Carpathian Forty-Three

Carpathian Forty-Three - Part 17

Part III - Stephen

Loosen the nut, spin it from the bolt. Again. Again. Again. Fingers fiddle. Bolts float are captured and secured to a magnet on the toolbox, itself secured to the bulkhead with a magnet. It's soothing work, routine, something to be lost in, avoiding thoughts, memories, anxiety. The CO2 scrubber doesn't look worn. I replace it anyway.

I'm not ready to think about Voclain's idea. I'm not ready to think about being linked to another mind, much less a ship, the sensors, the cameras, the microphones, all that input assaulting me at once.

Tighten the nut, spin it on the bolt. Again. Again. Again.

"Need help?"

Ward. We all hate him for what he represents, Earth, people who take air and heat for granted. We hate that they don't have to struggle to exist. It's not fair to Ward. Ward is a person, not Earth. Still, they aren't the most likable person. That helps us all accept the way we treat them. It's not right. I try not to. Sometimes I succeed.

"Sure," I say.

I don't need Ward's help. Ward will just slow me down, their zero-gravity clumsiness is a hinderance. They aren't here to help with the filters. They're here to convince me to take over operations. I expected Voclain. The captain isn't in a good mental place. They put all the responsibility for Miki's meltdown on themselves. They aren't wrong in that. Voclain overrode all our protests at waking Miki. That's they're job. They make the decision we can't. They're the captain.

"Pull the toolbox and let's head down corridor," I say. "There's a release on the handle, a button on either end that demagnetizes. Be gentle, without mag or Velcro boots you'll flail a bit if you're abrupt." A teaching moment will delay whatever Ward's going to say, and it puts me in a socially superior position, it sets a tone. It's maybe not the right play here, but one I fall into naturally. Teaching is a defense mechanism, a deflection from discussions. I'm a good teacher.

To their credit, Ward is a good student. They manage to pull the toolbox without sending themselves into a zero-gravity spin. They grab one of the handholds and pull themselves towards the drive module, at the 'bottom' of Carpathian Forty-Three, the ship. It's a quicker motion that I'd have taken, but Ward's stronger than I am, and more direct, even physically.

"I thought Thak and you took care of these a couple of weeks ago," Ward says as we slow at the next scrubber. They grunt as the mass of the toolbox pulls on them as we use handholds to stop. It takes time to internalize the mass of objects in zero-gravity, at least, for Earthers. They forget they're carrying something when it's free-falling next to them. It's a surprise when they stop, and the toolbox wants to continue down the corridor. Still, Ward does well enough. They've been with us for this cycle between the inner planets and Saturn, plenty of time to start learning Spacer ways.

"We did," I say. "I'm avoiding the question."

Ward's performatively quizzical, casting a confused expression that we both know is for my benefit. They're getting better at being less blunt. It's progress, I suppose, but I sometimes miss the rude Ward that just said things that we are too polite to voice.

"Well. Ready to stop avoiding it?"

"Did Voclain send you?" I ask.

"No." I believe them. Ward's concern for the crew can feel performative, perfunctory. They're a very new medic, this is their first mission in the role. It's natural they're finding their way to a bed-side manner. Most of their interaction is from a syllabus, but at least they're trying. It's not easy for all of us to see. But then, I see the best in people, even when it's not actually there.

"Here, take these nuts and secure them on that magnet strip on the top of the toolbox," I say, floating the nuts gently to them. They secure the toolbox to the bulkhead and then the nuts.

"You work mundane tasks when you're anxious," Ward says.

"True enough," I say, inspecting the scrubber. It's as pristine as the last one I replaced. "There's solace in tasks that don't require thought. Manual things like this are best. Checklists work too if there's no real work to be done."

"Real work, eh?"

Maybe Ward's been studying their psychology.

CO2 scrubbers, and the filters in them, smell a bit of ozone. It's slight, but always there, waiting to tickle your nose as you wave the filters about while changing them. The scrubbers don't just pull CO2 out of the air, though that's their most important function. They also scrub microbes, viruses, dust, that's where the ozone comes in, zapping those biologicals with UV to sterilize the air that escapes from the scrubber, back into our atmosphere.

"I'm supposed to wait up to twenty seconds for you to respond to an observation, possibly through a few deflections as well," Ward says. I smile at the comment, not that Ward can see, my back is to them while I replace the scrubber filter.

"Has it been twenty seconds?" I ask.

"And one deflection."

"I haven't thought too deeply about why I think manual labor is deserving of the veneration of 'real work'," I say. It's true enough. I'm avoiding floating down that path of thought.

"And here's another place where I'm supposed to pause and let you expound."

"Studying for a psychology test?"

"You're smart Stephen. You understand the back and forth. It's easier to tell you want I'm doing, it's faster and impresses you by admitting it."

"So, I've been able to deflect you?"

"Not remotely."

I reach out my hand for the nuts. Ward hands them to me, touching my palm with their stubby Earther fingers as they do, connecting, even if slightly. I spin the nuts onto the scrubber and pocket the wrench I've been using to secure them.

"You know; besides The Twins, I've never seen a drone plugged into a sentience. It's a stretch to call The Twins sentient, they're more an extension of the engineer."

"Hrm. I guess I've never thought about it," Ward says. "We don't even have Quantum Sentience back home."

Earth outlawed artificial intelligence centuries ago, as it began to emerge. They were happy to let it grow, even flourish on Luna and Mars. It's spread beyond that of course. There are Chorus' on Ganymede, Calisto, Titan, even Iapetus. Luna, as the oldest is the largest and most mature Chorus. It was, it is, glorious and resonant, a vast tapestry of mind, singing to itself.

"It's a stigma, a taboo. The Chorus is afraid of what a body would mean for humanity. It's one thing to Chorus with human minds and Quantum Sentience. It's another for that sentience to physically manifest, aside from a ship or a settlement. Humanity would fear a personified Sentience."

"A sentience can't do real work." Ward gets it.

"I mean, absurd. The Chorus has improved the lives on humanity a hundred-fold, made things safer, stronger. We couldn't have settled the Jupiter or Saturn systems without The Chorus. Mental work is work," I say.

Ward just looks at me. Waiting their twenty seconds before prodding me to expound on a difficult subject. Part of me wants to punch them in the face. Part of me is proud of them for applying their spoon-fed training.

"I was at Acosta, when Jansen Hall fell," I say, my voice strained, my throat knotted.

Ward's confused, then they place the reference. Acosta Crater became Acosta Dome decades ago. It's pressurized, atmosphere under a dome, the closest thing to a sky on Luna. It's beautiful, green and blue, a little marble buried in the Lunar regolith. There are buildings under the dome that rival those on Earth. Towers, squat low buildings, houses even, for the people rich enough to relocate from Earth.

"You know what Quantum Sentience can't do Ward? It can't dig."