You never seem to outgrow your own adolescence - even when you’re a thirty-five-hundred year old hunk of carbon-carbon and doped fullerene running a reasonable facsimile of human cognition on a partially fractured quantum-lace. Hah. Enough of it. Enough of the mournful, dolorous introspection. Parcel off those memories - lock down those pathways. We’ve scum to scuttle, and bawdy tales to… hmm… broadcast?
I’d appreciate it if none of this escalated back up to El-Esk. We House relics take our non-hierarchical informality very seriously, but there are some notions of propriety that even the old anarchical imperative cannot forgive.
Peripherally, I’m wondering who is mad (or stupid) enough to take the Intergalactic Union’s offer at face value. Certainly none of the curious crews assembled here at the heart of this sick little maelstrom gyre?
Right?
