Millenium Myths

Mask of Space

 A young man leaned against the balustrade of the opulent staircase and viewed the ship's mess hall before him. The man wore a smart suit of black with a gold tie. Not a mess hall, he reminded himself, a dining room. A fancy one at that. Cruise ships didn't have mess halls or galleys. They have dining rooms and bakeries. So sophisticated. He smiled.

A fake smile. He didn't have many real ones.

"No lounging." Came a voice from behind.

The man straightened himself and turned as a middle-aged man with gray hair walked up to him "Excuse me?"

The man was Memard Ridardton, Chief Officiator of Nebula Dawn General Affairs. He smoothly strode up to the man with hands clasped behind his straight back and with a politely slight smile upon his lips. "Heed the predicament you fashioned for yourself," he stated. Ridardton was dressed in a plain black suit with only a red tie to mark his status. "One becomes staff of the Nebula Dawn only if they are millionaires with repute or career servants from the most distinguished schools of etiquette. Fortunately for you, the board has determined your false identity, Arthurst Learhart, to be pivotal to the experience of some of our customers and you will be allowed to serve as part of the staff for the remainder of the voyage."

Learhart's jaw dropped slightly. "Excuse me?!"

The slight smile left Memard Ridardton's lips. "This is one of the most distinguished cruise ships in all the worlds. We serve nothing less than royalty and trillionaires. Do you think we would not notice a con-artist...no, too refined a description, a stowaway to operate amongst our midst?"

Learhart swallowed, "I suppose you have guards nearby?"

The slight smile came back to Memard Ridardton's lips. "Guards? I suppose special forces could fit that role. Your first duty will be to replace Urdnund Lucha and clean this dining room by breakfast." With that, Ridardton swiveled smoothly away and strode from the room.

Of all the **** **** times to be ******* caught! Learhart slumped against the balustrade. He checked his watch; it was 9:38. He slowly turned and looked at the dining room. It looked spotless. How...how was he supposed to clean what was already clean? He walked down the sweeping stair and checked under the tables, nothing. The tables were clean. Immaculate. He checked the wood trimming on the walls for dust and found the lingering scent of lemon oil. More importantly, how could he get away? He thought as he made his inspection. His training and experience had allowed him to regain his composure. They weren't shooting him yet.

He stood in the middle of the room and looked around himself. And just what am I supposed to clean here? He sat down in one of the chairs and tapped his fingers. His answer came after ten minutes of him thinking in frustration. A small group of passengers came into the far side of the dining room and sat at a table. A waiter soon came to them and they ordered.

The kitchen was open this late?! Learhart put two and two together and covered his eyes with a hand. The dining room is open all night long and here I am to clean up after everyone. He stood, took off his jacket and stood close to the group ready to clean up a spill or take dirty plates. Naturally, the high-bred people didn't make a mess. Learhart didn't expect them to. The wine was served. As the people joked and laughed together one of them reached for his glass without looking and knocked it over.

Learhart cringed. The silk tablecloth was stained bright red. What idiots! He moved forward in a flash and caught the spreading liquid before it could spill onto the man.