The Good Captain is an adaptation of Herman Melville’s novella “Benito Cereno.” Melville’s original story relies upon the main character’s first-person perceptions of the events that unfold in front of him. This reliance on P.O.V. is why I chose to distribute the story using the web service Twitter. Twitter limits updates to 140 characters of text, and so this story is broken up into small, 2-3 line paragraphs.
The temporal nature of this storytelling method required that the story include frequent reminders of previous events, to help keep readers aware of the context of the events. This was especially important given that the time span of the bulk of the events is about twelve hours, and the length of time that the story ran for was four months.
The Good Captain began broadcasting over Twitter on November 3, 2007. It concluded on February 29, 2008. The original page can be viewed at www.twitter.com/goodcaptain. It is also available in multiple formats:
- A paperback book edition is available at the Loose-Fish Store at Lulu Publishing
- There is a downloadable version available for the Amazon Kindle
- You can download a free PDF version.
- And the entire story is on this page for web reading, starting below.
The Good Captain
by Jay Bushman
based on Benito Cereno by Herman Melville
In the year 2143, Tyler Monroe Lockham captained a small entrepreneurial trading ship, the Skipstone.
Captain Lockham was a Shareholder, Third Class, in the Namerican Branch of the Mercantile Empire of Greater Earth.
The Skipstone had completed a voyage among the worlds at the edge of his Empire’s reach. Now he was on his way home with valuable cargo.
At the outskirts of the solar system, in the darkness between the Kuiper Belt and Neptune, he stopped to replenish his supplies.
Orbiting a small ice ball, a planetoid called Dioretsa, he sent some of his engineers down to mine water and minerals.
On their second day there, a strange ship approached. It was not broadcasting its identification, as was required.
Far from home and aware of the kinds of stories that follow the sudden appearance of silent ships, he might have been uneasy or afraid.
But Captain Lockham was a man of a singularly undistrustful good nature.
He was not liable, except on extraordinary and repeated provocation, and hardly even then, to think the worst of others.
This good nature even extended to the strange customs of the various alien races that were part of the Empire, or at least its customers.
Despite what humanity is capable of, Ty Lockham was a businessman of unusual generosity and good spirit.
Whether such traits imply, along with a benevolence of heart, quickness and accuracy of perception, is up to wiser heads to decide.
Waverly wakes me with news of an incoming ship, broadcasting no ID beacon. I go topside to investigate.
Outgassing from Dioretsa is distorting our gauges. Ice crystals obscure our view of the vessel.
The small glimpses I can get reveal little at this distance, except for one thing.
That ship’s orbital insertion path is too steep to handle even Dioretsa’s limited gravity.
As if reading my mind, the ship changes its course. But now it’s going to overshoot Dioretsa completely.
This is clearly a ship in trouble.
I order Waverly to prep a rovership. We’ll go over and see what’s happening. Maybe we can help pilot her to a safe orbit.
Waverly doesn’t like the idea. I tell her she can come with, to make sure there are no bogeymen on board. She details five more to join us.
Our mining on Dioretsa has been productive, so I tell her to load some of our ice in case they need it.
Just as the rover launches, the ship changes course again, now heading for the far side of the planetoid.
We blast the rover’s engines, trying to catch up.
Getting near enough for a good look, I can see it’s a transport. Much larger than Skipstone. Built for live cargo and passengers.
A Russian design. She’s a grand old girl, but she’s seen better days. Much better days.
I can see the unmistakable signs of disrepair. Comet and meteor scars pepper the hull, as if there was no shielding.
A bank of large cannons sits motionless as we fly by. If the ship was in any way hostile, we’d have seen something from them.
Two communication towers thrust from amidships. They are blackened, static electricity crackling between them. Obviously non-functional.
I can see some kind of badge painted on the fore. It appears like a medieval warrior, holding the hand of a dark, veiled bride.
Getting closer, I can see figures moving at the portholes. At least it’s not a ghost ship.
The docking ports all seem to be destroyed.
Coming around the other side of the grand ship, I can see some writing on the hull, but it doesn’t look familiar to me.
Waverly identifies it as Cyrillic. Fits the design. She says she reads a little Russian, and that the name of the ship is “Mother Volga.”
There looks to be a functioning dock on this side of the ship. I guide the rover towards it.
I can definitely see movement in the portholes. Faces.
We dock with Mother Volga. Equalize the airlock. The pressure door opens. I step onto the ship.
Immediately I am swarmed by people. But no, not people. Artificials. Fishes, in spacer slang.
They crowd around me, babbling in Russian, blank crystal eyes wide with panic, like a swarm of lost children.
A ship like Mother Volga would be outfitted to transport fishes as labor for the outer colonies or the personal property of passengers.
But you usually don’t see so many acting so chaotically or with no human masters around to provide direction.
They jostle against me, their carbonsteel fiber skins scraping, rough and cold.
Now I can see a few human spacers scattered amongst the fishes. They look just as panicked.
I greet them in English and instantly the Russian babble switches to my language.
The overlapping, childish pleas of the fishes are hard to separate from each other, but I hear a few things that tell me a lot.
They barely survived a collision in the Kuiper Belt and took heavy damage, resulting in a reactor meltdown.
It’s been mostly contained, but radiation poisoning has killed most of the crew and rendered many fishes permanently inoperative.
Food supplies for the humans and electrolyte paste stores for the fishes have dwindled in spite of heavy rationing.
They’ve been limping along with only one sporadically functioning engine. Waiting for rescue or death.
This ship is certainly a pitiful sight.
We are in what looks to be the main cargo hold. It’s thick with fishes, many of them wandering aimlessly.
I don’t use fishes on my ship. They require too much oversight. They do only what they’re programmed to and not a thing more.
A catwalk runs around the cargo hold. On it are four fishes, older models, metallic skin rather than carbonsteel. Gender neutral.
Each old fish sits at a corner with a pile of cable ends, unbraiding the sheared ones and reassembling the good bits into working cables.
They work sluggishly, in low-power mode. I can hear their overtaxed circuits humming while they work away at their mindless task.
Every so often, one of them looks up from its work and surveys the crowd below.
Someone seems to have given them the task of watching over their younger cousins.
The catwalks converge on a high platform, with a bare metal staircase leading to the floor of the hold.
At the back of the platform, I can see a door which most likely leads to the upper part of the ship. Perhaps the officer’s quarters.
On the edge of the platform, six brawny fishes sit in a row, each with a pile of hand tools - lasercutters, draulspanners, diamondawls, etc.
Each inspects a tool from their pile, cleans and oils it, then drops it into a large shared heap with a loud clang.
Being newer models, these have the carbonsteel skin and definite gender difference, split evenly between male and female models.
But unlike their older cousins, who show a tiny glimmer of awareness, these brutes work mechanically, never looking up from their tasks.
Above these dumb mechanicals, the ceiling of the hold is covered with poorly applied sealant foam. There must have been a hull breach.
The repulsor field generators must be offline to necessitate such a hasty, manual patch job.
Into the foam somebody has crudely carved some Cyrillic lettering. I ask Waverly if she can read it.
She says it’s “obey your master.” But after puzzling through it more, she tells me it more accurately reads “follow your leader.”
So I ask the milling crowd of fishes around me, “who is your leader?”
Several nearby fishes gesture to the platform above. I look to see what they’re pointing at.
Standing away from the railing, near the toolcleaners, is a man who must be the ship’s captain. He wears an expensive, tailored uniform.
The outfit must have looked stunning before whatever hardships befell its owner.
The man is young to captain a ship of this size, looking hardly out of his twenties. He seems pale, weak, drained of all resolve.
Leaning heavily on the railing, he picks his way down the stairway. He glares at me as if I’m an annoyance and not his salvation
One step behind him is a short fish, alert, as though ready to catch his master if he is unable to keep himself upright.
The short fish stares at his master with the dumb, devoted attention of a high-quality valet model.
I push my way through the crowd to meet the young Captain at the base of the stairs, in case he lacks the strength to cover more ground.
Following Imperial protocol, I formally present myself to the young man, and offer to render whatever assistance I can.
He introduces himself, in good English, as Dmitri Mikhailovich Dziga, Captain of the Volga Matrodnaya.
Before he can finish with the formalities, young Dziga is overcome by a coughing fit. The little valet fish props him upright.
I wait patiently for the fit to pass, but it goes on for a while. Poor kid.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dream of giving commands on another Captain’s ship. But this seems to warrant a breach of custom.
Without waiting for Dziga’s permission, I instruct Waverly to distribute our emergency supplies. She puts our crew to work.
But what we’ve brought it’s not nearly enough, especially for so many fishes.
When she finishes, I order her to take our people back to Skipstone and return here with as much as the rover will hold.
In the meantime, I will stay on board Mother Volga and help bring the ship into a safe orbit around Dioretsa. I look to Dziga for agreement.
He still leans heavily on his little fish, who props his master up as if trying to help him save face in front of me. Dziga nods his assent.
Waverly doesn’t like this plan, but she’s obedient. She gives me a packet of radiation pills to protect me against the residual rads.
She and the rest of my crew depart with the rover, leaving me with Dziga and his mass of unruly fishes.
I know they’ve been through some terrible events, but even so, if Dziga was a better Captain, he’d have a tighter rein on them.
He’d give more of them simple tasks to accomplish, to keep them busy instead of just milling around.
No doubt that is the reason for the ceiling admonition to “follow your leader.” Some sort of programming reinforcement.
I say it would be more effective to actually be their leader. But Dziga looks like he couldn’t Captain a trash hauler at the moment.
Forget his physical hardships. The boy looks to be mentally broken. He moves about the deck haltingly, pausing often. Muttering to himself.
His coughing is almost incessant, and his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
If not for the devoted little fish always at his side, he’d likely collapse completely. At least one of these fishes was well programmed.
I can’t help but notice what feels to me like an undercurrent of hostility coming from Dziga.
Maybe, in his addled state, he thinks I judge him, or am here to take his command away from him.
Once he is rested and fed, I’m sure he won’t feel so threatened. Perhaps he’ll be at least more gracious and polite.
Or maybe not. A haggard-looking human spacer reports that the ship is drifting further off a safe orbital insertion path.
Dziga barely listens to the news, then cuts the man off and curtly dismisses him. Perhaps he’s this rude with everyone.
He whispers something to his little fish, and it is the valet who issues Dziga’s orders to the crew.
Even if this is a medical choice to save Dziga’s voice, it still reflects poorly on command ability to have orders issued by a servant.
There is a school of thought which says a Captain should, under no circumstances, show weakness or doubt to his crew.
If Dziga was taught this way, then perhaps his nastiness is a way of covering how badly he’s been hurt during their ordeal.
Standoffishness might be the only way he knows how to deal with this catastrophe.
I bet he’s hiding behind this mask of rudeness because he’s out of his depth and is at a loss for what to do.
So I will try to not think less of the poor kid and forgive him this attitude.
Besides, I see no officers to assist him. He has to endure all these things all alone? That is unfortunate.
Gently, so as not to provoke him, I ask Captain Dziga for the full story of what has happened to his ship.
He stares right through me, like I’m a ghost. Then, as if embarrassed at his loss of composure, he looks at the deck. He stays silent.
Just as I was about to give up and try to pry the story from one of the few other human spacers I can see, Dziga finally moves.
He motions to a small corridor off the main hold. I walk through it, and Dziga follows. His little fish trails.
We are now alone in a small supply room, two Captains and the valet. Dziga finally speaks in a husky whisper.
Dziga: “It has been almost six months since this ship left the Solovetsk Colony to return in-system.
Dziga: “We carried cargo from the alien worlds on both sides of the Empire’s borders
Dziga: “Also a crew of fifty, and a dozen passengers bound for the Russian Directorate on Titan.
Dziga: “One of these passengers, my good friend Vassily Antonovich Kaminov, had a cargo of about 300 artificials.
Dziga: “Some were his personal property, but most were to be delivered to the in-system markets.
Dziga: “Coming through the Kuiper Belt, we collided with a comet. A reactor exploded and the hull was breached.
Dziga: “In one moment, I lost all my officers, most of the crew and passengers. About half the artificials were destroyed.
Dziga: “Only through God’s grace and the obedience of the artificials did we survive. Many sacrificed themselves to save the rest of us.
His cough returns. His little fish props him up and hands him an almost-empty water packet. Dziga painfully drinks it down.
The little fish watches his master closely, looking for any signs of another attack. Dziga calms and tries to speak.
Dziga: “Oh, God! I wish we had all died in that explosion, rather than–” The coughing again. Dziga falls back on his little fish.
The fish turns to me and speaks in a smooth, even voice.
fish: “Please, sir. Be patient with my Captain. He was thinking of the radiation poisoning that followed the explosion.
fish: “He is unwell. But these fits of his can go as quickly as they come. Oh, my poor, poor Master.
Dziga finally catches his breath and continues.
Dziga: “We have been drifting for almost two months. Main engines are out of fuel. Only boost thrusters to nudge our course.
Dziga: “Our inertia has carried us this far into the edge of the solar system.
Dziga: “Water reclamation is offline. So are weapons and communications and dozens of others systems.
Dziga: “I’ve been trying to find a planetoid or a comet where we can take on ice and material to affect better repairs.
Dziga: “I thought us saved when we found this place. But with our engines in this state, each attempt to gain orbit risks disaster.”
Again, coughing. He says something which sounds like “beaybeezeeroh” and I think his fever had caused him to revert to his native Russian.
Then it becomes clear that he is talking about his little fish.
Most fish are addressed in shorthand by the last four digits of their registry numbers. So what Dziga actually said was “bab0.”
Dziga has been praising bab0 and the fishes for their valiant attempt to crew the ship after radiation killed most of the remaining humans.
bab0 beams his wide, dumb smile as Dziga compliments him.
Dziga: “Indeed, poor Kaminov told me his artificials did not need to be shut up as cargo, but could be allowed freedom of the ship.
Dziga: “If I had not listened to him, we would undoubtedly all be dead now.
Dziga: “bab0, especially, has been invaluable in organizing his fellow artificials, keeping them focused and effective.”
bab0 bows his head. I’ve never seen a fish blush; I don’t think it’s even physically possible. But bab0 seems like he’s hiding red cheeks.
bab0: “Ah, Master. I do not deserve such praise. I was merely following my programming.”
I tell Captain Dziga that I envied him such a faithful companion and that if I owned such a friend, I’d never let him go.
I’m happy to flatter Dziga if it’ll make him feel better, but truthfully I don’t think he’s a very good captain.
If he’s been drifting since the Kuiper Belt, there are a half-dozen shipping lanes between here and there where he could have found help.
A seasoned captain would know that was their best hope. But why expect that with a sickly boy in charge and no officers to counsel him.
With nobody else to do the job, it falls to me. Brother captains must stick together. I make a Formal Offer Of Relief to Dziga.
Once my rover returns with more supplies and fuel, we can power the drivetrain and get into a stable orbit.
I’ll loan three of my crew to serve as temporary officers and they’ll take Mother Volga to the closest outpost, the Triton Colony.
I will follow with the Skipstone, in case there are more problems. On Triton, they’ll be able to get major repairs and medical care.
Dziga’s face lights up at my offer and his face flushes. He coughs and his valet interjects, “All this excitement is bad for Master.”
Dziga allows the little fish to draw him aside. bab0 gives him more water and whispers soothingly to his sick captain.
When Dziga comes back, the coughing has stopped, but I’m sad to see the color in his face has faded again.
Dziga asks if I would accompany him to the top deck, where the risk of my exposure to residual radiation is minimal. I agree.
Dziga seems somehow angry, as if shielding me, his benefactor, from harm is a distasteful chore.
I follow Dziga to the hold, and we ascend to the platform. Walking past the brawny toolcleaners, I suddenly feel oddly uneasy.
Dziga walks through their line without a glance. I follow him and pass through unmolested. I look back at them.
None of them have even noticed our passing. They dumbly continue their task, slaves to their programming.
Now I feel silly and I chuckle at myself. Dziga’s jumpiness must be getting to me.
Dziga passes through a doorway, bab0 a step behind him. I am about to follow, when I hear a sharp noise from below. I look back.
One of the old cablers is down on the deck. It is pulling a short fish backwards. A young human spacer lies dazed on the floor.
It seems the fish, for some reason, has knocked this spacer over. Blood trickles from her head.
I call Dziga back to the platform and show him what’s happened. I expect him to take some sort of disciplinary action against the fish.
After all, harming a human, even accidentally, can in some cases be just cause for an artificial to be deactivated.
Dziga says that the radiation exposure is causing some odd behavior in a few of the fishes. He seems annoyed I would even mention it.
Pretty serious glitch, I remark. Dziga glares at me. “Doubtless” is all he says.
It is possible that Dziga, knowing how weak his captaincy is, has decided he must pretend to sanction events he is powerless to stop.
This boy is the captain of his ship in name only. How sad.
Gently, so as not to arouse his temper, I suggest to Dziga that he devise a large project to keep the fishes occupied.
I tell him about the time my Skipstone was almost ripped apart by a white hole eruption, and then got caught in its inverted singularity.
To keep them distracted, I had my crew perform a full inspection of every ship system, until we escaped by blind chance.
Again, all Dziga has to say is “doubtless.” He looks impatient to leave.
Maybe if I encourage what he’s already done, I can get him to devise a sufficiently large job to occupy his fishes.
I ask him if the older fishes, the ones working the cables, were set there to keep an eye on the rest of them, and if that was his idea.
Dziga: “Anything that happens on this ship, it is done because I have ordered it.”
And what about these big ones here? I ask what job he’s given to them.
Dziga: “Most of our equipment has been damaged. They are tasked with fixing and cleaning every salvageable mechanical tool on board.”
I tell him that at least he was fortunate enough to get the master access codes for the fishes before their owner’s death.
I don’t finish my encouragement though, as Dziga suddenly looks as if he’s about to vomit.
Dziga: “Yes. Vasushka, aah…Kaminov gave me the codes before we lost him.”
His knees shake and bab0 props him up. Now I think I understand the true source of the pain that Dziga is suffering.
I share with him the story of how my brother-in-law was killed in a terrible accident, while a passenger on my ship.
And how the worst part was having to eject his body into space and not being able to bring him back to the family for a proper burial.
Since then, I’ve sworn to never carry family on my ship. Nobody should have to dump their loved ones into the void.
Far from drawing strength from our commiseration, Dziga has gone white as a sheet.
He stares at the ceiling as if looking through the patched ruin into deep space, seeking the drifting corpse of the friend he left behind.
I guess it’s finally too much for him to handle. He collapses to the floor in a heap.
bab0 quickly jumps between his master and me, as if I meant harm. He begs me to stop reminding Dziga of these things.
Poor Dziga. And poor, dead Kaminov, who must have been more than just a friend to the young captain.
A soft chime sounds, tolling the hour. With all the damage, at least the chrono system still functions. Dziga grimaces at the noise.
bab0 helps him up and shuffles him to the railing of the platform. Dziga looks down and frowns. I follow to see what he sees.
In the hold below, a giant artificial slowly advances to a spot directly beneath the ledge. Dziga looks down on him with contempt.
The giant fish has his arms chained behind his back and his legs shackled together. His crystal eyes blankly stare ahead at nothing.
Dziga draws his slight frame as straight as he can manage. His face contorts with rage, and he glares to the giant in haughty silence.
They both stand motionless until bab0 speaks, breaking the spell.
bab0: “See, he waits for your question, Master.”
Dziga turns his stare away from the giant and speaks, denying him even the respect of full attention.
Dziga: “a2fl, will you apologize now?”
The giant fish, a2fl, remains silent. Not defiant, just mute.
bab0 glares at his fellow artificial, and speaks with even more venom than Dziga.
bab0: “Again, Master. Again. He will bend to his master yet.”
Spurred on by his little fish, Dziga tries to shout, but it comes out more like a croak.
Dziga: “Answer me! Say one word and I will remove your chains.”
a2fl does not speak. Instead, he shrugs and bows his head, passively choosing to continue his captivity.
Dziga angrily waves the giant away. a2fl obediently shuffles to a shadowed corner of the hold and sits quietly.
I’ve seen a few artificials in my day, but I’ve never seen anything like this. I ask Dziga for an explanation.
Dziga: “These brave artificials have all carried out my orders and helped save the ship. All except that one. He refuses to comply.
Dziga: “He won’t respond to master codes or follow new programming. He gives no reason why. I am punishing him until he obeys.
Dziga’s hand goes to his forehead, as if he’s been hit with a sudden dizzy spell and lost his train of thought.
He looks over at bab0, and seems reassured enough by his fawning smile to continue.
Dziga: “I will not simply deactivate or jettison him. There has been too much loss already. But I told him he could be forgiven completely.
Dziga: “He only needs to apologize to me for his disobedience, in front of the others. So far he has not.”
I ask him how often he does this. “Three times a day” is his response. For how long? “About sixty days.”
I ask if he’s caused any other trouble, tried to obstruct the other fishes or caused any other mischief. Dziga shakes his head no.
I tell Dziga that if I were him, I’d lock the fish away or shut him down, and not waste my time and precious energy on this show.
Dziga’s spine stiffens, as if he’s offended by my suggestion. bab0 murmurs to himself.
bab0: “Oh, no. Master will never do that. a2fl must first ask forgiveness.”
This is just foolishness, but I’ve seen enough of Dziga’s captaincy - or lack thereof - to know that pressing him would do no good.
As if reading the disapproval from my mind, Dziga pulls himself away from the railing and retreats to a corner with bab0. I don’t follow.
Dziga and bab0 whisper to each other. This is just wrong and a little bit perverted. It’s one thing to rely on a fish as a trusted servant.
But Dziga’s frantic whispering to his little fish, and the intimate way bab0 responds, is just embarrassing to watch. I need to look away.
I look over the railing down at the cargo hold. Among the scores of fishes, I can make out five or six humans.
One of the humans is crouched over a terminal. His hands fly over the keys, but he is looking directly at me.
When I return his gaze, his eyes flick away from me and in the direction of Dziga.
I look towards Dziga, and it seems as if his head has just turned away from looking at me.
I can’t help but feel that whatever is being said in that whispered conversation, I am the subject.
There are two possibilities I can think of to explain this behavior. Either Dziga is so weak and sick that he’s lost his wits. Or–
Or Dziga is plotting something. Something against me. Could that be possible? It would explain Dziga’s odd behavior.
What if he’s not even the true captain of this ship?
Could he have been a passenger, or low-level crew, taking advantage of the crisis to seize a prize like the Mother Volga?
Or even a pirate who’s captured them by force and killed the true crew? A grand old vessel like this could make a man rich,
It would explain his seeming inability to properly run a ship.
It would also account for his inconsistent behavior towards me if he is ignorant of proper protocols between ship captains.
The Dzigas are one of the largest and richest spacing families. You can find a Dziga or a family employee in any trading center.
The family is so huge and byzantine, likely nobody knows all of them. A plausible name to take, to pass yourself off as a minor cousin.
But wait a moment. This man? This weak, frail boy? And I think he’s a cunning, ruthless pirate?
I’ve done business with a Dziga or two in the past. He does look like he’s a member of the clan, with that pointed chin and Slavic cheeks.
Maybe the radiation is starting to get to me, too. I swallow another protective dose. Or maybe Dziga’s craziness is catching.
Whatever odd things Dziga does, I will try to avoid upsetting him. I need to keep him grounded and focused so we can take care of his ship.
Here he comes. He can barely walk now, leaning so hard on bab0 that the fish looks like a living crutch.
Fighting through coughs, Dziga’s voice is hoarser than ever. “Sir, may I ask how long you have been in orbit around this planetoid?”
I tell him we’ve been here for only a day or two. “And where was your last port of call?” he asks.
Yxxii was our last stop before heading home. “And you took on cargo there?” he asks. I tell him about our trade with the Yxxiilon.
We’re carrying their main exports, strange fruits and exotic spices. “Did you take all your payment in goods, or did you also take Bonds?”
Why is he asking me all this, I wonder? But keeping him talking is the best course.
I tell him we took some Bonds, but mostly goods. “And the crew of your ship, it is how many?”
The Skipstone has a crew complement of thirty-five. “And they are all on board? Or are some mining the planetoid?”
We’ve got a small crew on the planetoid now, but everyone else should be aboard, except for the ones on their way here.
He asks “And they will be aboard tonight, as well?”
I’m trying to not upset Dziga and provoke another fit, but these persistent questions are getting stranger. Why does he care?
Dziga looks down at the deck. bab0 is kneeling at Dziga’s feet, fussing at a tear in the hem of his expensive pants.
He looks up at his master with that wide, stupid grin. Dziga bashfully looks at me and again stammers, “They will all be aboard tonight?”
Yes, I say curtly. Sharper than I should, but my frustration is slipping out. Dziga flinches at my tone, and I immediately feel bad.
My plan was to avoid upsetting him, but I’m not doing a very good job. I need to placate him, to get him to engage again.
I tell him we’d planned a larger mining operation for that night. “And a ship of your small size, you still have some armaments, no?”
We have a light cannon and some small arms for the usual emergencies, “Yes, I know about emergencies.”
Again, he can’t look at me. “Perhaps, when our engines are fueled and running again, we can exchange crew for a small social?”
Without waiting for a reply, Dziga retreats to the corner again, and resumes whispering with bab0. What the devil was that all about?
I see that same spacer, the one who was staring at me. He is scurrying down a side ladder.
As his dirty coverall flaps where it’s torn, I get a glimpse of his undershirt, which strangely looks as if it were made of silk.
He looks over his shoulder, again at his captain. Dziga is whispering heatedly. bab0, his head bowed in subservience, whispers back.
One of the tool cleaners drops an especially heavy object with a clang that startles me.
My paranoia again tries to get the better of me. But that won’t get this ship straightened out, so I push those bad thoughts away.
Smiling, I walk over to the corner. Dziga and bab0 immediately stop their whispering.
I compliment Dziga again on his good luck for being able to rely on bab0 so much, almost as if the fish was a dutiful officer.
bab0’s wide grin gets even larger at my approval. Dziga, however, looks peeved.
Through gritted teeth, he says, “Yes, Captain Lockham. I trust bab0 with my life.” bab0 practically swoons at his master’s praise.
His blank crystal eyes glimmer with what could be mistaken for love. Dziga stares at me, as if waiting for me to leave them alone.
I take the hint, and announce that I will survey the status of the engines, so we can get them spun up quickly when the fuel arrives.
Leaving them to their whispers, I descend back down to the cargo hold and find the corridor that leads to the drive section.
There is a rustle of motion from a side passage. A figure darts through the shadows and disappears around a corner.
A single shaft of light catches his face before he vanishes, and I can see it is that same staring spacer from before.
What is going on aboard this bizarre ship? Why is this man lurking around me like he’s been set as a guard or a spy?
And just what is Dziga up to, with his whispering and his prying questions?
As much as I want to honor and trust Dziga as his station demands, I’m having difficulty.
As the corridor turns to the drive section entrance, there is a porthole. I peek outside.
Dioretsa spits its gasses into space. I can see my Skipstone, just about to disappear on the far side of the planetoid.
Alright, for a moment, let me assume that Dziga is actually plotting something.
If so, it most likely isn’t directed at me so much as at my ship.
So with Skipstone on the far side of an iceball, nothing can happen for the moment. Besides, what could he do?
Not much, with his ship crippled, his crew decimated, burdened with a hundred-fifty aimless fishes, and suffering from radiation poisoning.
All they could possibly want in this case is help, and a lot of it.
But what if even their distress is false? What if this “lost” crew is secretly holed up somewhere, waiting to strike?
Cygnani pirates are know to use similar tactics to capture unwary ships, or so I’ve heard.
What if Dziga is waiting for his ship to dock with mine, before unleashing some unseen force?
And Dziga himself, with his fainting and coughing whenever he’s asked a question?
He even sometimes looks like he’s just making his story up as he goes along.
If Dziga has been lying all along, then could he have captured the ship and killed its true Captain?
But all I heard from the mass of fishes and humans when I came aboard, and everything about the condition of the ship, match his story.
If he’s lying, then it means that Dziga is controlling every single person on board. And he’s reprogrammed every artificial, too.
He’s carefully drilled each and every one of them so their stories match. That just seems too incredible to believe.
No, there’s no way. To think that poor, sick boy is some depraved mastermind, and those sulking spacers are really cutthroats?
That the old cablers and the dumb tool cleaners and all the other simple, wandering fishes are his foot soldiers?
It’s just too outlandish. Standing in this tiny corridor of this bizarre ship, I laugh at myself and the whole sorry lot of them.
Dziga, a pirate mastermind? He can barely control his own body. In fact, I really should just get him to turn over command to me.
I’ll bring Waverly over here to restore order. Dziga can get out of the way and recuperate without the stress he so clearly cannot handle.
He can stay comfortably in his quarters or in a cabin on Skipstone, under the nursing of his faithful companion.
Looking again out the porthole, I can now see a tiny, growing speck. It’s my rover, heading back with more supplies. It’s about time.
I hear growing muttering from back in the cargo hold. I go back to see what the disturbance is.
The fishes have also seen the approaching rover and mill about anxiously.
Dziga is still up on the platform. I call up to him and tell him the rover is returning. For once, his reaction is appropriately grateful.
I hear a scuffling behind me. Turning, I see a human spacer being trampled by the press of fishes. The spacer cannot push them off.
Two of the old cablers, moving with a speed that belies their age, push the fishes off the human and help him to his feet.
I turn to call up to Dziga again, only to find he has descended the stairs and is standing right behind me, leaning on bab0 as ever.
I go to point out the trampled spacer to him, but the man is nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, Dziga seems as if he’s about to fall over.
bab0 thrusts a hand out to keep Dziga upright. With his other, he retrieves another packet of water and helps him swallow it.
Once Dziga gets the liquid down, bab0 withdraws a step, but stays close in case his Master needs him again.
Once again, bab0’s service is impressive. I especially notice that deferential step away he took. A fish of such precision could be useful.
And it seems clear to me that the inappropriate closeness between master and servant is more due to Dziga’s strange proclivities.
I tell Dziga that I would like to purchase bab0 from him. My opening offer is eight-hundred Bonds.
Dziga collapses into another coughing fit, no doubt shocked by the idea of being without his faithful companion.
But eight-hundred Bonds, even though it’s just my initial offer, is a generous amount for a single artificial.
Dziga can’t speak, but bab0 murmurs a reply, as if talking to himself. “No, Master would not part with bab0 for ten thousand Bonds.”
bab0 has that strange pride of the servant who derives his self-worth from the appreciation of his service.
Dziga’s coughing gets worse. bab0 apologizes and draws him away to his bed to get more rest.
Left to my own devices, I decide it is time to continue my original intent of examining the drivetrain.
Looking around the cargo hold, I see that the few humans there are all glaring at me intently. I turn my back on them.
Walking back towards the corridor to the drivetrain, I realize I am being followed.
Behind me, two of the old cablers have left their post and are shadowing me. When I demand an explanation, they bow their heads.
One says they’ve been instructed to accompany me and make sure everything is to my satisfaction.
Well, that would be a nice change. I set off again, with my honor guard trailing behind me.
The main drivetrain is a mess. A few human spacers work away at getting it ready to run. Each is assisted by two or three fishes.
As I pass, each human bends over their work more intently, as if to convince me there’s no need to check up on their work.
One spacer is bent over his work with grim intensity. His hands and arms are covered with grease, like any longtime drive-rat’s.
And yet, he picks and fusses with part he’s working on with a ginger, almost hesitant touch. His face is haggard with concentration.
Something in his face almost makes it seem as if he think he’s above his filthy work. He looks miserable and foul.
If there truly is anything amiss on this ship, I’ll bet this man is in it up to his elbows. I steer clear of him.
Another spacer works nearby, this one older. I ask him about the damage that the drivetrain took. He answers haltingly.
The fishes flanking him chime in with diagnostics of the engine’s condition, and estimates of spinup time with the incoming fuel.
As they report, the spacer stays silent, like he does not want to tell me what is really on his mind.
It’s clear there’s no more for me to do here. I ask my old cablers to show me to the aft viewing deck so I can watch for my rover.
From the viewing deck, I can see the rover getting closer. Dioretsa shimmers. I can vaguely make out Skipstone coming around its orbit.
Behind me, my honor guard stand near the entrance to the luxury staterooms. I try not to think about the fate of their last occupants.
So much death. Merchant spacing is not for the faint of heart.
I lean over the railing and crane my neck up for a better view of my rover.
Below me is a secondary deck, with a partial view for the less worthy passengers. Now it’s piled with ruined equipment and debris.
I hear a noise from among the piles of junk. I peer into the shadows. It looks like there’s someone there. Is he motioning to me?
He makes some kind of gesture, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. A moment later, he is gone.
What could this mean? What was this man trying to communicate, even behind his captain’s back? Is he trying to betray Dziga to me?
Or am I jumping at shadows?
I lean over the railing further to see if I can catch another glimpse of the shadow. A loud crack, and the railing gives way under me.
I start to fall towards a large, nasty pile of sharp metal.
Before I can think, my hand shoots out and grabs another section of the railing. This one holds solid.
My honor guard rush to my side and help me up. I am grateful they are quicker than their outdated appearance would imply.
So much death, indeed!
Looking down to where I nearly fell to an ugly end, I see the man again. He is definitely there and not a figment of my imagination.
What does he want? Was Dziga’s retreat for rest a ploy? Is he preparing to strike in some way and this man is trying to warn me of?
Could it be possible that Dziga will employ his fishes against me while his human spacers try to alert me?
Fishes are too stupid to do anything but follow orders, while humans are responsible for all kinds of choices, moral and otherwise.
So either Dziga and his spacers are plotting or Dziga plans to use his fishes. Or…
…or are they all in league together?
I don’t know what to think anymore. I ponder all the possible permutations as I make my way back to the main hold.
Entering the hold, I see an old, wrinkled spacer I have not seen before. He’s hunched over a terminal, entering code.
Standing over his shoulder, I watch him work. His code is unlike any I’ve seen before. It seems a mix of five or six different languages.
I understand just enough to know this is a highly strange program he’s writing. I ask him what he’s coding.
“Code,” is his curt reply in heavily-accented English. He does not look up from his work to address me.
I tell him that I see it’s code, but ask him what the code is for. He says, “For someone else to debug.”
Suddenly, he thrusts his terminal into my hands and whispers, “Do it! Fix it! Quick!”
At least that what I thought he said. His accent is so thick I may have been wrong.
I look up from the terminal in my hand, but he has picked up another terminal, turned his back and resumed coding.
I hear a stir behind me and turn to look. The giant prisoner, a2fl, stands behind me placidly.
A sharp thunk and I turn back around. The strange coder has dropped his terminal to the deck.
Without looking at me, he disappears into the crowd of fishes milling about the cargo hold. I gaze again at the terminal in my hand.
One of my honor guard approaches with a bowed head. It says to pay no attention to the old man, as the radiation has made him addled.
It tells me he’s harmless, and they let him play with his terminals to keep him occupied. It offers to take the terminal from me.
I give the terminal to it and it bows respectfully. It retreats to its counterpart. They share a quick word, and then both bow to me.
One drops the terminal into a pile of junk. The other finds the addled old coder and gingerly guides him off through a side corridor.
This whole exchange is baffling, and I am getting impatient. Where is my rover?
Looking out a porthole, I see it is getting closer, making good progress.
Finally, we’ll be able to get some things done for these poor folks.
They are so desperate and sad and at the end of their endurance that it’s making me see conspiracies and evil where there’s just suffering.
And here am I, spinning stories about them and their fiendish plots. How foolish do I feel? Seriously, get a hold of yourself, Ty.
I mount the steps to the platform and am met by bab0, who tells me his master apologizes for leaving me alone.
He says that Dziga is almost recovered from his last fit and will join me shortly.
See, things are fine. My rover will arrive imminently, and I can finally be of some use here. I look out a porthole to check progress.
An outgassing from Dioretsa has filled the space between us, cutting the rover off. It will delay her some more. Patience, Ty. Patience.
Once we get the engines working, everything will be fine.
I look down on the mass of fishes. Mixed among them I can see the spacer who was staring at me earlier. Now he refuses to look my way.
This is the most backwards ship I’ve ever been on. Even factoring in all they’ve been through.
You’ve got fishes trampling humans and the Captain doesn’t care. But then there’s his tyrannical treatment of the docile a2fl.
There’s the furtive behavior of the spacers, who seem to live in fear of offending their leader, even though he disciplines no one but a2fl.
I’ve known captains whose harsh treatment of one underling meant all his others stepped carefully and never needed reprimand.
But I’ve never seen such an exaggerated example as this. He is Russian, though. Perhaps they do things differently.
Russians have always been difficult to understand. Even after hundreds of years of war ended with a profitable union, they’re still curious.
But no doubt Russians are just as good, just as flawed as me or any other person, I think.
I mull over the differences in our cultures as I watch the rover finally approach. It finally docks with Mother Volga.
Waverly appears in the airlock with a few more of my crew and large crates of supplies. Fishes mill about excitedly, eager for relief.
The old cablers push their way through, clearing the others away from blocking the entrance to the airlock.
Dziga finally appears, bab0 at his side as always. I ask him for permission to distribute some immediate supplies to all aboard.
Dziga agrees, but impatiently, as if he were jealous that I was the savior and not him.
I make my way over to Waverly. Some of the excited fishes jostle behind me to get closer to the front of a hastily forming line.
A knot of them lose balance and fall against me, knocking me down. I pull myself up and bark for the fishes to stand back.
Raising an arm, I make like I’m going to strike a few close fishes, although it’s more for show than to inflict actual injury.
When I raise my arm to strike, every fish on the floor of the cargo hold freezes. Dead still, as if they’ve been turned off.
The only movement comes from the toolcleaners, who silently rise from their seats.
And then Captain Dziga screams.
Are they coming for me now? Is Dziga springing his trap?
And suddenly, it’s over. The old cablers pull the frozen fishes away from me and push them into an orderly line.
The tool polishers return to their work as if nothing had happened.
Rather than inciting mayhem, Dziga’s bellowing seems to have restored order.
Waverly gives me a perplexed look. I tell her to ignore it, that things on this ship are all topsy-turvy.
She shrugs and assembles my crew to begin distributing supplies.
Fishes and human spacers work together, almost cheerfully. They pile boxes of food, repair parts and, most importantly, fuel.
Dziga seems to have spent all of his restored strength in his shout. bab0 props the invalid up. Again, I am ashamed of my suspicions.
I bring Dziga a large water packet. He gratefully accepts it and bows several times before drinking it.
With Dziga’s permission, I open one of the crates and distribute packets of water to the humans and electrolyte paste to the fishes.
I make no distinction between human and artificial, serving each equally. At a time like this, we must all come together.
I reserve a sizable portion of the supplies for Dziga’s personal use, but he insists I hold nothing back from his crew.
Waverly thoughtfully included a bottle of rice vodka, and bab0 insists on setting it aside for his Master. I happily give it to him.
The supplies distributed, I confer with Waverly in the airlock. I order her to bring our people back to the Skipstone.
Then she’ll bring back a small crew to help get this ship to Triton. In the meantime, I’ll oversee repairs and pilot them into safe orbit.
Once we’re in stable orbit around Dioretsa, the Skipstone will dock with the Mother Volga, and we will trade some crew members.
Waverly asks if I want anyone to stay with me. I tell her it would just add to the confusion on this ship.
I watch the rover depart. Dziga watches over my shoulder, eyes swimming with emotion.
bab0, oblivious as ever to the wider context of things, busies himself with worrying out a stain on Dziga’s sleeve.
I remark to Dziga that it’s a shame he doesn’t have any rovers, since he could have used them to augment the failing drivetrain.
He mutters, “We lost them all in the explosion.”
I commiserate about that piece of bad luck, and ask him just how far through the Kuiper Belt he had gotten before catastrophe struck.
Dziga looks confused. “Kuiper Belt? Who said anything about the Kuiper Belt?”
I remind him that he mentioned the Kuiper Belt, where his ship collided with the comet and suffered the crippling explosion.
I ask if he remembers that, afraid he may be on the verge of losing his mind completely.
Dziga looks stunned, as if he can’t recall his own name, or even his ability to speak. His mouth opens but nothing comes out.
The hour chime rings. Its pitch is slightly off. The chrono systems must be failing. too. I wait for Dziga to speak. He looks lost.
The moment is punctured by bab0, who speaks carefully, as if trying to avoid provoking Dziga’s rage.
bab0: “Master told me to remind him, no matter what occurs, that this time every day he should be shaved. Will Master go to his cabin?”
This takes the prize. Shaving mid-day, every day? In the middle of a life-and-death crisis? Could the boy be so vain?
And yet bab0’s intercession seems to have broken Dziga from his stupor. He finds his words.
Dziga: “Yes. Yes, we will finish this conversation later. Thank you, bab0.”
bab0: “Begging Master’s pardon, but if Master wishes to keep speaking with Captain, why not let Captain sit by while bab0 works?”
Dziga: “Yes, bab0. An excellent idea. Will you come, Captain Lockham?”
I agree. What else can I do? Maybe bab0 is right and this will help get him out of this mood.
And bab0 seems uncommonly anxious to perform this task. Perhaps Dziga is too drained to alter bab0’s programming and deprioritize this task.
I follow them to a part of the ship I’ve not seen before. We walk single-file through a short corridor and turn into a long, low room.
This looks to have originally been a storage room or equipment staging area. Now it’s strewn with piles of seemingly random objects.
I see a heap of broken rifles, clumps of rags, various, half-disassembled pieces of equipment, sheared cabling everywhere.
A wall terminal shows Cyrillic text on about a third of its display area. The rest is fogged up, useless.
In the corner is a small sleeping mat covered in twisted sheets and a threadbare cover, next to a soiled pile of clothing.
Shocked, I ask Dziga if this is where he sleeps. He is silent, his wounded pride evident. bab0 tries to save face.
bab0: “Master’s cabin was flooded with radiation. Master chose to stay here to be close to the rest of us, in case we need him.”
I applaud the idea in theory, but that doesn’t mean he needs to live in squalor. I’d think bab0 would clean up after him a bit.
Dziga, seeing my disgust, fumbles for something to say. “It is not as I would have wished. But events have required choices.”
bab0 stands by a chair which seems to have been hastily assembled out of heavy metal piping.
He beckons for Dziga to sit and points me to a warped bench near the wall. The twisted metal is quite uncomfortable to sit on.
But I do my best to not make a fuss. Imagine having to live in this dungeon.
Dziga gingerly sits in bab0’s chair, and the fish unfastens Dziga’s shirt collar.
How odd, to live in such disarray and insist on this daily grooming ritual. I suppose Dziga is clinging to the few comforts left to him.
And fishes are so perfectly engineered to take personal care of their human masters, it would be a shame to waste bab0’s talents.
Whoever wrote into their programming this personal pleasure and pride from service, that man was a genius.
It must be nice sometimes, not to be burdened with the doubts and complexities of being human.
To just be happy following the simple programming you’ve been given by your superiors.
Perhaps I’ll look into getting some fishes for my own ship after all. If I could find a few as faithful as bab0.
bab0 pauses his preparation and looks around the room, murmuring that he needs something to cover his master.
He goes to a cabinet and pulls out a brightly-colored spread. He lays it over Dziga and tucks it into his shirt like an apron.
Russians tend to favor large sideburns and mustaches, and Dziga is no different.
I’ve never been that skilled at keeping those shapes even, so I’m curious to see how they do it.
bab0 lathers his hands in some sort of gel and rubs it vigorously on the parts of Dziga’s face where he will shave.
Dziga winces under the rough application, but I gather it is a necessary exfoliant for getting as close as possible.
bab0 wipes the gel off using the apron. He lays it flat again, and now I see it’s not a blanket, but the flag of the Russian Directorate.
I joke that it’s good I’m the only one who can see that, and that bab0 must care more about Dziga than Dziga’s country.
Dziga stares coldly at me. I laugh to punctuate the joke. Maybe he’s afraid I will report him for it.
bab0 pulls out a small hand laser. He turns it on and points it at his own palm so he can calibrate the settings until he is satisfied.
bab0 moves to stand behind Dziga, and gently tips his head back.
bab0 holds the hand laser up to Dziga’s face and pauses, concentrating. Dziga shudders.
bab0: “Now Master, you must not shake like that. Captain, Master always shakes a little when bab0 shaves him.
bab0: “Master knows I have never burned him yet, but if he keeps shaking like this, I’m afraid it will happen some time.”
bab0 flicks a switch on the hand laser and applies the beam to Dziga’s face. Stubble slowly evaporates under his careful hands.
bab0: “Sir, Captain, please continue your discussion. Pay no mind to bab0.”
I watch the fish’s skill, mesmerized by the laser. Then I remember what I wanted to ask him about where exactly the explosion happened.
I tell him that even drifting for two months, it’s a miracle that he made it to the edge of the solar system at all.
They’ve only made it this far due to great luck or great skill. I don’t say that I don’t believe he possesses the skill.
But I want to know just how he was able to pull off such an unlikely feat.
Dziga’s eyes go wide and he shakes. bab0’s laser burns his face. I can smell the singed flesh. bab0 immediately drops the laser
bab0: “Oh no, Master! You shook so, and I burned you!”
Dziga’s eyes bulge as if he were holding in a torrent of curses for his servant and for me. He clearly struggles to hold his tongue.
Dziga was burned, but it honestly didn’t look too serious. And yet, he’s on the verge of exploding.
I can’t believe I thought that this boy who can’t handle a little razor burn was capable of all the violence I ascribed to him.
Although he does look like he could murder poor bab0 with his bare hands. The fish is on his knees, begging.
bab0: “Please forgive me Master and let me fix it while you continue your conversation.”
Dziga takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He curtly nods at bab0, who springs to his feet, crying thanks.
When Dziga speaks to me again, it is in a clipped monotone.
Dziga: “We had a few precious minutes after the impact before our navigational systems went dead.
Dziga: “Our navigator, before she died, was able to orient the ship so that the blast would propel us towards inhabited space.
Dziga: “The explosion acted like a massive engine burn, and we used that inertia to bring us in-system.
Dziga: “When we drifted off course, I taught the artificials to use the thrusters to nudge us back on course. They performed admirably.”
As Dziga explains, bab0 gingerly finishes shaving him. In spite of Dziga’s sporadic shaking, there are no more burns.
bab0 slips the hand laser in a pocket and applies a salve to his Master’s face. Dziga winces.
Finished, bab0 removes the flag and bundles it away. He rebuttons Dziga’s collar, smoothes it out and brushes away loose specks of hair.
bab0 then takes a step back and bows his head, as if waiting for reprimand. Dziga stays seated, silent.
Nobody talks. I get the feeling that I should leave them alone, so I make an excuse to go check on the readiness of the engines.
I leave the filthy room and head back towards the main hold.
A moment later I hear a shriek coming from the room behind me, then, bab0 exits the room, a hand covering his face.
bab0: “When will Master recover? Only his sickness makes him treat bab0 this way, burning to punish. Poor Master!”
I try to console the wounded little fish and pull his hand from his face. Dziga has given him a long, nasty burn on the cheek.
He must have set the handlaser to a high setting to do this to bab0’s carbonsteel skin. And still bab0 is concerned more for Dziga’s health.
Amazing how their pain programming, used as a tool of coercion and discipline, makes the innocent fishes seem even more childlike.
Not for the first time I wonder if their programmers fully understand the complexity of what they’ve created.
bab0 pulls away from me, as if embarrassed to show a mark of displeasing his Master. He disappears back into the cabin.
A moment later he returns, supporting the feverish Dziga. It’s as if nothing has happened.
They seem like a drunken father and a dutiful son, covering up the family secrets. Or like they’ve had a lover’s quarrel.
I’ve heard stories of people who get that intimate with their fishes. Could Dziga–? That’s too disgusting a thought.
Down the other end of the corridor, I see a spacer I haven’t noticed before.
He approaches us in a half-bow, as if preemptively apologizing for bothering Dziga. bab0 whispers to Dziga that the steward is here.
The steward tells us that he has prepared a lunch from the provisions my crew brought over, and it is waiting for us.
He comes out of his bow, and his face startles me. He appears human, but has the blank crystalline eyes of a fish.
The steward is a Partificial, a clone grown in a vat and augmented with artificial parts and programming.
Pfishes are not often seen serving as spacers, since they are said to be unreliable and difficult to keep functional.
Dziga tells me that f5qo, as he calls him, has been an exemplary servant and an excellent steward under difficult circumstances.
I notice bab0 squinting at the Partificial, as if jealous of his Master praising anyone other than him.
Or maybe it’s jealousy of f5qo’s partial human composition.
I tell Dziga that I’m glad he’s got such trust, as I’ve heard many people recoil at the idea of fusing the human and artificial as evil.
But f5qo sees to be a perfect gentleman and servant. I ask if Dziga’s ever seen a hint of trouble with him.
His reply is curt. “f5qo has been just fine, thank you.”
We enter a small dining room, and f5qo serves lunch. It’s meager, for sure. But I see bab0 brought the rice vodka.
f5qo withdraws, and bab0 props Dziga into his seat. Instead of waiting behind his master, he walks around the table and stands behind me.
At first I am surprised. Then I see the sense of it. Facing Dziga, bab0 can better anticipate his Master’s needs that if he was behind.
I comment again about bab0’s smart service. “Indeed,” Dziga says, coldly. Perhaps he’s still upset I tried to buy him.
We eat for a while, and no one speaks. Dziga stares intently at his food. Finally, to break the silence, I ask Dziga for more details.
It’s somewhat odd that radiation would kill so many humans and yet only affect half the fishes. Why such an unequal distribution?
Dziga mumbles incoherently, looking on the verge of passing out. It’s as if mentioning radiation makes him think it’s in the room with us.
bab0 fills Dziga’s cup with vodka. Dziga drinks, first slowly, then with more gusto. The liquor seems to steady him.
He says that his deceased friend, Kaminov, liked to upgrade his fishes with all the newest improvements as soon as they hit the market.
One of these updates included a skin coating that makes the fishes less susceptible to radiation and more able to withstand a vacuum.
I didn’t know such upgrades were even available. Once again, I make a note to revisit the idea of adding some fishes to my crew.
We continue eating, with sporadic comments and chit-chat. But eventually, I must steer the conversation to an unpleasant topic.
According to Commerce Code, Dziga must compensate me for my services, and we must negotiate the fee.
I am a merchant spacer, and beholden to my stockholders, regardless of the human inclination towards samaritanism.
Such delicate discussions should rightly take place in private. I ask Dziga if he will dismiss bab0 so we may speak alone for a few minutes.
Dziga looks insulted. But he must recognize the rightness of my request, because he chooses his next words very carefully.
Dziga: “bab0 presence is absolutely necessary. He is my sole confidant and can cause no problem to whatever you wish to discuss.”
To deny such a request is quite rude and unheard of. Yet again, I forgive his ungraciousness due to the trying circumstances.
Gently, I propose a monetary figure to reimburse me for material, labor and time.
Dziga agrees, but peevishly, as if offended by my perfectly reasonable requirements. He lapses into silence and bab0 fills his glass again.
I sip my own vodka and wonder at this strange, poor boy.
The awkward quiet is finally broken by a welcome sound - rumbling comes from the drivetrain. If this doesn’t cheer him, nothing will.
But he looks even more agitated now. I guess he’s had his hopes dashed so many times, he’s afraid to put his faith in anything.
I will prove him wrong this time. I tell him to stay resting, and I will pilot his ship into safe orbit.
In the main hold, I almost run into the giant a2fl. He stands motionless, as if waiting for his Master and judge to appear.
In the background, loud clanking from the tool polishers, as they continue their mindless labor. I call for everyone’s attention.
All activity in the hold stops. I tell them to prepare for thrust. Spacers and fishes run pell-mell, securing the ship.
I move to a nav console and program in a course correction. I hear a voice behind me.
It is bab0. He is repeating my instructions to the fishes, and making sure they carry out what I’ve ordered.
They work feverishly, as if they can collectively repudiate Dziga’s disinterested pessimism.
Leaving them under bab0’s capable care, I dash down to the drivetrain to congratulate them on their success and get their latest status.
The engines are just about fully operational, and I tell the spacer in charge to open them up slowly.
On my way