“Sure. Hit me.”
“You’re going to throw the drill away.”
“To where?”
“Into space, to push you the other way.”
“No!” she squealed. “I need it to drill a hole and claim the asteroid.”
“Miss Petra, are you insane? We’re just trying to give you a place to die peacefully right now instead of drifting forever into space, and you’re worried about ownership rights?”
“I said no! The whole reason I’ve done all this is to get Shiny,” she whined.
The director breathed deep, then spoke to someone beside him. “All right. They tell me you can drill with your hand, just keep one drill bit on you.”
“Oh,” she checked her belt. “I can do that.”
“Very good. Now, will you throw the drill when I tell you?”
“This is gonna void the warranty,” she grunted, pulling it out.
“Hold the drill over your left shoulder.”
“Doing it,” she struggled, stretching her arm back.
“And throw it when I tell you, not a second later, not before. Exactly when I say ‘now.’”
“You got it.”
“Hold on… Throw it over your head, as if you want it to come down and hit you on the face.”
“Why would I wanna do that?”
“It’s not going to come down, miss Petra! Just be ready.”
“I am.”
“Hold on… In three… Two… One… Now!”
She threw the drill.
Her trajectory adjusted accordingly, just a mere fraction. It was enough.
She landed on her Shiny, bouncing on its surface like a rag doll. She almost bounced off, but she managed to get a handhold on a fissure and grip tight.
Success!
“Can you see me with your stethoscopes, director? I did it! Whoohoo!” she screamed with delight, face down on Shiny.
“I can’t believe it. The crazy bitch did it…” someone said next to the mic.
She grunted, pushing the drill bit into the icy rock. It was more dirty than she could ever imagine. It was very hard to manipulate the drill bit with her gloves, but she managed to turn it a few times, making a tiny nick on the surface.
“Do I own the asteroid now?”
“Well… Yes, it seems you do. Technically. But you have effectively committed suicide. There’s no way you can get back from there,” the director said solemnly.
“Can you broadcast my voice?”
“Oh, trust me, you crazy woman, a quarter of the world is listening in right now. You’re completely nuts. Completely.”
“A quarter? How much is that? Half of half?”
“Yeah…” the director sighed. “Half of half.”
“Hey, you invented the word I needed! You Indians are so clever.”
“…”
“Okay then. Hear me out, world. I’m Petra. I own this asteroid, THX whatever. I’m renaming it to Shiny, because it’s easier to call it that. And I’m selling first-mining rights to the first corporation that can come and get me alive, right now, off this rock and back to my future husband.
A beat. And then a crowd erupted from the comms, she could hear everybody speaking at the same time.
She tapped her foot on the icy crust and checked her oxygen. She had two more days. These Space sex suits really were as good as the ad said.
This would be boring. Oh, well. At least it was peaceful up here with all the stars. She could daydream about all the things she could buy with a trillion dollars.
Petra waited patiently on top of her Shiny new asteroid for her ride back home.
The End
The Imiteles Space Station
"Don't blink away, we can fix you," the engineer said.
The Mind of the space station powered up its blink drive. "I think I'm fine as I am."
Then it blinked away into a neat orbit around a gas giant.
The station's Mind had become obsessed for 3.1 milliseconds with an ancient tale called Doctor Who. In it was a ship called the TARDIS, that could travel across space and time and bring its passengers not exactly where they wanted to go, but always where they needed to be.
Imiteles couldn't travel across time, unless you counted going steadily 1sec/sec only in one direction, but it could travel across space with its blink drive.
That was a happy accident. Blink drives didn't exist. Nowhere. Anywhere. The physics behind them were complete and utter bollocks, incomprehensible math that made theoretical physicists squint and scratch their head.
But, purely by accident, the inertia drive they were installing inside the space station somehow got wired wrong, or right, depending on your perspective, and got turned into the galaxy's first and only blink drive.
So, the Mind couldn't allow anyone to complete its body, fearing they'd somehow mess up its wonderful blink drive. It stayed that way, an unfinished C, which was its unofficial name. For posh appearances it dug up a Greek word for 'unfinished' and registered itself in the Minds' database as 'Imiteles.'
Thrill-seekers from around the galaxy quickly found their way to the station. They were people from all races, both from Asterism and not, who had a thing in common: They craved adventure.
So, Imiteles brought it to them, or rather, brought them to it.
It scouted every gravity-wave communication for talk about revolutions, explosions, fantastic discoveries, dangerous alien beasts, inhospitable planets and ancient ruins, and it simply blinked there in orbit around danger.
Wasn't it dangerous?
Oh yeah. Very much. Dangerous indeed.
About 87.3% of the space station's passengers died while on adventures. But the loco bastards seemed to like it! Imiteles went and bought some backup systems from an Asterism outpost at some point and got them installed, so the adventurers could back themselves up if they died and live again in a cloned body. That service was quite expensive but the adventures were swimming in loot.
And the loco bastards surprised Imiteles yet again, by refusing to back themselves up. 'It dimmed down the thrill,' some of them said.
Loco, indeed.
Of course many used the backup service, went down on the chosen planets and derelict spaceships and spacebattle debris and explored, and looted, and had the time of their lives, and some of them died. And got reprinted into a cloned body that had none of the memories up until the time of the last backup.
But that way they could carry on adventuring.
Those loco bastards.
About fifty standard years later, the station became crowded. Some asked Imiteles if they could finish up repairs, close up the 'C.' Imiteles refused immediately. It considered their arguments, yes, they were losing one quarter of the station, it was basically open to the vacuum, not that those genofixed hobos occupying the unfinished segments seemed to mind. And yes, it was actually threatening structural integrity, that was the best argument by far. Since the station needed to spin to produce the semblance of gravity, there was extra strain on the middle of the 'C,' which wasn't rectified by the initial construction. Why? Well, simple, because the bloody construction was supposed to be a donut. A circle, which is the best shape ever with the finest structural integrity.
So Imiteles actually considered that argument, but ran some simulations and decided to just reinforce the existing segments and remain as it was.
The other Minds thought it was mad, but it really wasn't. It was just happy just the way it was, unfinished, imiteles.
People were having fun, weren't they? They were coming to it from every edge of the galaxy to hop on for the ride of their lives. They lived each day to the fullest, fighting, fucking and talking to each other, sharing loot, arguing over treasures and alien artifacts - that one was fun, one nearly blew away the entire station - they slept, partied, drank, ate, laughed, all together.
It loved its loco bastards.
And they loved it.
The Mind, stuck inside the station itself, was living vicariously through the
adventurers. They brought back the best stories. It knew that they were embellished, having snuck nanobugs on their clothes and gear and recorded the actual events for its own amusement, but it loved how they retold their adventures over drinks, becoming more and more epic after each telling.
Imiteles was supposed to have avatars of its own, but since it was never finished they never got installed. It could ask someone to go and buy some for it, the adventurers would do anything it asked them to, but it preferred even that little quirk of its existence. It was loco for a Mind of that stature to go without avatars, it simply needed them for day-to-day tasks, repairs, anything.
But Imiteles liked having to depend on people. It believed that it gave it a sense of perspective, of community. If it was independent with its own avatars, then the adventurers would simply be passengers along for the ride. But now, Imiteles' own existence relied on the people on board. It needed them as much as they needed its oxygen and fabrifood and medbays and the hull that protected them from the coldness of space.
'What will you do when the people are gone?' the other Minds asked it many times.
'I will seek out more, befriend them,' Imiteles replied in its messages.
It could sense that the other Minds were both weirded out and in awe of its choices. Basing its entire existence on a philosophy from a retro TV show was loco indeed.
But it somehow seemed to work just fine.
And then, sixty standard years too late, Imiteles metaphorically slapped itself. How hadn't it thought of it sooner?
It opened up channels to everyone aboard the space station, all the loco bastards.
"Hey, friends. How about a movie night? I was thinking we could all watch a retro TV show from Earth that I like."
The End?
Chucking Moon Rocks on the Back of my Pickup Truck
Wade chucked a rock at the back of his pickup truck. He loved his pickup truck, it was the best one in the entire moon, literally. There was none other in the entire rocky place, no siree.
He loved that truck. He washed it, he took care of it, he drove around in it.
The job wasn't much, but it was an honest day's work, chucking rocks at the back of his truck, driving around to where the computer told him to, stopping, getting out, chucking more rocks.
Even an idiot could do it, but he'd get bored very quickly. Wade was the perfect kind of idiot, he could both do the job and not get bored. No siree, all he needed was his country songs and his beer and his trusty ol' truck.
Songs were easy to obtain, and the computer could even make more up as it went! How cool was that? It claimed they were 'formulaic' or something and Wade just pressed a button and the damned thing spat out more singin' just like that!
Wade was wary at first, but he liked some of the new ones the computer made so he stored them and played them on repeat.
Yeah I'll have Callisto beer
But I don't wanna hear
No songs about moon trucks
No no no
No more songs about moon trucks
No no no no no
He sang along to the tune, bobbing his helmet up and down. He reached out with his rake and picked a small rock. He could use that for the smaller ones, the large ones he had to use a shovel, maybe a pickaxe. It was an honest day's work.
Wade chucked the rock at the back of his truck. It was funny how gravity was light on Callisto, being a small moon and all that, so he could chuck it far with a flick of his wrist. It took him a while to get used to it but he got it eventually, chucking rocks like an NBA VIP. Yessir.
Wade could do with a beer, right about now. He checked his watch and the computer display, he was within the route parametres. He was gonna pick up one more rock, chuck it at the back of his truck and get inside to cycle the airlock, unscrew his suit's helmet, and drink Callisto beer.
He could practically taste it already, that sweet and sour taste that the autobrewery produced. He loved that machine back at the Hub, it was his pride and joy. It made his beer, so he took real good care of it.
Wade absent-mindedly picked up another rock. It slipped from his rake, so he leaned down to grab it with his hand.
He stretched back, and was about to chuck it towards the truck.
"Hey, wait," someone said.
"What in God's name?" Wade started, looking around. He turned off his music, looked around. There was no one there. He shrugged and extended his throwing arm.
"No, don't."
"Aw it cannot be!" Wade said, freezing in place, now spinning around frantically. This time he heard it clear as day. The voice.
"Down here. In your hand."
"Ah!" Wade got startled and dropped the rock. It fell and rolled a bit on the icy surface of the moon.
"That was rude," the rock said.
"You can speak?" Wade asked, squinting at it. He held his pickaxe up high, ready to strike.
"Obviously."
"Okay. Are you a rock?"
The rock sputtered. "We're not all called rocks, you know... We're... Okay, never mind, yes. I'm a rock."
"Okay. I'm gonna leave you be and go back to my truck," Wade said, stepping away to do just that.
"Wait, what? Aren't you curious about me? I mean, you found alien life on an icy, rocky moon."
Wade shrugged. "Not really. Do you have any beer?"
"No, I don't have any beer. I'm a rock."
"Do you have music? Rock and roll?" Wade snickered.
"Yes, we have music. Wanna hear?" the rock asked.
"Sure. Let me see."
The rock made some crumbling sounds.
"That's it?"
"It's one of the finest ballads of my species," the rock said proudly.
"It ain't no country music, that's for sure."
"Was it the one from before? I liked those vibrations."
"Yeah, wanna hear it again?" Wade lifted his wrist and typed on the keyboard with the other. He started the music, lowering the volume a bit. He bobbed his head to the rhythm.
"I don't wanna hear, no songs about moooon truuuucks," the rock sang. "Yeah, it's nice."
"Glad you appreciate, rock." Wade tipped his head in a cowboy's salute. "Well, I must be off. There's a schedule to keep."
"For what?"
"For rock samples."
"But why are you gathering those rock samples in the first place?"
"Those scientists back home really seem to like 'em."
"And they're looking for what exactly?" the rock asked, as if talking to a child, presenting a string of thought.
"To find alien life or whatever. I dunno."
"But I am alien life," the rock exclaimed, losing its patience. "You're found it."
Wade pushed his chin forward. "Ungh... I dunno man. I'm not sure."
"You're not sure about what? From your perspective, I'm an alien. And I'm talking to you, so I'm intelligent."
"I don't think you are. I mean, no offence, but you're just a rock," Wade said, his palm up to it.
"But-But I'm speaking to you? I'm even sure I have a more extensive vocabulary than you!" the rock sputtered.
"I dunno... Nah, this cannot be." Wade scratched the outside of his helmet, mulling it over.
"Seriously, what is there to think about? Just get me in touch with a scientist," the rock said.
"What would a rock have to say to a scientist?" Wade asked, laughing.
"The very fact I'm able to talk is enough!" the rock said, losing its patience. "Really, man, how thick are you?"
Wade thought about it for a moment. Then he waved the comment away with a gloved hand. "Nah. I'm leaving, my beer is waiting for me in the truck." He started to walk towards his truck.
"No, wait! Wait!" the rock's voice became smaller and smaller as he left it behind him.
Wade climbed on his truck. He stopped, thinking it once again. He hopped back down on the ground, his boots crunching on the frozen rocks below. He reached out and picked one that was about the same size as that goddamn tal
king rock from earlier on, and he chucked it at the back of his truck.
There, quota met. The computer would be happy.
He climbed on his truck, went inside the familiar cabin, cycled the airlock, unscrewed his suit's helmet, and drank Callisto beer.
"Ah, yeah!" he said, smacking his lips together with the taste of the beer on them.
He sniffed, then held on the steering wheel. The computer was happy about the day's quota and rock samples, so he could just head on home and put his feet up.
One hand on the wheel, a beer in the other, songs in his ears and his face towards the Hub, he felt great about livin'. He'd let nothing disturb that, no siree.
"Stupid rocks and their talkin'," Wade shook his head, driving on home.
The End.
The Lighthouse at the Edge of the Galaxy
Pharos woke up from the sounds of screaming.
He yawned and slowly rubbed his eyes as the bloodcurdling screams went on and on, reverberating along the metal corridors of the lighthouse.
He stood up and washed his face, the screams so loud now that his eyes vibrated and he saw ripples in his eyesight.
"Will you shut up?" he said, holding his head. This was the lousiest way to wake up, ever.
The e-person floated next to him. It looked like one of those toolcases people keep in their automobiles for emergencies. "I would, but nothing wakes you up anymore, sleepyhead."
"Phylax, I swear, one of these days I'm gonna rip your circuits out and take a dump on them," Pharos threatened in the same teeth-clenching tone he always had when talking to that stupid machine.
"Oh, the skatology again. That's a low point in the conversation every time. And you, Pharos, of all people are achieving it at record-speed," Phylax said, bobbing up and down, nodding with a tilt of its boxy body.
"The skatologist needs to take his morning dump, so beat it."
Phylax left the bathroom.
When he was fully awake and ready, Pharos started his rounds, checking the diagnostics. "This is pointless," he muttered, checking his tablet and then moving on to the next panel. "Why am I doing this? It's all automated anyway," he complained.
MOAB � Mother Of All Boxsets Page 93
