Letters to My Sister

What you are going to read today is something called “The Letter Game”. It operates on the basic principle of two characters, separated for some reason, writing letters to one another. Meghan (my sister) and I decided to play together as a way to pass time and work out our writing muscles. So bookmark both my blog and hers and prepare for the adventure.

Dr. Kalia Cain
International Genetics Lab
Security Level Ultra-Magic
*encrypted*
via E.S. Sumpter

Salutations dear friend,

My many apologies for the delay in writing you. It’s been a busy week to say the least. I always mean to write more frequently (and after I’d given you the mini-lecture not to leave me letter-less) but by the time I make it to bed I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to turn out the light, much less be civil to Garvey and level headed enough to write a letter.

I swear to you Kalia, sometimes it feels like I’m the mother of a million toddlers. Just when I think I’m getting promoted and life will be EASIER, suddenly I’m RESPONSIBLE for things. Who knew the alter-day bridge crew was going to be so nit-picky about their food!? I sent up some sandwiches the other night, just little cucumber nibblies to show off my hydroponics, and instead of thanking me for growing something with vitamins they complained about the lack of dill. Honestly, a few re-run shows on cuisine and everyone’s a critic! Ah well, I’m lucky to be in space, much less serving bridge crew, much less having the honor of reheating their hot chocolate milk because it cooled from 180-175 on the way up to the bridge!

Alright, let me tackle all the questions in your letter so I can get back to my whinging in peace… As far as “earning” the locker purge duties, I volunteered. I know, ew, but honestly in a ship like this alone time is precious. I’m happy to spend the hours it takes to purge the meat lockers, by hand, with an acetalyne torch, because it’s just me and so blessed quiet! (Re-read the bit about working with a bunch of brats!). Plus it has to be a woman anyway. Don’t ask me why, I think the monks like the idea of having a woman do the dirty work. “Unclean! Unclean!” and all that. I plan to leave an aura of feminine superiority in there, if I can manage it.

You mustn’t despair about your work, sister. Who knows what the Plague could mutate into over time? It could become much more than a mostly harmless divider of who can go to space, and who can not. What if someone slips the Plague screenings and snuck on board a ship?! Gawds can you imagine the anarchy? That would give Security something to do I guess. Soon you’ll be done with the screenings and you can move onto the research for which you were hired. Right? Don’t forget there is life beyond the Plague-typing of every individual on planet. Soon all those left behind are going to want a cure so they can go to space and get whinged at about sandwiches too.

I keep remembering those Plague-victim pictures they showed us in training, to scare away anyone clever enough or stupid enough to slip the screens. I still have nightmares. I’m assuming as a bio-chemist you’ve had to see the real thing at some point. How do you stand it?

New less disgusting topic: I am so glad you’re taking cooking lessons! What fun! Let me know how she teaches you to make scrambled eggs, for you can tell the caliber of chef you’re dealing with by their scrambled eggs. I have taken a few of the kitchen juniors under my wing, mostly because cooking is meant to be done in a group, not alone in a galley. They do quite well, when they aren’t brandishing peelers at one another and making swooshing laser noises.

I found Lars in the gym, and instead of approaching him directly to inquire about his memories of you, I simply waited until he asked to use a piece of equipment I was working with and demanded “the password”. He turned positively crimson, and recognized you in my face instantly. Interestingly enough, he says we have the same mouth? I couldn’t let well enough alone, and instantly replied “must have known her mouth pretty well.” He took my joshing like a man, and asked to be remembered to you. I told him I’d write and tell you he hadn’t aged a day and has quite a nice mouth himself. Possibilities? Fair trade, since you stole my favorite sweatshirt.

The purple one you sent is lovely by the way. I wear it to sleep to annoy Garvey, who thinks we should be rank and file about everything. Silly man sleeps in his issued pajamas, and ‘verse only knows how he stands wearing feeties at night. Ugh. Like a giant sleeping bag made to trap you in a cocoon of cheap fabric. Though they do have nice built in clips in case you hit an unscheduled Pass at night. Not a whole lot to clip down when you’re only in a purple sweatshirt. At least I don’t have to deal with hair in my eyes anymore.

This week is mostly scrubbing, and I’m planning to try and plant carrots. I miss color, and find myself planting vegetables and fruits of alarmingly bright hues just to give my eyes a break from battleship gray and black.

How goes the restaraunt? Any new fun holidays this month there on-world worth mentioning? One thing I like about people being stuck on world is the government is trying so much harder to make it a nicer place to be, so the folks don’t mutiny! Oh and you never mentioned what questions you had about space? Or is it too sensitive a topic to talk about when you’re blue about work? Anyway, all my love,

Danika

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