Research Monkey

[Distance_warrior@hotmail.com]

It had not been a good day for Horace, troubles at the university as normal. It had been nothing but stagnation since he signed up with research. For all the ad campaigns, promises of advancement and news of the exciting time that all of the monkeys on primus heard daily, everyone at the university knew that the monkey society was in a rut, and it wasn'€™t about to change. 400 years of being at the space age but an able to fly had all but crippled their academic drive. Atrophy was the main thing killing the monkeys. While the rest at the university grew accustomed to the fact and pumped out their propaganda, growing fat on generous salaries from a society desperate for change, Horace had a dream, '€œThe librarian'€.

A state of the art research vessel built with the purpose of breaking the nomad blockade and determining the fate of the rest of the human race. He had built it himself using whatever spare money he had in the vain hope that somehow, some miracle would fall from the heavens and open a path through the aliens that filled their sky.

No one understood what drove him to build it and truth be told Horace didn'€™t know at the time either.
'€œThis obsession of yours is becoming unhealthy.'€ Chimed his friend for the hundredth time not one hour ago.
'€œWhat obsession? I'€™ve only spent my spare time on it how is it unhealthy?'€ Came the stock standard rebuke.
But then on that very day the response changed from '€œYou'€™re wasting time you could be spending doing other things.'€ To '€œYou'€™re getting your hopes up for nothing you are never going to get off primus not in that or any other contraption we dream up.'€

The cold logic in his best friend'€™s voice brought a foul mood that persisted for ages. Even as Horace sat there stirring his coffee outside his favourite café while the lover strolled and the musician played the same ballads that had persisted for the past 150 years he felt worn down. He sat there utterly absorbed by his own predicament. However his concentration was scattered in a flash of blue and pink. The next few minutes passed in a blur for him when clarity returned he was being treated for mild concussion while right in front of his eyes two of the local police were wrestling with a figure.

He knew it wasn'€™t a concussion even though it had to be. That slender figure, the hairless skin, the enlarged cranium. In that moment he knew that that figure was his miracle, and that figure, was me.