Here we are again. Short on time and fingers pointed at me.
I read once that art has no place in the future. Humans had already exhausted every idea and turned to remixing old concepts back in the 20th century. Then AI showed up and highlighted how genuinely uncreative we all were. If a machine can do it - why should we?
Yet, here we are.
Moments away from the premier of the first Organic-made artistic display in over a century. Here on this janky ship floating through space with the audacity to advertise itself as an "Opera House." Its docking bays overflowing with ships hailing from every edge of the galaxy. It's embarrassing.
"How's it looking? You have power yet?"
"Dammit, Joe, I'm working on it!"
Good gravity! Can't he see me here trying to figure this thing out? These controls are fried. No surprise. What did we expect scavenging parts from junker ships that attempted to navigate the Bulge blind? No one with something worth flying would take up that challenge. Then again, what else are species to do at this point? Who'd have thought that a futuristic utopia would look like this? Bored out of our minds, unable to discover anything new. AI mitigates most of our woes. But wait, let's take back a piece of our humanity. Let's make art, they said—the nerve.
"Wait. Yes. Finally!"
If the answer isn't in this control panel, I might jump out of an airlock. I wonder what it was like when a power outage didn't mean "certain death." Oh, how good they had it back then, just running around trying to cure cancer while simultaneously starting wars as carelessly as a child sets up a chessboard.
Ah. I think this is it. Let's take this and connect it to this...
No idea what I did. But I can hear the motors roaring. Red to red. Green to green. Simple enough. Wrap it in thermal tape and forget I ever touched it.
Ugh. How did we end up here?
Machines mine out illness in utero, regulate galactic cross-species economies, and navigate ships around the galaxy, but they can't solder a broken wire. They can make machines but not repair them. It can improve Organics but never become one. And so, we, or better yet, I – am relegated to fixing things. Of course, the most pointless of things.
"Joe! Open the doors. Oxygen is stable, and gravity is good. The show can go on."
And just like that, these bored wanderers are flooding the room to see humanity's first creative endeavor in forever. Soon to be broadcast throughout the galaxy.
"Joe, what's this shit about again?"
"Uhhh. A wandering family takes in a girl who was lost in space and pretty much enslaves her."
"Woah. Sound familiar, Joe?"
My interest is piqued. Let me read this playbill.
[After] encountering another ship with a charming young passenger, Ella must break free by inducing carbon dioxide poisoning throughout her enslavers ship. Will she and her prince escape and live happily ever after or will they too succumb to a carbon dioxide magical high.
"Plot seems brittle, Joe."