Episode 72
Travelling Light E072S02 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here. We’re coming up on the final 8-week stretch of Season 2 but first, Matthew and I need a little break. We’ll be taking two weeks off as usual and we’ll be back with Episode 73 on February 27th. Feel free to chat to us on social media over the break, and we’ll see you soon!
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Seventy Two.
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The Traveller
Entry SH85114-1. The philosophy of ship repair among the Aquipé people.
Key words: Aquipé; arts and crafts; diaspora; ethnography; material culture; philosophy and religion; travel and transport.
Notes:
It was early evening by the ship’s clock when the Guillemot’s approach to Udna began. We would not land on the planet for another few hours and I had planned to spend the intervening period catching up on my laundry.
I was just taking my clothes out of the dryer when the tannoy hissed. I assumed it would be Masha calling for Scarry for some bit of ship’s business to do with our arrival. Instead, it was my name she called.
I went up to the cockpit with all due haste, mind racing, trying to guess what could possibly be happening that she needed my help in particular. I stumbled through the door, not quite out of breath but near it.
“Is everything alright?”
Masha, reclining with her feet up on the control console, looked baffled. “Everything’s grand. Why are you holding a sock?”
“I thought it was urgent!”
“Oh.” She grimaced. “Oops. No, I-I just saw something you might like.”
She span the co-pilot chair round for me and nodded out of the front window. I shoved my sock in my pocket and sat, trying to see what she was indicating.
There was a good amount of traffic about: passenger shuttles and cruisers hanging in the stillness alongside merchant haulers and other vessels waiting to dock at Masam Port. And of course, all the buoys and signal relays and all the other bits and pieces that keep heavily trafficked regions safe and organised.
But Masha was not pointing at any of that. She was indicating a bright smudge to the left of the window’s view.
“It’s a ship,” she said, barely alleviating my confusion.
“You brought me up here to see a ship?”
“You’re a sarky bugger, aren’t you? I’ll not bother next time.”
She tapped on the console, selecting the correct portion of the view and magnifying it. I have always enjoyed the zoom function on the Guillemot’s viewports. They are so jerky and sudden, they make whatever they are zooming in look like a character in one of the more melodramatic entertainments.
Nor am I alone in this belief. Masha hummed a line of melody from the theme tune of Garden of Passions as the camera adjusted. We have been watching episodes together whenever we can find them on the local directory. It is quite good, though it would be better if we could get the episodes in the right order.
It is always hard to judge scale in the contextless void of the black. At first, I thought the ship was about the size of the Tola, maybe a little larger, decorated with a strange, spotty texture. Then my jaw dropped.
What I had taken for texture was in fact windows. Thousands and thousands of windows. The ship I was looking at was huge – staggeringly huge, bigger than any vessel I have seen before, bigger than some stations!
“In’t she gorgeous?” Masha breathed. “Makes the Gilly look like a tarakaj bug. It’s one of the Aquipé fleet. You never heard of them?”
“No. No, the only generation ship I have seen belonged to a cult. The, uh, Silkspinner?”
“Never heard of ‘em. No, this is the MFB Rêva. It’s part of the Aquipé diaspora. They came from a planet originally. It blew up or the atmosphere collapsed or something. Anyway, they had to get out of there sharpish.
“They built these ships to evacuate and set off in different directions, looking for a new home. But they had no idea how long it might take.
“They built their ships assuming they were going to have to live aboard for… I mean, potentially forever. They’re totally self-sustaining. The engineering’s mental. [laughs] But that’s not what I wanted to show you. Hang on.”
She tapped the control console again, causing another dramatic zoom. The Rêva’s hull filled the viewport, close enough now to see the vents and pipework in closer detail. I saw immediately what Masha was referring to.
The hull of the Guillemot is a world away from the pristine paint and crisp lines of the Tola. She is a working boat, and an old one at that, with decades of travel under her belt even before Scarry bought her a quarter of century ago.
She has been patched and repaired countless times. And of course, she bears the marks of entering and exiting atmosphere over a hundred times a year and encountering all manner of space debris on her travels.
So please understand what I mean when I say the Guillemot looks immaculate compared to the Rêva. Every inch of the other ship’s surface was covered in overlapping scars of repair work making a patchwork of shapes and colours.
And I mean ‘colours’. Wherever a part had been replaced or a breach sealed, the joins were finished not with the ordinary dull black or grey of welded metal, but in shining, wriggling lines that caught the light in red and green and blue and gold.
Up close, the surface of the Rêva was a bright tapestry of woven colours, creating a rainbow web that shimmered and twinkled in the starlight.
“I had a girlfriend who grew up on a Aquipé ship,” Masha said, panning the camera over the Rêva’s hull. “She told me about it. About the repair works.
“Obviously the fleet did eventually find places they could land. Planets they could live on. But by then, they’d been aboard so long, it just felt wrong to leave. Some people did but most people didn’t want to. The ships were their home.”
“Like you and the Guillemot.”
[laughs] “I’ve been on t’Gilly 15 years. Not exactly a lifetime. But, yeah. Bit like.
“It’s part of their culture now. The ship’s part of their identity. Whenever something needs patched up or whatever, they use these coloured compounds – I don’t remember what, Sampine told me but it was long time ago!
“The idea is that you’re honouring what the ship has become, not trying to preserve it as what it was back when, you know? It’s about… [sighs] I don’t know. Celebrating the journey, something like that.
“She said the repair techs are… Not exactly priests, but it’s a vocation, you know? Something you’re called to, in service to the rest of the community.
“And repairing the hull is an act of devotion. You’re repaying the ship for looking after you. There’s a whole technique to it. They have to put on special exo-suits and arrange their tools in the proper way.
“Sampine said there’s even rules about how much you can do in one go. You’re supposed to concentrate on it, like a-a prayer almost. If you do too much at once, you’re not paying attention properly.”
The idea of pouring so much care into one’s home, well beyond the point of efficiency or mere maintenance, quite overwhelmed me. I had a vivid sense of all the hours of my life spent sweeping the temple forecourt in Emerraine, polishing my grandmother’s tea service, retouching the paint on the temple murals.
I wish I could go back to my younger self and tell them about the Aquipé – about the privilege of caring for something so closely. Not that I would listen to myself. Just another stuffy adult trying to turn a chore into a lesson.
“Thank you, Masha. I am really glad to have seen this! ”
Masha shrugged, though I could tell she was pleased. “Like I said. Didn’t want you to miss it. Now get back to your socks, eh? We’ll be landing in a bit.”
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
14th Shadoch 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
I am astonished to realise, this letter marks exactly one year since I first wrote to you all as a traveller of the faith. I had to check my notes to be sure, but there it was – this date 371 days ago, marked beside that first letter from Port Taroth.
Of course, my journey technically began a few days earlier, when I left Emerraine. My work for the archives is the reason I set out on this path, however. It feels fitting I should take the date of my first entry as my anniversary.
The journey has not always been easy. I have felt horribly alone at times, sick with shame, scourged with blazing anger. But I have found so much joy out here; so much love and kindness, from the temporary companionship of strangers to the deep-rooted affection of new friends.
I was never sure how long I might be away. I suppose if I thought anything about it, I might have assumed I would be on my way home by now. Or perhaps I would have thought I might stay in Clanagh more permanently. I always knew I might not return.
I do not mean any melodrama! I just mean, the galaxy is vast. There was every chance I might find myself somewhere I wished to stay. Someone I wished to stay with…
[sighing] Instead, we are in Patya system, very nearly as far from Serran as one can get. And I have a further to go yet. We have a stretch of travel in the black ahead of us – some three weeks, Light have mercy. But then we shall arrive in the Tilfar system at last, for the final stage of our journey to Drunvhitur.
Before we set off into the black, we are spending a few days in Masam on the planet Udna. With the crew on holiday, Tarlin is not obliged to cook. So last night, I went looking for Scarry, and found him in the crew lounge… whittling.
“That is such an old man hobby,” I said as I took a seat beside him.
Scarry did not so much as look up. “I am an old man.”
“You are not. Are you? Wait, how old are you?”
“208.”
“Really?!”
[laughing] “No, not really! I’m 52, you eejit.”
I slumped back in my chair. “Oh. How disappointing. Do want to go for dinner?”
“Aye, why not.” Scarry swept the wood shavings off his lap and started to tidy up. “Oyan, Masha and Resimus are away but I could see if Tarlin’s free?”
“I was, uh, hoping it could be just us, actually.”
He paused in his work and raised an eyebrow. “The two of us? Alone, away from the ship, with all our clothes on?! Unprecedented.”
He was joking, but not entirely. We actually have not spent much off-duty time with each other outside one or other of our cabins. Mostly his – the bed is bigger.
“My treat,” I said. “I want to thank you, for sitting with me after I got shot.”
“After you shot yourself,” he corrected, eyes glittering.
“If you want to be pedantic.”
“Is it still your treat, technically, if I pay your wages?”
“Technically, Masha pays my wages,” I reminded him. “Now get a move on. I want to see some of the city before it gets dark.”
We made our way to the city centre, taking our time through the broad, paved streets in the last of the light. The mood was genial, the public squares filling up with people meeting family and friends at the end of their work shifts.
We found our way to a restaurant serving Arbid cuisine, traditional to one of the major ethnic groups in the region. I knew nothing about it, but Scarry has been to Udna a number of times and helped me navigate the menu.
“You did not say it was so spicy!” I said, reaching for my beer to wash down a delicious but highly aggressive dumpling.
“I did not think you were such a wuss,” Scarry said, helping himself to two more and dunking them liberally in the blazingly hot sauce that accompanied them. “Try the cabbage rolls – they’re much milder.”
It was a warm, gold-touched evening, and we were sitting outside the restaurant so we could watch the crowds in the adjacent square as we ate. My spice tolerance – which nobody could reasonably call lacking – may not hold a candle to his apparently fire-proof taste buds, but the food was excellent.
My mouth was pleasantly numb by the time we finished, and I had put away rather more than I had meant to of the sharp, citrussy beer we were drinking. Perhaps that is why I took the conversation in the direction I did.
“I wanted to say thank you,” I began.
Scarry was watching people milling about in the square, his posture all contentment. “Ah, it’s nothing. I wasn’t going to leave you on your own like that.”
“No, I- Well, I meant for the letter from Óli. For collecting it for me. It meant a lot.”
His head moved slightly, a ghost of tension coming into his neck before he visibly, consciously relaxed. “You’re welcome.”
When he said nothing more, I went on. “I wrote back this morning. I wanted to make sure I answered them before we left for Tilfar.”
Scarry’s eyes slid to mine. “You are being circumspect, darling. It does not suit you.”
Light, but he irritates me sometimes. “I had been wondering what to tell Óli about us. Whether to tell Óli. Whether you had any thoughts upon the matter,” I added, when he turned his attention pointedly back to the square.
“I have no thoughts about what you say in your personal correspondence.”
“Would you like to know?”
“If you were sleeping with me? Aye, I’d appreciate a heads up.”
“Scarry-!” I began, but he spread his hands in a gesture of frustration.
“You have already sent it. Why are you asking me? Better yet, what are you asking me? You want my approval?”
“No. I did not say anything in the end. I thought it would be better to talk in person. But it does raise a question, does it not? What would I have said, if I had said something?”
Annoyance flashed over Scarry’s face. “You’re asking me to guess?”
“I am asking you to tell me. Tell me how you would describe this. How you would answer the question of- [sighs] Of what we are. What we are doing.”
“I thought we were having dinner!”
I glared at him, but he only took a pull on his beer, eyes fixed on the view, giving me the benefit of his handsome, craggy profile.
“I would take refuge in my enigmatic reputation,” he declared, “and remain manfully silent.”
Clearly, I was not the only one who had had more to drink than I ought. “Enigmatic, my hole.”
[laughing] “Oh? You know me so well?”
“Well enough.”
A dangerous glint came into his eyes. “Go on then, little feist. You tell me what I’m thinking.”
I was in no mood for games. I leant both elbows on the table, leaning forwards to address him clearly.
“You are feeling smug about being witty while still avoiding the question. You think you have distracted me by getting me angry, and are hoping I have not noticed how uncomfortable you are.
“And you are hoping I do not bring this up again, either because you do not know the answer and that worries you, or because you do know it and are not ready yet to say it out loud.
“You are many things, Captain Scarry, but an enigma is not one of them.”
His smile froze, its edges souring as I spoke. I turned away, pretending interest in a girl wobbling past on roller-skates. For a long time, neither of us spoke. I could not so much as look at him, my face hot with emotion.
Then, I felt the brush of Scarry’s knuckles against the back of my hand. His expression was gentle, full of contrition.
“Come. Let us be friends again. Please? Whatever else we may be, we can still be that, can’t we?”
I softened, and accepted the peace offering for what it was. The rest of the night was lovely. We wandered through the city centre, listening to the buskers and talking about books and music and everything except anything that mattered.
[sighing] Friends, then, at least. And that is better than we were before, I will admit. I prefer it to being at each other’s throats. If nothing else, the evening confirmed to me that I was right not to say anything to Óli. It is too soon and far too messy.
I will not be able to write while we are in the black. When you hear from me again, we will be in the Tilfar system at last. Perhaps things will have got less messy by then. I can only pray.
I will pray for all of you too, of course. May the Light illuminate your path. At least some of us should have a clear way forwards, even if I cannot. I love you all.
[Title music: rhythmic instrumental folk. It plays throughout the closing credits.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light was created by H.R. Owen and Matt McDyre, and is a Monstrous Productions podcast. This episode was written and performed by H.R. Owen.
This week’s entry to the archives was based on an idea by Matthew Walker. You can see Matt's illustration for the entry on our social media accounts.
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