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With Pronastus out of the way, Waldemar has been able to sit in his chair,
and get some much-needed work done. It’s smooth, comfortable, and unworn.
Past captains have sparingly sat on the bridge. He knows why, but he still
doesn’t think it’s right. In the scifi shows of old, the bridge was the
happenin’ place to be. It was literally the seat of power for the whole
ship, and given the nature of the narratives, usually the focal point of the
whole universe. The fictional captains were basically gods. Unfortunately,
it doesn’t work like that in the real world. There are no aliens to fight or
negotiate with. There are no spacetime anomalies, or colonies to save.
There’s not even anything to see out here. Faster-than-light travel does not
streak the stars, or show them endless ionized clouds of hyperspace. It’s
just a blinding grayish light. If this bridge had a viewport, they would
never be able to open it, except before they left, or once they make it to
their destination. Waldemar has changed all that. He had ordered viewscreens
to be installed before his chair. The stars they’re seeing aren’t really
there, but they alleviate the claustrophobia. And that’s not all they do.
When the tentacled alien character appears on screen, Waldemar chuckles at
him. “Lieutenant Xaxblarg. Is your boss on the shitter, or did you finally
grow the balls to overthrow him?” His voice is a bit melodramatic, but it’s
supposed to be.
“You know that Xaxblergins do not have balls. You insult me, human,” the
alien spits back.
“Is he named after his race?” Waldemar’s helmsman whispers to the navigator.
“Stay in character, ensign!” Waldemar orders. He clears his throat, and
looks back up at the screen. “Xaxblarg, I don’t care who I’m dealing with. I
want your blasted blargship off that planet. You have enslaved the
Tukpluckians for way too long, and we’re here to free ‘em. If you don’t go
to the devil in five Milky Way minutes, I’m gonna blast a hole in your ship
so big, you’ll be fartin’ xentriflux plasma for days.”
Xaxblarg chuckles evilly. “You think you’ve won, human captain, but your
sensors have been degaussed. If you look outside, I think you’ll find
yourself thoroughly surrounded by my strike penetrators.”
“Strike penetrators?” the science officer complains. “Jesus.”
“That’s two days in the brig, ensign!” Waldemar orders.
“In the real world, it is called hock, sir,” the ensign replies.
“That’s a stupid goddamn word that no one ever used until we started
building real starships. I refuse to use it. Three days in the brig.”
“You told me to be historically accurate with my character,” the ensign goes
on. “The way you wrote me as the radically honest half-trentlamite, I would
push back against your errors. You have never called it the brig before—”
“Your sentence in the brig is four days now. Keep talkin’ and I’ll make it
five...years.” Waldemar doesn’t like when people argue with him. It’s
ridiculous. He’s in charge here. Whatever he says is right, even if it’s
wrong. That’s the whole reason to be the boss. If this asshole wanted the
job instead, he should have saved the ship from annihilation several
years ago, instead of Waldemar.
“Four days is fine sir. Thank you.” He leaves the bridge using the door.
That’s another thing Waldemar changed. Ubiquitous teleporters are too easy.
Even the shows that had the technology almost always only used them to
transport down to a planet, or back up. They didn’t waste energy jumping
from one deck to another. Sure, the visual effects would have cost too much,
but that’s no reason to overuse them in real life.
Waldemar takes a breath. “Now. Does anyone else have a problem with my
script, or are you ready to get on board? Here’s something you need to
understand—and perhaps I was unclear about why we’re doing this—the
simulations are not just for fun. We all believe that there are no
aliens out here, and we all believe that we’re never slowing down or
stopping until we make it to the Extremus planet. But we don’t actually know
that. What if we do encounter an alien race of slavedrivers, bent on
our destruction? What if we fall into a black hole, and end up in another
universe? And what if that universe is the opposite of ours, where I’m evil,
and Adolf Hitler was good. We’re doing this to be prepared. I made it fun to
keep you engaged and entertained. But I can make it boring if you want. Is
that what you want? To be all technical and realistic,” he says with
airquotes.
“No, sir,” they grumble.
“Good. Now someone find me a replacement science officer who isn’t gonna
backtalk me, and let’s run it again, from the top! I wanna get through this
at least once.”
The next attempt went better. The crew performed admirably, and was able to
kill everyone in the Xaxblergin fleet efficiently. He wrote the script
himself, but they’re still not taking it seriously enough. Maybe he needs to
hire some writers. He can still take credit for it. He doesn’t have to admit
that he didn’t come up with the new storylines himself. Maybe his wife will
have some thoughts on that. “You have the conn, Lieutenant.” He teleports
off the bridge. He’s back in his stateroom now where Audrey is waiting for
him, as usual. They have gotten into this habit where she cooks for him. The
synthwrights didn’t want to engineer and build them a real kitchen, but they
fell in line. They always will, or else.
“Welcome home, honey. How was your day?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Waldemar sits down. “What are we having?”
“This is chicken tetrazzini with cheesy white sauce and oven-roasted cherry
tomatoes on top. For the drink, I chose a rosemary-infused sparkling
lemonade.”
“I don’t like lemons,” Waldemar counters.
“Oh, you’ll like this. Lemonade is very different. The sugar—”
“I don’t like lemon anything,” he volleys, raising his voice, but still not
yelling. “Bring me the milk we had last night.”
“We had turkey chili last night. Milk paired well with that, but it will not
pair well with this dish,” she argues.
He swipes the cup off the table, letting it spill and break on the floor,
but not shatter. “I’ll decide what pairs well with what.”
Audrey calmly stands up, walks around the table, and raps him on the nose.
“No! No! We do not throw things, and we don’t knock them over. No!” She
strikes him again.
She is the only person on this ship who can do something like that to him.
Anyone else would be six feet under the Attic Forest or floating in the
black nothing by now. He flares his nostrils, but doesn’t otherwise react.
It’s not easy, holding himself back with her. He can’t just do it. He has to
concentrate on it. Most things he tries come easy to him, but not social
etiquette. That’s why he usually doesn’t worry about it, because it’s too
much work, but she’s worth it. That ass alone...
“Okay.” She lifts her hand and taps on her fingers in the right command
sequence. A bot emerges from the floor, and begins to clean up the mess.
“I told you, I don’t like those things. Your job is to keep house, when I’m
not here, and when I am. If you’re going to outsource that work, what’s the
point?”
“Good question,” Audrey replies as she’s returning to the kitchen. She takes
the milk out of the fridge, and starts to pour. “What’s the point of playing
house at all? You’re a captain for Christ’s sake.” She sets the glass in
front of him. “You don’t have time for domesticity.”
“We all have our roles, dear.” He takes a bite of the chicken pasta. “I
didn’t want to be captain, it was my destiny. I was born for this.” He takes
a drink of the milk. “Blech,” he exclaims, letting the milk shoot out of his
mouth, and land on the cleaning bot, confusing it. For a moment, he’s
embarrassed. He looks back up at Audrey. “I guess you were right.” He wipes
his lips with his sleeve.
“Oh, you animal,” she utters with a sigh. She sits on the edge of the table,
and dabs his face with a napkin. They stare into each other’s eyes. Then she
leans down and kisses him passionately. He has little need for most personal
connections, but having someone to take care of him like this is nice. He
won’t give it up, for the job, or anything.
He takes her hand in his, and kisses it too. “I’m sorry I got mad.”
“It’s okay.” She goes back to the kitchen again, and pours another glass of
the lemonade. “It’s like you said, it’s my job to keep house. Unlike 99.98
percent of the population, I know how to cook. That’s just about all I spend
my time doing. Trust me.”
Waldemar accepts the drink this time, and tries it. She’s right, as always.
He’s still feeling uncomfortable with the emotion he emulated during dinner,
so Waldemar leaves the stateroom afterwards, to go on his rounds. The people
know by now that when he’s walking at this pace, with this gait, he is not
to be disturbed. If he wants to interact with someone, he will initiate
contact, not them. And he’s not there to help anyone either. This is his
personal time, which he uses to clear his head, or work through problems. He
likes to be seen. He wants to be present, and for the citizens to associate
him with every corner of this vessel. His focus is on the bridge, but they
should not forget that he can go anywhere, and do anything he wants. He can
show up any time, so it’s best not to be whispering about him, or planning
some misguided coup. He absolutely detests not knowing what people are
discussing or thinking, and while he hasn’t had to explain this out loud,
people understand that. When he’s around, they go silent. If he wants them
to speak, he’ll unambiguously let them know.
He doesn’t usually pay attention to where he’s going. Again, he has free
rein, so he doesn’t have to plan a specific route. He finds himself in the
park. Before Tinaya Leithe was even captain, she worked for the Parks
Department, and eventually used her power to build the Attic Forest, which
takes up the whole upper deck. People love it there, and use it all the
time, which is why Waldemar doesn’t go there. He doesn’t care for nature,
nor people. The original park is still here. It’s only a fraction of the
size, and poorly maintained these days, so regular people have no use for
it. He typically only comes here when he wants to be alone, but today, he
has more stumbled upon it. Perhaps his subconscious mind is trying to tell
him something.
He’s not alone this time. A young girl is sitting by whatever these plants
are called. She’s...what is she doing? Is she drawing them? On paper? What a
weirdo. He’s intrigued. “It doesn’t have any color.”
The girl doesn’t look up, and doesn’t stop. “Yeah, it’s a sketch. It’s not
supposed to have color.”
“What is the point if it’s not going to be accurate?” He catches himself
asking that question a lot. He used to ask it even more frequently. Silveon
taught him that people notice because he’s questioning things that are
obvious to normal people.
“It’s art, it doesn’t need to be accurate.” She’s still not looking at him.
He smiles. She has no idea who he is. It’s a relief, really. Yes, of course
he wants people to respect him and do as he says, but there’s something
intoxicating about the few who refuse to. That’s why he hooked up with
Audrey in the first place, because she doesn’t take his shit. She’s
almost as strong as he is, and can work at his level. This girl here,
whoever she is. She might be even better.
“I’m not much into art. I’m so busy. With my job.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are, Captain.” Oh. So she does know who he is, if only by
his voice. But wait, if that’s true, why is she being so casual and distant?
Why is she not looking him in the eyes to gain favor, or down at his feet to
show her fear and reverence?
“Do you mind if I sit?” he asks.
She sighs, and closes her notepad. “If that’s what you’re into.”
He sits rather close to her. “Can I see?”
“Go ahead. I’m not ashamed.”
There are a ton of other drawings in the sketchbook, some also without
color, but some with. Many of her subjects can be found around the ship, but
others are nowhere near here. Lots of animals. She likes cows. She’s a
cowgirl. “These are really good. uh...oh, what’s your name?”
“Sable.”
“Sable?” he echoes. “You’re Admiral Keen’s daughter.”
“That’s right.”
“Royalty.”
“Huh?”
“Uh.” Why is it so hot in here, and why is he stumbling over his words?
She’s pretty, yeah, but she’s so young. It’s...that doesn’t matter at any
rate. He can have any woman he wants. Why worry about this one girl? “I
meant your art. In the past, you could have sold it for money, and I think
they called that royalties.”
“Cool.” God, she’s such a—what word is he looking for?—renegade. Just an
untamable, fierce, defiant badass. She smells nice too, and the curve of her
neck is so enticing. Who cares how young she is? He must have her. She
reminds him of Audrey, back before the, ya know...sagging and wrinkling.
“Have you ever painted a mural before?” He asks her, leaning in a little.
She needs to know that he’s interested without it being obvious to someone
watching them from the outside.
“Like on a wall? We don’t have the right kind of walls.”
“Say the word, I’ll make one. You can paint anything you want on it. Do we
have paint? I’ll get you some paint. If it’s not the right paint, I’ll get
you the right paint.”
“Captain, I really appreciate you trying to engage with your people, but
this is really not necessary.”
“I just see your talent, and I think everyone else should too.” He places a
hand against her back, noting that she doesn’t flinch at his touch.
For the first time ever, she makes eye contact. “Do you really think so?”
He begins to lower his hand. She doesn’t reject this either. “Unequivocally.
Let’s talk about this some more.”
“I would like that.”
He moves under her shirt, definitely not only touching her back anymore.
She smiles. She’s so into him.
