of waiting in line — but I couldn’t think of anything to talk about beyond the health dangers involved in having cells so close to her spinal fluid.
A few minutes later I was at the counter.
“Destination?”
“Octavia.” I waited for the slight, obscurely gratifying shock that I had come to expect. Nothing. Not even a raise of the eyebrows — only a flicker of the light running over the surface of her eyeballs as she accessed the file retinally.
I wondered why her indifference to my destination was so deflating.
I had decided to go for a bunch of reasons, most relating to my dislike of Earth. I chose the most remote planet I could figuring that it’d be the least like the self-proclaimed centre of the universe. But over the past few months, people had responded to the news with shock and wonder: “Really? Golly, how brave of you!” and all that. I had made the decision alone, but it had been bolstered by people’s gratifying reaction.
“Mr. Sam Breen. You have a week stopover on Polix.” She blinked up some more data. Her lashes were lovely, and the way she stared through me to the data made her look dreamy.
“How did you know —”
“There’s only one human traveller to that destination.”
“So I guess you don’t see a lot of people going to Octavia,” I said, fishing.
She shook her head. I smiled, secure again.
“I started a week ago,” she said.
My smile broadened in appreciation of my pathetic neediness.
“Are you travelling with zap guns, cultural products, registered technology?”
“Yeah, my Speak-O-Matic,” I said, looking at my single suitcase.
Oh shit.
“I’ll need to scan it, sir.”
I rewound my recent activities frantically. I had set it on the bar stool...
Shit shit shit.
“Sir?”
I lifted my suitcase onto the platform automatically.
“I’ve left it in the bar,” I said. “I...”
Her eyes widened. “You left a... you should go back.” She looked at me sympathetically, but I felt no satisfaction in piercing her veil of boredom. “I’ll send this ahead, and if... when you get your item, I can register it.”
She tapped my bags with a wand and they became enveloped in black plastic, then the platform dropped out of sight. I took the flight card from her and walked away from the counter. There was no point in running, I told myself, it was either there, or it wasn’t.
I started running.
The frothy glass that glowed above the entrance to the bar grew bigger and bigger as I dodged luggage-droids and nearly stepped on a family of Plevs. How was I gonna teach English to kids when I couldn’t even speak —
The door of the bar slid closed behind me, and my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Three humans were chatting quietly a few stools down from where the xenophobe and I had been sitting.
I walked to the stool where it should have been, hope draining out and self-loathing filling the empty space.
“Whattalitbe, buddy,” the charliebot said.
“Did you see a Speak-O-Matic in a triangular case—”
“We can’t be responsible for items left on the premises,” it said, starting to polish a glass.
I looked over at the humans, who had heard the exchange. One of them shook her head.
A trip to the lost-and-found office revealed that items of that cost were rarely returned, and that the number of employees who wore grey body-suits numbered in the hundreds. I took a seat in the waiting area, watching families reunite and break apart.
One recently reunited family of metal triangle people sat down beside me and started tinkling to one another. Two little ones had bravely taken the chair next to me. They were swivelling towards me and talking, and my casual curiosity as to what they were saying swelled up; and was suddenly smacked down by the reality of the situation.
I can’t believe I lost my fuckin’ brand new Speak-O-Matic.
Suddenly the lovely tinkling became too much to bear, and I stood.
***
It was the
A few minutes later I was at the counter.
“Destination?”
“Octavia.” I waited for the slight, obscurely gratifying shock that I had come to expect. Nothing. Not even a raise of the eyebrows — only a flicker of the light running over the surface of her eyeballs as she accessed the file retinally.
I wondered why her indifference to my destination was so deflating.
I had decided to go for a bunch of reasons, most relating to my dislike of Earth. I chose the most remote planet I could figuring that it’d be the least like the self-proclaimed centre of the universe. But over the past few months, people had responded to the news with shock and wonder: “Really? Golly, how brave of you!” and all that. I had made the decision alone, but it had been bolstered by people’s gratifying reaction.
“Mr. Sam Breen. You have a week stopover on Polix.” She blinked up some more data. Her lashes were lovely, and the way she stared through me to the data made her look dreamy.
“How did you know —”
“There’s only one human traveller to that destination.”
“So I guess you don’t see a lot of people going to Octavia,” I said, fishing.
She shook her head. I smiled, secure again.
“I started a week ago,” she said.
My smile broadened in appreciation of my pathetic neediness.
“Are you travelling with zap guns, cultural products, registered technology?”
“Yeah, my Speak-O-Matic,” I said, looking at my single suitcase.
Oh shit.
“I’ll need to scan it, sir.”
I rewound my recent activities frantically. I had set it on the bar stool...
Shit shit shit.
“Sir?”
I lifted my suitcase onto the platform automatically.
“I’ve left it in the bar,” I said. “I...”
Her eyes widened. “You left a... you should go back.” She looked at me sympathetically, but I felt no satisfaction in piercing her veil of boredom. “I’ll send this ahead, and if... when you get your item, I can register it.”
She tapped my bags with a wand and they became enveloped in black plastic, then the platform dropped out of sight. I took the flight card from her and walked away from the counter. There was no point in running, I told myself, it was either there, or it wasn’t.
I started running.
The frothy glass that glowed above the entrance to the bar grew bigger and bigger as I dodged luggage-droids and nearly stepped on a family of Plevs. How was I gonna teach English to kids when I couldn’t even speak —
The door of the bar slid closed behind me, and my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Three humans were chatting quietly a few stools down from where the xenophobe and I had been sitting.
I walked to the stool where it should have been, hope draining out and self-loathing filling the empty space.
“Whattalitbe, buddy,” the charliebot said.
“Did you see a Speak-O-Matic in a triangular case—”
“We can’t be responsible for items left on the premises,” it said, starting to polish a glass.
I looked over at the humans, who had heard the exchange. One of them shook her head.
A trip to the lost-and-found office revealed that items of that cost were rarely returned, and that the number of employees who wore grey body-suits numbered in the hundreds. I took a seat in the waiting area, watching families reunite and break apart.
One recently reunited family of metal triangle people sat down beside me and started tinkling to one another. Two little ones had bravely taken the chair next to me. They were swivelling towards me and talking, and my casual curiosity as to what they were saying swelled up; and was suddenly smacked down by the reality of the situation.
I can’t believe I lost my fuckin’ brand new Speak-O-Matic.
Suddenly the lovely tinkling became too much to bear, and I stood.
***
It was the
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