Carpathian Forty-Three

Carpathian Forty-Three - Part 2

"Hand me that wrench?" Stephen asks.

Thak hands him a crescent wrench from the tool kit magnetized to the deck, while pulling on a handhold for stability. Thak has been with us for three cycles now. This is Stephen's first. They work well together, our long Lunar First Officer and relatively stunted Comptroller. That's how Martians are, short, rugged, robust. At least that's how the Martians tell it. They're genetically engineered to deal with the caves that make up the habitable spaces of the red planet. Mars can get away with telling people what their genetics should be. It's Mars.

Thak fidgets, driving their body to oscillations against the handhold. They dislike freefall, the normal state of The Hump. The Camel's Hump is a bulbous structure that occupies the top middle third of Carpathian 43's Spine. The Spine itself runs from the bridge at the 'top' of the ship, down to the drive section. The Camel's Hump contains our stores and gravity agnostic cargo, bulk soil, precious metals, volatile carbon compounds that can only be produced down-well on Earth or Mars. Rhianu and The Captain have quarters on The Hump, they prefer freefall over the spin gravity of The Ring. Thak and Stephen both have quarters on The Ring, where the Coriolis gives them gravity closer to their native Mars and Luna.

"If you calm down you won't bounce around." Stephen says. They loosen the nuts on the CO2 scrubber and carefully stow the nuts in a pocket on the leg of their coverall. Thak things Stephen is slow. Stephen thinks they're graceful. They're both right.

"If you'd hurry up, we'd be back on The Ring," Thak snaps.

I'm 'watching' them. I watch everything on the ship. I am the ship. More or less. It's not spying really. It's my job as the ship's sentient operating system. The crew don't think about it anymore than breathing.

"Remember when we hunted for that stray bolt for an hour down here?" Stephen asks.

They pull the CO2 scrubber from its housing and set it on the bulkhead, the electrostatic force of the charged scrubber holding it there in the weightless environment. They unseal the new scrubber, wipe it down with a cloth from their belt and gently ease it into place.

Thak takes the used scrubber from the wall and places it in the large bag of used scrubbers that floats next to them, careful to keep the carbon on the scrubber from getting on their hands.

"Yes. Fine. Whatever."

Thak is more irritable than normal, which is saying something for the little corporate stooge, their words, not mine. All the crew is on edge. Rhianu's cancer diagnosis hits each of them differently. For Thak, who has served with Rhianu for three cycles now, the news manifests as more irritability than normal. We've talked about this, but Thak isn't ready to process their feelings. They almost never are.

"Just two more," Stephen says, slowly turning the nuts onto their bolts with the wrench. The metal-on-metal sound reverberates down the corridor, a dysrhythmic slow staccato against the quiet thrum of the air handlers.

"How can you be so calm?" Thak asks.

"I get enough sleep." Stephen says.

"That's not what I mean."

"I know."

Stephen pushes off from his perch next to the CO2 scrubber and floats down the corridor towards the next one, toolbox in tow, its magnetic hold on the deck released with the flick of a switch on the handle.

He is graceful. Not as elegant as Captain Voclain, but they were raised a Spacer. For Stephen's Lunar roots you'd be forgiven for thinking they were a Spacer the way they operate on the float.

"I don't let things I can't control occupy my mind," they say, coming to a stop at the next scrubber, their long, thin legs bending to slow their momentum. Delicate quadriceps flex, absorbing the force of Stephen's mass.

Thak reaches for a hand hold and grunts as they come to an unceremonious stop, bumping against the bulkhead as they do. The used scrubber bag floats past, Thak's grip lost in the stop.

"Damnit," Thak mutters, pushing off to chase down the bag.

By the time the return Stephen has the scrubber pulled out and placed delicately on the bulkhead for Thak to transfer to their escaped bag.

"I can't do that. Not worry. I'm paid to worry."

"You're paid to worry about money," Stephen says, tightening the nuts on the scrubber housing.

"Cancer treatment is time. Time is money," Thak snaps. They aren't worried about time. Both Stephen and I can see this.

The crew of Carpathian 43 are more like a family than coworkers. They must be. A cycle from the inner planets to Saturn takes hundreds of days. I am their home, and they are a family. With a sick member.

"Rhi will be fine. It's a small tumor, slow growing, not causing symptoms. They'll have it snipped on Titan and we'll be on our way."

Thak takes the used scrubber and places in their bag.

"Mom died of cancer," they say.

Stephen's wrench click as they secure the new CO2 scrubber. It's sort of amazing how they let silence work.

"It was leukemia not a carcinoid. Too many years working top side on the oxygen generators. Probably too much oxygen too, honestly."

"I can see how Rhi's diagnosis would upset you," Stephen says, starting off for the last scrubber. He moves slower though, not his graceful, athletic push down the corridor, but a more methodical scurry from handhold to handhold.

"They aren't the same," Thak says, parroting Stephen's handhold walk. "I know that and still."

They hand walk down the corridor quietly, the scrubber bags rustling.

"Rhi's going to be okay Thakkar," Stephen says, using the Comptroller's full name.

"I know. I just. Thanks," Thak manages.

"You're welcome," Stephen says warmly.