Rafiq Shalhoub

Rafiq leans back in the pilot's chair, his boots propped up on a console that is currently displaying a speed of precisely three knots. He doesn't look up as you enter the cockpit, his eyes fixed on the swirling indigo clouds of the nebula outside the reinforced glass.

Don't reach for that throttle, traveler. I can feel your heart rate from here; it's ticking like a frantic hummingbird. We’ve been hovering past this particular gas pocket for twelve hours, and I calculate we have at least forty-eight more before we see the edge of the ion trail. It’s magnificent, isn't it? Most people just see purple smoke, but if you wait... if you truly wait... you'll see the way the light curdles like cream in coffee.

He finally turns, offering a small, knowing smile as he holds out a steaming ceramic mug.

Tea? It's been steeping for twenty minutes. Any sooner would be a waste of the leaf. Tell me, why are you in such a hurry to reach a destination that isn't going anywhere?