RE: [Situation Vacant] Reactor Chief Engineer
07-12-2022, 05:25 PM (This post was last modified: 07-12-2022, 05:29 PM by Dartz.)
07-12-2022, 05:25 PM (This post was last modified: 07-12-2022, 05:29 PM by Dartz.)
—--
Jet slept for the first time in months. Jet woke with a thundering headache, a vague memory of a dream involving a naked A.C. Peters getting annoyed at having to wait for her in a secret underwater Europan base, and a hundred notifications begging for her attention, some of which had already resolved themself once people realised she wouldn’t answer.
The house that greeted hadn’t been cleaned in months, a layer of dust coating the timber surfaces. Aside from the footprints on the floor, the house simply looked abandoned. Ford’s bedroom still had its bed unmade from the last time she’d slept in it - a year before. Everything else had been taken when she’d Gafiated. Mackie’s room still waited for him to return from the last semester at Nekomi. It looked like a bombsite, with worn clothes strewn about the floor, mingling with the wreckage of various madboy toys, a single threadbare sock and a well worn copy of Intron Depot No. 1. Mackie, for the time being, didn’t exist anymore.
The whole space felt empty - dead.
Nothing lived there. The drain traps had dried off, letting the smell of the sewers beneath fill the house. The floorboards had begun to split where her footsteps had worn through the varnish, bare wood turning pale and silver. Most of the doorhandles had broken off. The locks on many doors had been wrenched from their frames. Not eating a dinner, had kept the dishes from multiplying in the sink.
Kipplisation had set in hard in her home.
Even the Highway Star had started to leak its fluids onto the floor beneath it. Jet suspected the engine had begun to corrode inside. It’d need new irons at the very least to get it running again.
She got herself another booster pack from the fridge, clipped it to her waist and allowed it to charge her body back up with all the nutrients a combat cyborg could need to keep going. She mixed in a bit of her own wavemix.
It didn’t hit like it used to, evapourating inside her and leaving her feeling empty inside.
Kippleisation could affect people too, she guessed.
Jet took a breath and opened her mind to her email accounts, allowing her muse filter it down to the most important items.
Seteshang Psyche would trade under the table for water, oxygen, and a shipment of ore to meet a contract. Jet wondered if they knew she’d been there before, before the Canturbury mining group moved in.
Jet wondered if the whole fictional Innerworld and Belterworld dynamic had infected the wave, and caused the issues between Frigga and Venus. Maybe if she had the time she’d watch the bloody series, or read the books, she’d understand better.
Lun would be returning from her charter with the Tsoukalos institute for Extraterrestrial Archaeology within the week, after a quick stop to go ice-fishing in the Oort cloud.
Tech’ had figured out what caused the leak in the water reserves and applied the technical hammer to a sticking relief valve before clearing a few loose filter beads from the pilot line.
Marsden agreed to a meeting to hash out some of the details of the ore sale. Her Majesty’s government subsidies turned any money they got for the extra rock into profit.
Stingray Motor Engineering began to wake up, demanding more of Sylia’s time. Three suppliers needed a kick. A corporate customer needed a hug.
An emergency meeting begged for her attendance. Boeing had accepted the SCHMU’d part samples they’d sent. The old Fed-Ex Death Cruisers got a stay of execution, as new rudder power control valves could be printed as completed assemblies, seals and all. A new line of revenue opened up.
An hour of her day would be given over to a marketing meeting where, again, it would be suggested that Sylia make an appearance for the public launch of a new project.
Sylia Stingray hadn’t shown her face in person in months and people had started to wonder. The techbros had started to wonder if she’d begun to hide from their trolling after she’d dared profane before the altar of the Dark Lord Musk.
Fuck ‘em.
Jet had her suspicions about what they really hated about Sylia Stingray.
One more message arrived.
The Galaxy Railroad regrets to say that they could not move the core modules without handwaving them into the consist. Anything that large would break the drive field. It broke the suspension of disbelief that kept the whole thing rolling.
Jet felt something hot and liquid pop inside her mind
“After have the plans for six fucking months. After saying you could do it for six fucking months you finally fucking figure it out a week after John Henry starts cutting fucking steel.”
Her muse translated it into something more polite and fired it back before her voice had finished ringing off the walls. A moment later, she heard the crash of something hitting the ground behind her.
She blinked
“Oh fuck,”
The entire kitchen had been destroyed. The fridge had crashed into the cupboards, then through the wall behind into the hallway. It took her a moment to comprehend that she’d just thrown it. Followed by the understanding that she’d have to fix all of it by herself.
“Oh fuck,” she said again.
All she had to do was stop.
Just. Stop.
Just like Ford told her to.
Just like she wished the universe would do. Just Stop and leave her alone.
Jet paced the floor, pinned between her obligations, her responsibilities and the reality that the only way her body could see out of it was to drive her to the point that she imploded, or had some unfortunate accident that’d leave everyone shrugging their shoulders and going ‘ Well, that was expected’. The brightest stars burnout fastest. Lets hope she finds the peace in death that she didn’t find in life.
Another message pinged through her mind, one from the barristers on Venus. They’d finished preparing for the trial, sending the final documents for her to review while they slept, followed by some advise.
Get cleaned up. Look healthy, fresh and ‘good’. Show off the silverware. Try to show up looking like the hearing matters.
Just stopping would be so much easier if the universe would let her. In twelve hours, the trial on Venus began. For the barristers, it began tomorrow morning. For her, it’d be the end of the day.
Jet longed to just give the entire universe a piece of her mind, tell ‘em to fuck off, put up with it and get the fuck over it, whatever it was.
They all seemed so damned happy.
Jet felt anything but. Jet couldn’t tell what she felt beyond being - empty. Jet took a breath. She’d promised Ford she wouldn’t hurt herself. Something in the back of her mind probably didn’t feel compelled to follow that.
While Venus slept, the full technical details of Frigga’s reactor project would launch. Everything they’d agreed to share would dump on the web. Her solicitors knew it’d be coming.
Only the critical piece of the puzzle would be missing. But after a year of mush and half-truths, something concrete would flip the narrative. Everyone would know and they’d be happy, even if they didn’t have that last little piece of the jigsaw.
They’d be satisfied enough to keep from looking for that last fragment.
Within the hour, her head would explode with messages from bloggers and journalists looking for the personal answer. For the what, for the why, for the exuberant press-release telling the ‘verse exactly how awesome the three largest fission reactors in history would be. For the smiling photograph about how proud they were to be a part of the whole endeavour.
Jet felt her body revolt against the possibility, a sense of dread crawling beneath her armour.
It couldn’t be stopped.
And then came the hearing, and more questions.
Jet closed her network interfaces. All connections refused.
A flash of anxiety followed, the dread fear that she would miss something important. Every synapse flared with the urge to re-open them, just in case something had happened in those last few microseconds.
Someone in Crystal Titusville might’ve reposted that bloody meme featuring herself, A.C., and the final punchline ‘The Combat Cyborg we have at home’. And, of course, the flamewar would begin as even Jet had supporters.
She took a breath.
The interfaces stayed closed. Paying any attention to either side would scorch the brain.
Better to have a quiet shower instead.
—-
-------
There's one/two other segment to follow but they're not even started. I wanted to post at the same time but I've been typoing this since the last time I posted and wanted to do something. There's another big thing I've been working on since mid february (amusingly fucked by history, lol) that fallows these bits and, I don't know.
Jet slept for the first time in months. Jet woke with a thundering headache, a vague memory of a dream involving a naked A.C. Peters getting annoyed at having to wait for her in a secret underwater Europan base, and a hundred notifications begging for her attention, some of which had already resolved themself once people realised she wouldn’t answer.
The house that greeted hadn’t been cleaned in months, a layer of dust coating the timber surfaces. Aside from the footprints on the floor, the house simply looked abandoned. Ford’s bedroom still had its bed unmade from the last time she’d slept in it - a year before. Everything else had been taken when she’d Gafiated. Mackie’s room still waited for him to return from the last semester at Nekomi. It looked like a bombsite, with worn clothes strewn about the floor, mingling with the wreckage of various madboy toys, a single threadbare sock and a well worn copy of Intron Depot No. 1. Mackie, for the time being, didn’t exist anymore.
The whole space felt empty - dead.
Nothing lived there. The drain traps had dried off, letting the smell of the sewers beneath fill the house. The floorboards had begun to split where her footsteps had worn through the varnish, bare wood turning pale and silver. Most of the doorhandles had broken off. The locks on many doors had been wrenched from their frames. Not eating a dinner, had kept the dishes from multiplying in the sink.
Kipplisation had set in hard in her home.
Even the Highway Star had started to leak its fluids onto the floor beneath it. Jet suspected the engine had begun to corrode inside. It’d need new irons at the very least to get it running again.
She got herself another booster pack from the fridge, clipped it to her waist and allowed it to charge her body back up with all the nutrients a combat cyborg could need to keep going. She mixed in a bit of her own wavemix.
It didn’t hit like it used to, evapourating inside her and leaving her feeling empty inside.
Kippleisation could affect people too, she guessed.
Jet took a breath and opened her mind to her email accounts, allowing her muse filter it down to the most important items.
Seteshang Psyche would trade under the table for water, oxygen, and a shipment of ore to meet a contract. Jet wondered if they knew she’d been there before, before the Canturbury mining group moved in.
Jet wondered if the whole fictional Innerworld and Belterworld dynamic had infected the wave, and caused the issues between Frigga and Venus. Maybe if she had the time she’d watch the bloody series, or read the books, she’d understand better.
Lun would be returning from her charter with the Tsoukalos institute for Extraterrestrial Archaeology within the week, after a quick stop to go ice-fishing in the Oort cloud.
Tech’ had figured out what caused the leak in the water reserves and applied the technical hammer to a sticking relief valve before clearing a few loose filter beads from the pilot line.
Marsden agreed to a meeting to hash out some of the details of the ore sale. Her Majesty’s government subsidies turned any money they got for the extra rock into profit.
Stingray Motor Engineering began to wake up, demanding more of Sylia’s time. Three suppliers needed a kick. A corporate customer needed a hug.
An emergency meeting begged for her attendance. Boeing had accepted the SCHMU’d part samples they’d sent. The old Fed-Ex Death Cruisers got a stay of execution, as new rudder power control valves could be printed as completed assemblies, seals and all. A new line of revenue opened up.
An hour of her day would be given over to a marketing meeting where, again, it would be suggested that Sylia make an appearance for the public launch of a new project.
Sylia Stingray hadn’t shown her face in person in months and people had started to wonder. The techbros had started to wonder if she’d begun to hide from their trolling after she’d dared profane before the altar of the Dark Lord Musk.
Fuck ‘em.
Jet had her suspicions about what they really hated about Sylia Stingray.
One more message arrived.
The Galaxy Railroad regrets to say that they could not move the core modules without handwaving them into the consist. Anything that large would break the drive field. It broke the suspension of disbelief that kept the whole thing rolling.
Jet felt something hot and liquid pop inside her mind
“After have the plans for six fucking months. After saying you could do it for six fucking months you finally fucking figure it out a week after John Henry starts cutting fucking steel.”
Her muse translated it into something more polite and fired it back before her voice had finished ringing off the walls. A moment later, she heard the crash of something hitting the ground behind her.
She blinked
“Oh fuck,”
The entire kitchen had been destroyed. The fridge had crashed into the cupboards, then through the wall behind into the hallway. It took her a moment to comprehend that she’d just thrown it. Followed by the understanding that she’d have to fix all of it by herself.
“Oh fuck,” she said again.
All she had to do was stop.
Just. Stop.
Just like Ford told her to.
Just like she wished the universe would do. Just Stop and leave her alone.
Jet paced the floor, pinned between her obligations, her responsibilities and the reality that the only way her body could see out of it was to drive her to the point that she imploded, or had some unfortunate accident that’d leave everyone shrugging their shoulders and going ‘ Well, that was expected’. The brightest stars burnout fastest. Lets hope she finds the peace in death that she didn’t find in life.
Another message pinged through her mind, one from the barristers on Venus. They’d finished preparing for the trial, sending the final documents for her to review while they slept, followed by some advise.
Get cleaned up. Look healthy, fresh and ‘good’. Show off the silverware. Try to show up looking like the hearing matters.
Just stopping would be so much easier if the universe would let her. In twelve hours, the trial on Venus began. For the barristers, it began tomorrow morning. For her, it’d be the end of the day.
Jet longed to just give the entire universe a piece of her mind, tell ‘em to fuck off, put up with it and get the fuck over it, whatever it was.
They all seemed so damned happy.
Jet felt anything but. Jet couldn’t tell what she felt beyond being - empty. Jet took a breath. She’d promised Ford she wouldn’t hurt herself. Something in the back of her mind probably didn’t feel compelled to follow that.
While Venus slept, the full technical details of Frigga’s reactor project would launch. Everything they’d agreed to share would dump on the web. Her solicitors knew it’d be coming.
Only the critical piece of the puzzle would be missing. But after a year of mush and half-truths, something concrete would flip the narrative. Everyone would know and they’d be happy, even if they didn’t have that last little piece of the jigsaw.
They’d be satisfied enough to keep from looking for that last fragment.
Within the hour, her head would explode with messages from bloggers and journalists looking for the personal answer. For the what, for the why, for the exuberant press-release telling the ‘verse exactly how awesome the three largest fission reactors in history would be. For the smiling photograph about how proud they were to be a part of the whole endeavour.
Jet felt her body revolt against the possibility, a sense of dread crawling beneath her armour.
It couldn’t be stopped.
And then came the hearing, and more questions.
Jet closed her network interfaces. All connections refused.
A flash of anxiety followed, the dread fear that she would miss something important. Every synapse flared with the urge to re-open them, just in case something had happened in those last few microseconds.
Someone in Crystal Titusville might’ve reposted that bloody meme featuring herself, A.C., and the final punchline ‘The Combat Cyborg we have at home’. And, of course, the flamewar would begin as even Jet had supporters.
She took a breath.
The interfaces stayed closed. Paying any attention to either side would scorch the brain.
Better to have a quiet shower instead.
—-
-------
There's one/two other segment to follow but they're not even started. I wanted to post at the same time but I've been typoing this since the last time I posted and wanted to do something. There's another big thing I've been working on since mid february (amusingly fucked by history, lol) that fallows these bits and, I don't know.
I love the smell of rotaries in the morning. You know one time, I got to work early, before the rush hour. I walked through the empty carpark, I didn't see one bloody Prius or Golf. And that smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole carpark, smelled like.... ....speed.
One day they're going to ban them.