Dangerous Stuff
The cryoship reached a new star system,
initiated warming; the crew,
not waking from millennia of dream,
thought they traversed a rind of icy lumps,
imagined a ringed world,
other planets, a belt of rocks.
Planet 3's simulated biosphere effluviated,
radio-frequensated; tiny robots
probed its neighborhood; natives
built objects detectable from space.
The species made a nuisance of itself,
boarded the pitted cylinder;
unnoticed by the gaunt sim-locked crew,
twitching and mumbling in sim-sleep death spiral;
the away team explorated.
An avatar approached: the natives'
manipulatory appendages shifted grips
on projectilators, collimated beamers, detectionators--
this android or cyborg could see them!
“now hiring,” the ship-brain said,
speaking through its faux humanoid rep,
“see galaxy, meet life forms.”
a pause;
in the next room,
a skeleton crew nodded, dreamed of Contact.
“Benefits?” a native asked.
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