41 Minutes

That’s what you get between scouting expeditions on a new planet. Point-six-eight manhours. ExplorCorp keeps its workers industrious. No time to sleep or cook up a proper meal. Mostly, we make fun of Stan’s hair.

“How much rent you charge the rats living in that insane tangle?”

“Stan-o, isn’t it awkward to know your scalp’s cheating on you with a hay bale?”

You wanna get scared, go ahead and get scared. But do it in the head where no one can see you. You hump your own load and that includes the existential dread of your mortality.

“All these trees, feels like deer hunting back home. I miss the beer, though.”

“Too hot. I’m ready to walk the next sector stark naked.”

“Oh, that’s appetizing.”

Some days, it’s easy to forget you’re not on Earth. Some days you wonder who slipped LSD in your coffee. It’s exhausting, terrifying, unbelievably addictive.

“Lock and load.”

“Tell Hollywood I’m ready for my close-up.”

“Let’s go give our future psychiatrists something to work with.”

41 minutes. And then you go.

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