The Laser Eye Nebula
“No, look. Christ. It’s not that I don’t like cats. Cats are great. I just never saw myself doing this kind of work long term,” she says. “You hold her.” With that, she hands over the soft gray ball of fluff. Four limbs stretch down below the animal as if being sucked into a black hole, before being re-integrated on my lap.
“This was supposed to be a one time thing,” she continues. “I studied art and writing. My paintings were in real galleries! What the hell am I doing out here cat sitting?” Unoccupied, her hands waggle. How would the buyer feel knowing that this woman, who should be acting like a professional, just handed this cat over me? With the cost of interstellar transport, this cat is among the most expensive pets in the galaxy.
“I need to be out there, supported by wealthy benefactors” she says, her hands making dramatic sweeps, “traveling to distant stars, viewing glittering… platinum asteroids, visiting inhabitants of hostile moons. I could be embodying the true spirit of creativity and… um… capturing the imagination of billions!” Enthusiasm forces spittle from her mouth, and she throws her hands up in the air.
I find her display distasteful, but as long as I have this cat on my lap, I won’t complain. Fifteen years on these kinds of shuttles, creating immersive sensory experiences for people who cannot afford the trip. Precisely what this woman wishes she was doing. In all that time, I have never had a cat on my lap. I soak it up. “Artis Parobel” — I learn from a metal disc affixed to the collar — contentedly closes her purple eyes. I smile and soften my gaze.
“I want to create! Inspire! ”
I would trade her job for mine and never look back. She romanticizes it, but it’s an endless grind of contracts that no one remembers six months later. I don’t think my work will ever be good enough. I’d love to do something with clear metrics for success. I could always write at night.
A generously eyebrowed man gives her a look. He ruffles his newspaper in agitation, uncrosses and then recrosses his legs in opposite configuration, and looks back down.
I look up at the right moment, and am stunned by the Laser Eye Nebula. The ship’s controller positioned this room such that the nebula moves down the axes of three oblong portholes.
The nebula is an eye blinked opened in surprise. The iris is verdant green. A single straight streak emerges from it. This “laser” that broadens from within the circle of the eye outwards enhances the illusion of depth. I know the intelligent porthole is adding color and magnification. It would be easy to feel betrayed by this, as with any deceit, but I prefer to be delighted. As much as you can ever know anything, I like knowing that the nebula exists, and that it is there on this flight path, even if I can’t see it unassisted. Having an AI enhance your surroundings for viewing is not so different from what our senses do for our brains.
I point at the nebula, hoping to share my awe, but the woman does not notice.
“I mean, who the hell do they think they are, huh? Telling me where to go, what… um, cats to pick up?” she says. “I’m an artist! I only got into this because it was practical. ‘Do something sustainable, something that pays’, they say. Health insurance! Bah! It’s all about doing what you have to do, never about fulfilling your destiny.”
As if in punctuation, she pulls out a hip-flask and takes a long pull, coughing and losing a dash on the carpet. If she wants to keep her job, she needs to set that shit aside. Transporting Artis probably cost as much as a nice house in a nice neighborhood on a nice planet. She would be fired if she were caught.
With a second swallow, the pet courier shudders, sighs. She paces again, and gesticulates with the flask.
“I’m neck deep in the mud of practicality. I want out of it, but I find myself clutching harder at the mud holding me, at my life insurance, pension, and stupid 401k. ‘Just a couple more years… a couple more cats,’ I say to myself, but no! It’s never enough”. She takes another swig, tilting the bottle above her. Nice benefit package.
I rub my knuckles under Artis’ blueish right ear, and she pushes back, curling onto her side. I have not felt so much love in a long time.
The woman slumps beside me. The nebula is straight ahead, and joy suffuses me. As a girl, I could deal with just about anything that occurred during the day so long as I had a willow tree to sit with in the evening.
The courier reaches back for Artis Parobel. I block her reach, and force her to make eye contact. The woman is surprised: until this moment she must have thought me inanimate. She breaks eye contact, and pulls Artis away. With a huff, she walks off the deck with her. I miss the warmth, and feel empty without it. I look up. The nebula is gone, and everyone is filing out.
I take out my journal and sketch. I tire of it. I have been living in the mud of pleasing others for so long, living from paycheck to paycheck. I put my journal away. It is time for a change.
