It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.(sf)

[Rumple C]

Olly was unwell. Nauseous even. The kind of nausea that was dictated by his environment, not sickness. Hence the fact that he would be spending the next four months in this environment was unwelcome indeed. Still he had no one to blame but himself. You do get what you pay for after all. In this case it was a rattling old converted chicken runner. Sure the pens had been ripped out, and bunks welded in, but the smell remained. However, now it was augmented by the unwashed stench of dozens upon dozens of fourth class travellers and the musty stench of poorly cleaned toilets.

All around him was the babble of a half dozen different languages. None of which he spoke. Day one of the predicted hundred and thirty day journey to Nuevo Portuga. The grav chamber was shaking as it spun. The slow rotation gave them a false gravity. But this one came with a shudder every rotation, every... yes, every 38 seconds. Whhhhiiiiir, thump. Whhhhiiiiir, thump. Why did no one else seem to notice. He lay back in his bunk. It smelt like stale piss. Ugh. He should have splashed out for... a poor choice of words. He should have spent a little more and gone with Movil. Instead he had booked a dirt cheap ride on the filthy chicken class L. Belle.

Sleek, sweet ships. On board entertainment. A sub cent arrival. His neighbour burped. Ugh, sulphurous! Motherfucker!

He pulled his hood down over his head, willing the trip to be over already. The universe ignored him, and time advanced, one painful minute at a time. His world spun, a great ring of nausea punctuated by a regular shudder. There was a crackle of static and the ship spoke over the polygot of languages... in a polygot of languages. None of which he understood.

Wait... standard Occa?

He knew that one and translated back into his native Old Wiki. “...upgrade into sleeper class, one pod available, only seven million pingers, see the sales port for details”. He pulled his hood back and looked around. No one was going for it. Whhhhiiiiir, thump. Screw it. He grabbed his backpack, and unclipped himself from his piss stale bunk. Fuck these guys, he’s going sleeper. And fuck sulphur burps. He stepped around the others... “Pardon, por favor”. Over mystery cardboard boxes, under a game of chap cards, through smells and conversations.

To the sales port. A automated screen that sold services. Showers, shoulder rubs, sodas, and sleepers. He touched his finger to the screen and his chip fired, sending seven million pingers off into the radio waves somewhere. A door opened, and he stepped inside... then out again into the sleeper chamber. One pod in a one pod sized room? Shit, this really was a chicken class joke. Still, this was his ticket to sleepsville. Population, him! He stowed his pack down at the bottom of the pod. Time for a piss in the piss port... and time for the ni ni. Ha!

He slid into the chamber, and ignored the sense of claustrophobia as the Perspex plate slid over him... He counted thumps from the chamber below... Whhhhiiiiir, thump. Whhhhiiiiir, thump, Whhii...

Sleep.

Darkness.

He awoke into darkness. They must be there. He sat up, and smashed his forehead into the Perspex. Fuck! Ouch! Ahhh! He clapped a hand over his forehead and fell back to the gel mattress. He waited for the stars to disappear. Hmm. Where was it... there. He pulled back a small plate, and pushed the presumably red button, presumably marked “escape”. The Perspex slid back with a hiss. He sat up, slower this time. Ugh, he was busting for a crap. And it was dark. Where was that piss port? He fumbled in his pack for his com, then willed it to light up. It shone a light around the small room. And the piss port which Olly made quick use of.

Ahh...

He listened. Hmm, no Whhhhiiiiir, no thump. Which means... they must be there. Here, rather. Time to go! He grabbed his pack, and pushed off towards the door. The lift was dimly lit in a red light. He hit the button for the main chamber, and made ready to hustle out through the main room and into immigration. Instead he stood and stared as the door slid open again.

This was not how he had left the main cabin at all. It was full of bones and blankets. They floated in gravity. Femurs, skulls, pelvises and more that he had no name for. All bathed in a red light. Olly flicked his eyes left and right. This was not cool. What the fuck was going on? He stuck his head out the door and looked around. More bones, more blankets, oh.. boxes and books as well. He rubbed his head where it has smashed against the Perspex. This did not seem like a dream. He reached out and flicked a rib as it floated past. It spun a cartwheel and collided with a blanket before being embraced and held within.

Hmm.

He looked down at the com in his hand. Date... July 9th. 2209.

Alright, so there it was. He took a deep breath. The ship had set off in 2179. Thirty years ago. He nodded slowly. He should have known they would be late. Sooo... how fucked was he? As fucked as these bones? He looked at a grinning soul that floated past. What was he looking at? He ran a hand down over his face. Already he was starting to lose it. Day one. Minute five. Hysteria turned up to eleven. At least he still had his sense of humor. And his hand. He pulled himself back into the elevator.

Com to the rescue. Location... 597602.459760. 98246254.2345860. -347995.357526 He dug into his pack again, before digging out his Lonely Planet guide book. Hmm, off the charts. Not unexpected, though disappointing. Man, he really wished he had gone with Movil now. He sighed deeply, then pushed off into the cabin to have a good look around. He gathered all sorts of treasures... books, magnets, coms, seventy three cards with erotic pictures on the back which had been floating through the air (but where were the last nine of the set?). Three diaries written in languages he didn’t understand. Perhaps they held the story of what had happened.

A shame he couldn’t read them.

He gathered his treasures and retreated to his new “room” to think. For a whole day he played in the cabin, exploring and wondering and creating before deciding that he was only getting older and hungrier and thirstier for no purpose. Back to the sleeper...

Another seven million pingers later... he was asleep again.

Fucking travel.