'23kpc' Chapter 36: Auld Acquaintances Never Forgotten

Desperate times call for swallowing desperate measures

[The prompt (which went through several iterations before and after the AI came up with this not-totally-bad response): “still life. one small maraschino cherry, dripping, lying on the face of a large tennis racquet. cartoon pop art.”]

Reminders:
(1) The complete ‘23kpc’ story, to date
(2) The ‘23kpc’ Reader’s Guide

Last week:

Per the invitation from Daina and Idris, Guy, Missy, and Matty met with Jincks Olderssen — the Tascheter’s captain — in his large, comfortable quarters. The agenda: figuring out the possible connections, if any, among the missing Pooch Durwood, its mysteriously non-working remote control, and the ongoing, apparently intentional breakdown of various shipboard systems. After some rudimentary poking and prodding of the remote by Idris, off they headed to the ship’s nerve center, the bridge. It was crowded with electronics, but the actual route through it was narrow, marked with bright yellow lines to either side. These lines served to warn unauthorized passengers and crew: Do Not Cross. Guy, being Guy, attempted to do so anyway… and was immediately (and briefly) zapped into unconsciousness.

Which for Guy raised the question: could a Pooch cross a barrier like this one? Specifically, could Durwood?

Guy’s narration now continues:

Chapter 36: Taking One for the Team

A few mornings after our visit to the bridge, on the far side of a dorm cycle, Missy is sitting across from me at the dining table in our suite, the remains of a light breakfast before us. She looks down at Durwood in her lap, absent-mindedly stroking its fur from head to tail, over and over.

Finally she looks at me. “Time to leave?”

I nod, dab at my mouth one more time with the napkin, replace the napkin on the table. I stand up and stretch a bit, fingers directed ceilingward, so that Missy can admire me in all my tennis-whited resplendence.

“Go for a walk, Durwood?” I say. Of course this brings The Pooch straightaway from Missy’s lap to the floor at my feet. It spins in circles, whirring a bit, radiating excitement.

Missy herself stands up then and escorts Durwood and me to the door. We — the humans — kiss, briefly. She hands me my racquet.¹ Grinning, she says, “Do say hello to dear Dr. Swarthout for me.”

“I’ll tell him hello,” I say, “but I won’t peck him on the cheek for you.”

And then I’m out the door, giving the racquet a showy twirl or two, with our excitable Pooch gamboling behind, above, to either side, and ahead of me. Both of us off to play what passes for tennis with (and ultimately, to lose to what passes for intellect in) Dr. Nathan Swarthout.