Excerpt:
To tell you the truth I don't care what day it is, even when the user over friendly 'ware interface reminds me that it's the twenty fifth of December dirtside and it's time for good will to all men and shit. Hell, I've tried reprogramming the fricking thing, but it keeps on doing the jingle bells crap whenever I log in for twice daily course check. It's not as if I've got anyone aboard this tub to give presents to. Apart from the zeeps, zombie peeps, down in the hold, chillsleeping their way to the next viable solar system.
"Merry Christmas Charles!" It squeaks. "Happy Holidays!" For the twentieth time that morning. Makes me want to crack its armorglass housing with a fire axe. Which they don't issue star ship pilots with. I'm beginning to see why. "Are you ready for course check?"
"Course check aye. Confirm standard space time insertion in three hundred and sixty seven standard days, six standard hours and fifty three standard minutes. Vectors show zero deviation." I confirm in a resigned tone of voice. No use getting mad with its gel crystal circuitry. It's just a dumb machine that does what it's programmed to do, but every so often the maldito thing makes me so depressed.
Not that I have time to get depressed. Too many other things to do, systems to check, Atmo to monitor, hull integrity to check, radiation shielding, leak detection, coolant levels, life signs, check for premature wake ups, make sure no poor mothers son or daughter is hammering to get out of their dead little composite box down in the hold, screaming claustrophobia into the dark dead horror of isolation. Especially not on Christmas day, right? I'm paid, and paid well to deliver these zeeps, bright and sparkly, to their brave new worlds. I get fined for every one I lose or deliver disabled, and baby those fines are huge. The company lawyers see to that.
All the same, I wish the company had decided not to programme the fricking AI with every artificial happy holiday under the sun. It grinds at the soul, abrades the spirit and puts me off my critical game. This is not what I, Charles Yang-Stewart, became a starship pilot for.
