They called him Chief. Nobody knew how old he really was and only a few knew his real name. Some said mid 40’s, others guessed as high as 60. It was hard to tell. He was a compact, strong man. Like most of the crew, his standard outfit was the ship’s issue black and gray jumpsuit, which was baggy everywhere except around his arms and chest where rocky muscle pressed against the rough fabric. A dark blue bandana always covered his graying hair, which would hang past his chin if it weren’t carefully tucked under the grease stained blue fabric.

He seldom spoke in full sentences, preferring grunts and one word answers. On the rare occasion he strung more than one word together in his slow drawl he would leave plenty of space between each word, forcing you to hang impatiently on each syllable as he spewed it out from behind his thick, gray moustache. He was fond of cigars. Not the expensive kind you would find in a temperature controlled walk-in humidor, but the kind you bought in a pack of five from the Indian guy behind the counter at the 24 hour Quick Stop. He was perpetually surrounded by a thick cloud of acrid, cheap tobacco smoke. Because of this most people kept their distance, but he liked it that way. Chief preferred the ships machinery to them anyways. You couldn’t smack someone with a wrench if they were misbehaving, but you could beat on the ancient stratocouplers as much as you wanted. They didn’t mind cigar smoke and they didn’t complain.

Some of the crew though Chief was issued with the ship; built like a machine with the sole purpose of keeping its systems running. He had personal quarters but preferred sleeping on a thin, lumpy mattress stuffed behind the engine room’s large control panel, besides, he only slept well if every one of the ships systems was running smoothly and this old tub kept him up for days on end.

Chief may have disliked many people, but he respected the men under his command. Hard work did not go unnoticed on his watch. Chief always encouraged his men to speak up if they saw a more efficient or better way to complete a task. Once a week he would drag out an old digital projector and play bootlegged movies from when he was a kid on a tarp strung between a few pipes in the engine room. Anyone off duty could pull up an empty condenser crate or lubricant drum and spend a few hours laughing at the grainy old 2D images of men at war firing actual projectiles at each other, or chasing each other in vehicles that ran on round bands of rubber and burned fossil fuels. Chief would just sit in the back of the room, one arm propped against the control panel, chuckling silently to himself and remembering days past.

Often the captain would put him and his men under great pressure to get things fixed or upgraded.

“Time wasted is time lost!”

Chief would bellow, sucking his cigar and loping along the narrow, metal grated passages deep within the ships engine compartments, stopping occasionally to help turn a wrench or hold a flashlight for one of his men. Besides his usual cigar Chief was never seen without his outdated personal communicator. It was always strapped to his belt or jammed into his back pocket, its earpiece stuffed into his left ear. Unlike the rest of the crew he refused the latest neural communication device.

“I don’t want some doctor cuttin’ open my head, stuffin; those electronic doo-dads into my brain. Besides, my old comm. unit does everything I need.”

He would reply any time someone asked him about it. He always chuckled at the younger crew members using their neural communicators, their eyes twitching away, viewing data streamed directly to their optical nerves.

“Yup, just give me an old holographic display any day.”

The engine room’s controls were all old style manual interfaces anyways; touch screens and holographic readouts. The only pure neural interfaces were those on the bridge. They were necessary for quick course corrections and plotting FTL jumps. Chief only entered the bridge when something needed to be repaired. He found the long, dark room packed with silent, motionless officers lying on their neural couches disconcerting. At least the captain maintained one large data screen at the far end. He didn’t much like neural interfaces either, but he also didn’t like cigars. It was on one of these rare visits to the bridge that Chief’s life would take a sharp left turn.

Late one night Chief had just finished repairing one of the fussy stratocouplers when his communicator beeped in his left ear.

“Chief? You there?”

It was the ships Executive Officer, Willy McCloud. Everyone just called him XO.

“We got a problem up here on the bridge. Main control conduit is on the fritz again, can you come up here and take a look at it asap?”

Chief tapped his earpiece, opening up its mic.

“Yeah sure, XO, be right up.” He grabbed his tool bag and headed for the nearest turbolift. It would bring him directly to the bridge. A minute later the lift slid to a halt and its doors opened. Blinding white light seared into the small cabin. Chief dropped his tool bag, shading his eyes with one hand.

“What the…” He breathed, stepping slowly from the lift.

The light was coming from a bright sphere floating in the middle of the bridge. It was about the size of an old basketball hovering two meters off the floor. Chef moved farther into the room, carefully approaching the object.

“XO!” he yelled. Nobody responded and he couldn’t see past the orb to the XO’s station.

“Captain! Anyone!” Still no response.

The normally occupied neural couches nearby were empty, their interface strands tangled and draping to the floor. Chief didn’t know what to do. He had never seen anything like it before. Nothing that small could put out so much light, and heat. He could feel it now as he got close. Pulsating waves of heat radiated from the center of the room, washing over him. Beads of sweat formed below the bandana on his red forehead. For the first time since he entered the room he noticed a frantic beeping in his left ear. It was his comm unit’s hazardous environment alarm. He quickly snatched the unit from his belt. The screen was flashing green. Severe Radation Hazzard Evacuate Immediately it read.

“Shit!” Chief yelled, spinning around. He stumbled back into the turbolift and slapped the panel to close its doors. Nothing happened. He slapped it again, but the screen was dark. It was dead. The temperature was rising every second. Another warning sounded in his ear. This time it was a heat warning. Sweat poured down his face now, soaking into his collar. He was getting light headed. The room was spinning. Chief fell to his knees in front of the control panel, still wearily swiping at it with his slick, sweat covered hands. The beeping from his earpiece began to fade. Soon his vision followed, he was falling, down into a dark pit, faster and faster. He fell to the side now, sprawling out on the floor, halfway out of the lift. A last pinpoint of light left his vision as he slipped into unconsciousness.

“Calvin,” a woman’s voice whispered. “Calvin, wake up.” The voice was close, whispering into his left ear. Warm breath brushed his cheek with each word. A long forgotten, but familiar scent filled his nose; mint and teatree. It was her shampoo. Her. Cindy.

No fucking way. Chief thought. I’m dreaming or something. She’s dead. I cremated her and buried her on the farm and she’s dead.

“Come on Calvin. Open your eyes. I know you’re awake.” The voice said, getting louder and moving in front of him. Something pressed down on him, he sunk down.

A mattress, I’m lying on a bed and now she is on top of me. Oh god. I can feel her. He soft, warm skin against mine. Oh, she’s so warm and smooth. Her breasts, just like I remember them, pressing into me.

Something tickled his face. The wonderful minty teetree scent grew stronger.

Her hair, her fucking curly, dark, beautiful hair!

“Open up, silly,” the voice crooned.

Chief slowly opened his eyes. It felt like he was dragging their lids over sandpaper. A light, skin colored blur surrounded by darkness filled his vision. He blinked a few times until it came into focus. It was Cindy’s face. Cindy was alive. She was alive and on top of him.