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.