Last time on Endeavour, sad things happened.
A day off.
I sit up slowly in bed. It’s quiet, and I smile a little. No alarm, telling me to wake up for a shift. No… I don’t have a better word. No alarm telling me to get up and run or I might die.
It’s strange, peaceful, serene.
I slip out of bed, stumbling a little as my legs try to wake up. I shake myself, step into the small shower cubicle, and turn it on.
The shower doesn’t take long. It’s Sunday, so I don’t really clean too thoroughly. A little soap here and there, rinse, and out. I get the important bits. It’s not like I’m going to be sweating much today.
Unless something goes horribly wrong again.
Dave Ng and I spend a good hour or two shooting some pool. He’s got the day off as well. We talk about where we came from, what we miss, jobs we used to have… even pointless conversations are a bit more interesting in space.
There’s no weather to talk about.
Dave heads off to his shift after solidly trouncing me at pool for entirely too long, so I make my way through the tube-like halls, down to the mess. I could have something good, steak and broccoli, maybe with some cheese and wine. I could have some sushi, or some Terran Chili.
I opt for beans. Beans and a hotdog.
You probably think I’m being weird, or disgusting, or… who knows.
But it’s Sunday.
Penn walks in, nods at me on the way to the fridge to grab a beer. Sometimes I look at her and wonder how scrubs can possibly be so attractive.
Today, I don’t even bother.
‘Grab me one too Penn?’ I say, throwing the empty beans can into the trash, making my way to the couch.
Penn nods, grabs two Guinneken’s, hands me one and sits down beside me on the couch.
‘Day off?’ she asks.
I nod, taking a swig of the beer.
‘Break?’ I ask, setting the beer down beside me.
We sit together, side by side, for a while, silent. Don’t even have to talk with her, and this is already the best Sunday I’ve had in months.
I think I might have a problem.
Penn sighs, heaves exaggeratedly off the couch, thanks me for the beer, and heads out. Her break’s done, back to work.
So damned awesome.
I grab another two beer from the fridge, drag them back to my room.
I spend the next two hours with the beers, and a book. And maybe a distracted thought or three about Penn.
Then dinner, then back to the room, beer and book again.
Quietest Sunday in weeks.
The entire time, I keep expecting something to explode, or Vanduul to appear out of nowhere, or to get called in because an Orion exploded, or… who knows.
But I’m not.
The book is good. It’s a diary of a Tortoise league racer; the hardcore ones, that race with weapons allowed. It’s written well, and part of me wonders if it’s been optioned for a ‘vid series yet.
The comm cuts in, Dr. Mcboy’s voice interrupting my read.
‘We’re… we’re on the move’ he says, and even I can tell he doesn’t sound right. Normally stoic, unflappable, even in the face of carnage and mutilation, he’s…
‘We’ve got a call. We’re going in for cleanup. We’re… we’ve got 8 hours transit time. Everyone’s off till we arrive, then it’s all hands on deck.’
He takes a deep breath, clearly audible through the intercom.
‘This one’s bad. So…’
He doesn’t finish his thought, and the intercom cuts out.
I close the book, set my beer down beside me, and lean my head back, looking up at the ceiling. I really, really wonder what’s got him so rattled.
What DOES have Dr. Cones McBoy rattled? The story starts this Wednesday, with Passengers, Part I