Our next-to-last day of training. We leave the day after
tomorrow. Samira has begun to panic about the excursion, just a little, and
Budur and Zariah are taking turns comforting her. Zariah, as a former asteroid
miner, knows a bit about long space travel, although no human has yet flown for
three long weeks. Not under the auspices of the corporations, anyway. We’re not
sure how it will feel. On that, no one can reassure us.
We spent the whole day learning to repair carbon fiber with printed patches and makeshift glue. It’s easy enough to pick up, but important enough for our survival that we spent 12 solid hours doing repetitive work, even taking our skills throughout Moon Base to patch up meteorite holes that leeched precious air into space.
I am beginning to wonder about our medical facilities. We’ve been dealing with many cuts and bruises today, and no one has said anything about medical training or shipping medicines in and out. If we slice ourselves while working, will we just have to use rags and hope the wound doesn’t become infected? Is salt water a good disinfectant?
While we welded resin patches into an isolated corridor, I asked Ihsan if she knew anything about medicines, and if that was something we could produce. She thought about my question for a long moment, and finally said, “Where I come from, we use herbs.”
I thought about this statement for a moment. I couldn’t think of anywhere in our country that doesn’t use doctors and prescription medication, but perhaps there was an alcove somewhere. “Where do you come from?” I asked.
Now, Ihsan has agreed to let me disclose this information, and it will definitely shock most of you out there.
Apparently, Ihsan is actually a foreign bride. I’ve never met one before myself, but I’ve read the same stories that all of you have in the papers, about how they’re taking precious men away from various castes, and trying to infiltrate our country. Ihsan was very clear that she did not intend to infiltrate, and in fact wishes now that she had never left her town.
She grew up along the edge of the tumultuous Chukchi Sea, in village called Volny Linii. Originally, her town was an outpost to monitor the rise of the encroaching ocean, but as the weather warmed, more people moved into Wave Line, to fish and farm far away from failing government powers. Everyone in the town farmed, she told me, and took turns fishing in the winter. One of their main crops was herbs, apparently, used for medicine, and sometimes traded with nearby towns. She only left because a fishing boat from our country landed in her village and promised the large group of unmarried young women a place of honor if they would come along. It wasn’t a place of honor, though – it turns out, it was a place of servitude, of prostitution. She told me that her husband never courted her, and only wanted her to please him and eventually have his children. She used her herbal knowledge to protect herself against pregnancy – something I thought only surgery could do! – and finally sued for divorce after spilling her story to an attorney.
“Herbs are very useful,” she said, and pulled her welding mask back over her face.
During dinner, I made sure that we discussed what herbs would be necessary.
“Best that we grew,” Ihsan said, as everyone leaned over their soup in rapt attention, “were willow tree, for high fever, and tea tree, for infection. Sometimes aloe works for that, too. Coffee senna keeps stomach and bowels regular, and eucalyptus helps sinus troubles. Ashoka keeps swelling down while infection clears, and alfalfa keeps urinary tract healthy. These I recommend most, but long list of herbs will be needed if company sends no other medicines.”
Haven, ever the diligent defender, said, “I’m sure they will send us with antibacterial pills and pain relievers. Those don’t weigh much.”
“But they take up space,” Zariah retorted. “Miners usually just let themselves get sick from injury until they return to Earth.”
Yuda added, “Medicine is expensive. Bainbridge had a cycle of trading refurbished computers at the end of every year for a shipment of acetaminophen and penicillin, because no one in your country takes those drugs anymore. It still took us most of a year’s labor to afford them, even though they’re otherwise rotting in a warehouse somewhere.”
“But if they want us to work, then some part of our labor will go to our medical care,” Haven argued. “That’s how it always is.”
Durada snorted. “The food industry doesn’t care about the people that produce what you eat, they only care that their consumers don’t get sick enough to complain. When I had workers take ill, I was supposed to fire them and get their families off my land. I never did that, but I also had a healthier work force than the other farmers around me.”
“What are you implying?” Though almost a whisper, Haven’s voice seemed to echo in the empty cafeteria.
“I’m saying,” Durada replied, without hesitation, “that if it is not cost-effective, we won’t get medicine. So we should take Ihsan’s advice and figure out a way to get those seeds to make our own.”
Haven tensed, offended by her fellow Bakalov’s borderline delusional outlook. I decided I should interject.
“It’s true that the company is worried about cost,” I said, looking around the table into everyone’s eyes, as I had been trained to do. “If we express this concern to them, however, they might agree that it is more cost-effective for us to grow our own medicinal herbs. Now, drug patents might get in the way, so we may only be able to take herbs that are generic active ingredients now, but if we grow our own, then our CEOs won’t have to budget to send us medicines, or allow their workforce to slowly decline due to illness and injury. Both of those situations cost them money, and sending us with some extra seeds probably costs less money.”
Vivien mumbled “Desk jockey” under her breath. I chose to ignore her.
Haven’s eyes filmed over with deep thoughts, then she slowly began to nod in agreement. “I will talk to them tonight,” she finally said, and stood, leaving her full soup bowl behind.
Durada inclined her head to me. “It’s not a perfect solution, but thank you,” she said.
“Now we just need first aid training,” Zariah griped. “Surgery with a hacksaw and a shaky hand is the last thing I want.”
Samira shut her swollen eyes and almost swooned. For an Ikin, she has a delicate stomach.
We spent the whole day learning to repair carbon fiber with printed patches and makeshift glue. It’s easy enough to pick up, but important enough for our survival that we spent 12 solid hours doing repetitive work, even taking our skills throughout Moon Base to patch up meteorite holes that leeched precious air into space.
I am beginning to wonder about our medical facilities. We’ve been dealing with many cuts and bruises today, and no one has said anything about medical training or shipping medicines in and out. If we slice ourselves while working, will we just have to use rags and hope the wound doesn’t become infected? Is salt water a good disinfectant?
While we welded resin patches into an isolated corridor, I asked Ihsan if she knew anything about medicines, and if that was something we could produce. She thought about my question for a long moment, and finally said, “Where I come from, we use herbs.”
I thought about this statement for a moment. I couldn’t think of anywhere in our country that doesn’t use doctors and prescription medication, but perhaps there was an alcove somewhere. “Where do you come from?” I asked.
Now, Ihsan has agreed to let me disclose this information, and it will definitely shock most of you out there.
Apparently, Ihsan is actually a foreign bride. I’ve never met one before myself, but I’ve read the same stories that all of you have in the papers, about how they’re taking precious men away from various castes, and trying to infiltrate our country. Ihsan was very clear that she did not intend to infiltrate, and in fact wishes now that she had never left her town.
She grew up along the edge of the tumultuous Chukchi Sea, in village called Volny Linii. Originally, her town was an outpost to monitor the rise of the encroaching ocean, but as the weather warmed, more people moved into Wave Line, to fish and farm far away from failing government powers. Everyone in the town farmed, she told me, and took turns fishing in the winter. One of their main crops was herbs, apparently, used for medicine, and sometimes traded with nearby towns. She only left because a fishing boat from our country landed in her village and promised the large group of unmarried young women a place of honor if they would come along. It wasn’t a place of honor, though – it turns out, it was a place of servitude, of prostitution. She told me that her husband never courted her, and only wanted her to please him and eventually have his children. She used her herbal knowledge to protect herself against pregnancy – something I thought only surgery could do! – and finally sued for divorce after spilling her story to an attorney.
“Herbs are very useful,” she said, and pulled her welding mask back over her face.
During dinner, I made sure that we discussed what herbs would be necessary.
“Best that we grew,” Ihsan said, as everyone leaned over their soup in rapt attention, “were willow tree, for high fever, and tea tree, for infection. Sometimes aloe works for that, too. Coffee senna keeps stomach and bowels regular, and eucalyptus helps sinus troubles. Ashoka keeps swelling down while infection clears, and alfalfa keeps urinary tract healthy. These I recommend most, but long list of herbs will be needed if company sends no other medicines.”
Haven, ever the diligent defender, said, “I’m sure they will send us with antibacterial pills and pain relievers. Those don’t weigh much.”
“But they take up space,” Zariah retorted. “Miners usually just let themselves get sick from injury until they return to Earth.”
Yuda added, “Medicine is expensive. Bainbridge had a cycle of trading refurbished computers at the end of every year for a shipment of acetaminophen and penicillin, because no one in your country takes those drugs anymore. It still took us most of a year’s labor to afford them, even though they’re otherwise rotting in a warehouse somewhere.”
“But if they want us to work, then some part of our labor will go to our medical care,” Haven argued. “That’s how it always is.”
Durada snorted. “The food industry doesn’t care about the people that produce what you eat, they only care that their consumers don’t get sick enough to complain. When I had workers take ill, I was supposed to fire them and get their families off my land. I never did that, but I also had a healthier work force than the other farmers around me.”
“What are you implying?” Though almost a whisper, Haven’s voice seemed to echo in the empty cafeteria.
“I’m saying,” Durada replied, without hesitation, “that if it is not cost-effective, we won’t get medicine. So we should take Ihsan’s advice and figure out a way to get those seeds to make our own.”
Haven tensed, offended by her fellow Bakalov’s borderline delusional outlook. I decided I should interject.
“It’s true that the company is worried about cost,” I said, looking around the table into everyone’s eyes, as I had been trained to do. “If we express this concern to them, however, they might agree that it is more cost-effective for us to grow our own medicinal herbs. Now, drug patents might get in the way, so we may only be able to take herbs that are generic active ingredients now, but if we grow our own, then our CEOs won’t have to budget to send us medicines, or allow their workforce to slowly decline due to illness and injury. Both of those situations cost them money, and sending us with some extra seeds probably costs less money.”
Vivien mumbled “Desk jockey” under her breath. I chose to ignore her.
Haven’s eyes filmed over with deep thoughts, then she slowly began to nod in agreement. “I will talk to them tonight,” she finally said, and stood, leaving her full soup bowl behind.
Durada inclined her head to me. “It’s not a perfect solution, but thank you,” she said.
“Now we just need first aid training,” Zariah griped. “Surgery with a hacksaw and a shaky hand is the last thing I want.”
Samira shut her swollen eyes and almost swooned. For an Ikin, she has a delicate stomach.
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