Roger returned to his cabin feeling exhausted. He pondered for perhaps the hundredth time why he should continue to feel such human frailties when he now existed only as numbers in a machine but shrugged the thought aside as he struggled with the futuristic locking mechanism on his cabin door. Rather than a proper lock and key, it required he type in a sequence of numbers. He had selected the coronation date of King George to make it easier to remember. It nevertheless took him three attempts to open his door.
The late night planning session had left him spent, but at the same time his mind still raced with anxieties. After changing into his nightclothes, he decided to read to calm his thoughts before trying to sleep. Settling into his reading chair, he opened up A Contemporary Survey of French Renaissance Poetry to the page he had left off on. He had not seriously indulged his love of poetry since his student days in Cambridge, but a recent conversation with that blue tentacled creature named Marguerite had rekindled his interest.
He was well engrossed in L'Amour des amours when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Roger, are you still up?" He recognized Sydney's voice.
"Yes, I was just reading. Do come in." He remembered the door was likely locked and was just rising to open it when it clicked and swished aside
"Sorry to interrupt your reading," Sydney said as she entered, "I'm just a little... tense... you know, with going to war and all. I felt like staying up and, um, talking for a while." The door slid closed behind her.
"Oh I understand completely. I feel much the same, which is why you find me still up reading." He set his book aside on the night table. "I would offer you tea if I had any, but do please sit down at least." He gestured to his reading chair.
"Oh I couldn't take your only chair from you." She sat on his bed, then snapped her fingers. A steaming cup of tea appeared in her hand. She nodded to his night table where a matching cup now sat.
Roger returned to his chair. "This is likely to keep us up," he stated as he sipped his own tea.
"I could make it decaf, if you like."
"No, this is fine. Reading French poetry will likely render me unconscious anyway."
She smiled. "That boring, huh?"
"On the contrary," he insisted, "I find poetry very engaging. It is something about the French language I think. It lends itself to somnolence."
"Spoken like a true Brit. Never pass up an opportunity to rip on the French." Her eyes wandered around his cabin. "You know, we could get you a bigger room. You don't need to stay in this dinky place."
"I like it. It is... how would you Americans say it... Cozy? It reminds me of the flat I had in Cambridge. Besides, I spend most of my time in the library and usually only sleep here."
"So it appears. Nice pajamas, by the way." She lifted her teacup to her mouth, but he could see a smile hiding behind it.
"You should hardly cast stones in my direction," he countered, nodding at her outfit.
"I'll have you know this is a captain's uniform," she shot back.
"So you've said before. I still say they look like pajamas."
She looked down at her outfit. "Yes, I suppose they do, a little. And yet it creates a bit of a power imbalance, you in your jim-jams and me in a uniform." She waved her hand and was suddenly wearing a flannel outfit similar to his own.
Roger froze mid sip. He was struck by the image of this woman, dressed in sleeping attire, sitting on his bed.
"Roger, are you... blushing?"
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The Apocalypse Contract
कल्पित विज्ञानAs a reclusive genius who only works from home, Sydney was used to taking on some weird consulting jobs to keep the bills paid. But when her latest clients turn out to be shape-shifting aliens offering a cure for her cancer in exchange for a 30 year...
