Dangerous Stuff

Dangerous Stuff

The cryoship reached a new star system,

initiated warming; the crew,

not waking from millennia of dream,

thought they traversed a rind of icy lumps,

imagined a ringed world,

other planets, a belt of rocks.

Planet 3's simulated biosphere effluviated,

radio-frequensated; tiny robots

probed its neighborhood; natives

built objects detectable from space.

The species made a nuisance of itself,

boarded the pitted cylinder;

unnoticed by the gaunt sim-locked crew,

twitching and mumbling in sim-sleep death spiral;

the away team explorated.

An avatar approached: the natives'

manipulatory appendages shifted grips

on projectilators, collimated beamers, detectionators--

this android or cyborg could see them!

“now hiring,” the ship-brain said,

speaking through its faux humanoid rep,

“see galaxy, meet life forms.”

a pause;

in the next room,

a skeleton crew nodded, dreamed of Contact.

“Benefits?” a native asked.