bella sognatora
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- Posted: Tue, 01 Mar 2005 22:09:23 +0000
Someone (who shall remain nameless) told me I should attempt a different sort of writing, so this is an exercise in that. The first of the first drafts.
Loathing. That's the only word Cori had to describe how she felt. Really, nothing else would work. It wasn't hatred and it wasn't disgust, though she had toyed with those a few times. But, no, "loathing" summed it up nicely. But what she felt about this place or the situation as a whole wouldn't change her situation.
She was stuck here with these people in a __(research)____ living space for the next six months. Eight people. One cabin. She would rather jeteson herself into the blackness. At least out there, she could have peace, quiet, and most importantly, solitude.
Cori looked out the window.
All those people. Waiting for us to save their pathetic lives for another hundred years. The futile insanity of it.
She sighed. It was sunny in Florida; very bright and burning. The audience waiting with their videocameras to record the take-off, all of them were wearing hats. There used to be a time when hats weren't required, when they were a "fashion statement". Now it was a crime to be without one. As clothes are used to cover nudity, to be without a hat seemed lewd. The law was originally implemented because of the collapsing atmosphere. Now it was regarded as a tasteful habit.
Cori grinned. Astronauts didn't wear hats in the space shuttle. Or, at least, they weren't required to. That was perhaps the only good point of this mission. She twisted in her chair to take a look at the rest of the crew.
Oh, hell.
Della was still wearing a hat. Her little baseball cap from MIT.
Way to go, Della. Why don't you do a few MIT cheers while you're at it.
Della was one of the most beautiful, bubbly blondes Cori had ever come into contact with. One of those girls who was incredibly smart, but such a complete... well, first off, she was shorter than any non-midget had a right to be. Probably around five foot. But she had somehow passed all of the physical endurance tests with flying colors. And her voice was so high pitched she could probably start an epileptic seizure. But Cori saw how the men looked at Della. NASA probably had her up here as a baby breeder.
Cori smirked. And then she laughed. Really short babies.
Paul looked at Cori and smiled devilishly. "What's so funny?"
She stopped laughing. She didn't like him, either. The word "User" was clearly tattooed on his iris. Her face went dead.
Paul ignored her defiance and looked back up at the ceiling; or, rather, the control panel. Cori faced the window again. Suddenly she felt as if she had to get off this planet. Right now. The crowd had grown to a few thousand, she could see the mass of them in the distance. Like bugs. Little tiny fleas that crawled on your socks and inched there way up your legs into your jeans...
"Now."
Cori bit her lip.
"What?"
Paul again. He just never gives up, does he?
But she needed to say something, before the anxiety attack took over her system.
She turned to face him. "I need to get off this planet. All the people, they're everywhere, I can see them out there and it's like, I just...when does the countdown start?" She turned back to the window, closed her eyes.
"Any minute now." She hated the sympathy in his voice. It rubbed her the wrong way. "Hey", he whispered, "don't let your heart race, or they'll stop the operation, you know?"
"I know" she growled.
Above it all, don't treat me like I'm stupid.
Paul didn't say anything else. But he was right. And she couldn't afford for them to stop operations.
In, hold. 1-2-3-4-5 Out, hold. 1-2-3-4-5... she focused on the voices around her, all of the codes being relayed back to base, the humming of the instruments. She was just along for the ride, as far as they were concerned. She didn't have to do anything. Her brain was in a fetal position, and it stayed that way until the engines fired up. Three chairs away, Linda started laughing in a giddy fit, throwing in an explitive now and then to describe her excitement. First-timer. So was Samuel, now that Cori thought about it. She cocked her head in his direction. He had his eyes closed and was mumbling. He was either praying or going over the flight plan to calm his nerves. Janus, Derrik and Serge were singing "Oh Give Me a Home" in broken English. Paul was the only person who seemed calm. He responded with ease to the radio vocal cues, pushing buttons here and there, rotating knobs and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a controlled rhythm.
Cori wanted to scream. And then, her saving grace: she looked out the window and saw the bright blue sky fade away into blackness. It only took a few minutes, and they were gone. All the people, the billions of aimless pigs, were below them.
She recalled her desire to jeteson into space. Looking out at the neverending void, she shivered. It didn't seem quite so appealing now.
Paul saw her shiver out of his periphery. Of the entire crew, he knew the least about Cori, and it made her almost attractive. Interesting, at least. The mysterious nature of her addition to the crew, her files with large portions blacked out. How very Government of her. Still, her purpose on this trip was a mystery. She was very temperamental, strong willed, and obviously a veteran of space flight. That in itself was strange: she obviously had some anxiety problems, among other things. He smiled.
I know you.
He had her figured out. He was sure of it.
That's what Profilers do best.
Samuel was having second thoughts. Good to know, especially now that he was eighty miles from Earth and steadily rising. Or falling? He had taken all the tests, had always been able to figure out how to work with the gravity- or lack thereof- that he was presented with. But right now, he was afraid. This was not a test, and he tended to break under pressure. This morning, he had thrown up, and the sick feeling in his stomach would not go away. Of course, you don't tell that to the NASA engineers. Not when they're counting on you, when they've been training you for six years to do your job. You don't tell them you don't think you're ready. You say "yes, sir" and go through the motions with ease and clarity. You act like an astronaut. They couldn't find any physical ailments, and he had smiled with such confidence at the press this morning.
"Samuel, how does it feel to have the future of the world in your hands?"
It's exhilarating, I'm excited.
"Are you nervous at all?"
I've been training for this mission for six years. And with a team like this, what is there to be nervous about? If anything goes wrong, anything at all, we're trained to handle it.
So here he was, The Great Samuel Petruski, on the brink of humanity's self-destruction.
Twiddling his thumbs.
TBC...
Loathing. That's the only word Cori had to describe how she felt. Really, nothing else would work. It wasn't hatred and it wasn't disgust, though she had toyed with those a few times. But, no, "loathing" summed it up nicely. But what she felt about this place or the situation as a whole wouldn't change her situation.
She was stuck here with these people in a __(research)____ living space for the next six months. Eight people. One cabin. She would rather jeteson herself into the blackness. At least out there, she could have peace, quiet, and most importantly, solitude.
Cori looked out the window.
All those people. Waiting for us to save their pathetic lives for another hundred years. The futile insanity of it.
She sighed. It was sunny in Florida; very bright and burning. The audience waiting with their videocameras to record the take-off, all of them were wearing hats. There used to be a time when hats weren't required, when they were a "fashion statement". Now it was a crime to be without one. As clothes are used to cover nudity, to be without a hat seemed lewd. The law was originally implemented because of the collapsing atmosphere. Now it was regarded as a tasteful habit.
Cori grinned. Astronauts didn't wear hats in the space shuttle. Or, at least, they weren't required to. That was perhaps the only good point of this mission. She twisted in her chair to take a look at the rest of the crew.
Oh, hell.
Della was still wearing a hat. Her little baseball cap from MIT.
Way to go, Della. Why don't you do a few MIT cheers while you're at it.
Della was one of the most beautiful, bubbly blondes Cori had ever come into contact with. One of those girls who was incredibly smart, but such a complete... well, first off, she was shorter than any non-midget had a right to be. Probably around five foot. But she had somehow passed all of the physical endurance tests with flying colors. And her voice was so high pitched she could probably start an epileptic seizure. But Cori saw how the men looked at Della. NASA probably had her up here as a baby breeder.
Cori smirked. And then she laughed. Really short babies.
Paul looked at Cori and smiled devilishly. "What's so funny?"
She stopped laughing. She didn't like him, either. The word "User" was clearly tattooed on his iris. Her face went dead.
Paul ignored her defiance and looked back up at the ceiling; or, rather, the control panel. Cori faced the window again. Suddenly she felt as if she had to get off this planet. Right now. The crowd had grown to a few thousand, she could see the mass of them in the distance. Like bugs. Little tiny fleas that crawled on your socks and inched there way up your legs into your jeans...
"Now."
Cori bit her lip.
"What?"
Paul again. He just never gives up, does he?
But she needed to say something, before the anxiety attack took over her system.
She turned to face him. "I need to get off this planet. All the people, they're everywhere, I can see them out there and it's like, I just...when does the countdown start?" She turned back to the window, closed her eyes.
"Any minute now." She hated the sympathy in his voice. It rubbed her the wrong way. "Hey", he whispered, "don't let your heart race, or they'll stop the operation, you know?"
"I know" she growled.
Above it all, don't treat me like I'm stupid.
Paul didn't say anything else. But he was right. And she couldn't afford for them to stop operations.
In, hold. 1-2-3-4-5 Out, hold. 1-2-3-4-5... she focused on the voices around her, all of the codes being relayed back to base, the humming of the instruments. She was just along for the ride, as far as they were concerned. She didn't have to do anything. Her brain was in a fetal position, and it stayed that way until the engines fired up. Three chairs away, Linda started laughing in a giddy fit, throwing in an explitive now and then to describe her excitement. First-timer. So was Samuel, now that Cori thought about it. She cocked her head in his direction. He had his eyes closed and was mumbling. He was either praying or going over the flight plan to calm his nerves. Janus, Derrik and Serge were singing "Oh Give Me a Home" in broken English. Paul was the only person who seemed calm. He responded with ease to the radio vocal cues, pushing buttons here and there, rotating knobs and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a controlled rhythm.
Cori wanted to scream. And then, her saving grace: she looked out the window and saw the bright blue sky fade away into blackness. It only took a few minutes, and they were gone. All the people, the billions of aimless pigs, were below them.
She recalled her desire to jeteson into space. Looking out at the neverending void, she shivered. It didn't seem quite so appealing now.
Paul saw her shiver out of his periphery. Of the entire crew, he knew the least about Cori, and it made her almost attractive. Interesting, at least. The mysterious nature of her addition to the crew, her files with large portions blacked out. How very Government of her. Still, her purpose on this trip was a mystery. She was very temperamental, strong willed, and obviously a veteran of space flight. That in itself was strange: she obviously had some anxiety problems, among other things. He smiled.
I know you.
He had her figured out. He was sure of it.
That's what Profilers do best.
Samuel was having second thoughts. Good to know, especially now that he was eighty miles from Earth and steadily rising. Or falling? He had taken all the tests, had always been able to figure out how to work with the gravity- or lack thereof- that he was presented with. But right now, he was afraid. This was not a test, and he tended to break under pressure. This morning, he had thrown up, and the sick feeling in his stomach would not go away. Of course, you don't tell that to the NASA engineers. Not when they're counting on you, when they've been training you for six years to do your job. You don't tell them you don't think you're ready. You say "yes, sir" and go through the motions with ease and clarity. You act like an astronaut. They couldn't find any physical ailments, and he had smiled with such confidence at the press this morning.
"Samuel, how does it feel to have the future of the world in your hands?"
It's exhilarating, I'm excited.
"Are you nervous at all?"
I've been training for this mission for six years. And with a team like this, what is there to be nervous about? If anything goes wrong, anything at all, we're trained to handle it.
So here he was, The Great Samuel Petruski, on the brink of humanity's self-destruction.
Twiddling his thumbs.
TBC...
