Been working us so hard I don't have time to write. We aren't allowed use these minders this way, but if I don't say it--think it, something--I'm going to go madder.
I'm dying. Overworked. Others might be, too, but I haven't had time to check with them. I can't be the first to fall. If I keel over, if I burn out, torch myself, they'll just keep dragging me along like a broken cog turned by the gears around it.
Migrana had Abigale two weeks ago. I missed her birth. Missed my own daughter's birth. I'd have missed her conception except Wayfarer incentivizes reproduction--we get time off for that!
Now Migrana tells me we've picked up a ship on the fringes of the asteroid belt--something drifting. Set all our other precogs off like crazy. We're drafting up an experiment we don't even know the purpose, based on visions by people as mad as me. They want me to field candidates from within the star system. More work. I can't do it. I can't even take time to speak, let alone something--
A pilot, I think, enmeshed in wires and chrome. Built into the pilot's chair, almost, or plugged. Like me in face and form, but bleached skin and starlit hair like her mother--a spiderweb of black at her throat that moves with her pulse, as the ship moves with her slightest gesture. And a joyful, purple smile. Free. Free, free. Abigale, my daughter, not tied to a research station or some grey project.
Aah! Migrana was right--can't use these minders this way. Precog images hurt.
I need to tell Migrana--tell her I'll take that assignment. Field those candidates. Yes, I will.
I'm dying. Overworked. Others might be, too, but I haven't had time to check with them. I can't be the first to fall. If I keel over, if I burn out, torch myself, they'll just keep dragging me along like a broken cog turned by the gears around it.
Migrana had Abigale two weeks ago. I missed her birth. Missed my own daughter's birth. I'd have missed her conception except Wayfarer incentivizes reproduction--we get time off for that!
Now Migrana tells me we've picked up a ship on the fringes of the asteroid belt--something drifting. Set all our other precogs off like crazy. We're drafting up an experiment we don't even know the purpose, based on visions by people as mad as me. They want me to field candidates from within the star system. More work. I can't do it. I can't even take time to speak, let alone something--
A pilot, I think, enmeshed in wires and chrome. Built into the pilot's chair, almost, or plugged. Like me in face and form, but bleached skin and starlit hair like her mother--a spiderweb of black at her throat that moves with her pulse, as the ship moves with her slightest gesture. And a joyful, purple smile. Free. Free, free. Abigale, my daughter, not tied to a research station or some grey project.
Aah! Migrana was right--can't use these minders this way. Precog images hurt.
I need to tell Migrana--tell her I'll take that assignment. Field those candidates. Yes, I will.
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