Episode 73
Travelling Light E073S02 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Seventy Three.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
4ᵗʰ Enu 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
Oh, my friends. How glad I am to be writing to you all once more! Not only for your own sakes – though of course I am always grateful for the opportunity these missives present to reaffirm and strengthen the bond between us.
But right now, I am simply relieved beyond words to be communicating with anybody who is not a member of the Guillemot crew!
I last wrote to you from the port city of Masam, on Udna – our final stop before coming to the Tilfar system. Well, we have reached Tilfar at last, after a gruelling three weeks in the black.
Three weeks! Three weeks of empty space and radio static; of recycled air and artificial light; of close quarters and cramped corridors and nothing to do and nothing to see except what was already aboard when we departed.
I have never in my life experienced boredom like this. Like a-a physical ache, like if I did not find something with which to occupy my mind I might actually keel over and die, just to have something to do! [laughs]
The first week was challenging. I rattled around the ship finding what little maintenance work I could get on with. I read, I knitted, I cooked, I had sex. It was fine. We managed.
In the second week, tempers began to fray.
Oyan complained over lunch one day about wishing we’d stocked up on more fresh fruit, and Tarlin took this for an attack upon her cooking skills. She refused to cook dinner, suggesting Oyan whip up a fruit salad if they were hungry.
Meanwhile Resimus snapped at Masha for snacking in the crew lounge, claiming that the sound of her chewing had distracted them from their needle felting. Masha responded with perfect dignity and grace… by locking herself in the cockpit and refusing to come out until dinner.
I mentioned in my last missive how much I prefer being friends with Scarry to arguing with him. Unfortunately, those habits from our earlier time together reared their heads once more during our sojourn in the black.
By the start of the third week, we were sniping at each other every time we spoke, at one point devolving into a real, blazing row about, of all things, the correct way to hold a reticulating pin vice. It was a very dissatisfying situation!
I suppose I had imagined that Scarry and I would, if anything, be better placed than our crew-mates to navigate the stresses and strains of our long confinement. We would have each other, after all, for emotional and physical catharsis.
The physical aspect proved true enough. But Scarry is… Uh… Not a very emotionally available person. And I find myself following his example. It is just so much easier to bicker, or flirt, than it is to say… [sighs] Anything else.
I think the others felt the same. None of us actually wanted to be arguing.
Oyan and Resimus are both from backgrounds that appreciate a good row. Ordinarily, there is nothing the pair of them enjoy more than digging into some inconsequential topic and going at it like peragi hounds over scraps.
Even my previous spats with Scarry, while irritating, had a pleasingly tense, almost flirtatious, undertone at times.
Nobody was enjoying themselves during these arguments. I do not think anyone even really cared about anything they were fighting about.
It was as if all the usual padding between us had been eroded. All the patience and good will – ordinarily to be found in abundance between people who are, in fact, deeply fond of each other! – all of it, worn out, til we were left scraping against one another like bones in a joint with no cartilage. Again, it was just easier to fight than not.
For most of the third week, my crew-mates disappeared: Oyan to the comms deck; Masha to the cockpit; Tarlin, the galley; Scarry, the engine room; and Resimus down to the depths of the cargo bays.
I stayed in my cabin for the most part, and counted down first the days, then the hours and minutes, to our arrival in the Tilfar system. We arrived, thank the stars, in the early hours of this morning.
Due to some very unusual customs in this region of space, we have been obliged to stop at Albothi Station, an enormous structure that monitors traffic in and out of the system. I say “monitors” – “controls” is closer to the mark. I have never seen anything of the sort.
Planets often have varying degrees of security around visiting ships. In the Ionad System, for example, all ships landing on Clonarty are required to go through the principle port, while on Kerrin, this is only required for ships who have not yet landed anywhere else in Ionad after arriving from outside the system.
In Tilfar, any ship arriving in the entire system must first dock with Albothi Station and undergo a battery of checks to the ship’s systems, the background and standing of its crew and passengers, its cargo and all other contents, and a full ship decontamination before it is permitted to go any further.
“You can pay to jump the queue,” Masha explained as we all disembarked, unable and unwilling to stay aboard during this process. “Or if you’ve got enough money, you can pay to skip some of the checks entirely.”
“Surely that undermines the whole point of the process?”
“The point of the process is to get you to pay them,” Scarry put in from where he was sealing up the Gilly’s entry hatch.
“Which Cap never does, because he’s a skinflint.”
“Skinflint, is it?” he shot back, coming down the gangplank. “You’ll not be wanting your bonus then?”
I admit, my ears pricked up at that. “We are getting a bonus?”
Scarry ignored me. He clapped his hands, getting the crew’s attention. “Alright, you lot. We’ve got at least a full day cycle until they’ll let us back aboard. Those of you who’ve been out this way before will know, Albothi is expensive.
“Accordingly, you have all had a bonus added to your regular pay and for this stop only, you have permission to charge any food or accommodation to the ship’s account.
“Finally, I don’t give a lick of the saints’ arse what you do with your time, but if I see hide or hair of any one of you before tomorrow morning, I will fire you. Leave me alone, leave each other alone, and no gambling. Now get gone!”
The rest of the crew needed no further encouragement. They left, each pointedly going in a different direction. Scarry raised an eyebrow at me.
“You are not exempt from being fired, you know.”
“I know. Why no gambling?”
“It’s a bad habit. Do you need me to start counting down?”
“Oh, trust me, I have no desire to spend another moment with you, either.”
“So go!”
“Alright then!”
He stepped forwards, crowding into my personal space as he did so many times when we were arguing… and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“Idiot.”
Then he spun me round, and set me on my way with a firm push to my rear.
Albothi Station is… Well. I mean. [sighs] It is horrible! The lights are all on full all the time, halting all sense of the passage of time. I found I was very aware while I was walking around that I was in view.
It was not the paranoia of believing oneself to be watched, nor the comforting anonymity of a crowd. This was a feeling of being observable. As if somebody nearby had a camera and you never knew when it might be pointed directly at you.
I remember writing about Cahu Station on my first visit there: the heat and grime; the smell of strained recycling systems; the lack of children or old people or anyone who was not there for work.
Albothi is pristine. No dust gathers in the corners of the corridors, no lights flicker above. There are no dark corners, no rough edges. The dingiest things I have seen are other visitors, looking dazed and unwell under the unflinching lights.
Even the air is pristine. It tastes almost fresh, and there is some trick in the acoustics of the public spaces to mean that sound does not travel as it should. There is no sound of engines or conversation or music or laughter.
There are advertisements, though. Everywhere. Tasteful, unobtrusive and ubiquitous advertisements for things I barely knew existed: luxury personal transportation, heirloom timepieces, lifestyle experiences I am obviously too poor to even comprehend. What even is auric cryostim?
The whole experience was so hostile to ordinary life, I seriously considered finding a hotel and staying in my room until it was time to leave. But the thought of voluntarily cooping myself up again after three weeks with nothing but the walls of the Guillemot to look at made me want to scream.
I needed something to do. Somewhere to go with purpose and people and distraction. I pulled up the local directory and, after paying a small fee for access – a thing I have never encountered before in any other place I have visited – I began to search for something to pass the time.
[The click of a data stick being inserted into a drive that whirs as it reads]
The Traveller
Entry EN85104-1. Concerning the transformational treatments available for salon patients on Albothi Station.
Key words: Albothi Station; health and well-being; identity; interview.
Notes:
As I wandered through the preternaturally clean corridors of Albothi Station, I happened upon a salon. A sign above the door cheerfully declared it to be ‘Yanna’s Fresh Starts’, with little indication of what that actually entailed.
I was on the look-out for something to pass the time, and so I let my curiosity take the lead and took a peek inside.
I stepped into a waiting room with a pair of double doors at one end and a number of blocky sofas, as elegant as anything else I had seen on Albothi, if not particularly comfortable-looking. The space was deserted, save for one person perched on the edge of a sofa.
He looked young, likely no more than an adolescent, and belonged to one of the majority species in the Tilfar system. The, uh, same species as Óli, actually. Perhaps that is what moved me to approach him. Or perhaps its was just that he looked so utterly forlorn.
I greeted him and he looked up, seemingly not having noticed my entrance. I asked to sit beside him and he allowed it, albeit warily.
“What is this place?” I asked when we had swapped introductions.
The boy – Sarla – blinked. “Can’t you read?” [laughing] He really did remind me of Óli. Before I could reply, he quickly added, “I-I’m sorry, that was rude. But, uh, it does sort of say what this place is on the door.
“You tell them your budget and then when they’re ready for you, you go through there-” he gestured to double doors at the end of the room, “-and then… [sighs] you get to start over.”
“Start over? In what way? You mean, get a make-over?”
Sarla pulled a face. “No. No, it is much more than that. I mean, you’re still you, obviously. But…”
He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You can do a new start at all different levels. You can have just a superficial make-over if you want. New hairstyle, new jewellery and make-up, all that stuff. You can even get new clothes – a whole new wardrobe! But you could do that anywhere.
“What they offer here… Well. You could get practically an entirely new life.
“They don't just hand it to you,” he went on, no doubt seeing my confusion at his words. “You have to work towards it just like anyone else. But they make it easier. They explain how you can change careers, find new lodgings, get a new name, that sort of thing.
“They can put things into motion, too. Do all your paperwork, book you tutors or advisors or whatever. You still have to put the work in. They can’t get a qualification for you. But they can put you on the right path to do it yourself.”
I took a moment to digest this. I could not help wondering how prevalent these types of establishments were in the system. Whether Óli ever wished they had access to one as they were starting afresh on Kerrin.
But this was not about Óli. It was about Sarla. “Can I ask what brings you here?”
Sarla had brightened up a little during his explanation. At this, he deflated. “I don’t even know where to start. I’m quite a prickly person. I can be rude, standoffish, quick to argue.
“I have a… friend? Maybe. I don’t know what to call him. He’s quite similar. We met through mutual friends and began fairly civilly. And then we started arguing.
“It flowed so naturally. Every point was rebuked, every barb was countered. Everything I could throw at him was perfectly matched and vice versa.
“I began leaving encounters with him with a strange sense of… exhilaration? Like I was looking forward to our next verbal sparring match. Like… Like I was looking forward to seeing him again. But that was ridiculous. I mean, we didn’t even get on!
“Things started happening then. I mentioned offhandedly, once, that I was fond of idbita – i-it’s a sweet, it’s nothing special. But he remembered and he brought me a pack of them one day. He said that there had been a sale on, and don’t make a big deal of it because it wouldn’t be happening again!
“But then it did. Or, not exactly the same. But he would remember details about me and act on them. Read books I mentioned and bring me things that reminded him of me. I found myself doing the same for him.
“And slowly, strangely, all our hurled insults became dotted with genuine compliments. And then… Well. One day – this morning, actually – ‘I hate you’ became… It became ‘I lo…’”
Sarla’s voice cracked and he pressed his lips together, holding back tears.. I held my tongue. But oh, my heart went out to him! After a moment to gather himself, he cleared his throat and continued.
“Aegir just stared at me. And I ran. I didn’t stop to think, I just got to my feet and bolted. I had made a mistake. I misunderstood and took a risk- [sighs] And it all went wrong!
“I came here because… because I wanted a fresh start, like it says on the sign! But I don’t even know where to begin!”
He raised his eyes, shining with tears – and happened to look out of the salon window as he did. “Oh, stars! Uh. Th-thank you for listening to me. Um. I need to go. Right now!”
Before I could even say ‘goodbye’, he had bolted out of the door, walking straight into the path of another person around his age.
I couldn’t hear what was said but they seemed to have a heated exchange. There was a lot of emphatic gesturing. I even saw Sarla wiping tears from his face. And then, as fiercely as they had just been arguing, the two embraced.
I looked away to give them some privacy. A few minutes later, I heard the knock of knuckles against the window. Sarla grinned at me, giving me a familiar Tilfarian gesture of ‘all good here’. And the two wandered off, hand in hand.
I was watching them go, feeling very fond, when the doors at the other end of the room swung open and a clinician in a clean, bright uniform strode in, hooves clicking neatly on the waiting room floor.
“Finally, he left! I was just coming to remind him we are, in fact, a place of business and not a youth club! [laughs] Are you here for a treatment?”
“Me? No. I was just being nosey.”
Their face darkened. “Well go and be nosey somewhere! Unless, uh… Are you sure you don’t want us to do something about those clothes?”
[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 August Thevoldsoy. You can see Matt's illustration for the entry on our social media accounts.
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[Fade to silence.]
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