6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Perhaps because I was so distracted by enforcing these new rules, it took me a while to notice something important going on right underneath my nose.
Ursa was not adjusting well to life on the ship.
It wasn’t just the jumpsuits—although I was correct to expect that he’d put up quite a fuss about wearing them.
His huffiness and pouting about wearing those bloody things was perhaps why I didn’t notice at first that he really was unwell, not just unhappy to have his pectorals covered up.
For anyone traveling for long periods in the black, there was a certain amount of homesickness to be expected.
A small dash of space fever. Even the smugglers, who presumably had gotten quite used to intergalactic travel, had their periods of mood swings.
Manic highs and despondent lows. It was why Tobago insisted on dinners together in the evenings.
It was why he made his personal stash of books available to everyone to read, why the crew could be so often found playing games when they weren’t on duty. Anything to stave off the space madness.
I noticed, of course, that Ursa seemed withdrawn and grouchy.
When the other more concerning changes began, I confess that a part of me thought he was trying to trick me back into our more tactile relationship again.
So I kept a firm distance. If he wanted to skip breakfast and sleep in, I wouldn’t hassle him.
He would just have to learn that sometimes we couldn’t always get our way.
But I’m making excuses again, aren’t I? These are all the reasons why I told myself that Ursa would be fine, that he just needed some time to adjust. Of course I’d noticed that he occasionally seemed despondent.
That he preferred to stay in the bunk rather than try to ingratiate himself with the rest of the crew.
That he was sleeping so much more than usual.
So much more than usual. It was hard to wake him in the morning.
He napped for hours throughout the day, too, and then would retire early.
Perhaps most notably—and I don’t say this as a tribute to my own irresistibility, but rather as a testament to his libido—aside from curling his body against mine, he made no attempt to touch me when we were alone together.
Not even in the zones I’d deemed appropriate!
By the time I started to pay his health the attention that I should’ve, I let worry cloud my judgment.
I had the medic examine him, of course, fearful that Tobago might have been wrong after all, that he might have Earth sickness.
2 But Ursa didn’t seem to be in any noticeable pain.
He was just lethargic. I told myself it was probably some minor bug.
I wanted him to be well, so I saw improvements where there were none.
Wasn’t he eating more than he had been a few days before? Hadn’t he woken up earlier than usual?
And then one day, Ursa just wouldn’t get out of bed at all.
I tried everything I could think of. I cajoled him. I offered him bribes. I scolded him. I danced the Charleston for him.3 I shouted and cried and begged and pleaded. Nothing worked. So I crawled into bed next to him and worriedly watched him as he slept.
“Ursa,” I murmured as I followed the tiny movement behind his eyelids and carefully counted each breath. “What’s wrong with you?”
I was an idiot for not realizing what the problem was sooner, of course. If you’ve deducted it before me, nameless hypothetical future reader, I salute you. Do keep in mind, though, that I was heavily emotionally invested, which we all know can cloud one’s judgment.
Regardless, I ought to have realized it sooner. Hadn’t I myself marveled at Ursa’s size, his strength? Hadn’t I tested his blood and noted the remarkable properties of the colorless algae on his ability to heal quickly?
For most of his life, Ursa had been exposed to the algae in the poolwater near his cave, which had granted him the ability to harness photosynthetic energy.
And now, in the depths of space, he was having withdrawals from both the algae and the sunlight that had replenished him for so many years.
No wonder he was so tired. No wonder he could barely muster the will to move.
My first order of business was to rummage through my packs and take account of how many samples of poolwater I’d brought on board.
I had about seven vials, which would not last very long.
I’d long been desiring access to lab equipment to test if I’d be able to replicate the algae’s effects, but now that need was far more pressing.
If I could test the water properly, I could find ways to mimic its properties, I was certain of it.
But now, since I had neither the equipment nor the time for any of that to matter, I would have to mete out small doses of poolwater to Ursa and try to make the samples last as long as they could.
Since Ursa was nonresponsive, having him consume the water was out of the question. There wasn’t enough for him to bathe in. So I borrowed4 a syringe from the medic and injected a small sample directly into Ursa’s bloodstream.
Some small part of me hoped the sharp needle would be enough to rouse him. He did so hate being poked and prodded. I’d have some explaining to do, but I’d gladly do it, if only he’d open his eyes and look at me.
When he continued to sleep, though, I babbled at him, knowing he likely wouldn’t hear me but needing to say some things out loud nonetheless.
“Have I mentioned I’m going to name the algae after you, if I’m ever not a wanted criminal and can get my findings published?
” At Ursa’s lack of response, I persisted.
“Ursidaephyceae. Quite a mouthful, I think you’ll agree, so I suspect it will be more colloquially known as bear algae.
So you see, Ursa, you must wake up, because not everyone gets the honor of having their own microalgae named after them. ”
I thought that might draw a response, but when it still didn’t, my eyes flooded with tears. “I’m going to fix this,” I promised him, before leaning in to press a kiss to his cool forehead.
And I would. Hopefully the boost of bear algae would at the very least rouse him. But I would need to find a way to replicate that other piece of the equation that helped Ursa to be my strong, indomitable wildman.
I would need to get hold of a sunlamp.
Naturally, exposure to actual sunlight would have been preferable, but as sunlight is a rather limited commodity aboard a space vessel, a sunlamp would have to do.
Come to think of it, I was astonished our room hadn’t been furnished with one to begin with.
They were standard-issue when I’d made my journey to Earth—at least one per bunk, for those who opted not to go into cryo-sleep.
But then again, that had been a state-functioned research expedition, further sponsored by wealthy Havenians who wanted first access to whatever useful knowledge we scientists might bring back from Earth. We hadn’t had to scrimp on rations or clothing or any other comforts during our long journey.
In my few weeks aboard the Trojan Horse, it had become rather clear to me that Tobago’s ship was not anywhere close to being in the same position, financially speaking.
I’d seen the patchwork repairs on the hull and noted the small portions at mealtime and worried about the threadbare state of some of the crew’s jumpsuits.
Tobago would never say as much, but I wondered if my friend was in some trouble.
He’d never been able to talk freely about his work whenever he’d come back to visit the Havens, but reading between the lines, it had always seemed to me like smuggling was a rather lucrative occupation.
Dangerous, but rewarding. Otherwise, why would anyone choose to do it?
It was possible, I suppose, that Tobago was simply hoarding the rewards of the smuggling escapades to himself.
But I didn’t think so. The crew, for all of their rough edges and quirkiness, were a tight-knit group.
They told stories and laughed about jobs gone wrong and occasionally bickered but usually just ribbed each other. Rather like a family.
This behavior was reserved for them, though.
I was not included in any of this camaraderie.
Any time I heard a funny story about one of their escapades and tried to join in the laughter, someone—usually Zenny—would snap at me, “You weren’t there, dummy!
” And after their first failed attempt at a prank, the crewmen seemed to be giving me a wide berth.
When Tobago was around, everyone would be civil, but no one went out of their way to include me.
But even that, I’m afraid, might be underselling it. It wasn’t merely that no one had warmed to me.
The crew didn’t like me.
You see, I didn’t have any skill set that would make one instantly valuable aboard a ship; I had no medical expertise, and aside from my foolproof scone recipe, I wasn’t much of a cook.
At first, I’d thought my contribution could be somewhat more social.
I had many stories to tell, after all, even when I eliminated all the ones that centered around mushrooms.5 But no one seemed to have any interest in hearing them.
In short, I didn’t contribute anything; I only took valuable resources. I was a parasite.
And now, somehow, I would need to convince someone to give me their sunlamp.
Wonderful.
1. No hyperbole, that.
2. Hmm . . . perhaps better not to bring that up with the Brethren again . . .
3. A rather unorthodox method, I’ll agree, but in my defense, I hoped it would make him laugh.
4. Come to think of it, I never did give it back . . .
5. Smugglers, it turns out, are as little interested in mycology as space pirates.