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I slept. Inexplicably, inexcusably, I slept. Somehow, with all that was spiked and nerves so taut, the incomplete sleep of the ship’s night, now past, caught back up to me. Looking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t drool in something essential, or thump something and drop a roll of datasleeves on my head. Sleeping isn’t my most together or impressive looking time, like most folks – I don’t talk in my sleep (or at least not that any crewmember has told me) or sleepwalk and wake up in Systems with Mik staring at me, so I’m saved that much. I still end up with a mouth that furry spidres clearly died in, and hair that snuck off to a Vandegraff without me, and bedclothes wrung into contortions I may or may not have participated in. It’s not dignified, it’s not captainly, and I don’t like it. It takes me time to propulse my brain into motion, like my sleep’s a gravity well as great as J-3, so deep no ship could make a profit porting there without they were solar sailors with more time than anything else. Others, their sleep is a mere moon’s well, a sweet gentle dip to help with braking the day’s work and thoughts, then so slight a rise to space again that it’s a stretch and a smile to full alertness. Ghod, I envy them. The Captain I wish I was, wish I could become, would wake and rest so, able to rise to a challenge from full sleep, save the ship or station, and then catch unconsciousness’s next ebbing tide.
|What I Write||
Speculative fiction, mostly flash and short.
Twelve Nights of Christmas