Picking up the pieces
24 Dec 2020Teafox
There's a phrase that dates back to before anyone can really remember. A phrase that describes a look that sometimes drifts across the face of a soldier, or sometimes a surgeon or anyone who has born witness to, or partaken in some terrible act. Expressionless, eyes unfocused as though looking at something at extreme distance, even if there's nothing but wall or the back of someone's head in front of them. They call it the thousand yard stare.I've seen it before, and after seeing the results of the past few days, I can well imagine I'll be doing it again myself from time to time.
To see kid slip into it, especially with an idea of what must have happened on that ship. How do you help someone recover from that?
I mean, sure, there's what the other guy is probably getting right now, which would be a whole cocktail of memory affecting drugs. Those don't really stop the flashbacks, I'm told. At best they change how you remember them happening. No, you don't remember burning down a church full of orphans, you just have a reoccurring nightmare of it. It's not a literal memory, it's symbolic of something else in your life. They'll pay therapists millions of credits to reinterpret how they remember what they did... If they're rich enough.
Then there are the poor grunts that get to rent a pulse rifle in the army and get orders to rush down a barricade where command says there's a terrorist emplacement or something. Or maybe the rifle they get is one of the bad ones, and it comes down to knives, or whatever else they have to hand. In this case, a piece of mining equipment. One life ends, and some other poor bugger gets to watch what happens when a life ends. Up close, that's got to be horrible. Ship to ship killing is easy to witness. A few curse words, at worst the occasional gurgle and then static and an explosion. Seeing that pilot turned into mist by the mining charge wasn't so bad really. He didn't suffer, panic one moment, clumps of molecules the next... Those other bodies coming out of the containers was worse, but then, slave trading 'dumps' happen, and if you don't stick to the main trade routes for long enough, you'll see it happen, and eventually often enough that you think you grow cold to it. But you never really do.
Kid's caught me a few times, just lost in my memories about that kind of stuff.
But seeing him with that blank gaze in his eyes, that's haunting. Kid's barely said a word since, but then again, he's barely been awake since. Neither have I, but sleeping pills will do that for you. Honestly, even if I was awake enough to really move, right now I think the kid just needs someone to hold on to. Hell, I need someone to hold on to.
Arthur's been a great help, really. He's been dealing with the curious locals and arranged for a doctor he trusts to be discrete to come and check the kid over and make sure that I'm not treating my new body too badly. I'll be on the baby food again for a week or so. Everything's going to be uncomfortable for a few days, nothing I haven't done before. The kid's in pretty good shape too physically, cuts, bruises, mild hypothermia and some dehydration. Not exactly a clean bill of health for either of us, but nothing that a body won't heal with time in either of our cases.
As far as traumatic memories go? Well, like physical scars before tissue regeneration became a thing. You give the wound time, and at first it's painful and ugly. Depending on how bad the initial wound was, maybe the scar will heal and fade away to be forgotten about. Some scars would stay with you until the day you die. You just look after them as best you can, and try to keep it out of your mind until it's healed enough to not feel it anymore.
We just stayed for almost the entire day in the cabin, huddled up together in one of the bunks. There was a point where I was pretty sure we were both awake, and I finished reading the Hobbit with him, although I'm pretty sure we both slept through parts. Eventually, he needed the bathroom, and we really aught to be under way. Art stuck with us for a few jumps, partly to keep us company, partly to make sure we were safe to navigate a heavy chunk of metal capable of frightening speeds. At first he rather started to grate, insisting on breaking the silence cheerfully reminiscing over his past, and some girl or other he had known, or someone who had crossed him terribly. He patiently tried to draw a story out of me once or twice before I caught on.
There's not really a person in this galaxy that doesn't eventually get a story to tell. Some kind of misadventure and a lesson learned, or maybe someone that screwed them over. I had a few, Arthur had plenty, although not all of them were his own stories. Now the kid has one too, it might not be over yet, but as Arthur put it, the story so far seemed pretty good to him. Sure, most of the stories were about hurt, or something terrible that happened, but then, if nothing bad happened, it wouldn't make for an exciting tale now, would it?
He kept the cabin from being too quiet for hours... Honestly, if I didn't already know he was a miner, I'd swear he could make a living as an entertainer, or maybe even a therapist worth a damn. As a trio, we scored a few containers worth of diamonds in one of the local rings. He eventually pried my side of the story out of me, swearing that he would not tell a soul. He was more gentle with the kid, accepting that maybe it was a bit too raw still for the kid to tell his tale. "Besides, it'll be a better story when you've had time to make up all the embellishments." he joked. The kid didn't exactly smile, but he got it.
Eventually we put in to a docking bay, actually, we're back at Rutherford. I have an insurance claim to file on Vesper, although I don't think we'll be flying an Asp for a while, and Arthur said he had some shopping to get done and would arrange for someone to come and pick him up. The kid stayed on the ship, he wasn't comfortable with coming ashore. By the time I got back from the shipyard, Arthur was waiting, sitting on a cargo container. "Come on, open up, I've got a favor to ask of your boy." he stated with an air of importance.
He cracked the seal on the cargo pod as I opened the airlock, holding a bottle in each hand. Brandy, from Lave. Just by handling the bottles, he had already decimated the value, but clearly he didn't care. Alcohol was to be enjoyed, and he had no intention of letting the contents of this batch get traded away for profit.
"I think it's time you took the lad for a drink with Jameson since they've both got something in common." he beamed, presenting the bottle to the kid. "Both screwed over by the federation," he nodded, kneeling down so he was eye level with the kid, insisting he take the offering. "He'll tell you his story if you'll listen, and it's kind of a tradition to share a drink with him sometime, maybe you'll find him easier to tell."
He stood, and clapped my shoulder as he passed me the other one. "And this one's in case his cellar's dry."
He turned on his heel, hefted the remainder of his container onto his shoulder and started an argument with the ground crew, probably about how cargo containers aren't supposed to be opened on the landing pads.
"Who's Jameson?" the kid asked. I actually felt tears well in my eyes as I heard him speak. Since we found him, this was the first line of a conversation where he actually took an interest. I glanced down at him and saw that, whilst tired and a little haggard looking, yes, the kid was still in there.
"He's a little ways away from here." I acknowledged. "Actually, something of a legend between us pilots, from quite a long line of legendary pilots."
"And... He'll want to see us?" the kid seemed a little incredulous.
I tried not to answer directly, but then again, from what I knew, it was pretty truthful. "Oh, he was always an approachable guy, loved to hear a good story and loved Lavian brandy. Always makes time for visitors these days."
HIP 12099 is rather out of the way... Not a bad idea. At very least, the Jameson family is a pretty easy topic to tell stories about now that Arthur is gone and we have to fill the quiet ourselves. Of course, I tell the kid the truth of the matter before we get there.
It wouldn't be fair to just spring it on him.