A seadweller who doesn't know what the word 'aquaponics' means. Ooookay. "I mean, sir, fish farming as an element of the farm cycle. The fish fertilize the water, the plants purify it. The simplest method is just to float the plants on the surface of the farm tank, but you can do fancy things with pumps for more efficiency. The fish are fed small planktonic organisms such as brine shrimp, which live on algae or nutrient powder. I can send you some information if you're interested." Then, though it's far too familiar, you dare to add, "I would love to see your tidepool biome, sir. Back planetside, I used to keep a kelp forest aquarium."
"I say!" you say delightedly, leading the way through the make-spaces. "That sounds absolutely smashing, what a wonderful idea, do you think you could work with Eli to set that up? I'd love to have fish again. We mostly farm grubloaf around here, they grow fast and eat any old thing you throw at them and don't try to get out of their bins. The main focus has been building up our seedbanks. There wasn't a leaf onboard this heap three sweeps ago and now we've got greenmatter in nearly every living area. Makes things a bit muddy but the air's clean enough to eat off of!" You check in on a few offices and find them either empty or ticking along alright, but of course this would be the night you have a problem with the helms-area, and your newbie a veritable blank slate. "Stand there and look decorative," you order him, then pin your fins back with a bandana and wade into the fray. You confiscated Lord Hardcase's helmsman on grounds of malicious negligence and the poor thing's infected all to hell and back, still has seizures. When a helmstroll has seizures, everything in the area has seizures, so it's been a trial. "Shush now, good girl," you say, holding her by the horns. "There's a good girl. Someone get a bit, she's already cut her tongue up— now, Oaks, I'm not bloody well standing here on holiday!" There's a blur of activity, shushing, scolding, and the occasional heartfelt curse when psionics ground themselves through you. After maybe a quarter of an hour things have calmed down enough you can leave everyone to it. You give the helmstroll a final pat on the shoulder— "Good girl, you're doing so well, just have a bit of a kip, now, would you?" — and limp back to Kadros, shaking your cane out of your strifedeck to lean on. This sort of action always has your leg acting up, it's a damn nuisance. "Right, well, sorry about all that. These sorts of things are hard to schedule, what?"
"What sort of things are these, precisely, sir?" You watched intently, staying out of everyone's way, trying to keep track of faces and remember names. This isn't the helmsblock, it seems to be some sort of medical area, but it's nowhere near sick bay on any of your maps. "That's not the Captain-Killer, is she a spare, or...?"
"Oh, no, Galley doesn't come out of his block. That's, er, well, we call her Twitch, because, well. She's only eight, poor thing, she's a black market custom sort of job, so of course no one's got any records on her, and it's not as if she's in a position to tell us much of anything. I took her away from Hardcase because he's an absolute pillock who shouldn't be allowed to run a fourwheel device, much less a starship— you might meet him, he's grounded here until he's approved for a helmsman through the proper sorts of channels. Hasn't come out of his ship since the last time I boxed his fins. Ha!" You climb clumsily back in the cart and lean back with a moan of relief. "Ah, stars, that's better. Just need a bit of a sit. Oh! Right! Things! Well, you know, problems, and all. You have to sort of take it all as it comes, I don't suppose things go wrong planetside like clockwork, either."
You allow yourself a small smile. "No, the SNAFU principle applies there as well." Cautiously, you go on, "What are you doing with, er, 'Twitch', sir? I wasn't aware that helmsman rehabilitation -- that is, the Sunslammer has a reputation for its own helmsman's ungovernable --" You cut yourself off with a slight shake of your head. You can't think of a way to phrase your concerns without implying an accusation of either cruelty or treason.
You point the cart off to the recreation areas. You'll show him the flyingspace for winged lusii, you figure, then maybe grab a snack. "Galley's killed something like six captains, as I reckon, though I believe only two have been pinned on the little misanthrope, and god knows how many miscellaneous officers. He's pure piss and vinegar— I'll take you by to meet him sometime but I think he'd prefer watching you for a few days before any sort of face-to-face. Wave at a camera, if you like." You've gotten distracted again. "Anyway, no, we're not rated for rehabilitation, which is a damn pain in the nook, I can tell you. I have to order the extra medical supplies in on my own tab, when we were putting in for more on the ship's account we got dinged for misappropriation of funds. But we rest and repair the ships that come by, and the sorts of things you see when you pop open some hatches— anyway, I take cases like Twitch away from cases like Hardcase, haha, whenever I can." You indulge in a self-satisfied smile. "It's illegal not to have full and accurate records for your helmsman— inoculations, pail receipts, health and safety check-ups, official power rating and occupational designation, the ident of the shipwright who declared them fit for use. I looked that up in a book and everything. So you see, we absolutely cannot in good conscience let the amethysts of empire go sailing off from this station with shoddy unsafe black-market propulsion rigs, they've got to come out and be replaced with properly rated empire-approved helmstrolls, it's only what's best. Ah! Here's snacks." You've been noodling the cart through one of nicer recreation areas, lots of long grasses and broad-branched trees. the growlights over head placed in constellations. A thermal locker has been placed under a central tree, and you get out and have a rummage for snacks. "D'you want a frozen mealworm bar? We have, hm, chocolate, strawberry, or ham."
As far as you're aware, your stoneface hasn't slipped a millimeter, but an observant troll might note the light of admiration in your eyes. Mad and lackadaisical he may be, but Captain Aspera is taking action against helmsman abuse via rules-lawyering, and that is something you can completely respect. "Strawberry, please. Thank you, sir." You turn in a slow circle while you nibble on it, taking in the garden. "This is nice. You did this?"
"Well for a given value of 'did', obviously it's all a group effort. I was homesick as anything when I first started here, so I started buying greenery from every ship that docked and stuffing it all in my cabin so I could get a proper day's sleep. After awhile I got a few manuals and started going about it systematically." You sit down on the thermal locker to chomp into your bar. (seadwellers age so slowly erskin could be a thousand sweeps older than bel and look nearly the same— but if he connects the dots he can be surprised that erskin's younger than him and got posted here without a training sweep.)
He was homesick when he started here? So it was his first posting? And he must've skipped the sweep of training, too, if he hadn't adapted to sleeping on shipboard already. So... ascension plus three sweeps... good god, he's even younger than you are, though not by much. You decide to take a risk. You sit down next to him on the thermal hull and say quietly, "Sir, it's none of my business so feel free to tell me off, but... well, I know what I did to get posted here, but it sounds like you didn't have time to piss anyone off. What happened?"
"Oh, pissing everyone off came later. I failed all my aptitudes but I'm a scant shade from tyrian so they sent me here for Galley to dispose of. Jokes on them, though, we get along like a hive on fire.*" (*in alternian this translates to 'screamingly contentious stalemate you don't want to get involved with')
Probably due to Aspera's habit of confiscating abused helmsmen, you guess, and the way he refers to this ship's helmsman by name. You may have found a kindred spirit re: belief that helmsmen should be treated as personnel, not materiel. "Failed your aptitudes? Surely not, sir. You're clearly no fool." You make a vague gesture with your meal bar to indicate that, in general, the Sunslammer is still performing its function, pretty much, and Aspera is still captain of it, despite various forces opposing this state of affairs.
"Thank you, that's very flattering. But no, I flunked the lot of them— I couldn't particularly read back when I was nine so I just bubbled everything in at random, and it turns out wrong answers are weighted against right ones so it all comes out null if you do that. They gave me a second test with someone to read it all out loud but I'd been neglecting my schoolfeeds for years so it didn't make all that much difference. On the third round I got upset and bit the tester." You give the last of your mealbar a big, theatrical chomp.
That actually startles a tiny laugh out of you. "Do you, er, still have trouble with text, sir? That may affect my duties."
"You can smile!" you say, delighted. "That's good, I thought maybe you had a brain condition. I can read now, don't worry, I learned. You would not believe how much shit lowbloods will dish out if they know you can't read, they kept writing rude things on all my stuff until I could get back at them. Eventually I started to push them over at work and write on them and it tapered off." You grin and elbow him a bit. "If you need me to write anything nasty on your personal belongings, or face, in a textbook hand, I'm certainly your man."
"I have not so far required it, sir, but if I find myself in need of the service I will certainly think of you first," you say solemnly, with just a one-pixel smile to let on you're joking. If he didn't do his training sweep, just got pitched out here with the trash, then he was never trained to do the military stoneface. He wasn't trained to stand in lines and march in time and salute. Hell, he doesn't even wear his uniform, apparently. He's basically a civilian, like some factory worker or entertainer, except that of course a seadweller couldn't possibly be allowed to work that kind of job. He has to be out conquering the galaxy, to prove it's blood, not training, that makes an officer! He got screwed over by his blood even worse than you did; that is to say, because while you would much rather have been an archivist or curator of some sort, at least you have enough aptitude for command that hard work can make up the rest. Whereas Aspera is, as far as first impressions can tell you, just a lighthearted goofus who loves greenery and pranks. He should've been a florist or something. If royalty is so privileged, why can't violets grow violets? You push aside these treasonous thoughts for now, and focus on the near future. "Pardon me for eavesdropping, sir, but when you were talking on the phone, I heard that there's some difficulty with your paperwork. Straightening that out is definitely within the scope of my duties, but you'll need to show me how you want things done."
"I shouldn't think it was eavesdropping when you standing right there doing your—" your briefly straighten your spine like a ruler and scowl determinedly, "—marine business of being very important. But yes if you'd like to help out that'd be a treat, it does give me more headaches than I can use. As for how I want things done, er, I just want them done. Feel free to, hm, proceed on your own initiative." You stand up, stretch, kick your metal heel a few times into the ground to try and settle the itch— no luck— and make your way back to the car. "We'll go through residential on the way to my office. Do you have an allotment picked out yet? I don't know how long you've been aboard, actually. Hope you weren't waiting too long."
His impression of you is equal parts annoying and amusing. Probably fairly accurate, though. "Not long at all, sir. And no, I haven't, I'm accustomed to quarters simply being assigned to me. Choosing sounds pleasant. How do I go about it?"
"I'll park this thing in near the larger allocations— you said thunderbird, right? we can probably get away with assigning you an aviary to yourself. After that, stretch your legs, have a wander, if a place is occupied it'll have a sign chalked on the door. Here we are." You get out, stumble a bit, growl at yourself, and get your cane back out. Not the best first impression, but Twitch can't help when she needs help— you are going to knock one of Hardcase's horns clean off next time he pokes his nose out of his little bolthole, though. The residences are warrens of blocks in all different sizes— cabins that are nearly broom closets, respite lounges that are nearly a hangar bay, and everything in between. "We set it up so it's mostly doors," you say, "or partitions, at any rate. The old crew quarters were basically shoeboxes, and it's a bit much to expect everyone to put up with that on a ship rated to hold two thousand. There's three aviaries— shared full-time, shared free-time, and shared scheduled. Well put your dad in shared scheduled, so no one walks in on him without warning, and then see about clearing up enough space for a dedicated full-time. There aren't that many large types aboard, thank goodness, so I don't think you'll be locking horns over lusus-space with anyone." You get to shared scheduled and rub the chalked-in reservations off the slate. C-A-D-R-O-S you jot down, and indicate it's to be be for the rest of the week. You usher Kadros in to have a look around. The ship's two miles fore-to-aft, one port-to-starboard, and a half top-to-bottom. The shared scheduled aviary is for flying types to have a good stretch, and goes very nearly the length up and down. You're about a third of the way up— a stair spirals around the circumference of the space, with landings every few decks. The round floor is dust, gravel, and a pool, and a number of heavily-abused cardboard boxes lie slumped all over. Kay is down at the bottom and her pteradad is swooping around up top. You get out your phone. "Kay, dear, I'm awfully sorry but I need to turf you out. We've a thunderbird lusus aboard and nowhere else to stuff him." You hold the phone out from your ear while Kay lets you know precisely how happy she is about the situation. Far below, her small figure raises an arm and gives you a tiny one-finger salute. You wave back at her. Eventually she collects her dad and exits through the hangar door on floor level. "You can fetch him from the cargo bay right off, if you like," you offer.
"I will, thank you, sir. One moment." You get out your own phone, contact the crewman you entrusted Binesi to, and give the order. "No, just tell him," you explain. "Yes, in Alternian. If you speak clearly, yes, he does. Just get it done, Yerick." You hang up. "He'll be up shortly. Once he's accustomed to the space, he'll behave himself with other lusii. He's actually fairly friendly and might enjoy sharing if the others aren't too combative."
"Should have known your custodian was as well-trained as you," you remark. You go back into the corridor. "If we're going to open up a new aviary this week we might as well bung you out at the edge so you can organize your rooms around it. Everything in this area's claimed at the moment." Once towards the unused edge of the living area you show him how to slide the walls into and around one another. "About half of them are support structures, so they don't move. You can tell which ones those are by the dark stripe down at the bottom, the sliding walls have a light stripe. It's a bit of a puzzle game.... Anyway let's set you up a few rooms, shall we? then we can go out and chalk the boundaries for the aviary so no one starts a project where we're going to need to take the floor out." You bounce a little on your heels, eager to get started. Setting up rooms is always great fun. (he's expecting bel to determine the proportions of his own rooms, so he's waiting to be told what bel wants to go where.)
