The modernized Main CP-01 sliced through the wide space. Thanks to the new balancing system, the vessel only moved side to side slightly at cruising speed; however, the moment they hit a "space pit"—a zone of gravity turbulence, the ship would begin to shake hard, literally turning itself inside out. In those moments, Anna would instantly be at Gabriel's side. She would cover his hands with hers, helping him grip the yoke and keep the course steady. Alone, he wouldn't have stood a chance against the stubborn vessel.
Meanwhile, a very different battle was happening at the command table in the mess hall. Laid out before the crew was a large map of the tabletop RPG Spices & Space. AI acted as the Game Master as usually. Anyway, as I see it, all AIs were created for entertainment, because they smart whereas aliens are meant for the heavy lifting because they dump. Chedder, wearing a military uniform, perfectly played the role of a serious combat coordinator. Wilder took on the role of a research scientist, Phoebe was the determined commander-sharpshooter, and old Sam was given the role of "The Arbiter of Fate." To pull the half-cyborg into the process, they had gifted him a character with truly imbalance stats. Sam was supposed to be their ultimate trump card:
"Sam, you have a converter in your inventory," Cheddar began, trying to push the session toward a logical path. "Just take it and turn these enemies into cosmic lice. We'll clear the level without any losses."
"Well now... hold up a sec. It's logged right here, plain as day: I'm the 'Arbiter of Fate,' ain't I? That means I don't give a spark about your rusty chassis. You gotta show me what you're made of first, then I'll decide once the static clears, if I'm gonna save your chitin or just sit back and watch."
"It's just a gaming convention, Sam..." Cheddar frowned.
"Nope. We gotta do this by the manual, like we agreed. Sorry, but I'm out on that one."
Wilder stepped in, attempting to mediate:
"Look, Samuel: the 'Arbiter of Fate' is a classic 'crutch' for players with a low entry threshold for role-playing systems. The developers intentionally provided him with inflated stats to smooth out the learning curve. If the character were vulnerable, an unprepared player would simply terminate the session. As it stands, every attack by the Arbiter guarantees success. Given that you aren't inclined toward a deep study of the rules, my logical construct confirms: Sam, you should participate in combat purely due to the numerical superiority of your attributes, so as to facilitate your engagement with the game."
"Look here, Wilder, quit starin' at that game like it's just a pile of cold numbers. The bio makes it clear: I hooked up with this sorry lot just to see if y'all are worth a damn! I'm gonna play it the way it's written—by my own gut and my conscience."
"Everyone, listen up! I am officially on Team Sam!" Phoebe threw her hands in the air as if declaring a winner. "You guys thought we'd just be moping around the three of us, and then Sam bursts in and—BAM!—everything's in Technicolor! He's a total genius! He's role-playing the soul, not some stupid little numbers. You two just go in circles: 'I go here, I shoot there'—bo-ring! But here, we've got a whole story! A real Tragedy! And yeah, I don't give a flip that we spent an hour stuck at a locked door. Look at how we did it! That was a masterpiece of dramatic art!"
"An interesting interpretation, Phoebe. Your arguments have made me change my beliefs." Wilder managed a faint shadow of a smile. "I suspect I focused too heavily on the mathematical model of the mechanics, ignoring the story value of the adventure."
"Yeah, Wildy! Spot on!" Phoebe practically jumped for joy, lighting up like a thousand-watt bulb. "It's all about the plot! We're making history here, don't you get it? We're living in the moment! Here, imagination is our driving force, not Cheders dusty numbers and boring calculators! Don't be serious!"
"Aw, at first blush, I figured y'all were serious as a heart attack, all dressed up like them characters in a holo-flick...." Sam pointed a finger toward Cheddar. "Lookit this veteran here, even got the gear on. Back in the day, the Space Marines used to wear gear just like that. Or then I had me a second thought you was a career soldier, son. But I guess you're too sharp for that kinda hard work."
"Sam, get this—did you know our club used to be called the 'Military-Space Mega-Experts'?" Phoebe lowered her voice secretly, though it still buzzed with energy. "I wasn't even born back then, I hadn't arrived here yet, but Cheddar—he's a living legend! He remembers the ancient times. He hasn't taken that uniform off since, and we call him our honorary veteran!"
"'Space Mega-Experts'? Well, ain't that a kick in the head. We're old bench-mates, then?" Sam became interested. "I used to do my part in the Combat Engineers back when I was a younger pup."
"And is that when you lost your limbs?" Cheddar asked, eyeing his prosthetics.
"What? Naw. That eye there was just a nasty hit to the head. Everything else I lost bit by bit workin' as a loader later. Safety rules weren't exactly a priority, hah... But why'd you quit that soldierin' club of yours? Why'd you leave?"
"We changed the focus after we were asked to promote military service for the army," Cheddar replied. "I'll answer the next question before you ask it: I bought the uniform at a flea market from a real veteran."
"Ugh, Cheddar just loves to talk about war..." Phoebe started.
"About military technology!" Cheddar corrected her.
"I get it. Service folk—they've all got a screw loose," Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just look at me: got my brain shaken in there, inside and out. I had a neighbor kid once... Mean as a junkyard dog, always angry. But I remember him as a little boy—used to say hi to everyone, pass out sweets. His ma spoiled him too much 'cause his pa wasn't around. Must've been a handsome alien, the father, if the mother could pay the loan for both of 'em just to have a kid... but then he just left. Then the boy got a step-pa. One of them Lawguards. Started hitting the kid for every little mistake..."
Sam swallowed hard and finished: "That's how 'good soldiers' get made, I tell you what. Out of pain and beatings, not by sittin' in a warm chair talkin' 'bout plans."
Main CP-01 held its course, attempting to cross huge distances in the shortest possible time. Onboard, they set up shifts at the helm—the task was simple: never take your eyes off the radar. Staring out the windshield was pointless; behind the glass, the infinite lines of starlight simply stretched into beautiful, blurry lines. The radar was their only window into reality, warning them of space trash or stray asteroids. All one had to do was pull the lever in time and regularly fix the course. I won't describe those tense situations where, after months of travel, everyone begins to hate everyone else. It's a normal thing: six "strangers" in a sealed tin can, drifting through the empty void. The role-playing games were finally ruined by Cheddar—he was simply unable to lose to Old Alien Sam. Sam, meanwhile, had played his character "by the biography" to the very end.
The climax occurred at the "Galactic Diadem." Cheddar expected Sam's thief to betray them according to his story, but Sam played the team player until the very last moment, using his high stats. Then, at the most important moment, he pointed a blaster into his friends' backs. While everyone else clapped for the brilliant move, Cheddar was a storm of rage, cursing everyone in sight. Anna as a spectator found it so funny she nearly got hit in the face, but being a strong wolien, she quickly stopped the hysterical alien. After that, Wilder put Cheddar and Gabriel on the same shift, hoping the veteran would calm down. They seemed to have nothing to talk about, alien from different worlds. Until, that is, Wilder heard their conversation:
"Ooh, the Admiralty Battlethhip hath a great big gun..." Gabriel began, studying the technical papers.
"Yes, the diameter of the heat-sphere caliber is three thousand. The width is three hundred meters. The gun itself, not the head," Cheddar interrupted as usual.
"Oh, thweet Cheddar, age we thpeaking about my penith now?" Gabriel smiled playfully.
Wilder thought it was just another clumsy attempt to find "chemistry" within the crew, but Cheddar surprised him:
"I cannot judge youg penith bathed tholely on thtogieth," Cheddar said, slowly licking his lips. "How about we give it a taste test?"
"Wait, Cheddar..."
"What's wrong?" the veteran asked, surprised.
"Everything is proceeding too fast. We've been alone less than a month..."
"So? You told stories about your 'quick contacts' yourself."
"No, I can't do that with you..." Gabriel sighed, unhappy.
"I see. So you just don't like me! I'm worse than that crusty sore from Balabama?" And Cheddar, starting to scream, ran off in tears.
"No, wait! Cheddar! I can't becauthe you're too good for me!" Gabriel shouted, starting to chase after the veteran.
At that moment, Main CP-01 struck a gravity "bump." The ship spun worse than a pig on a spit. Wilder had to rush to the console to help with the stabilization. When they finally leveled the vessel, Wilder only confirmed his thought: between his friends and the crew... chemistry was impossible. Or, at the very least, it was far too explosive. Gabriel, of course, tried to explain himself to Cheddar. He insisted that he had simply been afraid: what if their feelings didn't turn into something serious and remained just another "cosmic fling"? He wasn't ready for things to move so quickly. But the veteran remained stubborn—he refused to listen to any arguments, requests, or apologies. Everything was useless.
"Wilder, tell me, why can love and thekth be different?" Gabriel complained, leaning against the wall. "How many relationthhips have I had where I wath only a temporary tholution until they found their real love? And again, and again. ONTh ith thimple! I thhouldn't to love."
"I find myself in a state of confusion," Wilder replied, his voice flat and exact. "It is extremely difficult for me to model the process of forming romantic bonds. I have reviewed a large amount of media content on the subject, but... there is only one being that triggers a sustained neural response in me like in description there. I have chest stingts when i see him."
Wilder was referring to Bucks—the being that caused him nothing but shivers and dread.
"Ah, a being... Probably a divine creature!" Gabriel immediately melted into a dreamy smile. "Tho it'th definitely love if it thtingth in your chetht."
"Yes, authoritative sources confirm: love is when specific stinging sensations occur in the area of the thoracic cage," Wilder frowned, as if recalling a medical manual. "My relationship with this being is of a very specific nature. But since my physical symptoms match the experts' conclusions, I am forced to admit that it is love."
"You know, Wilder, you thhouldn't get obtheththed with one particular alien," Gabriel said. "I think you'll find a similar alien and build a better relationthhip with them."
Wilder looked at Gabriel with a bit of respect.
"Well, given your empirical experience, you practically possess a doctorate in this field. Your statements overlap by eighty percent with the key tenets of the incel subculture, but I admit your conclusions are backed by personal practice. Do you have any additional recommendations?"
"Of courthe, old timer!" Gabriel was happy to play the "Guru." "Alwayth have a thecondary option. I remember a girl who dumped me. And we were thaving money for a family! Thhe wath a good girl, thaved more than half—I alwayth liked that about her. I only put a little bit into the common pot... Imagine, what a lucky ticket! And then it turnth out thhe'th dithappointed in me jutht because I didn't thhow up to a meeting. Over thuch a thmall thing, Wilder!"
"Only because of that?" Wilder entered the data into his imaginary notebook.
"Well, there were other few thingth... Thhe thaid I couldn't even clean up after mythelf. And I thay: what'th the point of putting away clotheth if I'm going to wear them again in the morning? Or wathhing a plate if we're going to eat again in four hourth? Am I not right? I'll tell you thith: if I hadn't been theeing Daniel on the thide at the time, I probably would have had a heart attack. Oh, Wilder, life is hard for uth!"
So, Wilder accepted these bad "lessons," reaching conclusions that made sense only within his hurt mind. He believed he had finally understood the meaning of love. Of course, it was far from the truth—it was just a cold reflection of love, seen through the ego of someone else.