"This explains the haircuts, anyway."
No one laughed. Kevin was coming to understand that no one in the State Department ever laughed, unless it was one of those fake polite murmurs of acknowledgement of the evidence that a joke had been made. Diplomats of every species traded laughs like that at cocktail parties, a sound that gave Kevin the sensation of being among aliens even when only baseline humans were present. The closed-mouth manner was off-putting, but contagious. He wondered how long it would take until that instinct to guard every word and gesture took root in his own personality.
The barber worked close to Kevin's scalp with the trimmer, efficiently reducing him to the close-cropped buzzcut that was so popular among the State Department lifers. Space Marines and the Interstellar Shipping Alliance pilots had the same haircut, but they were a flinty bunch: hard-bodied, tanned, and tightly wound. In contrast, the diplomatic corps were uniformly fleshy and sallow, with the broad bodies that came from too much social drinking and a lot of sitting.
Kevin had no illusions about which category of appearance his own fresh buzzcut would put him into. He got up from the chair and kicked at the mound of dark curls on the floor.
The District Manager said, "The personal grooming policy arises from the conditions aboard the slipship. The intrusion into your bodily personal space is regrettable, but necessary."
"Hey, no problem. I've been told that I've got a good looking skull. This gives me a chance to show it off."
"Toupees are no doubt available in Crashlandia. The duty station chief would be able to direct you, if you wish."
"Oh, that's not necessary. It's a little breezy, but I'll be OK. Think I'll be mistaken for one of the diplomats?"
The DM paused, then said, "Possibly."
Which translates to "Not fucking likely", Kevin thought. And "Quite possibly" would have meant "Maybe", while "With any luck" would have meant "Yes". Even if I don't speak the language, I can understand it.
Without further comment, the DM left the barber shop. Kevin tipped the barber generously and gave him a wink. The barber grunted, but Kevin could see a sympathetic wrinkle around his eyes. Outside, the State Department car was waiting to take him across the starport tarmac to the slipship.
Thankfully, the only people in the car were the driver, the DM and himself. Kevin didn't need any last-minute briefings on how to be productive on a slipship trip... or how to survive it without going crazy. Nor did he want any final instructions as to his mission on Crashlandia. Either the situation was the substantially same as the last report (in which case he already knew what to do) or it was substantially different (in which case he'd have to make something up on the fly).
They drove in silence.
Once they got to the slipship berth, there were final details that Kevin was assured were SOP. He swallowed a medical telemetry monitor the size of a grape, trying not to think about the nanowire hooks that would hold it in place in his small intestine. He was shown the same "slipship operational details" slideshow he'd already seen six times. White pills are analgesics, green pills are anti-anxiety, red pills are antibiotics, blue-and-white are antipsychotics (for emergencies only). Food and water were sufficient, but not ample, so he was to eat everything at each meal. The edible plastifoil wrappings were a necessary dietary fiber component, so be sure to chew the packaging thoroughly. During working hours, gravity would be at 0.25G along the long axis of the box and would go up to 1.5G for two 30 minute exercise periods each day. Gravity would reset to 0.5G along the short axis during sleeping hours. He would be allotted nine hours of sleep each night, no more.
There was no more effective alarm clock than having gravity reorient 90 degrees.
The 5,281 light-year trip to Crashlandia would take nineteen days. During that time (he was reminded), there were administrative tasks to be accomplished: data to analyze, reports to write, code to debug, logistics to work out, plans to be made. The State Department flunky did not say, "don't spend the whole time watching porn and playing video games". What he said was, "normal State Department policies regarding inappropriate IT equipment usage apply to the on-board workstation". Still, Kevin noted that the slipship's library had an extensive list of frat-boy beer comedies and soft-core slasher flicks mixed in with the HollyBollywood classics, the documentaries and the State Department cultural acclimatization videos. He guessed there were some decent games buried in the Applications folder, too. Maybe somebody in the State Department had a sense of humor after all.
Or maybe it's just a nod to the frailties of human beings, he thought, and no more than what's necessary to keep the cogs of the machine turning properly.
Finally, finally, finally, it was time to get in and get gone. The hatch stood open and Kevin prepared to slide inside the box that would take him off to his temporary posting. State Department diplomats regularly spent weeks in these things, with space only a bit bigger than a top-of-the-line coffin. No wonder they were all so glassy-eyed. The District Manager cleared his throat. Sighing, Kevin did a simultaneous translation of the DM's send-off speech as he gave it.
"Well, Mr. Xiang, this is goodbye. (Get going.) Have a safe trip and get some rest. (The shit hits the fan as soon as you touch down.) We have high hopes for your success. (This is a disaster, or you wouldn't be here.) I should note that it's unusual for a non-diplomat to use a slipship. (Don't smell up the place, you slobbering academic.) We've allocated considerable resources to facilitate your participation (this is costing us a fortune), which you should certainly take as a compliment (as a warning). Good luck on Crashlandia. (Don't screw this up.)"
Kevin said, "Thanks, I'll do my best!" You need me more than I need you, asshole, so don't get snippy. From the twitch of the DM's eyelids, Kevin could see that he understood perfectly.
They shook hands and Kevin slid inside.
Three hours later, the slipship cleared Sol's cloud of icy debris and Kevin crossed the artificial cartographic boundary into interstellar space. He stretched his arms as much as he could in the confined space and brought up "Space Cadets 3: Here Come The Gamma Girls" on the video.
So far, so good.
===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.
No one laughed. Kevin was coming to understand that no one in the State Department ever laughed, unless it was one of those fake polite murmurs of acknowledgement of the evidence that a joke had been made. Diplomats of every species traded laughs like that at cocktail parties, a sound that gave Kevin the sensation of being among aliens even when only baseline humans were present. The closed-mouth manner was off-putting, but contagious. He wondered how long it would take until that instinct to guard every word and gesture took root in his own personality.
The barber worked close to Kevin's scalp with the trimmer, efficiently reducing him to the close-cropped buzzcut that was so popular among the State Department lifers. Space Marines and the Interstellar Shipping Alliance pilots had the same haircut, but they were a flinty bunch: hard-bodied, tanned, and tightly wound. In contrast, the diplomatic corps were uniformly fleshy and sallow, with the broad bodies that came from too much social drinking and a lot of sitting.
Kevin had no illusions about which category of appearance his own fresh buzzcut would put him into. He got up from the chair and kicked at the mound of dark curls on the floor.
The District Manager said, "The personal grooming policy arises from the conditions aboard the slipship. The intrusion into your bodily personal space is regrettable, but necessary."
"Hey, no problem. I've been told that I've got a good looking skull. This gives me a chance to show it off."
"Toupees are no doubt available in Crashlandia. The duty station chief would be able to direct you, if you wish."
"Oh, that's not necessary. It's a little breezy, but I'll be OK. Think I'll be mistaken for one of the diplomats?"
The DM paused, then said, "Possibly."
Which translates to "Not fucking likely", Kevin thought. And "Quite possibly" would have meant "Maybe", while "With any luck" would have meant "Yes". Even if I don't speak the language, I can understand it.
Without further comment, the DM left the barber shop. Kevin tipped the barber generously and gave him a wink. The barber grunted, but Kevin could see a sympathetic wrinkle around his eyes. Outside, the State Department car was waiting to take him across the starport tarmac to the slipship.
Thankfully, the only people in the car were the driver, the DM and himself. Kevin didn't need any last-minute briefings on how to be productive on a slipship trip... or how to survive it without going crazy. Nor did he want any final instructions as to his mission on Crashlandia. Either the situation was the substantially same as the last report (in which case he already knew what to do) or it was substantially different (in which case he'd have to make something up on the fly).
They drove in silence.
Once they got to the slipship berth, there were final details that Kevin was assured were SOP. He swallowed a medical telemetry monitor the size of a grape, trying not to think about the nanowire hooks that would hold it in place in his small intestine. He was shown the same "slipship operational details" slideshow he'd already seen six times. White pills are analgesics, green pills are anti-anxiety, red pills are antibiotics, blue-and-white are antipsychotics (for emergencies only). Food and water were sufficient, but not ample, so he was to eat everything at each meal. The edible plastifoil wrappings were a necessary dietary fiber component, so be sure to chew the packaging thoroughly. During working hours, gravity would be at 0.25G along the long axis of the box and would go up to 1.5G for two 30 minute exercise periods each day. Gravity would reset to 0.5G along the short axis during sleeping hours. He would be allotted nine hours of sleep each night, no more.
There was no more effective alarm clock than having gravity reorient 90 degrees.
The 5,281 light-year trip to Crashlandia would take nineteen days. During that time (he was reminded), there were administrative tasks to be accomplished: data to analyze, reports to write, code to debug, logistics to work out, plans to be made. The State Department flunky did not say, "don't spend the whole time watching porn and playing video games". What he said was, "normal State Department policies regarding inappropriate IT equipment usage apply to the on-board workstation". Still, Kevin noted that the slipship's library had an extensive list of frat-boy beer comedies and soft-core slasher flicks mixed in with the HollyBollywood classics, the documentaries and the State Department cultural acclimatization videos. He guessed there were some decent games buried in the Applications folder, too. Maybe somebody in the State Department had a sense of humor after all.
Or maybe it's just a nod to the frailties of human beings, he thought, and no more than what's necessary to keep the cogs of the machine turning properly.
Finally, finally, finally, it was time to get in and get gone. The hatch stood open and Kevin prepared to slide inside the box that would take him off to his temporary posting. State Department diplomats regularly spent weeks in these things, with space only a bit bigger than a top-of-the-line coffin. No wonder they were all so glassy-eyed. The District Manager cleared his throat. Sighing, Kevin did a simultaneous translation of the DM's send-off speech as he gave it.
"Well, Mr. Xiang, this is goodbye. (Get going.) Have a safe trip and get some rest. (The shit hits the fan as soon as you touch down.) We have high hopes for your success. (This is a disaster, or you wouldn't be here.) I should note that it's unusual for a non-diplomat to use a slipship. (Don't smell up the place, you slobbering academic.) We've allocated considerable resources to facilitate your participation (this is costing us a fortune), which you should certainly take as a compliment (as a warning). Good luck on Crashlandia. (Don't screw this up.)"
Kevin said, "Thanks, I'll do my best!" You need me more than I need you, asshole, so don't get snippy. From the twitch of the DM's eyelids, Kevin could see that he understood perfectly.
They shook hands and Kevin slid inside.
Three hours later, the slipship cleared Sol's cloud of icy debris and Kevin crossed the artificial cartographic boundary into interstellar space. He stretched his arms as much as he could in the confined space and brought up "Space Cadets 3: Here Come The Gamma Girls" on the video.
So far, so good.
===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.
