Basically, it’s just clicking. Super fast clicking, as in 1000′s of clicks per second. But just clicking. It’s similar to morse code, like you see in ancient war films, but based on those old dial up modems in the pre-space-exploratory era. If you actually ever hear it, it sounds like whirring static. But machines translate it like a modem would and can tell the difference between that 2872 clicks and the other 3274 clicks.

And I didn’t get the reason they use it either when Kurt explained it to me. Data travels so fast nowadays, so resorting to audible sound seemed dumb, really. Why not just wirelessly send stuff to each other, or people’s implants? Apparently Second Men don’t want you to figure out what they’re talking about.

See, brain cycles that could be spent encrypting and decrypting wireless signals could just be used for simple binary translation (since that’s how info is passed inside raw circuits anyways) and sent where you can actually hear it.  Outside the room, it’s almost impossible to hear the static noise, but wireless signals would be broadcast farther and could be intercepted. It’s the difference between you and I using inside voices and screaming at other people standing in front of us with megaphones all the time.

Could I have some kind of transcoder figure it out for me and spit the information in some kind of form I could use? Sure. But Second Men are like servants 500 years ago. Everyone who has one doesn’t care what their helpers think, so no one besides technicians and fake-psychiatrists — I mean, Second Psychiatrists — ever use one.

So most Second Men turn their wireless off and only enable it for a very limited time when they are retrieving specific data off the local ‘Net or if they have to relay complex holo-pics. Saves juice, and people don’t pick up on their conversations 100 feet away. Like background noise: I might not understand all 50 couples in a restaurant, but I have to talk louder to talk to my date.

Out here on the Ship, Kurt keeps his wireless on for convenience most of the time. In Mars orbit, he’d turn it off due to all the scatter traffic drifting out from the planet, but here in Deep space, outside the asteroid belt and between Saturn and Jupiter’s opposing positions, even the SolarNet stuff is diffused enough to get filtered out.

When we first started traveling together, I’d go days without seeing him, but hear him constantly. Then I eventually told him to knock it off, because I didn’t want to talk to Oz or some God-like voice coming out of the air. Then I had to explain why I wouldn’t want to talk to Oz or God.

Second Men, they just don’t know any manners.

“I was just discussing with my friend here how much we like to throw parties and have a good time on the ship. Don’t we, Kurt?”
I am socially aware enough to understand this rhetorical question is leading and expressed with the hope that anything I say next will increase Ishmael’s chances of having sexual intercourse. This particular instance is slightly confusing because Rachelle’s body mass index is noticeably larger than the typical recipient of Ishmael’s flattery. Her hair is reddish colored and extends past her shoulders. Ishmael expressed once, while inebriated, that, “they just don’t make red heads like they used to,” alluding to their perceived worth to him and not the actual genetic process. That metaphor took some research to understand due to Ishmael’s inability to explain it at the time of him using it.
These facts pertain to this current moment because Ishmael is fond of red headed women and will, most likely, attempt to bring Rochelle back to the ship. Then, he will ask me to vacate the premises for several hours while he attempts to have sexual intercourse with her. He has also expressed during other periods of alcoholic indulgence that, “being a real captain of a ship in a backwards system like this, where a body is lucky to ever see a foreign moon or sunset, is just as good as being rich.”
Being told to leave the ship for a period of time and forced to wander the halls of a station that does not contain a single sentient machine is frustrating. After estimating outcomes and possibility matrices, I make a conclusion. While Ishmael is lonely due to our recent isolation in space, more frustrated than normal with me due to continued exposure, and has a strongly perceived need to have interaction with his own species, or sexual intercourse, I know that making a detrimental comment will not anger him enough to request me to leave our ship. In addition, I own 40 percent of the ship and believe I have some say over the affairs of the ship. Ishmael is free to conduct these types of affairs elsewhere.
“You mean our ship, Ishmael.”
Rachelle’s eyes quickly look from him, to me, and return to Ishmael.
“You mean, it owns part of your ship?”
“It” is supposed to mean me. Ishmael does not look pleased with Rachelle’s response.
“He travels with me. Navigator. I’m the captain. I own most of the ship.”
Ishmael states this in a rushed manner. I decide to act socially inept. Ishmael once told me I had a great poker face, which was a jest and not a compliment at the time. It aids me more than he is aware.
“40 percent is legally owned by me. His 60 percent makes him captain, according to our charter.”
“Oh.” Rachelle replies after two seconds of silence. “The doors will automatically debit you on your way out.”
She places the coffee pot on the table. As she walks away, she wrings her hands in her apron repeatedly.
I turn to see Ishmael, who has white knuckles as he grips his eating utensil.
This is the closest I experience to the emotion of amused. I planned something. It worked as I intended. It benefits me. It is not serious. Ishmael, in time, will laugh or enjoy recalling the anecdote, despite his current frustration. Satisfaction would be if I had done it for myself.
I keep my voice evenly modulated.
“Was it something I said?”