Splintered Reality - part eight

Being the luckiest being in the universe, and being completely oblivious of the fact, are two very fortunate qualities that go hand in hand. Not fortunate for the person themselves certainly. Rather it is extremely fortunate for the lotteries, gambling establishments, economies, indeed entire planets which would topple if the lucky stiff were aware of the fact – which Gilda is not.

What is fortunate for Gilda is that her tremendous luck has saved her from inadvertent self destruction on many occasions. While she may not be the most lackadaisical person on the face of any given planet which she may inhabit at any given time – she is certainly close behind whoever comes in first place. All of which works together to create a person who has the capability of ruling the galaxy, but is simply to lazy to do it. But Gilda, being the languid sort of person she is, wouldn’t care about it even if she knew. This is, in fact, a quality that is about to have the chance not only to rear its ugly head, but go outside, and take itself for a brisk walk about the block as Gilda awakens to the sound of thumping. It is thumping which - unlike most mornings following an evening of imbibing drinks which would take the top three layers off an asteroid had they spilled – is actually, coming from outside her head.

On this particular morning the slow steady hum of the mining lasers, which Gilda found so comforting (in fact she had a hard time getting to sleep without it) was interrupted by a pounding which rocked the ship. Gilda groaned a bit. Turned over and covered her head with a pillow in a vain attempt to stifle the noise caused by impacts on the side of the ship. Several fruitless minutes passed. A very large impact nearly threw her out of her bunk. She stopped herself, grabbing the bedrail with one hand. Swinging her feet out, she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes shut.

“Lights” she called out, followed by a groan.

Obediently, the lights set into the walls snapped on. Gilda sat for a moment, gathering herself for the supreme effort necessary for her to actually pull herself to her feet, a task complicated by the incessant rocking of the ship. As she stood, yet another blast rocked the mining cruiser from side to side. She braced herself against the bulkhead, as much to steady herself from the rocking of ship as from the spinning of the room.

“Don’t these guys ever sleep?” she groaned, looking about her blearily.

Another blast threw her out into the corridor, and against the wall opposite. Ironically, had the blasts caused the ship to spin out of control, she could have easily negotiated the narrow corridor that ran down the central part of the ship – she was used to rooms spinning. She felt her way down the corridor, the ship rocking to and fro, and finally made her way to the galley.

The pounding stopped.

“Good” she said aloud, to no one in particular, “they are reloading.” She walked over to a small speaker set into the wall, below which was a small door.

“Coffee, hot, black” she shot at the dispenso-matic, then pausing she added, “very strong”

There was a slight buzzing sound from the walls and the small door slid open. There inside sat a large white mug, so big, one might think, that many of the galaxy’s smaller races could have easily swum laps in it. With a smile, Gilda reached in and gingerly raised the cup of steaming black liquid to her lips. She blew across the surface, and was about to take the first sip when the pounding and the rocking began again. The result was scalding hot coffee over nearly every surface of the galley, except, remarkably enough, Gilda herself.

“Bastards” she hissed looking into the empty mug.

It was not the mess that upset her, so much as the loss of the coffee. New Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans were incredibly difficult to come by.

“You bastards,” she hissed again, as she reached into a nearby cupboard and drew out a lid for the cup.

She waited for the next lull in the blasts, which eventually came. Thrusting the empty cup into the dispenso-matic, she repeated her morning ritual. A moment later the machine produced yet another cup of the rich dark fluid. Gilda reached in and snapped the lid on with a smile as the galley began to rock again. Cup in hand she turned slowly, stumbling her way down the central corridor toward the bridge of the ship.

The sound of the mining lasers still hummed along, filling the hold of the ship, which took up the bulk of what would be the “body” of the large kiwi like shape of the ship. Rosa sat calmly in the pilots chair, silver flask in hand. From behind and above her she heard feet on the ladder that lead down to the bridge, which formed the “head” of giant steel kiwi shape that was the S.S. Hammered Steel. As Guilda stepped onto the deck, Rosa held up the flask to Guilda.

“Hair of the dog?” she asked merrily.

“No,” Guilda answered sternly, and then added more calmly, “I’m all set here.”

Guilda heaved herself into the navigator’s chair with a pained look, the sort of which would frighten small children and cause their mothers to pull them in off the street.

The ship continued to rock, but neither of the ships two occupants, now firmly entrenched in there seats on the bridge, seemed to care. Rosa took another long pull on her silver flask, the yellow fluid burning its way down her throat. To her side Guilda shut her eyes and took that first delightful sip of coffee.

The silence continued this way for some time – that is if you could call the gulping, slurping, and hum of mining lasers, all accompanied by the sounds of explosions on the side of the mining cruiser silence.

Oddly enough, both halves of Cranz-Stern Mining, now present on the bridge, did. They were, in fact, quite used to it.