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Fic - SGA/Farscape - Alien Pilots Have More Fun
Re-posting for archival purposes; originally a response to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sf_friday48's fourth challenge.
Title: Alien Pilots Have More Fun
Rating: G? PG, if you stretch. You would not want a higher rating for this fic.
Fandom/Characters: Farscape and Stargate: Atlantis....and it's Pilot and Hermiod. Yes. Um. Hint of BSG at the end.
Spoilers: Through PK Wars for Farscape, through "Intruder" for SGA.
Word count: 1,499
Notes: I can't be the only person who thinks Hermiod looks like Pilot behind his little console, can I?
The third day of the 547th Interversal Symposium on Spectacular Space Travel (or ISSST – a joke that never ceased to amuse the Gro!vokigan contingent, though they never shared the humor) was always the longest, Pilot thought as he scrubbed the lower port air vents, recycled the crew quarters’ water waste, monitored space for communications, assessed the damage young D’Argo had caused near the neural cluster this morning, and maintained homeostasis within Moya. His ship sent him reassurance, but reminded him that it was he who had volunteered to be a featured guest at this year’s gathering. The committee had specially requested his presence after the recent events. Pilot and Moya had attended previously, but only as regular guests, and they were flattered and curious enough about the other side of the symposium to accept.
The symposium always followed the same pattern.
Day One: Arrivals, earlier every time – one wanted to be there early in order to catch the spectacular show all the other arriving ships made as they appeared in diverse methods. Generally, no one got anything productive accomplished on this day; excited greetings and travel recovery overtook the higher brain functions of the less advanced species.
Day Two: By this time, most attendees had recovered from their initial glee and could pay proper attention to the full slate of programming. The symposium, which gathered every five cycles, focused on innovation in methods of space travel across the various FTL-capable species. Presentations, panels, and demonstrations of novel engineering accomplishments filled the second day. Pilot had attended many of them by proxy, with great interest, and the interversal dogfight that was the evening’s entertainment proved exciting as always.
Day Three: Attendees who were truly enthusiastic about Spectacular Space Travel were still gung-ho about the programming; Pilot, on the other hand, was usually ready to leave by this point. Unfortunately, this year the theme was “Macrocosmic Marvels” – hence the committee’s request – and Moya was part of the slate of large ships available for tour and interview. The DRDs and human crew handled most of the visitors, but still, Pilot could literally feel the corridors teeming with smaller beings, and it set his nerves on edge. He couldn’t wait for it to be over.
He had just reminded himself to order a full interior cleaning after the symposium ended, refreshed the food storage chambers, inspected the transport pods’ circuitry, and broken up a skirmish between two DRDs when Commander Crichton’s voice came over the comm channel.
“Yo, Pilot! Got a visitor here to see you.”
Again, Pilot sighed. Unfortunately, one-on-one interviews were part of his agreement with the committee. While he didn’t mind speaking over comms with the other sentient ships and pilots in attendance, letting an unfamiliar smaller being into his chamber always made him uncomfortable. But, as Moya reminded him, it was only for a few more arns. “Thank you, Commander. Send the visitor in, please.”
“Will do. Hey, do me a favor and ask him if he’s seen Mulder’s sister, ‘kay?” Crichton snickered, and Pilot, recognizing the human’s words as a joke, ignored him. He would never understand Earth humor, he thought.
The door slid open, and a small biped slowly strode down the walkway towards him. Pilot peered at it curiously; this was not a species with which he was familiar. It was slim and grayish, with elongated digits and a head that seemed large in proportion to its body size. The orbital lenses were large, dark, and slanted, and the frontal orifice was no more than a slit. It did not seem to be clothed, unless what he’d taken for skin was a smooth, unmarred suit of some sort.
The being stopped in front of Pilot. “I am Hermiod of the Asgard,” it said, proceeding to convey all of the necessary information about its species and origins to Pilot with a few well-chosen phrases.
Pilot was surprised and elated. Finally, a humanoid who could converse on his level! Oh, he was fond of his crew, true, and he had Moya, but sometimes, it was nice to have someone different with whom he could communicate without having to regulate his conversation.
“Greetings,” Pilot responded. “I assume you’re curious about starburst?”
“Yes,” Hermiod acknowledged. “In my universe, space vessels are all inorganic, even when sentient.” He (for simplicity) conveyed a description of an inorganic species that Pilot was quite glad did not exist in his galaxy.
“Personally,” said Pilot, with more than a hint of pride, “I find organic space travel to be much more beautiful and rewarding than inorganic.” It was true; at the symposium, he had seen species that used all types of faster than light travel, anything from rudimentary FTL, to the smoother but more drawn out warp, to something bizarre known as “Improbability,” but nothing ever captured him the way the crackling energy of a starburst did.
“But it’s not always precise, is it? I’ve heard it can cause uncomfortable shifting for your passengers, as well.”
At this, Pilot could feel Moya bristle, but he mastered his self-control to answer. “The difference between my relationship with Moya and that of a mobile pilot with an inorganic ship cannot be qualified by weighing pros and cons. Moya and I, together, are alive. An inorganic ship may be smoother and more accurate, but it is merely a tool to serve those who control it.”
“No offense intended, of course,” said Hermiod, unperturbed. The Asgard race, it seemed, had mastered the art of neutrality some time ago. “Though I have witnessed humans who pilot their vessels as if they were one being.”
“Ah! You interact with humans as well, then?”
Here, Hermiod let out what Pilot could only interpret as a sigh. “My current position is to monitor and operate the Asgard hyperdrive we recently installed on the newest vessel of the humans to whom we are allied. It can be a…difficult…arrangement.” He grumbled something in Asgard that the translator microbes told Pilot was unsuitable for polite company.
“I sympathize,” Pilot said, pretending he hadn’t heard the Asgard’s curse. “The humans’ personal universes are so small that they often forget where they really stand in the grander scheme.”
“No gratitude,” Hermiod agreed. “Constantly demanding miracles, then expecting a solution to every problem.”
“Short attention spans, no patience…”
“Forgetting which of us is the more advanced being…”
“Children running through the corridors…”
“Insensitive to different cultural practices…”
“Well, mine tend to be open-minded, though the human Crichton did have difficulty when he first arrived.”
“You are fortunate. Mine are all human and quite new to travel beyond their home world.”
“Hence, your position on their vessel?” Hermiod inclined his head. “I can certainly understand your frustrations. But you must remember – they need you. Their behavior can be strange, and they may not always show it, but they do realize that. And they are grateful.”
“My comrades who have worked with humans before assure me that is so, and we have been grateful for their aid, in return. However, I often wish the Daedalus were an organic ship, such as your own, that I might bypass the clumsy human interface. Tell me, is it very constricting to be forever tied to your Leviathan?”
“On the contrary,” Pilot exclaimed, “my union with Moya gives me a freedom I never could have without her. We are a truly symbiotic species. For bipeds such as your species and humans, I suppose it is an unwelcome restriction to be tied to one place, but for us, it is liberation.”
“How fascinating. Perhaps when my time with the Tau’ri is over, I will research the possibility of creating a similar interface for the Asgard, but without the permanent tie.”
“I wish you luck,” said Pilot, though privately, he thought the Asgard had a rather high opinion of himself if he thought such a task was possible for his species. (Moya agreed.)
“Thank you for your time,” said Hermiod. “Your species is quite famous in the community of advanced space travelers, you know. I am honored to have met the most well-known bonded pair.” Stunned, Pilot only nodded in acknowledgment as Hermiod turned and left the room.
Well, that hadn’t been so bad. He checked; only three more arns before the session was ended. He hoped there would be no other visitors as he released unusable waste gasses, scrubbed debris from Moya’s nose, freshened the public corridors, and sent a cadre of DRDs to clean up and repair D’Argo’s minor damage near the neural cluster.
“Hey, Pilot,” came Crichton’s voice. “I know you just finished with the little grey, but there’s a chick here who wants to chat, and I think if she and Aeryn have to stay out here together any longer, they’re either going to kill each other or kill me.”
Pilot sighed. Just another day in the life of a galaxy-famous macrocosmic symbiotic being, he supposed. “Yes, Commander. You may send her in.”
“Thanks, man, I owe you one. Oh, her name’s Starbuck.”
sf_friday48's fourth challenge.Title: Alien Pilots Have More Fun
Rating: G? PG, if you stretch. You would not want a higher rating for this fic.
Fandom/Characters: Farscape and Stargate: Atlantis....and it's Pilot and Hermiod. Yes. Um. Hint of BSG at the end.
Spoilers: Through PK Wars for Farscape, through "Intruder" for SGA.
Word count: 1,499
Notes: I can't be the only person who thinks Hermiod looks like Pilot behind his little console, can I?
The third day of the 547th Interversal Symposium on Spectacular Space Travel (or ISSST – a joke that never ceased to amuse the Gro!vokigan contingent, though they never shared the humor) was always the longest, Pilot thought as he scrubbed the lower port air vents, recycled the crew quarters’ water waste, monitored space for communications, assessed the damage young D’Argo had caused near the neural cluster this morning, and maintained homeostasis within Moya. His ship sent him reassurance, but reminded him that it was he who had volunteered to be a featured guest at this year’s gathering. The committee had specially requested his presence after the recent events. Pilot and Moya had attended previously, but only as regular guests, and they were flattered and curious enough about the other side of the symposium to accept.
The symposium always followed the same pattern.
Day One: Arrivals, earlier every time – one wanted to be there early in order to catch the spectacular show all the other arriving ships made as they appeared in diverse methods. Generally, no one got anything productive accomplished on this day; excited greetings and travel recovery overtook the higher brain functions of the less advanced species.
Day Two: By this time, most attendees had recovered from their initial glee and could pay proper attention to the full slate of programming. The symposium, which gathered every five cycles, focused on innovation in methods of space travel across the various FTL-capable species. Presentations, panels, and demonstrations of novel engineering accomplishments filled the second day. Pilot had attended many of them by proxy, with great interest, and the interversal dogfight that was the evening’s entertainment proved exciting as always.
Day Three: Attendees who were truly enthusiastic about Spectacular Space Travel were still gung-ho about the programming; Pilot, on the other hand, was usually ready to leave by this point. Unfortunately, this year the theme was “Macrocosmic Marvels” – hence the committee’s request – and Moya was part of the slate of large ships available for tour and interview. The DRDs and human crew handled most of the visitors, but still, Pilot could literally feel the corridors teeming with smaller beings, and it set his nerves on edge. He couldn’t wait for it to be over.
He had just reminded himself to order a full interior cleaning after the symposium ended, refreshed the food storage chambers, inspected the transport pods’ circuitry, and broken up a skirmish between two DRDs when Commander Crichton’s voice came over the comm channel.
“Yo, Pilot! Got a visitor here to see you.”
Again, Pilot sighed. Unfortunately, one-on-one interviews were part of his agreement with the committee. While he didn’t mind speaking over comms with the other sentient ships and pilots in attendance, letting an unfamiliar smaller being into his chamber always made him uncomfortable. But, as Moya reminded him, it was only for a few more arns. “Thank you, Commander. Send the visitor in, please.”
“Will do. Hey, do me a favor and ask him if he’s seen Mulder’s sister, ‘kay?” Crichton snickered, and Pilot, recognizing the human’s words as a joke, ignored him. He would never understand Earth humor, he thought.
The door slid open, and a small biped slowly strode down the walkway towards him. Pilot peered at it curiously; this was not a species with which he was familiar. It was slim and grayish, with elongated digits and a head that seemed large in proportion to its body size. The orbital lenses were large, dark, and slanted, and the frontal orifice was no more than a slit. It did not seem to be clothed, unless what he’d taken for skin was a smooth, unmarred suit of some sort.
The being stopped in front of Pilot. “I am Hermiod of the Asgard,” it said, proceeding to convey all of the necessary information about its species and origins to Pilot with a few well-chosen phrases.
Pilot was surprised and elated. Finally, a humanoid who could converse on his level! Oh, he was fond of his crew, true, and he had Moya, but sometimes, it was nice to have someone different with whom he could communicate without having to regulate his conversation.
“Greetings,” Pilot responded. “I assume you’re curious about starburst?”
“Yes,” Hermiod acknowledged. “In my universe, space vessels are all inorganic, even when sentient.” He (for simplicity) conveyed a description of an inorganic species that Pilot was quite glad did not exist in his galaxy.
“Personally,” said Pilot, with more than a hint of pride, “I find organic space travel to be much more beautiful and rewarding than inorganic.” It was true; at the symposium, he had seen species that used all types of faster than light travel, anything from rudimentary FTL, to the smoother but more drawn out warp, to something bizarre known as “Improbability,” but nothing ever captured him the way the crackling energy of a starburst did.
“But it’s not always precise, is it? I’ve heard it can cause uncomfortable shifting for your passengers, as well.”
At this, Pilot could feel Moya bristle, but he mastered his self-control to answer. “The difference between my relationship with Moya and that of a mobile pilot with an inorganic ship cannot be qualified by weighing pros and cons. Moya and I, together, are alive. An inorganic ship may be smoother and more accurate, but it is merely a tool to serve those who control it.”
“No offense intended, of course,” said Hermiod, unperturbed. The Asgard race, it seemed, had mastered the art of neutrality some time ago. “Though I have witnessed humans who pilot their vessels as if they were one being.”
“Ah! You interact with humans as well, then?”
Here, Hermiod let out what Pilot could only interpret as a sigh. “My current position is to monitor and operate the Asgard hyperdrive we recently installed on the newest vessel of the humans to whom we are allied. It can be a…difficult…arrangement.” He grumbled something in Asgard that the translator microbes told Pilot was unsuitable for polite company.
“I sympathize,” Pilot said, pretending he hadn’t heard the Asgard’s curse. “The humans’ personal universes are so small that they often forget where they really stand in the grander scheme.”
“No gratitude,” Hermiod agreed. “Constantly demanding miracles, then expecting a solution to every problem.”
“Short attention spans, no patience…”
“Forgetting which of us is the more advanced being…”
“Children running through the corridors…”
“Insensitive to different cultural practices…”
“Well, mine tend to be open-minded, though the human Crichton did have difficulty when he first arrived.”
“You are fortunate. Mine are all human and quite new to travel beyond their home world.”
“Hence, your position on their vessel?” Hermiod inclined his head. “I can certainly understand your frustrations. But you must remember – they need you. Their behavior can be strange, and they may not always show it, but they do realize that. And they are grateful.”
“My comrades who have worked with humans before assure me that is so, and we have been grateful for their aid, in return. However, I often wish the Daedalus were an organic ship, such as your own, that I might bypass the clumsy human interface. Tell me, is it very constricting to be forever tied to your Leviathan?”
“On the contrary,” Pilot exclaimed, “my union with Moya gives me a freedom I never could have without her. We are a truly symbiotic species. For bipeds such as your species and humans, I suppose it is an unwelcome restriction to be tied to one place, but for us, it is liberation.”
“How fascinating. Perhaps when my time with the Tau’ri is over, I will research the possibility of creating a similar interface for the Asgard, but without the permanent tie.”
“I wish you luck,” said Pilot, though privately, he thought the Asgard had a rather high opinion of himself if he thought such a task was possible for his species. (Moya agreed.)
“Thank you for your time,” said Hermiod. “Your species is quite famous in the community of advanced space travelers, you know. I am honored to have met the most well-known bonded pair.” Stunned, Pilot only nodded in acknowledgment as Hermiod turned and left the room.
Well, that hadn’t been so bad. He checked; only three more arns before the session was ended. He hoped there would be no other visitors as he released unusable waste gasses, scrubbed debris from Moya’s nose, freshened the public corridors, and sent a cadre of DRDs to clean up and repair D’Argo’s minor damage near the neural cluster.
“Hey, Pilot,” came Crichton’s voice. “I know you just finished with the little grey, but there’s a chick here who wants to chat, and I think if she and Aeryn have to stay out here together any longer, they’re either going to kill each other or kill me.”
Pilot sighed. Just another day in the life of a galaxy-famous macrocosmic symbiotic being, he supposed. “Yes, Commander. You may send her in.”
“Thanks, man, I owe you one. Oh, her name’s Starbuck.”