6 03 2009

Spacetime fizzled back to normal around the starship as it glided unpowered into dock at the space elevator. It was a Rolze trade envoy, called the “Orson Fucking Welles” and the name alone made the Alnairian traffic control operators wince at the misplaced vulgarity, twittering to their co-workers and friends that another Rolze crew had arrived to piss everyone off with their brash optimism, rampant materialism and awful haircuts. This was little hypocritical of the Alnairians who were no strangers to interstellar inappropriateness as the all femme(and proud) starship in the neighbouring docking port (The Pink Slit) would attest to.
To ancient eyes the exterior decor of the Orson Fucking Welles could only be described as “bling.” The white, gold and chrome exterior of the craft contrasted with the utilitarian docking cradle as it broadcasted its welcoming message to the Alnairians, an avatar of the assured ancient cinema director in black and white announcing in an incongruous high pitched Australian accent that “the Rolzes were here to show you space hippies how its done!”
A thousand personal networks in local space fluttered with righteous indignation at the open invitation to a flame war, blogs splurged with vitriol and contempt and all in the space of twenty minutes. Another typical day for the Community in the Cloud had dawned, the near infinite network of pointless opinion and information that underlay the physical and real universe a flurry with activity.





An unusual dinner….

1 03 2009

When dinner was served Vaz realised why the guest with the curious symmetrical scars on his face only communicated via IM. His lower jaw split apart at the seam down from his chin to his throat revealing some kind of grotesque pink appendage, slick with saliva. Shaped like a short fat trunk it fell out towards the bowl of gruel specifically given to him. He proceeded to devour his meal using a slim purple tongue coming out of his trunk and two brilliant white grinding teeth chewing what solid morsels that could be found in his slop.
The hosts of the meal noticed the awkward, uneasy glances between the crew of the Century Eagle at the mutation happily chomping away in front of them. “Ha! It seems our guests weren’t prepared for Hansol’s unique genemod. The Commander had that done to him after some misdeed seventy years ago. Feeds him that special gruel without which he would die, just so he doesn’t run off. His mouth is based on some alien thing on a planet 25 years from here” advised Exlaande, whose jolly face found the horrific tale more amusing than unsettling. “The guy knows this habitat inside and out,if the Commander let him go we’d all be screwed y’see?”
“Ug, this is going to be a worse business lunch since that Genevogue place that served food out of a replicant anus hanging above each table” linked Vaz to everyone from his ship. Every week the Large Magellanic Cloud threw something even more extreme and terrifying at the adventurous crew. Vaz was starting to feel homesick for the vaguely alien cultures back in the Milky Way, at least they had the detachment of being alien when they started doing freaky stuff. Seeing Hansols’ trunk flop out of a human face was all the more disturbing.