TEXT ADVENTURE #18

THE INTERFACE TO SECURITY

by Stanley Lieber

1

September, 4043.

Slake Bottom clenched a purple cigarette between his gold-plated teeth
and sat back in his harness, sweating in his donkey helmet.  His
spacecraft, the HARDPACK, piloted itself expertly through the emergent
skeletons of the New Sapporo shipyard, but the smoke filling his
helmet made it impossible for him to see through his visor.

“Computer.  Strike all references to PAN -OPTI-CON from my itinerary.
I’m finished with those idiots.” Slake considered the commercial
prison scene passe.  This summer, he had decided to cancel his
attendance at the usual industry showcases and to concentrate solely
on seeking outside contracts.  Lay in a comfortable lining for his
nest before winter.

The HARDPACK bleeped acceptance.  He tore off the receipt and pocketed
it in his flight suit.

2

Slake scrolled through his idea book as the HARDPACK settled into its
final approach.

are there really halfway houses / or are they just in our minds / it
all comes out in the wash / in time

Slake missed his father.  Of course, he never spoke of this to his
clients.

His most recent contract had been the overhaul of a small freighter.
Auxiliary percept drive; some manual steering, but primarily driven by
inadequately suppressed rage.  This necessarily limited the pool of
potential pilots.  He’d already remodeled the forward lounge and was
just getting started on the deck elevators when a major new contract
came over the wire.  Slake had never been one to abandon a job, but at
these prices, he figured he’d do just about anything.

One query, based on the plans: A hot pink ship?

Purple smoke wafted out of Slake’s nostrils.  His helmet bulged, felt
too tight.

He figured the customer was always right.

3

Prior to the application of its skin, the ship seemed no larger, no
more threatening than a grade school personnel carrier.  Slake knew
that this was a mistaken impression.  He observed from his harness as
a crew of day laborers floated the ship’s platinum spine into place.
The tableaux shifted so slowly.  He wished they would step up the
foundation work so he could disembark, clock in.  He was anxious to
get started on the interiors.

Other areas of the shipyard seemed desolate, by comparison.  The sheer
number of workers must result in massive administrative overhead.
But, he was no longer a manager.  Those people had proven they could
take care of themselves.

He lost himself for a few minutes, then, following the progress of a
random piece of scrap as it navigated the void between drydocks.
Runoff from assemblies that were nearing completion condensed into
glittering puffs of snow.

The HARDPACK bleeped an alert.  Slake unfastened his seat belt, kicked
off of his seat and drifted towards the toilet.  He disconnected the
Marlboro filters and attached the hose to his penis.  Flipped the
switch.

Finishing up, he climbed back into his harness and nudged the steering
mechanism with his knees, easing the HARDPACK into position.

Company parking.

4

The RAGNAROK signaled her compatibility as he boarded.  Unusual, at
this early stage.  And for a guy like him; unaffiliated, still a
complete stranger.  Maybe she had picked up something from the
HARDPACK . He smiled underneath his helmet.

A notice.  Received schematics.  Start on the lower decks.  Slake
pulled on his data gloves and made for the deck elevator.

These ships crossed the Rainbow Bridge.  Cutting between perspectives,
avoiding the Kojaks.  They had to be flexible.  Outfitting them for
fiction paid good money.  Sometimes, you’d get pulled along on a
journey before your work was finished.  A diligent worker could rack
up a lot of extra hours, that way.  His take on it was that the life
of a free agent had its trade-offs.

Slake ran his hand down the wall of the corridor.

Glossy, pink.

Crazy.

5

Months slowly elapsed.  Slake began to feel at home aboard the
RAGNAROK . The process made a certain amount of sense; depending upon
the employer, a job like this could last ten or more years.  He had
sought predictability, deniability.  It was the main reason he had
accepted the contract.  But the project was winding down ahead of
schedule.

One more deck to go.

Slake liked to listen while he worked.  His donkey helmet was far more
capable (and curious) than the average foreman realized.  Well, let
them laugh.  Schedule indicated another battery of inspections would
be carried out early the next week.  This time focusing upon the
secure restroom facilities.  Slake was certain that his coverage had
been sufficient for the ship to be deemed spaceworthy.  Even so, the
notion of a secure restroom struck him as a contradiction in terms.
Fitting, then, that the government was prepared to bestow their seal
of approval.

The ship had begun to talk to him.

The RAGNAROK liked American comic books.  Or so she had said.  The
ones set in New York, with the gender politics and costumes.  Slake
found it hard to believe.

“I’m from America,” he had remarked, which hadn’t seemed to impress
her the way he had hoped.  Whatever, he got on with his work and
avoided the subject whenever she brought it up.

He was grateful she had never pestered him about his name.

6

Winter, 4044.

Slake awoke, alone, his visual field bathed in an endless white light.

The RAGNAROK wasn’t responding.

He didn’t panic.  Still, the failure represented an inexcusable breach
of contract.  The console was dead, he couldn’t even raise general
counsel.

The bed wouldn’t move.

He glanced around the room.  Gradually, an image began to resolve.
Some of his belongings were missing.  His tool cache, even the caps of
his teeth.  So, his cabin had been breached.  He latched his shoes and
got himself onto his feet, anticipating the worst.

Lockers in the adjoining corridors were all standing open.  Empty.

Slake moved his fuchsia light around the darkened corners of the
bridge.  Something like eight million iterations had been fed into the
human interface guidelines prior to construction.  But everything here
was pink.  Even in the low light, the design hurt his eyes.  Why did
the color bother him so much?

And where was everyone, anyway?

He feared he already knew the answer.

7

As Slake suspected, the hijackers had gained entry through the
plumbing in one of the supposedly secure restrooms.

The toilet seats had been flipped up, porcelain caked and crumbled on
the tile floor.  He located the invaders’ trail in fuchsia, traced
their progress from room to room, reconstructing the apparent sequence
of events.

No one and nothing was left aboard.  Not a good sign.  But why had
they left him behind?  And why hadn’t they taken the ship?

In the forward lounge he discovered a message carved into the inner
layer of the pseudoglass observation wall:

PROSE EDDA

He had no idea what it meant.  He assumed, a semi-transparent jape.
Likely of historical or literary significance, but with ship’s systems
offline he’d have to wait to check with the reference stacks.

His reverie faltered as a faint burst of audio collapsed the pale
silence.  The whimpering and crying of what sounded like the ship.

The RAGNAROK was awake.