passage

I write this in the near pitch-black, wondering what pitch is and if it is truly as black as I assume. Space-black is a more appropriate term, but one my grandparents never used.
Oberon is nestled however safely in the hold of a giant ore carrier, entrusted entirely to the care of these crooked miners we deal with. It is packed in and surrounded by crates and supplies. Every ship's system is powered down, soon all electronics, light, life support, grav functions, appliances, web connections and everything else with a pulse will be shut off as well. I write this in the dark, soon to turn this Log program off, wondering if I'll ever have the chance to turn it on again. If I do, I promise to write everything. There is too much left unsaid, which may be worse than those things simply left undiscovered and unknown.

I'll sit in the bridge with Caban, though the helm is useless now, we are locked down. He is nervous, not scared enough to tell me but enough so that I notice. I wonder if he sees the same in me. Kon is stowed aboard the mining ship itself, a small bribe to yet another miner to keep us safe from betrayal. We won't be caught. If we are...things will be dark for a long time still.

It is time to shut down now, the slow hiss of air coming to a halt, Caban sighing as he switches off the last glowing buttons. I will close this as well, and give myself once more to the night. His hand is on my shoulder.

experimentation

The cookbook that I picked up in Target City is surprisingly unhelpful, featuring absolutely no technical direction. Parts of it might as well be in one of the old dead Earth languages that I never took the time to learn.

Last night I tried to make "pancakes" because they looked simple enough, not as many ingredients as other recipies, no meat or impossible spices. I don't know what a cup is, or a tablespoon, Comweb took forever to load a metric conversion because no one has used the link in so long. Of course I had to use Eggsub, and the milk...I had to guess with the milk, and they didn't say what kind of grease to use. Its not as if I don't know how to cook, I can fry and boil and chop protein cakes until they're atleast passable. Space Age cooking is a far sight different than anything my grandparents ever did.

Con and Caban ate their portions without question or hesitation, like most men (and Runners) they tend to be efficient and grateful in regard to food. Pushing back his plate, Caban looked at me and said, "Well. I've never known you to do anything poorly, Scout."

Thinking back, I can't tell if that was a compliment or not. True, the pancakes were sort of crumbly, and slightly gritty, and unevenly cooked, but they weren't terrible. It was better than Con's attempts to disguise the gummies in his cooking. Its not as if either of them are any help in the kitchen at all. I'm not the mother of this ship, and just because I grew up old-fashioned doesn't mean that this sort of thing comes as instinct. I've just got to keep working at this, get better supplies and try again. If Caban doesn't like it, he can drink shakes every four hours until his liver gives out.

Pancakes. Men. Why bother?

I'm just glad they don't know about the first batch.

darkening dreams

My grandfather said to me, “His name is Icarus.” There was a boy sitting on his knee. A shining boy, a golden boy whose face I was afraid to look at.

And then I realized it was a dream.

“Telemachus. Apollo. Lugh. Leo. Is it true?” my grandfather said, but I wouldn’t look at the boy. “You should give him my name, but that would make it real. Give him the things that are not real.”

“That’s not fair.” I replied.

“No, its not fair. Then give him the things that are real.”

For the first time I looked around. In the cargo bay, again. But there was sunlight.

“Ask him. Ask him what he wants.” My grandfather’s voice was so real, saying things I had never heard him say. I still wouldn’t look at the boy, for suddenly I knew whose face I would see. “Ask him.”

I couldn’t speak, and I heard the light laughter of the child suddenly joined by the low chuckle of a man.

“Icarus. Icarus Truman Front. Give him all the names.”

“He’s not real.” I said.

“But he could be.”


I don't understand. I woke up troubled. It won't stop lingering, and I can't understand. Its not real. But it could be.

transitions

Just when I had realized how comfortable I am, things up and change again.

We hired an extra hand today. Tomorrow we’re making our contact and picking up our water generator. We've stashed a few miscellaneous crates and cases (the contents of atleast one proved hilarious until the headaches the next morning. Unprofessional, but entertaining once in a while). As long as we’re smuggling ourselves we might as well bring in as much illegal and profitable material as we can. That being the Runner way. And furthermore, I can’t imagine us going anywhere near Hadrian’s Point for some time after this.

I found Caban in a dockside bar already talking to the man. He is burly, space-pale, and muscular, his dark hair and beard speckled with grey. An older man, then, experienced. He gruffly introduced himself as Kon, a Runner’s short nickname, taken up to hide from a criminal record. Most of us are.
He seems competent and clean, claims to be good with weapons, and with nothing tailing him. He’s also desperate for a job, and signed on for the ride to the Point and back. A profitable hire for him, if all goes well. I knew that Caban was going to hire him, but before he offered, he looked over at me and waited for my nod. I got a decent feeling from Kon, and an even better one from the consideration that Caban gives me. We’re partners.

I’ve done my research, turns out that 'Kon' is in fact Conrad Grussing, ex-military gunman. Dishonorable discharge, later charges of theft, illegal transport, assault, and resisting arrest. Nothing unusual..if I had a record it would be the same.

The ship is different, now. Not as quiet, nor as cozy. A strange presence, a vague awkwardness. Caban accepts it all usual, his only reaction is to squeeze my shoulder and grin as usual. It was odd to hear the rumble of two male voices as I climbed down from the catwalks, odd to feel other eyes on me as I slip about the ship. But Conrad doesn’t seem a bad sort, well enough for a short-time hire. He’s grizzled and tough and as soon as he becomes comfortable with us he’ll even become boisterous, I can tell.

Only one thing gives me pause...tonight at dinner, he winked at me.