Another major tube on our air filtration system has been
down for days, and the metallic stench grated on me for so long that I agreed
to climb into the tube with Yuda, despite gut-wrenching misgivings about
spending time with her.
We did not speak for several minutes while we strapped our gear onto our bodies and climbed into the tube. Finally, however, she turned her head slightly over her shoulder as we crawled along and asked, “How is your assigned partner working out?”
She asked the question with such an air of calmness that I almost thought she was chatting about the weather. But for me, it is a loaded question – I still don’t know what I think about the Bakalov that now lives in my room. He is gruff, the only work he does with his hands is push-ups in military fashion, he takes up space that had been solely mine. But he is gentle – he notices when I have an onset of a headache, after being near me for only a week so far, and he sleeps on the floor rather than in my bed. And he did that all on his own, without me asking him to not intrude into my tiny bunk.
I told this to Yuda, who smiled. Without my prompting, she began discussing her own partner, Guo. “His name is unusual, but he is an Araboa, all right. He loves circuitry, and we spent the whole night when he first moved in discussing computers. He has strong opinions about how to handle the system here, which Zariah does not like. I didn’t like it at first, either, but I think he might be right.”
“Have you done anything other than talk yet?” I asked.
Yuda smiled broader. “A little,” she said. “There is nothing like a sex-starved Araboa man in bed, let me tell you. I almost wish you had been paired with one of us.”
I grimaced. I didn’t mean for Yuda to see it, but she did. “What? You, so adamant that we are all ‘Rabban,’ all one caste, you are disgusted?” She spat at me.
I dodged the shot, but couldn’t look her in the eye. I didn’t mean to grimace, but I cannot imagine being with an Araboa man. I have committed some of the worst crimes against our country, and I cannot imagine breaking marriage traditions within castes. I can only hope that I begin to feel differently. I think I might be already, having experienced the kindness even an old soldier from a work-worn caste can give.
We finally emerged at the end of the tube, into the larger section where the algae were supposed to grow. I remember distinctly hanging bags overfull with the slimy green organisms against the walls of such spots, to produce oxygen for the colony. Now, in this section, a flood of brownish-green algae covered the floors, an oily scum shimmering purples and blues on the surface of their rancid pool. The bags were not punctured, but obviously sliced open, shreds dangling from where they had been mounted on the wall.
“This looks intentional,” I said to Yuda, redundant as the statement was. She nodded.
“I don’t like the way this colony is being managed,” she said, “but I would never disrupt the air supply just to make a point.”
“Who would do this?”
Yuda shrugged. “I suspect Haven,” she said, “or one of the new men. I am not sure who else would want to do such a thing. No one here has a death wish.”
“I wonder if this person has also been intentionally destroying parts of the garden,” I suggested. It seemed to make sense – acts of sabotage, of terrorism. But for what? We were all on edge anyway, why make it worse, trapped under frigid water on an alien moon on the wrong side of the asteroid belt?
Yuda agreed with me. Again, however, I have struggled with how to bring this up to Breathe Easy. After our close brush with blasphemy in merely discussing the union idea, I dread their reaction to the news that someone is so ungrateful for shelter and food that they are working to actively destroy it. Surely then our lives will be worth less than nothing. It is one thing to reject society in secret, and another thing to entirely shun the gifts given by social contract.
But I am writing about it anyway, because somehow, Breathe Easy must know. I can only hope that the men, in all their talking, find a way to help us manage ourselves.
We did not speak for several minutes while we strapped our gear onto our bodies and climbed into the tube. Finally, however, she turned her head slightly over her shoulder as we crawled along and asked, “How is your assigned partner working out?”
She asked the question with such an air of calmness that I almost thought she was chatting about the weather. But for me, it is a loaded question – I still don’t know what I think about the Bakalov that now lives in my room. He is gruff, the only work he does with his hands is push-ups in military fashion, he takes up space that had been solely mine. But he is gentle – he notices when I have an onset of a headache, after being near me for only a week so far, and he sleeps on the floor rather than in my bed. And he did that all on his own, without me asking him to not intrude into my tiny bunk.
I told this to Yuda, who smiled. Without my prompting, she began discussing her own partner, Guo. “His name is unusual, but he is an Araboa, all right. He loves circuitry, and we spent the whole night when he first moved in discussing computers. He has strong opinions about how to handle the system here, which Zariah does not like. I didn’t like it at first, either, but I think he might be right.”
“Have you done anything other than talk yet?” I asked.
Yuda smiled broader. “A little,” she said. “There is nothing like a sex-starved Araboa man in bed, let me tell you. I almost wish you had been paired with one of us.”
I grimaced. I didn’t mean for Yuda to see it, but she did. “What? You, so adamant that we are all ‘Rabban,’ all one caste, you are disgusted?” She spat at me.
I dodged the shot, but couldn’t look her in the eye. I didn’t mean to grimace, but I cannot imagine being with an Araboa man. I have committed some of the worst crimes against our country, and I cannot imagine breaking marriage traditions within castes. I can only hope that I begin to feel differently. I think I might be already, having experienced the kindness even an old soldier from a work-worn caste can give.
We finally emerged at the end of the tube, into the larger section where the algae were supposed to grow. I remember distinctly hanging bags overfull with the slimy green organisms against the walls of such spots, to produce oxygen for the colony. Now, in this section, a flood of brownish-green algae covered the floors, an oily scum shimmering purples and blues on the surface of their rancid pool. The bags were not punctured, but obviously sliced open, shreds dangling from where they had been mounted on the wall.
“This looks intentional,” I said to Yuda, redundant as the statement was. She nodded.
“I don’t like the way this colony is being managed,” she said, “but I would never disrupt the air supply just to make a point.”
“Who would do this?”
Yuda shrugged. “I suspect Haven,” she said, “or one of the new men. I am not sure who else would want to do such a thing. No one here has a death wish.”
“I wonder if this person has also been intentionally destroying parts of the garden,” I suggested. It seemed to make sense – acts of sabotage, of terrorism. But for what? We were all on edge anyway, why make it worse, trapped under frigid water on an alien moon on the wrong side of the asteroid belt?
Yuda agreed with me. Again, however, I have struggled with how to bring this up to Breathe Easy. After our close brush with blasphemy in merely discussing the union idea, I dread their reaction to the news that someone is so ungrateful for shelter and food that they are working to actively destroy it. Surely then our lives will be worth less than nothing. It is one thing to reject society in secret, and another thing to entirely shun the gifts given by social contract.
But I am writing about it anyway, because somehow, Breathe Easy must know. I can only hope that the men, in all their talking, find a way to help us manage ourselves.
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