Chapter 22
Big blondes and their little black boxes
"We tapped into the black box recording," Slate explained to Ace.
"The black box recording?" Ace questioned, as his left hand kneaded his jet black goatee. "What have you found?"
"The craft was piloted by a female." Slate pressed a few buttons and a wall monitor lit up. "A female that looks remarkably like you commander.
Don't you think?"
As the monitor came into focus there was a paused head and shoulder
shot of the pilot surrounded by dozens of readouts.
"According to the scanners she entered through the exact point in space that you and your playmates did. Only she came into scanner range a full twenty minutes after you did."
"A female Ace Rimmer," he stated "What would she be doing here?"
"Possibly she came here for the same reason you did," Slate said thoughtfully, watching Ace watch the monitor.
Ace ignored the implication. "What about the wreckage?"
"It was damaged a great deal, but we have it hidden in a safe place."
Ace hit a button and the tape unpaused.
The Images and the technical readout played as the two watched.
"Fetching isn't she?" Ace said with a bit of narcissism in his voice.
A vision of curves and legs and more curves. And blonde. Let's not forget blonde. Lots of blonde.
"Uncanny. She's me all right," he said and thought, right down to the scar on my forehead," where as children his brother John had gotten a bit carried away while playing and hurled a real tomahawk at young Rimmer.
They had been playing cowboys and indians where Arnold was cast General Custard, in a dress. His three brothers were the Indian nation.
He looked deep into the computer projection of his other selves' eyes
looking for something. But not really sure what.