Keeping track of time had been hard enough in the artificial environment of the ship before they had arrived in this system. Now, with most of Westward's corridor lights kept perpetually dim and the frequent trips to the tower, it seemed to be impossible.
Lamont and Rosemary slipped in single-file through the doors of the command deck, which were still stuck in a half-open state. Apparently their repair was a relatively low priority. The deck was dimly lit, making the multicolored tell-tale lights scattered across the pilot and navigation wings of the central console appear brighter than usual in contrast. On the main view screen of the console, placed at the head of the situation table and between the control wings, Lamont noticed a configuration he had never seen before: There were vertical bars on either side of the screen, each about an eighth of the screen's height, and a small dot occupying the space between them. The vertical bars were moving up and down along their sides of the screen, while the dot was rapidly moving between them, as if deflected by one bar only to quickly bounce off the bar opposite. At the pilot and navigation consoles, Gabriela Lopez and Duncan McGregor were gazing intently at the electronic scene, their hands busily manipulating the controls in front of them.
"Who's winning?" Lamont asked.
The pilot and navigator both started visibly, looking up toward the doorway behind them. Without the usual door chime, they had not noticed the new arrivals. The dot in the middle of the screen flew past the bar on Gabriela's side and disappeared from view. The console emitted a harsh electronic buzz.
"I am, now." Duncan smiled behind his white-flecked beard.
"Not fair," Gabriela protested, lightly pounding the piloting console with the side of her fist.
"Oy, is that some kind of game?" Rosemary asked.
"We like to think of it as a reflex exercise," Duncan explained. With a rapid flick of his hand, he blanked the view screen and swiveled his stool to face the newcomers. His broad frame was a stark contrast to the trim and rather bony figure of Lopez perched at the piloting console to his left.
"It's third shift," Lamont noted, glancing at his wristwatch. "Blimey, I had no idea." Keeping track of time had been hard enough in the artificial environment of the ship before they had arrived in this system. Now, with most of Westward's corridor lights kept perpetually dim and the frequent trips to the tower, it seemed to be impossible.
"I suppose it would be at that," Rosemary said, craning her neck to look through the transparent walls of Carter's darkened office on the port side of the command deck. "The captain's not in, then?"
"Even he's got to rest sometime," Gabriela said. "He left about an hour ago—I imagine he's in his quarters now."
"Well, that's how the cookie crumbles," Lamont yawned, scratching at the seam where the collar of his vacuum suit formed a tight seal against the skin of his neck. All he wanted to do was peal it off, lie on the floor of his own quarters and smoke about six cigarettes in absolute darkness. "We'll come back in the morning," he said, lifting a hand to pinch a thumb and forefinger in front of one eye. "Be seeing you."
Author’s note: Happy new year, everyone! For the month of January, 2024, Page of Pulp will be slowing down its publishing schedule to 3 entries per week. This is to provide additional time for preparing upcoming Westward materials. Keep in touch! -ETT
Happy New Year's everyone!