A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter V: Day/Page 45 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . .
One of the support engineers rushes in from the other room. “The military called. They’d like us over there as soon as possible.”
“Ok, Pils and I will go there now,” Sofia says. “The rest of you come over as soon as everything is ready for a second launch here.”
When Sofia and Pils arrive at the military launch site the place is complete pandemonium. Holographic images of stars, planets, suns, galaxy maps, and trajectory simulations are scattered everywhere around the room, some on tables, some on chairs, some holograms being inadvertently kicked around the floor like left-over party balloons, as the engineers dash frantically about. The stasis area looks even worse, as if someone dumped a truck-load of tubes and hoses and wires onto a bed in the middle of the room.
(What a catastrophe! There is no way in hell they’ll be ready to go by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.)
Off to one side of the control room is a floor-to-ceiling image showing life-sized engineers working on a rocket on a launch pad in some other part of the building. One of the real-life engineers in the control room is shouting at one of the holographic engineers on the launch pad.
“You idiot! Left panel, goddamn it. I said left,” shouts the real-life control-room engineer.
“My left or your left?” asks the holographic engineer.
“Huh? What the… Are you kidding? The left, you imbecilic moron. How many lefts can there be?”
“It’s a round rocket, sir, which means there isn’t any real left. See, this panel is on my left here, but if I scoot around this way then it’s on my right. And if I keep scooting around a little more then it’s back on my left again. So I’m trying to figure out which side you’re looking at it from, sir.”
The control-room engineer taps the console in front of him to mute the audio. “What is that moron’s name?” he asks a colleague next to him.
“That’s Private Fleezer, sir.”
“Well, get that little fucker off my launch site right now, and put someone else up there who knows what the hell he’s doing.”
“Uh… Sir. Uh… Fleezer is the Admiral’s grand nephew. His sister’s daughter’s cousin’s brother, or something like that. I can’t keep it straight—but they’re related somehow, I know that.”
The control room engineer . . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW. . . .
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James
All rights reserved