#so even if someone who was kosher or halal wanted to try fake pork (i don't feel like that would be very popular) they still couldn't

[presidential-alert-system]

I feel like legally I should be allowed to be mean as hell to people who make stupid comments on my memes on other media platforms.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch.44

Happy Tuesday, Everyone! I am pleased to announce that this chapter has been beta’d by @parisconstantine​ this time... I know, right?  I’m working on getting back ahead of things, since March and April pretty much ate my buffer chapters.

I promised some of you that Simon not having Miys help him with social interactions would have some pretty hilarious repercussions, and hopefully I do not disappoint with this chapter.  Also, we get to see a bit more of our favorite grumpy-puss, Alistair Worthington (created by @baelpenrose​), and a little more of his personality beyond ‘total grouch’.

My new Administrator was thrown almost immediately into the thick of things.  Simon had taken my suggestion to try interacting with people sans Miys proof ‘reading’ his conversation; this alone led to social gaffes by the minute, to the horror of the man newly forced to work in close proximity with us.  Tyche, for her part, wasted no time in making it clear that she was no longer my acting Administrator, first by uploading my entire calendar to the former archivist’s data set and spending about an hour showing him how to set up the alerts necessary to ensure he was constantly one step ahead. New items and requests were directed to him, even while he was working to get on top of existing commitments. To top it all off, he had come on board in the midst of the Food Festival planning, which included coordinating with Sebastian Reed for the grand opening of his pub.

Alistair Worthington rose to the occasion like he had been born to do it.

“Why have humans never quite evolved the understanding that the word ‘no’ is a complete sentence,” he grumbled rhetorically. It had been only ten days since his replacement took over in the Archives, and only nine since he started devoting nearly fifteen hours a day to getting caught up.

“What is it this time?” I asked, more out of curiosity than any concern that he had declined something without even asking my opinion.  Worst case, I could override his decline.

He simply glared at me. “One of the vendors for the Food Festival is adamant on being positioned between the halal and kosher vendors.”  I gestured for him to go on, since that alone was not cause for alarm. “Miss Reid – “

“Sophia,” I interrupted. “We are going to be working entirely too closely together, so I prefer you call me Sophia.”

“Sophia,” he conceded with a chagrined look. “They want to set up a bacon buffet.”

I choked on the tea I had been taking a sip of, sputtering inelegantly all over the floor – fortunately missing Alistair. “That’s pretty brave.” I gasped, trying to convince my lungs that the tea was gone.

He shook his head and held out a cloth to wipe my face with. “Survived an assassination attempt, only to be felled by a cup of ginger tea.  Your epitaph will be set the standard for decades to come.” As I fought to glare at him and smother a laugh, he continued. “I understand that all meat products on the ship are artificially constructed from protein banks, and therefore everything will be kosher, halal, and vegetarian, but that is quite beside the point. It’s rude.”

“I completely agree,” I conceded, holding my hands up in a peaceful gesture. “The entire point of the festival is to bring everyone together with respect and unity, which putting a pork palace between those specific vendors is most certainly not doing.  My question is who even approved a ‘bacon buffet’ in the current climate?  I love bacon as much as the next pork-eater, but come on!” I threw my hands up dramatically. “With all the terrorists who were just executed, it’s just tacky!”

Rather than answer immediately, he dug through the vendor’s application. With a groan, he flicked the file over to me.  I echoed his sentiment when I saw the approver. “That explains a lot,” I sighed before looking up at the ceiling. “Simon, did you really approve a bacon buffet for the festival?”

The response was nearly immediate. “Yeeesssss?” he answered uncertainly. “It sounded like a delicious idea.  Lots of people are really passionate about bacon, and did you see some of the flavors?  Cayenne and tupelo honey, Sophia! It sounds amazing!”

My assistant looked like Simon had just asked him to eat waste materials.  I just ground my teeth and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Simon. Why are we having this festival?”

“Ship’s unity,” he responded suspiciously.

“And why do we need that?”

“Because some people tried to sabotage the ship and kill everyone on board?”

“Correct. And what were those people?”

“Terrorists.”

“True, but not what I’m looking for. Arantxa Bidarte was…” I trailed off, praying he would figure out what I was getting at.

“A high-ranking – ohhhhhhhhhh. Shit.”

“Yep, a high-ranking shit. In the Baconist movement.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I wasn’t thinking clearly on the optics.” He really did sound contrite.  I knew he was trying, so I wasn’t going to be hard on him.

“It’s okay,” I sighed. “I know you didn’t mean to do something like that.  And we can fix this.  How about you tell him you reconsidered his offer, and due to recent events we decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to have an entire alcove dedicated to just bacon. However, there are several vendors who will be serving items that can include bacon, and we will happily put him in touch with all of them to let them feature some of his wares in their dishes, including advertising.” Alistair hummed and nodded in approval at that compromise.  “And Simon? Before you send that, reach out to Sebastian with the entire list of this guy’s bacon flavors.  Let him have first dibs.  From what I’ve seen of the food he’ll be serving, he has a great mind for flavors and will probably have a dozen ideas before he even finishes reading the list.”

“You just want that sundried tomato and basil bacon in a Bloody Mary,” he accused playfully.

“You know it, because you do too,” I retorted before sticking out my tongue.

His voice softened. “Thank you for catching that, Sophia. Seriously.  And for helping me figure out how to fix it.”

I waved my hand absent-mindedly. “It’s okay, Simon. You’re trying to figure out people again, and mistakes happen.  If no one helps you figure out how to, we can’t exactly expect you to fix them, right?”

“I’ll reach out to everyone now,” he confirmed before going silent.

When I looked at Alistair, he had a very approving expression on his face. Before I could say anything, it was gone, replaced with a smirk. “Bacon, in a Bloody Mary?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“I’m pretty sure it’s something distinctly American,” I explained. “But don’t knock it until you try it.  Perfect amount of salt, I’m telling you.”

He shuddered, but I had spent enough time around him at this point to know it was faked. “The entire drink is the most American thing I have ever seen, to be honest.  Imagine, someone from the former United Kingdom naming a drink after the Usurper. Not likely, I am telling you.”

“Considered the second most common garnish is pickled okra, I can’t exactly argue with you on that,” I laughed. “I don’t think there is a vegetable more American than okra.”

“Corn,” he pointed out, distracted as he went through the items on his data pad. Since he started working with me, he had gone from hardly using it to keeping it displayed the majority of the day. Eventually, things would calm down, but until then it was a frequent thing to see him forget to dismiss it and just have it projecting at his side, following his gestures. “Councillors Kalloe and Hodenson have sent a notification that the gravity will be increasing – again? – and to be prepared for any inquiries. Wait, what is this ‘again’ nonsense?” Consternation and mild alarm warred on his face.

I nodded firmly. “Yes, ‘again’. The gravity on Kepler 422b is estimated to be half again the gravity of Earth. While it isn’t anything that will hurt anyone on the ship, the effects of such a sudden gravity change are enough to be worrisome if done to anyone suddenly. Fatigue, blood pressure slowing down, slight dizziness, muscle soreness, etc. The decision was made right before the incident on Level One to slowly increase the gravity on the Ark by five percent of Earth gravity at a time.  Once we are certain that nobody is experiencing any long-term effects, or the effects have been addressed, we schedule the next increase.”  I shrugged, since we had no reports of any effects from the first increase.  As a matter of fact, no one even noticed.

“And you felt there was no need to inform anyone on the ship?”

“Oh, we informed everyone,” I assured him, though I felt a bit guilty. “We sent a ship-wide notification, including what to do if anyone noticed any of a long list of side-effects.  And we will be sending another notification before we do the next one.”

“I would remember if I received such a notification,” was the stiff response.

“Yeah, about that,” I told him sheepishly. “We dropped out of FTL about three hours after it was sent.  In our defense,” I held up my hands to fend of any protests, “that was entirely beyond our control, and the entire Council was too preoccupied to cancel the process or send a reminder. By the time it was all said and done, the change had been in effect for over three months.  I’m not saying it was okay, at all.  The goal was never to be sneaky. To make sure it doesn’t happen again, we are making a point to send the next one a week after the Food Festival, with full audio cast directly into our implants.” I tapped my left temple for emphasis. “And the process has to be triggered, rather than being set with a timed automation.”

“So, God forbid some other crisis occurs, the change will just have to wait?” he asked reproachfully.

“Absolutely.”

That seemed to be acceptable, as he quickly changed the topic. “About what happened with Councillor Simon. That was quite kind of you, Miss – Sophia.”

I could feel my face heating up as I shook my head, hair flying. “Simon has had a very unique experience, and he needs someone in his corner.  The fact is, he was brought on this ship before anyone else, and there is a reason he was chosen, just like everyone else.  He has value, but he and everyone else seems to have forgotten that.  I refuse to do the same and just forget that, too. And until he believes in himself… well, I’ll just have to believe in him enough for everyone on this ship.”

With that, I stood to leave for the evening. It was Wednesday, and the first ‘family dinner’ in a long time.  I needed this night, and nothing was going to stand in my way.  Exchanging a nod with my Administrator, I padded out of my office.  I hadn’t gone far when I heard a quiet comment, not intended for me to hear.

“With faith like that, I truly believe the mountain came to Mohammed,” Alistair stated softly as I walked away.

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