I found myself rather distracted for a time; I was never much of one for that initial barrage of interpersonal firing-squads that the less neurotic might have termed “Socialization”. Besides, the slue of system diagnostics that Annie had finally downlinked from the ship's mainframe kept me more than busy. Not, of course, that I'd have a hope of navigating the disastrous spew of information on my lonesome – but that's what a personal AI was for, anyway. She and I might not have flown for years, but old habits die hard: I wanted a personal look at the readings myself. Sometimes even the finest computer will make the mistakes that a human never would.

Besides, what better way to make acquaintances than by uploading my personal system specs and then convincing the remainder of the crew it was a fine idea? I can't say I'd ever liked the default settings on any ship I ever piloted, and in this one in particular was no exception: flew like a pig, but with a few tweaks above the 'Recommended' thresholds the bird could shed a few pounds. Having flown more than my fair share of hours in the initial test flights -did- confer a few advantages over the uninitiated.

Come to think on it, it's not like the company ever had a lack of solid, capable and (perhaps most importantly in my case...) reliable pilots. Many doubtless coming far more recommended than I could ever claim to be. I couldn't help but fail to hide a kind of sly, self-satisfied smile at my own irrational logic: perhaps if they chose me, it means they -need- someone who had been in the initial test run, which I figure by extension implies I've the right to push the ship a little harder than the final specs company engineers had come up with after those early test runs.

* * * * * * 

“Sir, you're doing it again – “ a nominal grunt in response, during which the AI politely paused before continuing: “cognitive anomaly: lying to yourself as affirmation of invented causality...”

“Oh give it a rest, would you? That's just called being a human!” Raymond gave a dismissive flick of his fingers at that, words no more than mouthed in response: perhaps talking aloud to an AI was more of an accepted norm than it might have been not too many years in the past... But holding a conversation with a personal implant? Probably not much different than talking to oneself. 

Catching a whiff of Preacher's remarks to our Navigator, I sent along a wireless request of my own to his personal system:

“Attn: Incoming Request from Pilot Raymond Charles, Handle: Ridgeback”; it was just a simple request for the navigation logs and current planetary scans – no doubt we'd all have a wonderful gander at them after making the inevitable exodus to the bridge, but some preparation beats none at all. I added verbally, afterward:

“And please tell me we're not landing this beauty in the middle of some kind of rock-shard-cyclone-shitstorm; preliminary readings from that moon look like hell.” Was never fond of lunar landings myself, no matter the nature of the moon; there was something inherently wrong about touching down on what seemed no more than a little chunk of rock in comparison to whatever monster of a gas giant it might be hurtling about at inane speeds. At least something like, say, a comet was generally so goddamn far away from anything that you couldn't really -tell- how insignificant you were.

Seeing the last of my personal overrides for the default protocols put in place, I leaned back and pivoted my chair about by one leg: swung until sitting more or less at an angle toward (as Annie helpfully reminded me moments before I came up with my words) the Engineer known as Zelda; Preacher just seemed on the tail end of having said something – and between the mirth in his eyes and her abjectly startled look, I couldn't quite make out whether I were saving her or ruining the man's fun: I spoke anyway.

“And excuse my interruption, if you would – but – “ the space between his words was punctuated by a swift series of sweeping hand-gestures, the altered specs tabulated and then sent immediately to Zelda's own personal processor “if you could do me the favour of making certain our system access points agree on a few... modifications... I've made to default settings? Nothing major, just a few places I learned she can put out a bit more than the books state...”

There is another pause here while Raymond tilts his gaze toward where Alice sits; offering a cordial nod, he ventures to add:

“Though I must say that a few of the modifications listed under the name 'Alice Triskin' are quite well-placed; the additional heat deflection array for extended vectoring are something they should've had on this damn thing from the start – especially with the number of roasty-toasty landings the company seems to expect these things to make.”

Taking another sip from his mug, Raymond finally ticks his gaze back toward preacher, remarks:

“And it's good to finally make your acquaintance, Preacher – I've heard quite a bit about you... I hope you brought your God along for the ride. Heaven knows we'll probably need him out here!”

“Perhaps you could've found words faintly more... political, Sir?” Annie's gentle remonstrance almost made me want to laugh; I didn't bother to respond.