The kid came to me today, hiding behind Witherspoon’s skirts. (Now there’s an image-Witherspoon in a skirt. Do they make them that big?) He, (the kid) has bought the scuttlebutt about big white cats coming to destroy the planet. Bought it hook, line, and sinker. Wants to drag my engineering staff away from their work to build an unworkable “planetary defense system” mostly from recycled antique military surplus. Well, he can’t have them. OK, one, maybe. If I don’t give them somebody that can add two and two, I’ll have Witherspoon nagging me about “security.” It may be his job (security, not nagging) but he takes it a bit too seriously. Seriously. Feline space pirates? Be…serious.
So, what are we going to do about sex? I already know from embarrassing personal experience how widely the experience of orgasm is broadcast, but the newcomers don’t. The two of us have been too busy and too tired for sex since we started exploring Site 2, but the day is coming…soon. I suppose the possibilities are; 1. Leave the area for sex. That would work while we are here, but not when we return to the village. 2. Choose to live with it. Shared sexual experience is way more than good, but I’m not sure we’re ready for sharing with everybody in the village.
Inevitably, the gumdrops will feel it. Their reaction, as always, will be unpredictable.
All the posts in the subcategories under this one are the musings of fictional characters. It helps to know your characters.
The nerve of that snot-nosed, semi-human kid! I felt sorry for him, OK. His father was killed, he got slammed around pretty good, then his mother died; I gave him a year with his bride even though I really need Phyllis here. No one can predict if the colony can survive this shorthanded. So he thanks me by suborning five more colonists to leave–to sever all ties. At least he failed to get Tom Kennedy. Tom’s fully human and knows where his loyalties lie. When the kid’s penniless and hungry, that pack of mongrels will turn on him. Damn, I’m out of coffee.
I think I’m loosing control, assuming that I ever had any. The Systems, Medical and Utility in particular, have pumped Andrea Lindsay full of ideas. She’s left the rest of us to work on the farm. Didn’t ask, just went. Not that it’s a bad idea; not that I wouldn’t have said yes–it would have shown respect to have been asked.
As we speak, the Systems are working on Dakota Whitefeather’s head. If she walks in and says she’s going somewhere to set up a hospital, and the rest of us should have a nice life, I may not be kind.
Oh, by the way, Çêt Tâcher said something that started the wheels turning. He suggested there was no place on this planet from which we, as a group, could not spy on Roy Condon. Spy on the good captain? Now there’s a devious thought worthy of an Andorrian trader. But then, we’re not all here, are we.