31
Hurrying down the hallway you follow the emergency lights through the wide bare halls. Nearing the launching bay, you hear ahead the whir of mechanical legs. Rounding a corner you step into the evacuation bay, a large semicircular lounge with doorways in the curved wall leading to corridors and ultimately the escape pods.
All the doors are closed and red lights inform you that the pods have all been launched. There is a robotic dog here, creating the whirring as it patrols back and forth. It is a strange-looking thing, with a greyhound-shaped body and limbs of black polymer, and an oversized, head that looks like a rocket-launcher with an array of sensors on top.
In the seconds it has taken you to take in the scene, the dog-bot has been walking away from you, but it is about to turn back and will see you.
If you want to leave before the dog-bot sees you, turn to 39
If you want to go out and ask the doggy-woggy what’s happening, turn to 21
116s
126 seconds gone
We avoid doggy
39
Deciding that the dog is trouble, you slip back into the corridor and creep away as quiet as a six-foot mouse. Reaching the lift you step back inside and use your paw to press the button to take you up to the command deck. The doors close and the lift whooshes upwards at high speed. Shaken, and a little exhilarated you step out of the lift.
The corridors on Deck A are so much more luxurious than you are accustomed to. Thick, soft carpet lies underfoot, and your way is lit by old-fashioned brass and crystal wall lights. Even the electronic touch screens are housed in ornate, gilt frames, displaying images of oil painting landscapes while on standby.
Although you pause to brush off and straighten your coveralls; the opulent surrounds do not deter you from your mission, and you hurry towards the bridge. Following the main corridor leads you past polished wooden doors, often set with gleaming brass plaques. Finally the corridor ends at a pair of doors bearing the designation: “Bridge.”
The doors open at your approach and you enter into the correctly labelled room. As you step inside, the first thing you notice is the bright light shining from the front of the room where the large viewscreen fills the wall. Light and heat from the image of the sun directly ahead blaze upon you, making it difficult to see. You stumble inside, until your hands hit upon a polished wooden rail.
Shading you eyes and squinting for good measure, you manage to see that the bridge is a multi-layered affair, with rows of tiered consoles below you extending down to the foot of the viewscreen. Where you stand is the highest tier, unoccupied except for a large comfortable chair, with a quaint old sailing ships tiller wheel before it.
You give the wheel a spin, hoping against hope that it is more than ornamental. The wheel spins easily, a testament to the loving care bestowed upon its ball-bearings in the form of regular greasing. However, apart from testifying to the aforementioned loving care, the wheel is non-functional.
Going over to the captain’s chair, you sit down, feeling yourself settle into the soft clasp of its silken cushions. Your enjoyment of the chair does not prevent you from scorning the decadence of the former captain, and after a moment’s indulgence, you get to the matter at hand.
“Computer,” you say in your most commanding voice. “Change course!”
“Who is squeaking?” the computer asks politely.
“The captain! I am the captain now!” you announce.
“Yes, sir,” the computer agrees without any resistance. “Please input your command code.”
“Wa? I don’t have one,” you reveal, your voice trembling with the kind of uncertainty that has spawned countless mutinies ever since men went to sea in groups together.
“Navigational command requires command status,” the computer tells you sympathetically.
“I am the last crewmember left on board, am I not?” you ask.
“Yes, sir,” the computer agrees.
“That makes me the captain now, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, captain.”
“So why don’t I have command status?” you want to know.
“You need to submit your CMN and apply for command status. If your application is successful, you will need to register and create a command code. Then you can login and take command.”
“What’s a CMN?” you ask, perplexed.
“Crew Member Number,” the computer informs you. “It is the prominent number on your Crewmember Identification Card.”
Now you are getting somewhere! You reach into your pocket for the card. Not in that pocket. You check the next likely pocket. Nothing. You check the remainder of your pockets with growing dread and dismay that reaches a peak, then sends a wave of fear crashing down upon you, wiping you out and dumping you upon the shore of frustration.
You know you had it with you last night. The card is used to make purchases from the funds in your on-board account. You had it at the club last night, purchasing the alcohol that was subsequently poured down your throat, resulting in the state of extreme charm that you are still recovering from. You must have lost it in the dance club.
“Be right back!” you shout, springing up from the chair and dashing towards the exit. The opulent corridor sweeps past as you run towards the lift, pound the button and hurl yourself into the small, vertically mobile room. You lift your extended finger to press the button, yet it pauses, trembling in anticipation of function.
What floor was the dance club on? There are 26 buttons, marked A to Z. You are always getting lost on this darn ship. You can’t even remember the name of the dance club.
If you know what floor you were on, you can turn to the correct reference by converting the letter to a number using A=1, B=2, … , Z=26. Otherwise, you will just have to guess. If the passage you turn to makes no sense, then turn instead to 49 right away.
284s
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