An Interlude:
My name is Callisto Moreau. I am 24 years old. I am a logistics manager for my community aboard the cargo ship Venerable. I am Successful.
I set down my tea - too hot for my tastes, I'll need to see about that - and redirect my attention to the man on the other end of the phone. He's evading, I can tell. Spinning some tale about bank transfers and incurred fees and sanctions which threatens to rob me of my focus if I'm not careful. Thankfully, I am careful. I'm able to keep my cool, and hold steady on my deadline. After all, should the payment not come through in time, there are many buyers in Brazil for such a large shipment of copper. I'm not above going back on a contract should the other not keep their end of a bargain - this, many know well.
I hang up the phone. The sun is getting low in the sky, and I've already handled my share of work. All that yet remains is to check the cargo and head to dinner with the folks. Daylight is fading, and as always, there is precious little time to waste. I secure the loose objects on my desk (after all, despite calm seas now, that can always change in but a moment and I would really hate to have my nice teacup damaged) and leave my office en route for the lower bays. I never particularly enjoy heading down that way. I used to quite often in days gone by, but now the endless cramped corridors carry only memories and dust - both of which I have neither the time nor the energy to handle. And yet- it must be done, so best to get it done quick.
The metal staircase rings out as I descend to the lowest levels of the vessel. Beneath my office, in the stern, lies the engine room. From all around me, the whining of the dual engines echoes through the engineering bay. The engines are an ever-present factor of life aboard such a vessel, their distinctive drone echoing throughout the massive watercraft. I don't know the first thing about them, but Ophélie used to work on them in her spare time. I distinctly remember her telling me the horsepower of such constructs - over 130,000, apparently, but such technological details are lost on me. What I do know is that such engines consume 2,800 liters of fuel oil an hour. Many a night I've spent negotiating fuel prices from stingy dealers. After the advent of fusion power, fuel oil is a rarely consumed commodity, which means I can squeeze fuel dealers for heavy oil at cents on the dollar, so to speak. In reality, nobody has used the dollar in over a century, after the American empire fell.
These engines actually predate that collapse. Built in Germany in 2152, these were one of the last internal combustion ship propulsion drives built before the wide adoption of fusion reactor driveshafts. They've been running with comparatively little maintenance for over 150 years now. The amount of time this colony has been afloat amazes me. For a cultural exclave, an experiment like ours, to last for so long? Other cultural exclaves do exist, but ours is more than likely the most successful. We're not fully immune to the ravages of time, though. The hull itself requires plenty of expensive maintenance, though, and we're constantly in danger of leaks in the lower decks. At least I never have to come down here.
I exit the stairwell onto a catwalk above the engineering bay. Two engineers flit about the hulks of the massive engines - the two Boucher boys, if my eyes do not decieve me. One has to wonder whether they have ever seen sunlight at this rate, or if their existence is best spent down here, among the exhaust fumes and engine lubricant. One of them calls out to me. We rarely see each other, and I assume my presence in these quarters must be a novelty. I return the hail, and the engineer returns to his work.
Passing through the main engineering bay to the maintenance corridors, the grand open expanse of the engine room tightens quickly into claustrophobic corridors. Down here, the rocking of the ship is more intensely felt: despite my graceful and purposeful movements, I can still feel my body sway from left to right as I traverse the route to the cargo bay. In my inexperience below deck, I take a wrong turn, taking me through the side workshops. It's been years since I've been here. It's all familiar, but through a clouded haze. I always avoided this place, even though Ophélie spent practically all her time down here. Above deck was my home. Down here, breathing recycled air and engine soot? Even now, I can hardly stomach it. But she did; she took to it like a duck to water. It's funny how that pans out.
It might as well be a shortcut, passing through the workstations. The first cavernous room I pass through is the machine shop. I stay within the tape markings on the floor, certain to avoid danger, even though none of the machines are on and the lights are dimmed. I see lathes, five-axis CNC machines, drill presses, and many more to which I could not give a name ordered haphazardly thoughout the shop floor. Metal stock lines the walls. All purchased with the ship's limited funds. It hurts me to see such expenditures go unused, but I suppose it does mean I don't have to buy more. Another room passes by. This one is the water purification center. Such tasks are handled automatically, and the machinery which controls its function is hidden behind massive steel tanks. Not like I would understand it anyway. I don't need to.
The next workshop is one I'm quite familiar with. It's the only one with an aircraft lift to the central deck, necessitated by the kind of work which occurs within. The elevator is rusted, now. No pilots or maintainers on board to keep it running, with Ophélie gone. I step into her workspace, a thin layer of dust coating the tool rack in the corner as well as every other surface. The aluminum skeleton of a helicopter prototype rests in a corner of the room, engine bared and disassembled. I remember Ophélie talking about the project with me. I only really remember the part about increased fuel efficiency. Heavy oil may be cheap, but avgas still runs a pretty penny. At least that expenditure is gone now.
As much as I just want to quickly get to the cargo hold, I can't help but survey the projects still left out on display. The far desk is the most untouched; explosive powders still remain secured tightly to the wall. Occasionally, the other personnel will raid some of the equipment from this room, but the far desk remains safely out of their attention. The tools hung adjacent to the explosive vials each glint golden in the fluorescent lamps, sparkless beryllium-bronze. Motes of beryllium-bronze dust coat each machine; airborne agents fallen to earth without the constant agitation of use. One of the drawers remains half open. A hint of golden metal emanates from within, which is exceptionally curious. Ophélie always stored her tools outside, so that she could know which ones were missing and perhaps avoid an incident.
My curiosity grows ever more, until I approach the drawer and pull it open. Unmoved wooden drawers splinter as they're once more called back into action, and the contents of the drawer reveal themselves. A pair of hairpins, machined out of purest beryllium-bronze and engraved with crescent moons. I know at once what these were for. Ophélie left us only two weeks before my birthday. This must have been her gift to me. While such a gift would be much beloved by my younger self, in the years since her departure I've cut my hair short. Hairpins would serve no purpose for me, now. Anyways, gold isn't my color. I wear platinum, and she should have known that.
Once more composed, I make my way through Ophélie's old workshop and head to the cargo bay. As expected, the cargo is all in once piece. Such a cavernous hold threatens to nauseate, but I quickly do my oxidation inspection and head to the stairs leading towards upper deck. I expect my parents and the Lemoynes are waiting for me by now, and I would hate to leave them wondering as to my whereabouts. Aimé has told us he'd be preparing something special - wild caught salmon. Not my favorite, all things considered, but certainly a nice meal to have over discussion.
Thoughts swirl in my mind as the stairs ring out with each cresting step. Dinners with the Lemoynes can certainly be difficult, as Ophélie always seems to linger just at the edge of the topic of conversation, as if she still graced the table with her nervous presence. I don't know where she is now, or if she's even still on Earth. No matter. She'll come home eventually; I'll see to it.
I emerge on the top deck, a gentle wind blowing my hair behind me. The sun is reaching the horizon now, sky lit up purple and orange in resplendent glory. The fading sunlight refracts through glass cups as Elodie, Leander, Aimé, and Genevieve wait at the impromptu deckside table. The weather is predicted to be gentle for the rest of the night, and nights here in the South China Sea are quite warm this time of year. Elodie calls to me immediately.
"Callisto! You've seen fit to join us, I see."
"I'm sorry, mom, I've been busy with work. Had to come up through the bow deck to check the cargo hold."
"I'm proud of you. You're a hard worker," Leander assauges. He wears his characteristic smile well. He's always been an exceptionally kind man, perhaps in part to offset his wife's stone-like personality. He's always been a place of refuge when the pressure of growing up as Elodie's daughter got too intense, but I can't blame either of them. I think I turned out well enough.
"It's good to see you, Callisto! Why don't you have a seat? I hope you enjoy the food I made for us - I had the day off and decided to go all out," Aimé Lemoyne grinned, laughing heartily. He seems quite proud of his work. I would be if I were him - the dishes of baked salmon, grilled vegetables, lemon-butter pasta, and risotto looked delicious, and luckily still warm. Most of the attending had already taken their plates, save Genevieve. She glanced my way, gracing her face with a terse grin before looking back out across the water.
Genevieve took Ophélie's absence hard. We all did, really, except for the de la Fontaines, but even Aimé in time was able to recover and reobtain his joviality. Genevieve was never the happiest person in the world, but since Ophélie's departure she's been dedicated to her work and not much else. I can tell she doesn't like me. I suspect she knew about Ophélie and I, and in some way blames me for her absence. For not trying hard enough? For driving her away personally? For not going to get her back? I can't tell, but the way she looks at me tells me there's a deep animosity there.
I take a plate despite the building tension in the air. A slice of salmon and some risotto should do for now. An empty seat, between Aimé and Leander, perfect for where I'd like to sit. The chair is comfy, and the warm air, fluffy cushions, and gentle light of the sunset threaten to pull the spectre of sleep ever closer after a long workday. I haven't been sleeping well, lately. I'm not sure why, but I wake up in the middle of the night quite routinely, as if roused by a nightmare. I never can remember my dreams for long enough to write them down, though.
The conversation continues from before my arrival. I can hardly pick out even the topic of conversation, and instead focus on my meal. Aimé is telling a story about one time the kitchen nearly burnt down the central hold of the ship. Leander is talking about his students. Everyone seems to be progressing well in learning by the material, but he wasn't lucky enough to escape having a troublemaker or two this year. Elodie joins in with some gossip about one of the other families, and what Captain de la Fontaine sees fit to do to resolve the situation. She asks my opinion on the matter. Lost in thought and ripped back to the present, I compose myself and make a judgement.
"I mean, I agree with Captain de la Fontaine. Am I even allowed to disagree?" I chuckle.
Aimé cracks up at this judgement. Elodie remains stony-faced as always, Leander gives me a knowing smile, and even Genevieve cracks a faint grin. Aside from Elodie, who seems to practically worship the man, Jean de la Fontaine is an infamous man board the vessel. As Captain, he controls where we go, what we do, and how we do it. He's also responsible for maintaining the cultural values of the vessel. I can respect his goals, but our views have certainly differed at times. I thank God that he never found out about Ophélie and I - were we exposed as a couple publicly, we would have both been shunned and likely cast off. We wanted a life together, certainly, but not under those circumstances.
I used to dream about a life away from the vessel. Ophélie and I used to plan our escape - a helicopter ride to one day never return. Then, we could be out openly. I could get work in some financial sector, and she could live with me. I used to daydream about the kind of apartment we'd buy. Maybe something with a view of the sea, but maybe that might have reminded us too much of home. Maybe somewhere in the mountains, where the air is clear and the skies are open. These days, though, I know that without her, I have no reason to leave the Venerable. It's really not that bad here, after all.
I stand up from the table. I only promised a short reunion, and my time has run out. My family and the Lemoynes bid me farewell, and I begin my walk across the deck to the stern superstructure. Ducking into a propped open bulkhead, I once again enter the computer room. Various computational devices line the walls, glowing a sickly green. Gabriel de la Fontaine sits in a rotating chair in the middle of a monitor bank, screens playing various in-progress renderings of different scenes. The contents of some make me blush.
"You have the simulation ready?"
Gabriel turns towards me, leaning back in his seat.
"Just finished rendering today. Domestic simulation, baking bread. Lockout protocol, various integrations. If you need to know more, just stop by, What do you even need this for, anyways?"
"That's for you to wonder and for me to know. Here, does this suffice?"
I count out a stack of bills, confirm the amount, and hand the total over to Gabriel. He palms me over a small chip drive, able to be slotted into my holo-watch. If he knew where this particular program was destined, I'm certain he would rat me out, even at the cost of his own safety. The de la Fontaines still haven't forgiven Ophélie for Adrien's death after all this time, even when ruled an accident. At the very least, the de la Fontaines and the Lemoynes certainly never liked each other. But that's not my issue right now.
With the program in hand, I head below deck to my quarters. As a logistics manager, my quarters are at the very least more spacious compared to other single-occupancy rooms. I at least have an oaken desk, small personal kitchen, cabinet, and wardobe. Certainly nothing to scoff at by any means. I feel Ophélie's hairpins still in my pocket, feeling almost warm to the touch. The sensation is unnerving, and I have the overwhelming urge to hide them - to erase any trace of her here, leave the slate clean as if she never existed in this place. I pour a drink for myself, and begin the process of turning in for bed.