With a swift walk I scrambled past bards on their lutes, they loudly competed with the baroque echoing from the makeshift cathedral constructed next to the men’s bathroom. A stoic monk thrust an offering basket in front of me, I dropped some change in among the other strange talismans from all over time. Refugees of time-treks, stuck in between the crack of the universe (and yes I mean that in all possible interpretations). This place was a shithole.
I had just entered the terminal and I could tell this was going to be an ordeal, the Port always is. I needed to find out which gate I was booked into. The display was littered with incomprehensible languages.
“English please” I selected.
“Wunade fæst ár?”
“How can I help you?
“Going to 21st century, 2 o’clock”
“Gate 87, have a pleasant trans-dimensional trip.”
Dragging my sweet Samsonite suitcase through the musty incomprehensible smells and sounds of hundreds of cultures thrown together.
I broke my No.1 Travel Rule that day and asked for some help.
From behind he looked like one of those caped 19th century sort of guy. As I got his attention he turned around revealing in fact that a cyborg. If you take any sort of guidance from this account, it is to never ask these so called cyber-netically “enhanced” assholes a vague question. The fact he wore a cape made it all the worse.
“Uh hello sir, I am just wondering what the time is?”
“Well if you are talking about the galactically imposed super time then it is approximately 1 hour, 45 minutes, 12 seconds, 03 milliseconds…” and on and on until the finally with relief he reached the last indivisible unit, “-…and 42 plancktons. However I forgot to calculate how long it would take to communicate this information. It is now 1 hour, 47 minutes and…”
I was going to miss my flight but these cyborgs weren’t exactly very emotionally intelligent. I wasn’t going to snub off a man with laser cannons for arms.
“Just round up to minutes if you could. Sorry I’m in a rush.”
He stared into space, and I could almost see the data whizzing behind his cold blue eyes.
“I do not possess this calculation technique.”
You are shitting me up the wall, this guy could probably calculate the distance to the sun and back in a glance but not tell the time.
“But there is a clock over there.”
I swung around to see a bright red “2:51”.
That would have saved me some time, 5 minutes ago.
“Good bye, human person.” I heard the deep synthesized voice follow while I sifted back into the crowd.
Another thing that got on my nerves was the perfect clarity those half robot freaks pronounced every syllable, so timely and exact. I bet he has never been late for an important meeting.
You would think it would have been impossible to be late for anything since the collapse of time and space, but I would argue things are even more sluggish. Last week I got sat in waiting in a Saxon brothel for 4 hours before my cab picked me up (didn’t even have a condom on me, not that I was going to risk the catching the pox).
God knows why I picked a career that has taken me from the Big Bang to Big Sweep Up.
This job does have its perks.
At any rate at least I’ll have in-flight entertainment, hopefully Step Brothers is on.
A good comedy will take my mind off that being late will be the end of all reality