"So you really were flying on a station, huh? Some company that must be."
An obscenely wealthy one, if she were to guess. In Ellen's experience, spacefaring organizations are one of two things; government sponsored or full capitalist war-machines. It turns out these two dogma's aren't so different in practice. Whatever experimental program CT's involved herself with ( the phrase causes Ripley to raise an inward brow ), it must be important. Enough to garner an armada.
That's her guess, anyway. Really, being a hauler isn't comparable to most large-scale flight expeditions. It's foot soldier's work, on par with the Department of Galactic Waste Management; astronauts who skate across the galaxy's edge spitting shit from their colossal, cube-shaped vessels.
The train heaves a tremendous, industrial sigh once it's fully stopped. Light from the station spills in through the windows, coloring her and the other woman a dozen shades of amber.
She crosses the isle to gather her things.
"Funny you say that, I don't know if our Mother ought to be the dumb or smart kind. Smart in that she knew how to keep us alive, dumb in that she did whatever she was programmed to, at the detriment of us. No real way to get past that. Scary, if you ask me."
Like Synthetics. They do what they're told, no exception. Their apathy, human in shape and action, is scarier than any super-computer.
no subject
An obscenely wealthy one, if she were to guess. In Ellen's experience, spacefaring organizations are one of two things; government sponsored or full capitalist war-machines. It turns out these two dogma's aren't so different in practice. Whatever experimental program CT's involved herself with ( the phrase causes Ripley to raise an inward brow ), it must be important. Enough to garner an armada.
That's her guess, anyway. Really, being a hauler isn't comparable to most large-scale flight expeditions. It's foot soldier's work, on par with the Department of Galactic Waste Management; astronauts who skate across the galaxy's edge spitting shit from their colossal, cube-shaped vessels.
The train heaves a tremendous, industrial sigh once it's fully stopped. Light from the station spills in through the windows, coloring her and the other woman a dozen shades of amber.
She crosses the isle to gather her things.
"Funny you say that, I don't know if our Mother ought to be the dumb or smart kind. Smart in that she knew how to keep us alive, dumb in that she did whatever she was programmed to, at the detriment of us. No real way to get past that. Scary, if you ask me."
Like Synthetics. They do what they're told, no exception. Their apathy, human in shape and action, is scarier than any super-computer.