There’s a monster over my bed. Humming wakes me from a disturbed sleep. The ceiling clock says it’s 6 in the morning. How is it so sure? That frustrates me. A bath of orange and red floods over my body. It’s not as refreshing as I hoped. Squinting I put my sunglasses on. Even the diffusal windows can’t mask the brilliance of the morning. Does space have a morning?

In my head I watch myself being roused by a kiss from a gorgeous girl in a black and white pokadot sun dress, flowing raven hair swept behind her and luscious red lips leaving their mark upon my skin. I shake my head and swear. Too much imagery for me. For anyone trapped aboard this floating nightmare.

Muscles strain as I pull myself out of my linen cocoon. You never know what you’ve lost until it’s gone. Isn’t that what they say? I sure wish I had some gravity right now. Stomach queasy and eyes blotched, I make my emphatic way over to Controls. Swimming in air is tiring.

“John. Slept in again, have you?” Pulses of hatred shattered the dawn. They were tainted with grogginess, however. I should go to sleep earlier.

“I see your memory is still muddled, Sam. It’s Saturday… or what we used to call Saturday. And it’s 6am.”

“We all abide by the same schedule, John. Floating Nightmare can’t run itself, now can it?” Such a smug sense of entitlement. He hasn’t lost his yet.

“Is there anything worth running, these days?” I have, however.

“Come now, Sergeant. We’re the front line. We have an example to set.” Sam had not turned from his panel, firmly affixed to his cushioned seat and sunglassed eyes set upon his monitors. Leather gloved hands worked over various dials and levers, the whole scene eerily reminiscent of some bad science fiction film from the 1950’s. The white suits of silk we wore contrasted with our black glasses and gloves, which heightened the image. I shook my head again. Evil pictures of the past.

“To serve and protect, right?” Rolling my eyes was a task I was not eager to repeat. Not until I’ve had my coffee.

“Something like that, John. Something like that..” And so our morning conversation came to a close, as it usually did. If not in context, in theme. It was if some great unknown entity let out a long, depressed sigh and the exhalation was mimicked by our vocal chords.

I stood silently for a few moments, jousting with myself over denial of duty and dread of routine. My hand had inched ever closer to the list of chores eternally glued to the back of my chair. Who knew saving the world was such a menial activity?