Prologue — A Rather Short Time Ago In A Galaxy Closer Than You Might Guess…

   ­Boss Licina just couldn’t bear it. Not again, he thought. Why exactly now? Generally speaking, he’d never been a lot into that whole daily procedure of getting up, but on this particular day, boy, it was severe. Not that he didn’t also feel circa like Hiroshima after the first ever recorded congress with a nuclear warhead, that’s rather been one of the few true constants in his life. No. With all the mental powers he had available, he was disgusted, purposefully disgusted, at sleep itself. The whole idea and biological necessity behind it suddenly bothered him a lot.

   What a shitty day, he thought. Whatever else he simultaneously thought, out of touch with his verbal main screen, floated back and forth through his painfully sobered brainwires like an unstoppable tornado. In fact, it was rampaging. The first piece of thought, the first pebble to start that avalanche, derived straight from the first frame his vision managed to capture. To the worst of his luck, it revealed to him the very present state of time, meaning he was able to calculate back the state of time he was in when he laid down, and that he therefore had one clear and solid absolute-value number to go with, in hours, indicating how long exactly he might have been involuntarily knocked off. Damn too long! And he hated that — way more than usual, to be honest. It was extreme. Boss Licina’s quality hate has built quite a reputation in outer space, so much is for sure. One more fungous lower body exhalation emission and he had to take the risk of manhandling that war torn cadaver he called himself proud of possessing. As long as that brain is working at near perfect energy conversion efficiency, he thought. No exaggeration. That’s what he thought.

­    After finding a functioning vertical position and two well executed footsteps he felt confident enough to finally grant himself the first drink of the day. There was always a sip to go in one of the seemingly empty bottles. If that’s the way life says good morning to you, here you go saying good mo(u)rning back to it. He had to press his eyelids together for a couple of seconds to handle this personal wakeup ritual, be concentrated to keep the liquid where he swallowed it, and endure a feverish wave of cold sweat on his contracting neck and shoulders, but his stomach finally decided to save the rebellion for another time. In the third bottle he found an exquisitely merciful remainder, measured in volume and not measured by its undefinable solid contents. He was back on the thought. No. The thought was back on him.

­    It was the relative-value number that suddenly made him wanting throw up all the stash of hurtfully boiling twisted gut he had carrying under his, from a stimulative-liquid-ridden point of view, well trained belly. Now here’s the catch. Compared to the total amount of runtime he could expect his full life to last, extrapolated from a quick rule-of-thumb estimate on his daily pattern, it was way too long! Too much! A rough 32 per cent, I mean, what the fuck!? Just gone, like a tax! And for what exactly?

­    At that very moment he felt the betrayal, that eternal fraud of creation, pardon, evolution going on around everything without anyone ever even slightly addressing the fact. He buried his face in his hands. He felt so fucked over, literally fucked over, like a virgin maid that gets talked into first time intercourse by some low grade pickup hack, and gets impregnated. With twins. One of them born blind. Seriously speaking, guys!

    He was chewing his teeth. Anger built up. His thoughts appeared of too much truth to him right and there and that made him unable to get them settled — not to mention, getting them sorted. By now he had approximate figures about how big of a share of all evolution was spent in a flat state of doing nothing at all, maybe less than nothing. And there he was, facing this never-talked-about, and somehow crucially repressive, force of all the ages, the biggest drag of everything that could ever consider itself, including himself, privileged of being biochemically complex enough to be referred to as living form, with him not only being a living form, but a human being, at that. Fucking sleep. As if life weren’t complex enough.

    Boss Licina didn’t have a lot of issues going on with complexity, though. Sleep. That was the bitch that caught his total present attention. No matter what common contemporary life forms were aiming for, evolutionary speaking, since none of them have ever come up with a proper sustainable solution to anything, however recalculating a bare millionth of all the time that ever went into living sleep, at least in this universe, would be way enough to have these ongoing outer space middle ages put far enough behind in time for him not to be trapped right inside of them, but rather have an easy and joyful life at some completely different planetary place. A place where forming life made at least a little bit of sense, for a change. One where time wouldn’t be the most precious of all the resources. One where there was time in abundance, even time to sleep! Outer space, fatefully enough, was quite an uncertain place to be, after all, especially on a ship, or rather within a ship, as System 1 was.

    And then, he threw up.

    Now, dear readers and crewmembers, you might be carrying a distinct imagery of what it might look like if somebody were to throw up. You might even be picturing some consistencies or tastes, or tiny breadcrumbs in your nares, gently burning into the mucous membranes. Don’t forget that astonishing contracting of the stomach, that powerful inside-out pressing-push, that overruns any reflex there might have been and seemingly calls all the muscles in the body together to slam the final panic move across stage. We’re talking intoxication, after all. Beautiful, isn’t it? Very… down to Earth, don’t you think? Well now go and enjoy what happened to Boss Licina on this particular trip through spacetime.

    First to notice, he undoubtedly still had his face in his hands, and yes, that gentle vomité arrived rather quickly. So quickly, in fact, he was caught in maximum surprise, like a cough out of no where, because some backthroat spittle slobber would invade your trachea right on Peak Inhale. Also, whatever it was that had to leave his giblets in such urgency, it expanded upon thoroughfare, pretty much like when you take three marshmallows too many, foamful aftertaste etc., except that fluffy mass moving the exact opposite direction, feeling like someone just borrowed your windpipe and throat to give birth to an ostrich egg. Not exactly as pleasant.

    Picturing, no, painting that man-sized pyramidal whipped cream dispenser ejaculation Boss Licina had become for the scene as it unfolds, all the physical forces involved in a normal-gravity scenario let him perform a classic 180 backflip straight into his sleeping belt, where a second wholehearted cargo of ballooning sponge tatters would maybe not surprise him as much, but still make him feel like that ostrich egg now being jackhammered back into his rear end and take the full ten yards through all the his organs and body parts to eventually resolve in yet another cubic meter of soapy papier-mâché all across the Boss’s cabin. 

   All the control over his body he could fight for allowed for no more than a slight breath, before number three crippled him into the fetal position. There, he managed to get some more oxygen, and sprayed out another generous load. By then, he had understood. What came next can easily be interpreted as a consciously directed attempt at moving. Dubbing it crawling would just be too much of a compliment, but there was some progress going on. The fourth horseman cloaked some bottles that went down in tinkling, while Boss Licina managed to throw his mortal remains with some intention into a pile of his inflating mouth-come. Bingo. His head hit something familiarly solid — the MedBox. Not until he went under his fifth therapy session that came with a grandiose reswallow feature and the sixth dish also took place among worst case gravitational conditions he finally got another break, and another chance. If it weren’t for routine, he’d be pronounced dead already. Although he realized he should possibly not fuck up this one.

   Blind as a mole puppy and solely guided by instinct he pulled a collapsible syringe out of the MedBox, held it tight for a lucky seventh crevasse, unfolding it with clever hands, flipped into turtle position and fired that needle with all the oxygen his muscles had left right into his carotid, where it wasn’t chipped already. Tragically, his instincts didn’t pay too much attention to the fact he was, by now, lying on the bottom of an indoor ocean made of a strange bubbly non-liquid, so his first large-scale pant for breath delivered mostly the secretion of what had just come out of him. However, that antidote seemed to catch on, so his risk of death numbers dropped to a much more satisfying area. Also, his accumulated morning outputs obviously entered shrinking mode.

   He was not yet sure what was going on, but he managed to reach minimum target — not dying of suffocation. The more oxygen that got back into his brain, the more his thoughts began rattling again. At least he now was awake, he thought. Shock can always be of some good use. He wouldn’t admit it, but now he felt graceful for evolution and her smarts. Paradox as it may seem, a little near-death experience to start the day can really give you a change of perspective. That’s also why he never wanted to do much else but biohacking. And this, ladies and gentlemen, actually explains a lot, above all, to Boss Licina himself, since he is the fucking biohacker. And at this point he was almost fully assured he could have easily passed on that exhilarated theme park ride of his hadn’t he had such a grumpy wake-up, but he was equally almost as fully assured that System 1 could be in some big trouble indeed. There was simply no time to sense any pain. He had to look after his ship, where exactly it was and where the fuck it was heading. Big questions for outer space travelers. And when Boss Licina didn’t know the answers to these questions in razor sharp precision and with the best prediction values he could get his hands on, he usually went into full retard mode. Again, no exaggeration. This was all just to System 1’s best interest.

   He somehow managed to climb on his knees. What really began to creep him a little, though, only to accelerate full retard mode a little more, was the fact that he could practically eliminate any possibility of a hoax. The overall reasoning was simple. When opened his eyes he was sure he’d been sleeping for way too long by also lacking all mojo to get going. More than ten hours! Fatigué from too much sleep. Equals: Rant about sleep. However, including the information on what happened to him only a few seconds after he drank that sandy sauce he found in one of his bottles, combined with the basic parts of yesterday’s liquid intake, he must have slept for less than three hours, little enough time to leave whatever it was in his stomach to achieve that vominator side effect. He could have thought about that. By now he reached for the door handle, gave it a soft spin, and, alongside tons of bubble vomit papyrus, got purged out of his cabin.

   Fuck, he thought, it’s been nine hours or something! His hands shoveled away the moist squabble that sprang from his intestines. Optimizing his rotation of forced coughing and recovering breathing to the highest oxygen intake there was, he turned around and robbed his eyes, however paused for a moment. He felt heavily light-headed, his thoughts began sparkling all over his brains. He collapsed to the floor. Luckily, his air condition found a working environment. That was close, he thought, and blacked out.

   Maybe that was the best that could have happened to him right here and then anyway. With an unexpected threefold nine-hour time discrepancy between him and the ship after just such a short time of absence, there must be something very wrong going on. He had no idea what it was. System 1 could be bobbing up and down practically anywhere by now. Not a nice situation to find yourselves in in outer space, mutual agreement on that. As if that whole mess they were in already just wasn’t yet big enough. The devil always shits on the tallest pile, they say.

   Coughing his ass off, he regained consciousness. His eyes were too fucked to even attempt to open. He wasn’t gone long, seconds maybe, and felt some blood back in his vessels. He rolled over to the side, got on his elbows and gently touched his left eyelid with the top of his right hand’s middle finger. Facing down, he slowly tried to gain some sight. Some blue and grey shading. Tears gathered. Then something large and heavy hit the side of his head pretty badly. His upcoming unconsciousness would last only a short while longer, read Dr. sarcasm’s diagnose.

   The shamefully little mentioned System 1 was now in a fishy kinda fuckup. System 1 was not only a real bioship, but also the Dudecamp community forming its current inhabitants. Boss Licina was their only biohacker. And despite his sometimes questionable mood swings and turns, or because of them, he was the best biohacker at System 1. Thing is, he was not System 1’s best biohacker because he was the only one around, he was the only biohacker, because he was the motherdfuckin’ best dude on the job. Period. That’s why they called him Boss. His stories shit a billion stars’ worth of pants in the Ovosphere Galaxies alone. Now, unfortunately, he is also bleeding from his ears.

   Time is scarce for System 1.

Prologue — A Rather Short Time Ago In A Galaxy Closer Than You Might Guess…

Interlude — Where There’s Smoke, There’s a Fire

   “… Grab him here…”

   “… hurry! …”

   Tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack. Tick. Tack.

   He moaned. MoAoaAaoOaooaaannnned!

   “… litres…. l… l… like… like litres… l… !”

   His lights went off again. Darkness. Not even sleep, he obviously not thought. So, obviously, he could also not think any further on that input, as to him, it never even occurred.

   He felt the back of his head kinetically intermingling with the ship’s uneven floors. He was definitely moving. Being moved. Carried. He couldn’t figure out who it was, but certainly not what had knocked him over. With all that grabbing going on, he suddenly felt… safe! Safe in a way he would never consider possible, if you asked him on even a good day. Now, he was all baby again. His life was in immediate danger, relying on fast and professional aid. Luckily, this time his final moments would be guarded by crewmembers. If it ever came to trusting each other with all they had, i.e. their lives, there’d be no dudes all across the fifteen galaxies, if it weren’t for his crewmembers at System 1.

   Oh no! One of these fuckers gave him morphine again…

   He fell back into coma. And, somewhat clearly, he heard Willie Nelson sing “On the Road Again”. No shit, really did.


   A bird.

   There was a bird drowning in the vodka?


   Yeah, ok, this is acceptable. This is within parameters, he thought. Boss Licina opened his eyes a bit wider, just to clarify. I mean, what kind of bird are we talking about here? Maybe it’s just bathing? These things are important when making a declarative statement. Maybe that bird was just visiting. Getting it’s proverbial drink on.

   The effort sent a spike of pain straight through his skull. Never mind that his left eye had scabbed shut. A minor setback, a brief hiccup in procedures. Fingers like sausages reached up and probed at the eye exploratively, gently. Doctor SausageFingers came back slowly with the results. The pain remained, but did not increase. This was good. The eye was operational, just covered in a scab. WIth a thick sigh, the way a fat man might speak to a donut at 2am, he picked it off and blearily opened his other eye.

   The bird came into focus. That was a finch! That finch was definitely drowning. That finch was basically dead. The moment pulled everything into clarity. How could things possibly be any worse? So much time lost, and now this. It wasn’t just the beverage, though hunting down the next bit-a-fuel may be rough. If the finches were down, then the metaphorical and physical waste products were probably impacting some high speed rotational devices, here on System 1. The heck! Maybe way more than only the rotationals.

   Boss Licina rolled onto his back and checked for damage. Eyes, good. Head, impacted. Limbs, noodles had more structural integrity… The list went on, and slowly Boss Licina went from supine, to sitting, and then back up. Boots on the ground, man. Somebody had to do something. A shake like a dog and clarity returned. What. The Fuck? I mean, how do things always fall apart like this? Forget it. Now was not the time for thinking. This was System 1, dammit. This boat needed to get moving. He watched his hand, steady as a Tom Petty track, reach out and grab the finch and squeeze the booze from it like a lemon.

   That first shot was smooth like a kiss, ran down like a spring river. He felt elevated. Delighted. On track. Ka-Boom!

   It’s didn’t take long to start hunting the first problem. Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire, right? A haze clung to the ventilation system, threatening to shut it down completely, ambiently raising the temperature. Through the mess hall, no time to look at the half eaten food. Whatever happened, it happened fast. We may be in space, he thought, but there is nothing liked fried dinosaur. The tiny flightless offspring of the terrible lizards had become ubiquitous and it just seemed natural that a small amount had come along on the trip. The crew had thought that they would be able to grow them and keep them breeding. That fell apart almost instantly. They just tasted too good. The crew had been saving the bones, making stock, and then there was that one time. 2am, walking in on two of the crew, drunk and probably in a fit of gravity sickness, cracking bones onto a marble slab. Before his presence was recognized, four big rips of pure lyophilized marrow, straight up into the sinus and up to the olfactory bulb. You still integrated stem cells there, they said. Boss Licina found himself catching the crew whistling sometimes. Along the halls, when the acoustics were good. Beethoven’s 6th, hints of birdsong. That finch popped up again. Strange, he mumbled to himself. It didn’t affect the functioning of the ship, so it didn’t matter.

   Now though, onto the matter of this smoke. This…haze. This wasn’t a casual activity, this was driven by effort. Somebody with a focus. The scent of ganja and woodsmoke led him through the mess hall and out to the still developing garden area. The aquaponics was still crap. A bad pond is bad. It’s dead. This pond was worse. It wasn’t dead. It was alive. Crawling, and sucking the CO2 from the air, which was good. But, no fish, no plants, which was bad. Just algae and larvae. It was bad. It was real bad. Just the worst. Without a second thought, he kicked a bucket of sodium hydrochloride into the pool. Pouring was for people who had time. Still, Boss Licina was caught by a perverse desire to watch the larvae. Right now he was just like them, he thought. Twitching. Trapped in a space. Trapped in space. Plus, about to be disintegrated by the slowly dissolving sodium hydrochloride. There was no where to go if things went sour. No place to swim free. Outside was coldcoldcold, inside was warmwarm.. hot… smokey… Fuck. Stay on point, man. Something is fucking with the air. Dragging would have required more effort, he just fell backwards and then managed to nail the landing on turning around. Perfect tens all around.

   Around the corner and there was the first of so many issues. Felix had holed up beside the grill. Boss Licina respected the guy, he still had an easy look on his face. Tall as a rail, but not taking up much space, Felix had folded himself up, lanky hair tied in a half knot, like a Swami. Those poor bastards. You can’t bathe in the river, shit in the river, drink from the river, and just expect that everything will just be ok. There is no historical precedent for people bathing in their own piss. Unless you consider that every drop on the ship had at one point been in a bottle, in the pot, and in the pipes. The Hindus would be proud. Any garbage complex enough was indistinguishable from religion.

   Felix was poking at the grill. In one limpid hand hung the source of the dank scent. A guy can appreciate a good smoke, but Felix was pushing the limits. There was a haze sure. Boss Licina felt the hairs on his arms gather moisture. Felix was jumpstarting the water cycle. One man trying to terraform System 1 with clouds. Then there was the grill. Boss Licina began to drool just thinking about it. Two big shanks. Slow cooked. He liked to think himself a master on the grill, but these babies were crying out to him. Felix had put some love into them, a little time, a little effort, a little cumin.

   “Felix, man. What the fuck is going on? I fall asleep for a few hours and all of the sudden we’re choking on dead air, man. I can chew on the air. The air has a flavour. What gives?”

   Felix looked up. “Yeah man, yeah. It’s gotten tight in here, not a lot of room, you know. You should eat something. Keep your strength up.” His free hand lazily poked at the grill, sending off another wave of delicious carbonized protein smells.

   “I don’t have the time man. I gotta hammer this ship into shape. Ship shape, y’know?” Boss Licina began to pace. “Has anyone seen the autoclave? Or a decent knife? You’ve got a knife, right?”

   Felix took a long drag and looked at him sideways over the tops of his shades. “You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

   Boss Licina took a step back. “Nah, I’m good. Gotta hustle, y’know? Too much sleep already. gotta stay away from that food coma”.

   “All right, Boss. Just don’t forget, you are what you eat”. Felix reached out and grabbed a piece of barbecue off the grill.

   This was just great. Felix was supposed to be on it. Maybe he was on top of the situation. It was impossible to tell with the guy. He could be lost for the next 4 days, but he could bust out with something brilliant and change the whole scene after that. Who knew?

   Boss Licina turned and began to stalk off. Something else was breaking down on System 1. It wasn’t all just barbecue and bud. As he walked off, he heard Felix mumbling to himself, meditatively. “You are what you eat, man. You are what you eat”. The sounds of chewing and bones cracking and then a long pause. As Boss Licina turned the corner he heard Felix mutter, mouth full, and with an undeniably diabolic mimic, high-pitched to a spectrum it stabbedly hurt his ears, “My name is LUCAS !!!”.

   Why’re my fucking ears still bleeding? He felt blood on the top of his right hand’s index finger.

   Fuck me, what I’d give for a chirm of finches soaked in vodka. Cannibalism already? Damn, System 1 is going down the drain. That went out of hand way too fast. Had he just stayed unconscious…


Interlude — Where There’s Smoke, There’s a Fire

Narrative Statement — This is System 1

System 1 was no ordinary spaceship, System 1 was a Bioship.

   But not only that, it also hosted quite a diverse — however well-wired — all male community of space travelers, a formidably ongoing Dudecamp, as they referred to the august pack they themselves unequivocally displayed. They fostered, no, they permanently caressed a brotherly ideal kind of friendship which they entertained in a diligently dignified, easily appearing as overly naive manner. Of course, this was an awesome setup for adventures, and adventures they relished consciously and humbly. Lightsabreless Jedi knights in their own regard, the universe never got tired of serving them with ever new ones, ever more bizarre, mysterious, magical and totally disturbing ones, ones with frogbear invasions, others with environmental collapse prevention on a planetary scale pessimists would prefer to describe as (planetary) “life extension”.

   Life would live no matter what, however the healthier and more advancedly balanced a given life, ultimately, the more fun and learning. This they knew at System 1 like on, or rather within, no other spaceship bouncing along the endless darks of the cosmos, higher dimensions included. So they haven’t crushed into higher dimensions much lately, these places lacked the chaos ingredient a little to hard as to qualify as adventurously recommended. These places just weren’t made for materialistic musings. Anyway, they accessed them a lot through inter- and subchronical tripping methods gained and gathered through adavanced Biohacking techniques and/or potions.

   Generally, it was the same as with every other craft. Everyone went kinda wild about it once they found out about it, tried around a little, got some supporter shirts here and there and similar efforts, maybe ran some experiments, certainly tripped and partied a lot, developed various mental apps and dexterities, read about it, talked about it, but left the business to the businessman in the end. So everyone knew their basics and whatever they would make their routinely uses of, but couldn’t handle the real deals and tasks — maintaining and running a Bioship, for instance — or build up a deeper and wholly sophisticated understanding on the subject. It was left to be learned by the nerd, the one who just loved doing it the most.

   At System 1, the guy to go for when it came to Biohacking, was Boss Licina. Boss because that’s what he was called by the crew. Not exactly his crew, dearest Reader, ‘crew’ would merely refer to every other shipmember, respectively, in a classic trimusketeerial sort of fashion. One for all, all for one. Although the terminology of ‘boss’ clearly pointed out some reverence, not only regarding the essentiality of a decent Biohack IQ on board, but also his captivating and fatherly, partiarchical brand of persona. Very useful guy, he kept shit ordered, made sure wherever organics were to be consumed and/or emitted, what exactly to do with them. Also, which particular intake variations one should utilize upon their own material sensations they used to describe ‘bodies’, with each of them having their own one, of course.

   The Biohacker had the substances, and without substances, there wouldn’t be much to go about. He operated between the inhabitants of the Bioship and the Bioship itself. Yes, System 1 itself was a living thing, some organic life going on. It shielded its inside from the nasty conditions of Outer Space, while simultaneously creating a flawless costumer experience for its passengers for as long as they knew what they were actually doing down there. System 1 definitely liked the adventurous attitude of that Dudecamp going on in there, but even System 1 had its issues going with Boss Licina. No dispute they couldn’t settle so far.

   Presently, however, even System 1 was concerned about its class-A Biohacker, as this thoroughly educated person ran straight into an intake accident and ended up both getting a pretty badass hit on his big and bold head and morphined. The only information welling out of his usually rampant mouth right now was some bubbly slobber. Nothing exploitable.

   Much more importantly and thereby indeed concerning, though, this whole mess was only able to manifest, because Boss Lacina and System 1 as of now had a respectable asymmetry going on in both their states of time, as they had to measure their chronological positions on quite a bitchy accuracy on System 1. Also makes total sense, because, as the smart of you already figured out but will still get a little hard on when now finally being served with the cakey piece System 1 was not only regulating the three dimensional spacial membrane it represented, but also one of its own along the dimension of time. Legend has it, at one point that being simply decided that all the questioning of the purpose and significance of these virtually overwhelming ideas — as there were love, god, happiness, the free will, choice, right and wrong — was just a waste of time and that the best way to behave in a quantum universe was, after all, quantum style. Keepin’ it random, keepin’ it shufflin’.

   System 1 knew how to maintain a proper timeline for its population, that was part of the service agreement, and, truth be told, even a Bioship has to live for something. Not that there’s not a quadrillion more of Bioships located in this ever expanding universe, so how insignificant could that particular (System) one possibly be? See. Even a Bioship can fall for depression at times. No joke here, it can get serious. Face it. Do you know the reason behind it? Why the universe came up with it? What was constantly evoluting organic life supposed to lead to? Was there a goal? Certainly not to harness all its qualities and intelligence to one day arrive at this exact question again. Why was there even life out there, where it is, statistically speaking, 99.9999998 per cent dark and cold and empty? Here you go. It can not only be depressing, it also is, for god’s sake. No, no, no. Sorry folks, the god discussion got canceled for today.

“Will he make it?” (very concerned, and also quite moved)

– “I don’t know man…” (relatively indifferent)

“No, I’m fuckin serious! Will he make it? Talk to me!” (growingly concerned, maybe a little bit of a high pitch)

– “Well, if you asked like this, let me try on an honest and scientifically bulletproof answer to match your effort and overall norepinephrine situation here — since he undoubtedly made it every time so far, chances are likely that, this time, he will somehow make it again, statistically speaking, that is, if we assign an equal possibly of not-making-it to every single will-he-make-it scenario. You feel better now?” (It’s called sarcasm, wiseass!)

“So you say you got no idea whatsoever?” (cynically)

– “Look at that blood still running from his ears, looks like his brain got melted into some red wine sauce and gently poured out gravy boat style. Normally he’d make it. Wonder why he doesn’t speak. Could be the morphine.” (unchanged tone…)

“You fuckin serious? He should be up and running kinda soon bro. That time disproportion we have going here kinda freaks me out.” (very insistent)

– “Yeah, maybe. It’s strange. We’ll have to see. Our bottleneck problem right now is that the only proper surgeon in maybe a .11721 light-years radius is the only knocked-out guy in the room. Let’s dub it ‘fate’ and call it a session. Stay confident. The Boss would never exit like this, way too tenacious. I mean, come on! Look at him. I bet he only got something he really needed to dream about. Maybe I should see what I can do for him, chemically.” (deal!)

– “Bring him back as soon as you can make it happen, please. I absolutely do not trust this calmness going on here with some nine hours off. I don’t wanna talk about what happened the last time we were so far out of tune…” (somewhat relieved)

“That smell! Didn’t go away for four months or so, worst time of my life, I had no idea how depressing constant bad smell could be, just given the time.” (somewhat… ceremonial?)

They laughed. Truth goes like this. Neither of them had any idea about what was going on inside Boss Licina’s badly deformed hydrocephalus, or whether there was any activity left at all. Since there was no way for either one of them, including the truly afk Boss here, to ever find out about that, and considering the pain alone he had booked for the upcoming days, plus his impulsive nature and colorful imaginary capacities, the following clip ( Š200.- ) might really serve as a great stand-in, don’t you think?

Then a tremor struck all of System 1. They looked at each other, both highly alert. In mirror motion they time-checked, they looked each other in the eye, they time-checked again. The disparity had grown another few minutes…

   These were distinctly NOT the good news. Time is literally running out for System 1.

   (Alternatively ‘out from’, I mean, think this Bioship, folks…)

Narrative Statement — This is System 1

Scene Four — The Two-Times Two

   Regaining consciousness may, at times, become a funny ride. Who ever I am, Boss Licina thought, I don’t even know where. His vision also had not yet appeared. It was his gravitational sense which gave him the first smooth kick back to being able to lawfully being granted to feel partaking in living reality, or time, or both, or maybe it’s the same thing. Right here and there, in this brief split-second sensation, he hovered through an infantly disoriented immediate step on the marble stairs back up to presence and focus, thereby, to actual usefulness. Let’s compare his first perceptual pieces to the self-impression of a common jellyfish. There was this tricky idea of shit being actually quite okay, as compared to the shock of having to admit — on a very deep level of admittance to be fair — that time was, in fact, moving again. And Boss Licina had Bills to pay. He was just about to find out.

   Somewhere along the way there was another fraction of a second that he spent almost fully on finding out who he actually was. That is always a more or less crucial part to be provided for any productive momentary attendance to actually work. While he had no secure information yet on where his exact position was on the job ladder of executing life while being alive, a not yet self aware Boss Licina stumbled upon the fact here was a lot more going on than simply time passing, he also had some sort of body going on that somewhat represented his share of organic matter in the universe. Unfortunately, right before he could welcome himself back at being the guy performing that force-of-nature energetic extroversion defining this Biohacking Boss known as Licina, some central nerve cells suddenly succeeded in passing the honest bad news to the top chair, and they hit without any chance of foresight. Although suffering without proper self-awareness should always be labelled innocent, this is how it turned out for the poor and damaged agent unintendingly representing Boss Licina.

    Imagine you stand as close as possible to a long train passing on a crazy high speed out of the dark, with the train part of the story happening all through the insides of your head only. Then the train would do a jump and drill with all its gigawatt powers available into the inner skull area right above your right ear, simultaneously exiting on the skinned side of the head — and Boss Licina’s did, fact, show his barely tanned soft outer covering of vertebrates, at least under usual circumstances.

    In Boss Licina’s defense it must be pointed out by all means that the only bad in his present luck was embodied by the circumstances just not being usual enough. And they were not only unusual enough to have him end up with a semi-broken skullbone, they also had System 1 somehow drifting apart from the crewmembers, in a timely regard, to be precise. And this is more than unusual and unlucky combined — it’s flat out frightening. Terrifying. Unknown territory in the dimension of not-even-considered-possible, pardon, survivable. System 1 used to portray its hickups here and there, due to its inherent quantum randomness, but these were minor timely divergences, a handful of seconds that would always snap back after a while — or oscillate back and forth around harmonization.

    Sensitivity for time at System 1 was running as low as sensitivity for the small changes in the weather patterns. Always peaceful and optimal, therefore not a second thought wasted. Grandmother Time had to jump off synch vastly in order to make herself visible, and now that she was on the leave it was panic mode beyond compare regarding the comfort people enjoyed with time passing in its ever constant manner, always predictable, everything plannable, as if it wasn’t there at all, but just the naked way it always was, always is, and always will be. No life without time. Every kid knew that, at least in those parts of the universe System 1 was grazing. So, a fading time between ship and crew could mean nothing but death. Outer space was still a place a little bit too nasty for living things to grow sustaining comfort.

    Calling the smuggest asshole in all the fifteen galaxies to the site, it would certainly raise its hat to Boss Licina’s luck, basically because of the eerie time apocalypse buildup he had not yet to witness. Albeit, in case he would, the fictitious asshole continues, the sheer amount of unpleasant real-I-sation at once would simply blow the aforementioned character’s brain out through his eye sockets.

    And he was correct. Boss Licina should be thankful, even graceful, for each terribly painful step he had to squeeze himself through in the upcoming sequence of his pitifully linear existence, as having the adoption to a new subset of reality happen too densely within the amount of time provided to the organism, the overall sensation could very well end up being a slightly too painful one, which could subsequently send the life form to a quick death — in its own best interests. Yes, Boss Licina should survive the incident, however not necessarily personally appreciate the act of him being reintroduced to the NOW. Picture one of the guys who got unlucky with their vertical dick implants and then their Willies would rot from the inside and then unfold like a duck’s bill. Thanks, asshole. Feel free to leave the scene, if you wouldn’t mind. Asshole.

    For Boss Licina it would not come as bad, but surely bad enough.

    To be continued at a better time.

Scene Four — The Two-Times Two