "worried is it? Scared lose your job?"
"Eric..."
"Alright, alright," I sighed, "no coffee. Can I at least have some water?"
"Water is fine," Simon stated, in that infuriatingly reasonable way of his.
"Se beh...THANK you."
I rinsed the mug out, filled it from the water jar, and then turned my attention back to the monitor wall across the room.
The monitor wall's an ego trip, really. It doesn't serve any terribly useful purpose. I've got more efficient ways of keeping track of things, and Simon catches everything I miss. But all the screens make the place look cool. Like a proper space station control room, instead of just, you know, a windowless office.
Everything seemed fine, for the moment. Except one of the security screens, the one that was supposed to be tracking the guys using Game Room Six. Either their Classic BattleTech campaign had gotten really out of hand in their simulation of arctic terrain...or the camera was on the fritz again.
Either that or the LCD itself...no. Definitely the camera, that's what it felt like. Bah. Third time in two weeks.
"Boss," said Simon, "your mind's wandering again."
"Yes," I replied, taking a sip, "I know."
"You should probably get some sleep."
"Yeah," I allowed, "but I'm NOT nodding off until wannabe-Swift is OFF my station. Not while he's working on THAT."
I pointed to the main viewer. It wasn't an LCD monitor, unlike the ones on the wall. It'd been an old plasma widescreen, once, part of a home cinema setup. Busted when I bought it, but a little bit of miracle goo fixed it right up. Aside from the random tendency to sprout holograms, it made for a great control room centrepiece...and the holos were more of a feature than a bug, really.
Normally, the big screen displayed a schematic of the Floating Island, in all its irregular blobby glory, with little icons and labels giving real-time updates of everything going on. Most of the data showed human traffic through the two converted warehouse buildings at the heart of the Island, and the "underground" basement space. There were other stats too, though. At a glance, I could see how many ships we had in parking orbit, how many were docked in the main concourse, how good business was at the Food Court...
That was normally, though. Right now, the screen showed something different.
I was watching the security feed from the small craft garage - specifically, one of the rented spaces. The berth was occupied by an old Audi Quattro up on jacks, wheels off and hood open...a disturbing blue light coming from the engine bay. The vehicle's owner was just barely visible: a pair of khaki-clad legs was sticking out from beneath the car-spaceship, one foot thumping spasmodically.
Simon appeared on the screen, superimposed over the camera view. He studied the scene for a moment or two, brows furrowing. "Thomas is an aeronautics engineer. He knows what he's doing."
"He's also the guy who taught me how to make napalm. When I was eight."
Simon blinked. "I haven't heard that story."
"Wonder why," I muttered, tilting my mug back and draining it. My throat suddenly felt dry.
Simon frowned. "But...in any case, how bad could it..."
"I'm still not sure how he managed to get that plutonium."
For a moment, I swore Simon's hair stood on end. Beard and everything. His virtual image blanched. "Huh?"
"Ha ni ah pa," I muttered, "you heard me."
"Plutonium."
"Yeah, I blame the Soviets," I said.
"Plutonium," Simon repeated.
"Mm-hm. He's got some theory about how it'd react with handwavium, and..."
"...he's putting it in his ship."
"Yeah."
Simon paused. "And why aren't you kicking him off the station?"
I shrugged. "He's family. Mom would be mad."
"She'd be mad if this station turned into Three Mile Island. With both of you on it."
"Yeah...but then it'd be Tom's fault."
Apologies to the real-life source for Tom, who's only actually almost-electrocuted me once, and only nearly killed me twice with his car. Name's changed to protect the guilty. Of course, I doubt he'll ever read this. And I don't intend to show him.
Simon is an AI. He's linked to most of the Island's computers and electronics, making him well known to most of the Island's denizens. His name would be rather worrisome, except that his full name is actually Simon Peter...and his visual icon looks like the stereotypical movie image of one of Jesus' disciples.
Nobody knows why, except possibly Eric.
All of Eric's swearing, and some of his syntax, is in Hokkien. I lost the habit after finishing my military service, but I've always wanted to revive it for a character.
...no, my name isn't Eric. He's just a quasi-insert. >_o
-- Acyl
(I'll write more when I have free time...on Monday.)
-- Acyl
I scowled at the machine, punching the button. Nothing happened. So I hit it again, this time holding it down with the palm of my hand, daring the appliance to defy me.
"Coffee," I growled, "ONE cup of coffee. Jeng kang kor meh?"
Nothing. Not a drop.
"I'm serious, Eric."
Taking a breath, I set my empty mug on the counter, and counted slowly to ten. Patience, patience. Patience was good. "Simon, you aren't allowed to override the life support systems."
"Your coffee machine isn't life support."
"The HELL it isn't," I grumbled.
"Eric..."
"My bladder," I said, "I can bloody well do what I want with it!"
I gave the appliance the evil eye, and pounded it hard. It shuddered slowly to life.
And, just as abruptly, the machine went dead. "Not the fluid," retorted Simon, "the caffeine. Any more and your heart will explode."
I grabbed the coffee maker and shook it. "They make wonderful replacements these days."
"You're not putting any more handwavium into your system."
"Why," I snapped, "worried is it? Scared lose your job?"
"Eric..."
"Alright, alright," I sighed, "no coffee. Can I at least have some water?"
"Water is fine," Simon stated, in that infuriatingly reasonable way of his.
"Se beh...THANK you."
I rinsed the mug out, filled it from the water jar, and then turned my attention back to the monitor wall across the room.
The monitor wall's an ego trip, really. It doesn't serve any terribly useful purpose. I've got more efficient ways of keeping track of things, and Simon catches everything I miss. But all the screens make the place look cool. Like a proper space station control room, instead of just, you know, a windowless office.
Everything seemed fine, for the moment. Except one of the security screens, the one that was supposed to be tracking the guys using Game Room Six. Either their Classic BattleTech campaign had gotten really out of hand in their simulation of arctic terrain...or the camera was on the fritz again.
Either that or the LCD itself...no. Definitely the camera, that's what it felt like. Bah. Third time in two weeks.
"Boss," said Simon, "your mind's wandering again."
"Yes," I replied, taking a sip, "I know."
"You should probably get some sleep."
"Yeah," I allowed, "but I'm NOT nodding off until wannabe-Swift is OFF my station. Not while he's working on THAT."
I pointed to the main viewer. It wasn't an LCD monitor, unlike the ones on the wall. It'd been an old plasma widescreen, once, part of a home cinema setup. Busted when I bought it, but a little bit of miracle goo fixed it right up. Aside from the random tendency to sprout holograms, it made for a great control room centrepiece...and the holos were more of a feature than a bug, really.
Normally, the big screen displayed a schematic of the Floating Island, in all its irregular blobby glory, with little icons and labels giving real-time updates of everything going on. Most of the data showed human traffic through the two converted warehouse buildings at the heart of the Island, and the "underground" basement space. There were other stats too, though. At a glance, I could see how many ships we had in parking orbit, how many were docked in the main concourse, how good business was at the Food Court...
That was normally, though. Right now, the screen showed something different.
I was watching the security feed from the small craft garage - specifically, one of the rented spaces. The berth was occupied by an old Audi Quattro up on jacks, wheels off and hood open...a disturbing blue light coming from the engine bay. The vehicle's owner was just barely visible: a pair of khaki-clad legs was sticking out from beneath the car-spaceship, one foot thumping spasmodically.
Simon appeared on the screen, superimposed over the camera view. He studied the scene for a moment or two, brows furrowing. "Thomas is an aeronautics engineer. He knows what he's doing."
"He's also the guy who taught me how to make napalm. When I was eight."
Simon blinked. "I haven't heard that story."
"Wonder why," I muttered, tilting my mug back and draining it. My throat suddenly felt dry.
Simon frowned. "But...in any case, how bad could it..."
"I'm still not sure how he managed to get that plutonium."
For a moment, I swore Simon's hair stood on end. Beard and everything. His virtual image blanched. "Huh?"
"Ha ni ah pa," I muttered, "you heard me."
"Plutonium."
"Yeah, I blame the Soviets," I said.
"Plutonium," Simon repeated.
"Mm-hm. He's got some theory about how it'd react with handwavium, and..."
"...he's putting it in his ship."
"Yeah."
Simon paused. "And why aren't you kicking him off the station?"
I shrugged. "He's family. Mom would be mad."
"She'd be mad if this station turned into Three Mile Island. With both of you on it."
"Yeah...but then it'd be Tom's fault."
Apologies to the real-life source for Tom, who's only actually almost-electrocuted me once, and only nearly killed me twice with his car. Name's changed to protect the guilty. Of course, I doubt he'll ever read this. And I don't intend to show him.
Simon is an AI. He's linked to most of the Island's computers and electronics, making him well known to most of the Island's denizens. His name would be rather worrisome, except that his full name is actually Simon Peter...and his visual icon looks like the stereotypical movie image of one of Jesus' disciples.
Nobody knows why, except possibly Eric.
All of Eric's swearing, and some of his syntax, is in Hokkien. I lost the habit after finishing my military service, but I've always wanted to revive it for a character.
...no, my name isn't Eric. He's just a quasi-insert. >_o
-- Acyl
(I'll write more when I have free time...on Monday.)
-- Acyl