Buttons #Project Constellations

Between the devil and deep space

I'm tucked away in my little pilot nook on the bridge. I'm pretty sure the nerds that designed this ship copied Star Trek as much as possible, and their bridge design is a little like the bridge from Star Trek: The Next Generation, but with a few practical changes. Like, everyone has seats, and most of the seats are recessed into semiprivate cubbies where we can sit and get our work done without too much interruption. My cubby is at the back, across from the entrance but in the furthest corner from the large screen at the front, currently showing Pluto spinning below us. People see me when then come in, but most ignore the small purple-haired punk absorbed in her work. Just as I like it. 

We have a skeleton crew on, it's outside of 'offical' work hours. The skeleton crew is one insomniac named Braden. He has his own cubby with a screen scrolling reports from all other stations. He slouches in his seat at the front, playing Tasty Tetris - a combination of Candy Crush and old school tetris. One of the last games to start fadding when the missiles launched. Seems like it's pretty damn addictive. Braden looks happy enough doing twelve hour skeleton shifts, I'm pretty sure most of what he does is play TT and doze. It's fine. His real purpose is to let the important people know when an important change happens. If those important (oh high and mighty) peeps need something done immediately, he's the hands that carry out the orders.  

Braden is tucked away in his little nook, upright, and I'm pretty sure dozing. I'm back in my little nook calculating possible routes to the closest 'Goldilocks' planet. A 'Goldilocks' planet has conditions that are 'just right' for human life. I've gotten the route down to 950 years using gravity to sling shot us and add speed. And decrease speed at the other end. I'm thinking I might even be able to shave one hundred more years off the trip with some more tweaks and maybe a consult with engineering. It looks like we have a window opening up for a strong push out of our solar system. The window opens in seven days and closes in nine. The next window won't come for six more months. That sure puts some urgency on deciding where to go. 

President Brianna Benden is also sitting at her station. She gets a pretty shitty station, I think. She's right in the centre of the bridge, with her chair facing forward so she can see the large screen in front. The chair is bolted, stuck facing forward, so to have her own personal work screen, she needs to fold her screens and keyboards up and to each side. The twits who made that station should have made full keyboard and interactive screens 'behind' her and let her swivel the chair forward to watch big screen and backwards to face her workspace. It's not like there's really any such thing as 'front' on these ships, anyways. The armrests of the chair, as tradition dictates, contain controls. And under clear plastic protection, a big red button. Only the captain has access to this panel, and I'm positive not even she should have access. Big red buttons are never good news, and this one spells reeeaaal bad news. Its for launching our only offensive weapon. Now, weapons, when required to defend the sole remnants of our race, would seem like a brilliant idea. Sure, unless the weapon is 1) our only energy source and 2) what caused us to be the sole remnants of our race. That's right. Press the big stupid red button and we forcibly eject our nuclear reactor, and detonate it when it reaches its objective.

An alert pings on all of our stations - the report has just come in saying the predictable; Pluto is not suitable for colonisation. I'd have won some money if anyone was willing to take that bet. And if there was such a thing as money anymore. 

I've scanned the report, nothing surprising in it, so I turn to look at something more interesting: Brianna. Now she is something. Pixie-cut natural blond hair on a strong featured face, combined with a slender but muscled frame. And somehow, also, a great rack. Damn those women who have no body fat except in boobs and ass. Brianna is hot. Or, umm, attractive? No, the word I'm looking for is beautiful, but she doesn't turn me on. I think? I'm fourteen, ok, leave me alone. 

Anyways, I do worship President Brianna Benden (just not in THAT way, ok?). She's good looking, athletic, smart and dedicated as hell. She's earned her place as captain of this ship and president of the fleet. I can't help think that her hotness couldn't have hurt her chances of becoming president (sigh, sooo hot). She's carefully reading the report, probably looking for anything that the author could have possibly missed. But its not there - Pluto was the last chance of staying in the Sol Solar System once we irradiated our Earth. And it was really no chance at all.

I'm watching as she finishes reading, ice blue eyes gazing pensively down on Pluto's slow spins. She doesn't look worried, but she must be, the decision that she has to make will decide the fate of the human race.  

Ass-face enters, he's clearly received the report, glanced to see the obvious conclusion, and sped up here. He doesn't even bother to glance up and and notice me, he bee-lines straight for Brianna.
'Hi, baby.' He leans his conceited butt on one of the stools next to the captain's chair (I know right, stools? C'mon nerds, you can do better). 'Read the report?' 

Brianna lifts her head to look up at shit-for-brains. I think she looks tired for an instant. Maybe she's realising sir-ass's personality and intellect are a fraction as good as his ridiculously good looks. Brianna's looks may have helped her get her position, but ass-hat definitely got to where he is by using his ungodly sex appeal to charm his way to the top. I think he must have sex appeal, that's the only explanation for anyone putting up with him for more than a minute. I certainly don't think he has any. But, again, fourteen. Maybe my brains will go to mush with lust for him too when I finish puberty. Or not. I can't imagine not hating his slimy chiseled ass (I'm fourteen, not blind, I can spot a chiseled ass when I see one). 

'Not in public, please, pilot.' She gently reprimands him. 'What brings you up here at this time? The report is... nothing we didn't expect.' 

'Yes, but,' slimy-ass nearly loses his cool, 'What are you going to do about it?'

'I'm going to call a meeting.' You can see her mouth slide wryly to one side. Yes, we all know, meetings have only solved possibly one problem in all the the history of man-kind. It was probably some poor soul who couldn't stand the thought of attending one more meeting who couldn't resist the button that launched the first missile. 

'What's that going to do!' Slimy-soul's voice rises, and sleepy-ol-Braden straightens up briefly in his cubby. I should give Slimy some credit, even he knows the value of meetings.

Brianna's face hardens, 'That's for me to plan, and you to find out at the meeting. Now, I've got some thinking to do, and I must do so on my own.' I'm sitting silently doing imaginary fist-bumps in the air. Take that! 

Slimy realises he's stepped in it, and smiles in what I think is supposed to be an ingratiating way, 'Sorry, it's just that what we do next affects me too.' Ugh. Sooo egocentric, 'I'll see you tonight in quarters?' 

A beatific smile lights up Brianna's face, 'Count on it.' Slime-balls goes for a kiss, but she turns back to studying her screens. He leaves with one worried glance back at our President. Maybe she doesn't see it, but that look of worry is only for one person, and it isn't her. 

Also. Meeting each other tonight in her quarters? Barf.