Here We Go Again

by Jeffrey Somogyi

Here We Go Again

  by

  Jeffrey Somogyi

  Copyright 2011 by Jeffrey M. Somogyi

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  Here We Go Again

  "Beginning descent. Landfall in t-minus...", the pilot checked his watch, "soon." He glanced at his co-pilot and with a shrug, snapped off the intercom. The great bulk of the P.T.B.& B. Company ship shuddered and shook as it entered the planet’s upper-atmosphere. Outside the glass of the cramped command deck, air friction did its thing, turning the view red and flame-y.

  There was no sense in talking, now, as the juddering of the ship tended to chop up any speech. Hearing someone ask, "W-w-w-wha-a-at-t-t-t d-d-d-d-did y-y-y-y-you s-s-s-sa-a-a-a-ay?!" is humourous, but tends to stretch a conversation to such a time-wasting length that it makes more sense to wait and say what needs to be said later, faster - and without the fear of hitting a sudden bump and losing the tip of your tongue on a consonant.

  Plus, that kind of thing is only amusing once, maybe twice. So, having done this at least three times, the pilot and co-pilot bumped their way through the sky, without attempting further dialogue.

  The ship broke through into the actual atmosphere of the world below and things became calm and quiet - that extra-special type of silent you get after a loud, prolonged noise. Into this sonic void something beeped.

  "Terrestrial readings coming on-monitor now," the co-pilot said for the benefit of no one, as the pilot - the only other person in the cockpit - knew what the beep was. Leaning towards the array of buttons, dials, gauges, switches, toggles, and general what-nots which comprised the dash, the co-pilot selected a likely candidate and flipped it. A small scroll of paper began feeding out of a slot with the clatter of an electric typewriter, curling in upon itself as it got longer. The co-pilot waited for the print-out to stop, then tore it from its slot, leaving a jagged edge. Unrolling it, he scanned it with his eyes and said, "They look to be sizable, at that! Class..." the man paused. He leaned over and fished around under his co-command chair, his tongue sticking out slightly as he groped. Delighted, he produced a thick manual from under his seat and plopped it on his lap and riffled through it. Then he riffled back through it for a bit, but then stopped and flicked forward again.

  "Try the table of..." the pilot suggested, but the co-pilot cut him off with a sigh.

  "Big? Just 'big', okay? I'm logging it as 'big'," the co-pilot said, slamming the book closed and cramming it and the print-out under his chair.

  "Great. Best tell the latest Professor What's-it to suit up, please. That is an order," the pilot said.

  "Right. Gotcha." The co-pilot reached forward and twiddled what he was pretty sure was the right knob. The cabin lights dimmed. "Ah..." he said, un-twiddling and bringing the lights back up to full strength.

  The pilot leaned over and depressed the correct toggle-switch and was rewarded with a teeth-chatteringly loud crackle and squeal of feedback as the speakers strung throughout the ship turned on and fed back. It was over in a matter of seconds, though, so no lasting physical or emotional trauma resulted.

  "Professor... er..." the co-pilot paused and cupped his hand over the in-dash microphone and stage whispered to the pilot, "What're we up to, now?"

  "Um. Forty Four, I think? No five! Wait. No, definitely four. Final answer."

  The co-pilot un-cupped his hand, "Professor Forty Five, damn Four, sorry! Professor Forty Four to the exit port. Your, oh you know, that French word... Oh, it's on the tip... well, that go-outside-y-thing you do is coming up in..." he paused and looked at the pilot, who shrugged. "Listen, just get there and suit up, you’re going outside in a minute or so. Great."

  As he reached to un-press the intra-ship communication dip-switch, there was a bone-shaking jolt. "CHRIST!" he exclaimed and heard his blasphemy echo throughout the ship. He hastily clicked off the intercom with a murmured, "Whoops."

  The pilot gave a thumbs up and a smile to the co-pilot, "Touchdown!"

  There wasn't much left to say, at this point, so they both lapsed into silence as they stared out of the window at the new, unexplored (for now) planet which was spread out before them. "Lush" was a good word for it. It was green and lush. A big, green lush field that lushed its way past the nose of the ship for a very green 50 yards, until it terminated in a lusher forest of dense trees.

  "What a nice forest of trees," said the co-pilot, "Reminds me of home."

  The pilot involuntarily shuddered, remembering some of the forests-of-things-disturbingly-unlike-trees that he'd seen during his time aboard this exploratory ship.

  "Well. Anyway. All that greenery. This must look promising, eh?" the co-pilot said, snapping the pilot from his thoughts.

  "Yeah. The Company always likes when habitats are green and leafy, too. Means they don't have to repaint the enclosures, I think." the pilot said.

  The co-pilot gave a non-committal grunt that could have meant any of a multitude of things: A laugh at a joke that the snorter doesn't quite understand, possibly? Or an agreement with a factual statement, if that statement wasn't intended to be a joke. Possibly an audio-shorthand of a fist-bump and a shouted "I HEAR THAT, BRO!"

  In this case, however, it meant "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening, because I thought you were just making small talk, and no one pays much attention to small talk, anyway."

  "Hmmm? What was that?" the pilot said, "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. Did you grunt?"

  "Oup! There's our Professor now, just coming around the aft... port... MY side toward the b... front, now."

  "This is the part I hate, you know," said the pilot.

  "I know someone who hates it a bit more..."

  "Professor... uh... next consecutive number?"

  "Oh! Sure, him too. I was thinking of me. But you’re probably more right."

  From their vantage point, safely inside the navigational helm, the two pilots watched as a man in a bright orange spacesuit appeared from behind the right-side wing of the great craft. He was taking surprisingly small, slow steps. The co-pilot, brow wrinkled in confusion, lifted his arm then let it fall on its own. It hit the arm of his flight chair at what he thought was about the usual speed. He looked over at the pilot, an unasked question hanging on his face.

  "Yeah. Gravity's normal," the pilot said, rubbing his also-freshly-bruised forearm, "I think it's just nerves."

  "Poor bastard, I don’t blame him."

  The pilot leaned forward and engaged the communicator in the Professor's suit. "We've...", the pilot began.

  The man outside jumped straight up and shouted "Abluvargh!" Then there was a prolonged sound of heavy panting.

  "Sorry," the pilot said, in soft, soothing tones "Didn’t mean to startle you..."

  "Burble..." the man said.

  "Didn’t catch that last bit, Professor. Er... over?"

  "Guh."

  "Let me try," the co-pilot said, leaning forward and flipping the switch to turn on his dash-mounted microphone. "Professor Forty Four? Are you okay?"

  "Been better...", the man outside said between gasps, "Thanks for asking."

  "Er... Sure. Our pleasure. Are you able to carry out the mission?"

  "Why not? Just be ready on that stungun, yeah?"

  The co-pilot, covering his microphone with a hand, turned to the pilot and whispered, "Stungun?"

  "Yeah, "The pilot stage-whispered back, "It's... what's-it? Psychological. The Company tells the Professors we have guns that'll... well... stun. So they, you know, feel like they have some sense of security..."

  An ear-shaking "WHAT?!" eru
pted over both pilots' headsets. Outside, the be-spacesuited fellow spun around and shot the pilots the most scathing, hateful, betrayed glance that one can dish out from behind a mirror-finished space helmet.

  "Ah. Whoops," the pilot said, "I see I did not mute my mic."

  "You think you have problems?!" screamed the professor.

  "Now, now, Professor Forty Four, it's all just a mix up...," the co-pilot said, trying to soothe.

  "So... you have stun guns?!"

  The co-pilot turned to the pilot.

  "Um... No," the pilot finally admitted, "But, look, Professor, it's not..."

  "I have a name, you know!"

  "You do?" the co-pilot said, turning to the pilot, who shrugged. A lot of their communication was shrug-based. The co-pilot thought it revealed the intimate, well-oiled-machine-ness of their working relationship, since so much could be said nonverbally. The pilot thought it revealed that, when it came down to it, men were just really bad at communicating verbally.

  "Yes, I do! And I’ll tell you to your face, in a minute, I’m coming back in! Cycle the hatch! NOW!"

  The pilots exchanged nervous glances that said all manner of things, while saying nothing concrete. These men were truly terrible at nonverbal communication.

  "Now now. No need to be rash, Professor F... er... Professor. Yes. Just ‘Professor’ I think... or do you prefer "Prof"? We'll talk about that next. Anyway! Listen, we NEED you...."

  An earth-trembling crunch trembled the earth in a crunchy way making