[story] aya (working title) #3

It's not as long as the previous ones (Hell, it's just a quarter!), but
I think it's a natural break and besides, I just feel the urgent need to
push that out. As a result I unfortunately have been neglecting proof
reading again - you have been warned. That aside, have fun and comment.

*****

The ringing of the phone shook a rather annoyed Aya out of her dreams.
Reflexively she groped for the alarm clock on her bedside table and,
with an of accuracy that hinted at years of practice, hurled it
against the panel on the wall - where it ineffectively bounced off.
After the first few times both clock and phone panel had been replaced
with especially sturdy models, bereaving her both of an excuse not to
answer the phone and the satisfaction of shutting the alarm off for
good. The fact that the repair costs exceeded her allowance on a
regular basis might although have had something to do with it.
The phone kept ringing. Aya gave it a growl, only half
heartedly disguised as a groan, disentangled herself from the mess she
had made of her bed and, still half asleep, crossed the handful steps
to the wall. This had better be important.
At the touch of her hand the painted landscape next to the
panel disappeared, and was replaced by the view of a man in his
forties. He was dressed casually in an uniform like brown jacket and a
mess of black hair stuck out from odd angles on his head, partially
obscuring a face that didn't seem in he habit of showing any more
emotions than its owner meant it to.
'Anyara La... You do realize, that the video feed is on, don't
you?'
She hadn't, but why would he say that? Aya glanced down her
body; she hit the video kill-button with such ferocity that she pretty
much hurt her hand. Right. Her bathrobe had to be somewhere among her
blanket and her sheets and she had felt too tired to bother putting on
her pyjamas. She really hated phones.
'Where was I...' the man on the phone was giving the
impression of a talker who had been interrupted in a well planned
speech and was now trying to remember his script. Knowing him, that
very likely was the case.
'Anyara Laeevah Asani,' he started, making Aya flinch. Calling
her by her full name? He had to be seriously mad at her then.
'you have exactly twenty-three minutes, or your first day as
my pilot is going to be your last. Have I made myself clear?'
With this, he hung up, giving her no chance to reply; the
display returned once again to the painting of light flooded
landscape. Aya rather fond of the picture. It was only a poor copy of
the original hanging in the Museum of Contemplatory Art - contact
sensors in walls and floor, rotating light barriers; nothing overly
complicated - but then hanging the original on her wall might have
been a bit too suspicious. Besides, it belonged into a museum.
This was no time to dwell on art, however. It was late - she
was late; and time was running. Aya ripped her wardrobe open and
started digging through its contents. By the time she had found
something suitable the floor was covered in an ankle deep layer of
clothes. She quickly dressed, gabbed her necklace and in record time
was out of the door.
With a breakneck pace she dashed down the stairs, taking three
steps at once and jumping down twice that much before the landings.
She almost collided with the automatic front door, when it didn't open
fast enough and once in the street took up speed.
Most people would agree, that the underground was the fastest
way to move through the city, but Aya wasn't most people and she
didn't have time to waste. The trains had to stop at every station and
that was their weakness. Aya didn't have to stop, she didn't have to
wait for people embarking and disembarking; all she had to do was run.
'Out of the way!'
A cluster of people managed to dissolve just in time for Aya
not to crash into them. They cursed under their breath, but she was
already too far away to hear them. She didn't care. She didn't care
about all the looks she was drawing either. They didn't matter, all
that mattered was the time and time was running out.
One building after the next flew past her, grey cuboids under
a grey sky, populated by little grey people with little grey lives.
You could replace all of them with robots and nobody would notice. Not
that it was their fault, it was the place. Terraforming had made the
planet liveable, but it hadn't made it alive, not yet. The only real
wildlife had to be kept in large biosphere domes with artificial
atmosphere, artificial light, artificial everything. Very wild a life
indeed. It was about she put some distance between her and that rock.
In space everything was artificial as well, but at least there wasn't
all that pretence. Besides, she missed being able to see the stars.
Aya passed the queue in front of the Arcton Gallery of Cruel
and Unusual Art and turned right into the Port Lane. She would never
get how they attracted that many visitors. The only thing worth
visiting was the cellar where, as she had learned on one of business
trips, all the authentic Assian hunting spears, genuine Jaglian
shrunken heads and the other exhibits were lovingly hand-crafted; the
only real pieces were probably the paintings in the offices.
When she passed the planet side end of the elevator, the road
did a little bend off and then she could see the ground port in front
of here. It was a rather small affair, with a handful of runways and
couple of dozen hangars. Only a few ships were based here, anything
else had to dock in orbit, both to cut down on air traffic and to
guarantee the elevator and shuttle companies a steady income, and the
government a well balanced budget. It was to anyone's benefit; at
least anyone who mattered, but who was she to complain?
The gates of the port already in view, Aya mobilized the last
of her reserves and broke into sprint, throwing her full speed into
the last metres. A young man in the uniform of the port authority and
a face Aya didn't recognize moved to block her way, but was gently
held back by his partner who gave Aya an acknowledging nod as she
dashed past them. One of the new guards, now doubt.
A few moments later Aya skidded to a halt in front of the
'Shadow Flux', an unremarkable small freighter painted in greys and
blacks. It was in the progress of being loaded, the hatchway wide open
and the ramp let down. Directing the operation was Forrester Kendri,
his black hair even more of a mess than it had been when he called.
Aya had given up trying to understand how he managed that.
'Nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds; new personal record,
isn't it?' he greeted her, then turned his attention back to the cargo
handlers.
Aya was standing bend over, hands braced against her hips and
panting heavily. Only slowly the burning in her lungs subsided and her
breath returned to a somewhat regular rhythm. After a minute or so he
noticed she was still standing next to him.
'Well, off to the cockpit with you. Run the preflight checks,
transmit the flight plan, you know the drill. I want to take off as
soon as the cargo is on board.'
Aya sighed. At least he wasn't mad at her any more.
'And then we'll have a nice long talk about punctuality.'
There it was. Oh well, one could hope.
'Love you too, dad.' she said for and answer and headed for
the ship.
--
emmel <the_emmel*you-know-what-that's-for*@gmx.net>
(Don't forget to remove the ** bit)

story archives available at http://ranira.wordpress.com

Official AGC feedback maniac

"God is playing creatures - and we're the norns."

"A hundred dead are a tragedy - a hundred thousand are statistics."

"I guess you can call yourself lucky." -
"I could, but Linda suits me a little better...
Things called lucky tend to get hit by trucks."

Proud owner of 1 (one) DISOBEDIENCE point.
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Hi, I'm a .sig virus. Just copy me to your .signature. And don't worry.

emmel wrote:
<snip>
> The ringing of the phone shook a rather annoyed Aya out of her dreams.
> Reflexively she groped for the alarm clock on her bedside table and,
> with an of accuracy that hinted at years of practice, hurled it
> against the panel on the wall - where it ineffectively bounced off.
> After the first few times both clock and phone panel had been replaced

What clock? I thought it was a phone!

> with especially sturdy models, bereaving her both of an excuse not to
> answer the phone and the satisfaction of shutting the alarm off for
> good. The fact that the repair costs exceeded her allowance on a
> regular basis might although have had something to do with it.
> The phone kept ringing. Aya gave it a growl, only half
> heartedly disguised as a groan, disentangled herself from the mess she
> had made of her bed and, still half asleep, crossed the handful steps

the handful of steps

> to the wall. This had better be important.
> At the touch of her hand the painted landscape next to the
> panel disappeared, and was replaced by the view of a man in his
> forties. He was dressed casually in an uniform like brown jacket and a

uniform-like

> mess of black hair stuck out from odd angles on his head, partially
> obscuring a face that didn't seem in he habit of showing any more
> emotions than its owner meant it to.
> 'Anyara La... You do realize, that the video feed is on, don't
> you?'
> She hadn't, but why would he say that? Aya glanced down her
> body; she hit the video kill-button with such ferocity that she pretty
> much hurt her hand. Right. Her bathrobe had to be somewhere among her
> blanket and her sheets and she had felt too tired to bother putting on

I think blankets is plural, like jeans and scissors.

I also think blankets are the same thing as sheets, maybe it isn't, I
see the free online dictionary suggests covers!

> her pyjamas. She really hated phones.
> 'Where was I...' the man on the phone was giving the
> impression of a talker who had been interrupted in a well planned
> speech and was now trying to remember his script. Knowing him, that
> very likely was the case.
> 'Anyara Laeevah Asani,' he started, making Aya flinch. Calling
> her by her full name? He had to be seriously mad at her then.
> 'you have exactly twenty-three minutes, or your first day as
> my pilot is going to be your last. Have I made myself clear?'
> With this, he hung up, giving her no chance to reply; the
> display returned once again to the painting of light flooded
> landscape. Aya rather fond of the picture. It was only a poor copy of

Aya was rather fond

> the original hanging in the Museum of Contemplatory Art - contact
> sensors in walls and floor, rotating light barriers; nothing overly
> complicated - but then hanging the original on her wall might have
> been a bit too suspicious. Besides, it belonged into a museum.
> This was no time to dwell on art, however. It was late - she
> was late; and time was running. Aya ripped her wardrobe open and

I read bathrobe at first. Men will always be men!

> started digging through its contents. By the time she had found
> something suitable the floor was covered in an ankle deep layer of
> clothes. She quickly dressed, gabbed her necklace and in record time
> was out of the door.
> With a breakneck pace she dashed down the stairs, taking three
> steps at once and jumping down twice that much before the landings.
> She almost collided with the automatic front door, when it didn't open
> fast enough and once in the street took up speed.
> Most people would agree, that the underground was the fastest
> way to move through the city, but Aya wasn't most people and she
> didn't have time to waste. The trains had to stop at every station and
> that was their weakness. Aya didn't have to stop, she didn't have to
> wait for people embarking and disembarking; all she had to do was run.
> 'Out of the way!'
> A cluster of people managed to dissolve just in time for Aya
> not to crash into them. They cursed under their breath, but she was
> already too far away to hear them. She didn't care. She didn't care
> about all the looks she was drawing either. They didn't matter, all
> that mattered was the time and time was running out.
> One building after the next flew past her, grey cuboids under
> a grey sky, populated by little grey people with little grey lives.
> You could replace all of them with robots and nobody would notice. Not
> that it was their fault, it was the place. Terraforming had made the
> planet liveable, but it hadn't made it alive, not yet. The only real
> wildlife had to be kept in large biosphere domes with artificial
> atmosphere, artificial light, artificial everything. Very wild a life
> indeed. It was about she put some distance between her and that rock.

It was about time she put...
herself and that rock.

> In space everything was artificial as well, but at least there wasn't
> all that pretence. Besides, she missed being able to see the stars.

all the pretence.

> Aya passed the queue in front of the Arcton Gallery of Cruel
> and Unusual Art and turned right into the Port Lane. She would never
> get how they attracted that many visitors. The only thing worth
> visiting was the cellar where, as she had learned on one of business

one of her business trips

> trips, all the authentic Assian hunting spears, genuine Jaglian

Asian? Ass-ian? An Assian hunting spear?!

> shrunken heads and the other exhibits were lovingly hand-crafted; the

and all the other exhibits were lovely hand-crafted, but the only real
pieces

> only real pieces were probably the paintings in the offices.
> When she passed the planet side end of the elevator, the road
> did a little bend off and then she could see the ground port in front

bend-off

> of here. It was a rather small affair, with a handful of runways and

in front of her.

> couple of dozen hangars. Only a few ships were based here, anything
> else had to dock in orbit, both to cut down on air traffic and to
> guarantee the elevator and shuttle companies a steady income, and the
> government a well balanced budget. It was to anyone's benefit; at

It was to everyone's benefit, at least to anyone that mattered.

> least anyone who mattered, but who was she to complain?
> The gates of the port already in view, Aya mobilized the last

With the gates

> of her reserves and broke into sprint, throwing her full speed into
> the last metres. A young man in the uniform of the port authority and

the port authorities

> a face Aya didn't recognize moved to block her way, but was gently
> held back by his partner who gave Aya an acknowledging nod as she
> dashed past them. One of the new guards, now doubt.
> A few moments later Aya skidded to a halt in front of the
> 'Shadow Flux', an unremarkable small freighter painted in greys and
> blacks. It was in the progress of being loaded, the hatchway wide open
> and the ramp let down. Directing the operation was Forrester Kendri,
> his black hair even more of a mess than it had been when he called.
> Aya had given up trying to understand how he managed that.
> 'Nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds; new personal record,
> isn't it?' he greeted her, then turned his attention back to the cargo
> handlers.
> Aya was standing bend over, hands braced against her hips and
> panting heavily. Only slowly the burning in her lungs subsided and her
> breath returned to a somewhat regular rhythm. After a minute or so he
> noticed she was still standing next to him.
> 'Well, off to the cockpit with you. Run the preflight checks,
> transmit the flight plan, you know the drill. I want to take off as
> soon as the cargo is on board.'
> Aya sighed. At least he wasn't mad at her any more.
> 'And then we'll have a nice long talk about punctuality.'
> There it was. Oh well, one could hope.
> 'Love you too, dad.' she said for and answer and headed for
> the ship.

Some comments:
Aya's dad is a perfect description of my friend that died a couple of
years ago. To the messy hairdo! He painted it through, though he was not
all grey yet. My friend also was very tall. But not 2 metres

About the light picture that you also have on your wordpress blog, you
say Aya missed seeing the stars. Can't she feed her light picture with
the output of a program like Starry Night or Celestia?

Neo
--
Everything that has a beginning has an end.