walked
in.
It wasn’t like a trained diplomat
like Philippe was going to refuse to sit and have a meal with someone, even if
that meal consisted of a 100-gram rectangle. But the experience didn’t exactly
put his mind at ease concerning the impression the SFers were going to make on
the alien station.
Patch had thought that Philippe’s
last name was Thai and mentioned wanting to go to Bangkok. Philippe had told
him that his father was actually ethnically Vietnamese, but said that he would
love to go Bangkok and see the many temples and historical sites. It was
obvious from Patch’s replies, however, that if the SFer ever made it to
Bangkok, he’d never leave the koffie shops. Philippe had toyed briefly with the
idea of breaking the news to Patch that there was no such thing as Thai
cannabis anymore, since all the legal THC was synthesized at a laboratory
outside Calgary, but he had decided that he’d rather not.
Philippe had tried to learn
everyone’s name, but the use of nicknames was a bit confusing. The woman who
was not Shanti was always referred to as “Baby,” which Philippe thought was
probably a nickname. Patch’s real name was Pieter, but Philippe got the feeling
that most of the unit didn’t know that. Raoul Kim was one of the medics. Like
Philippe, he had a Western first name and Eastern last name—in his case because
he was a full-blooded Korean from Peru.
Philippe also met a Bi Zui, a Paco,
a Rojy, a Bubba, a T.R., a Thorpe, a Feo, and a Cheep, who along with someone
named Pinky would be piloting their ship to the alien station and (hopefully)
back again. The freckled man even had a nickname for his nickname—he was called
Five-Eighths, or Five, for short.
Five-Eighths had asked Philippe
where he was from, and upon hearing Alberta immediately said, “So you’re
Amish?”
Philippe had sighed. “Amish” was a
slang term that people sometimes used for individuals like his
parents—back-to-the-land types who had come to Alberta from various cities
(Paris, in his parents’ case) in the 70s. Apparently no one bothered to
fact-check news reports these days, because several of the profiles published
about Philippe had reported that he was an actual, bearded,
horse-and-buggy-driving Amish person. Such reports frequently included
laughably somber speculation on what it meant for the Amish that one of their
own was going into space.
“I know people use that term, but
the Amish are actually a religious group—” he began.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I know what
the real Amish are,” said Five-Eighths. “I’m from fucking Pennsylvania.”
That sparked a discussion of the
real Amish versus the faux Amish, which then spun off into a discussion of
high-tech ways to kill people versus low-tech ways to kill people, and how the
use of lonjons affected that calculation. Patch’s contribution to the
discussion was a tale, told with evident nostalgia, of how as a child he had
blown up an abandoned warehouse using humble explosives he had devised entirely
on his own out of common household materials.
This defense of the old apparently
inflamed Baby, who suddenly turned to Philippe and said, “Do you know about
these lonjons? Look here.”
She pulled open her uniform
shirt—they all, like Philippe, were now wearing the lonjons under their
clothes—whipped out a knife from God knows where, and sliced the blade along
her collarbone.
“See, no cut, no nothing—that
didn’t even hurt none,” she said, pulling at the lonjons to better display
their wholeness. “That ain’t even hard mode. And this blade is sharp, too,
see.” Holding the knife in her right hand, Baby suddenly put out her bare left
palm, ready to slice it open in order to demonstrate the knife’s keenness.
“I believe you! You don’t have to
show me!” yelped Philippe.
Baby looked up at him, puzzled by
his agitation, and then pulled up the collar of her unfastened uniform toward
her mouth.
“No, no, no, I’m fine,” she
in.
It wasn’t like a trained diplomat
like Philippe was going to refuse to sit and have a meal with someone, even if
that meal consisted of a 100-gram rectangle. But the experience didn’t exactly
put his mind at ease concerning the impression the SFers were going to make on
the alien station.
Patch had thought that Philippe’s
last name was Thai and mentioned wanting to go to Bangkok. Philippe had told
him that his father was actually ethnically Vietnamese, but said that he would
love to go Bangkok and see the many temples and historical sites. It was
obvious from Patch’s replies, however, that if the SFer ever made it to
Bangkok, he’d never leave the koffie shops. Philippe had toyed briefly with the
idea of breaking the news to Patch that there was no such thing as Thai
cannabis anymore, since all the legal THC was synthesized at a laboratory
outside Calgary, but he had decided that he’d rather not.
Philippe had tried to learn
everyone’s name, but the use of nicknames was a bit confusing. The woman who
was not Shanti was always referred to as “Baby,” which Philippe thought was
probably a nickname. Patch’s real name was Pieter, but Philippe got the feeling
that most of the unit didn’t know that. Raoul Kim was one of the medics. Like
Philippe, he had a Western first name and Eastern last name—in his case because
he was a full-blooded Korean from Peru.
Philippe also met a Bi Zui, a Paco,
a Rojy, a Bubba, a T.R., a Thorpe, a Feo, and a Cheep, who along with someone
named Pinky would be piloting their ship to the alien station and (hopefully)
back again. The freckled man even had a nickname for his nickname—he was called
Five-Eighths, or Five, for short.
Five-Eighths had asked Philippe
where he was from, and upon hearing Alberta immediately said, “So you’re
Amish?”
Philippe had sighed. “Amish” was a
slang term that people sometimes used for individuals like his
parents—back-to-the-land types who had come to Alberta from various cities
(Paris, in his parents’ case) in the 70s. Apparently no one bothered to
fact-check news reports these days, because several of the profiles published
about Philippe had reported that he was an actual, bearded,
horse-and-buggy-driving Amish person. Such reports frequently included
laughably somber speculation on what it meant for the Amish that one of their
own was going into space.
“I know people use that term, but
the Amish are actually a religious group—” he began.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I know what
the real Amish are,” said Five-Eighths. “I’m from fucking Pennsylvania.”
That sparked a discussion of the
real Amish versus the faux Amish, which then spun off into a discussion of
high-tech ways to kill people versus low-tech ways to kill people, and how the
use of lonjons affected that calculation. Patch’s contribution to the
discussion was a tale, told with evident nostalgia, of how as a child he had
blown up an abandoned warehouse using humble explosives he had devised entirely
on his own out of common household materials.
This defense of the old apparently
inflamed Baby, who suddenly turned to Philippe and said, “Do you know about
these lonjons? Look here.”
She pulled open her uniform
shirt—they all, like Philippe, were now wearing the lonjons under their
clothes—whipped out a knife from God knows where, and sliced the blade along
her collarbone.
“See, no cut, no nothing—that
didn’t even hurt none,” she said, pulling at the lonjons to better display
their wholeness. “That ain’t even hard mode. And this blade is sharp, too,
see.” Holding the knife in her right hand, Baby suddenly put out her bare left
palm, ready to slice it open in order to demonstrate the knife’s keenness.
“I believe you! You don’t have to
show me!” yelped Philippe.
Baby looked up at him, puzzled by
his agitation, and then pulled up the collar of her unfastened uniform toward
her mouth.
“No, no, no, I’m fine,” she
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