December 2007
I bring Dziga a large water packet. He gratefully accepts it and bows several times before drinking it.
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.
Fishes and human spacers work together, almost cheerfully. They pile boxes of food, repair parts and, most importantly, fuel.
She shrugs and assembles my crew to begin distributing supplies.
Waverly gives me a perplexed look. I tell her to ignore it, that things on this ship are all topsy-turvy.
Rather than inciting mayhem, Dziga’s bellowing seems to have restored order.
The tool polishers return to their work as if nothing had happened.
And suddenly, it’s over. The old cablers pull the frozen fishes away from me and push them into an orderly line.
Are they coming for me now? Is Dziga springing his trap?
And then Captain Dziga screams.
The only movement comes from the toolcleaners, who silently rise from their seats.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Dziga agrees, but impatiently, as if he were jealous that I was the savior and not him.
Dziga finally appears, bab0 at his side as always. I ask him for permission to distribute some immediate supplies to all aboard.
“My standard for verisimilitude is simple and I came to it when I started to...”
– The Believer - Interview with David Simon
The old cablers push their way through, clearing the others away from blocking the entrance to the airlock.
Waverly appears in the airlock with a few more of my crew and large crates of supplies. Fishes mill about excitedly, eager for relief.
I mull over the differences in our cultures as I watch the rover finally approach. It finally docks with Mother Volga.
But no doubt Russians are just as good, just as flawed as me or any other person, I think.
Russians have always been difficult to understand. Even after hundreds of years of war ended with a profitable union, they’re still curious.
But I’ve never seen such an exaggerated example as this. He is Russian, though. Perhaps they do things differently.
I’ve known captains whose harsh treatment of one underling meant all his others stepped carefully and never needed reprimand.
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.
You’ve got fishes trampling humans and the Captain doesn’t care. But then there’s his tyrannical treatment of the docile a2fl.
This is the most backwards ship I’ve ever been on. Even factoring in all they’ve been through.
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.
Once we get the engines working, everything will be fine.
An outgassing from Dioretsa has filled the space between us, cutting the rover off. It will delay her some more. Patience, Ty. Patience.
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.
He says that Dziga is almost recovered from his last fit and will join me shortly.
I mount the steps to the platform and am met by bab0, who tells me his master apologizes for leaving me alone.
And here am I, spinning stories about them and their fiendish plots. How foolish do I feel? Seriously, get a hold of yourself, Ty.
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.
The Passion of Keith Hernandez →
Best. Ballplayer. EVAR.
Finally, we’ll be able to get some things done for these poor folks.
Looking out a porthole, I see it is getting closer, making good progress.
This whole exchange is baffling, and I am getting impatient. Where is my rover?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A sharp thunk and I turn back around. The strange coder has dropped his terminal to the deck.
I hear a stir behind me and turn to look. The giant prisoner, a2fl, stands behind me placidly.
I look up from the terminal in my hand, but he has picked up another terminal, turned his back and resumed coding.
At least that what I thought he said. His accent is so thick I may have been wrong.