Nano Bytes - A Collection of Short SciFi Stories

Contact by WJQuinn

So far, so lucky, but there was no mistaking the genius in what followed. The Fleek agreed to meet. When it transpired that the Fleek had no equivalent visual display technology (they eschewed display technology in favour of direct neural stimulation), Semenov had a problem. He could 'speak' in incredibly basic terms to them, they couldn't talk back.

Semenov adapted, and, linking his augmented intellect to the ship A.I., developed a sign language based on ancient hand languages, and even social insect activity. The Fleek, impressed, adapted to speak on these new terms, and the future was made.

This Titan of humanity smattered serious discussions over the Droitja, with this Angel crap.

Never meet your heroes, Annie.

Duly uplifted by her trek, she finally arrived.

---

At 0300, patrons of the Ref were few. This first night trip 'above decks' wasn't offering much to the diurnal tourist. The serried food stations were certainly emptier though, the choices limited.

The "Senior Nutrition Management Officer" or "Cook" as she insisted on being called, didn't offer repro-food here. If you wanted non-menu items, you could "go rot your guts with that soulless crap from one of those fucking food printers."

Sitting on one of the high stools at the bar adjoining the food stations, was Cook herself. A genuine paper book in hand; museum-piece chef's hat to one side. Annie knew the tales of Cook's eternal vigil. She must sleep sometime, yet here she was, just as she had been at 0630, 0130, and 0715 prior.

Tea and coffee urns, along with biomilk and sweetener dispensers, were, thankfully, in their usual place. Annie extracted her properly sized mug from a small carry bag and went forth. Cook never stirred.

On the fifth return trip, the urn was empty. Still in need, Annie looked around and realised there was nothing for it.

"Ahem, sorry to disturb Cook," (said with a capital C), "but there's no tea left."

Cook's eyes stopped scanning the page in front of her, and her gaze slowly lifted to hers. Unexpectedly Annie then experienced mortal terror; death was imminent. Those eyes lacked life; they were the cold, dead eyes of a zombie. She stifled an "eep."

An instant later, Cook appeared to switch on, and when she smiled, without fangs, Annie sighed her relief.

"Well we can't have that, can we dear?" said Cook, and setting book aside, she reaffixed the hat, collected the urn and vanished into the galley. Annie considered commenting on the anachronistic and vaguely insulting address, remembered the eyes of a moment before, and didn't.

She took a stool, leaving one between her and Cook's. Irish tones issued from the galley, "So Annie, why are you visiting my domain at this hour of the morning?"

She replied, "I just can't sleep, too much on my mind, what with the first contact coming up."

Cook duly returned, full urn carried with ease, and no obvious thermal protection. Annie decided that when the Droitja turned out to be demon proctologists, he was coming to hide here.

Setting the urn down Cook offered, "So you thought you'd come down here for a vat of tea. Quite sensible." She came forward a step and reached out a hand. Annie considered shaking it before realising she wanted the mug, so he gave her that instead.

"So," Cook said returning it full and steaming, "what's the actual reason you're here?"

"Oh, you know," she shrugged, "nerves."

Cook tsk'd. "A person, "she said indicating herself, "makes you a nice cup of tea, and you make with that horse-shit?"

Annie spat some tea. This was not how people conversed. Cook barrelled on,