Beloved Universe

A Star Traveler short story

POP, crunch, crunch.

POP, crunch, crunch.

The sound of loud chewing broke Michael out of his thoughts. A little while ago he had made his way to the Icarus’ crew lounge to find it nearly empty. The on-board ship time was 21:30 hours so most were either at their shift or in bed.

Not him. A recent burst transmission from Alliance Command had reached them, and it contained more than software updates. The Center of Data Control took their extended mission into consideration and sent along a few petabytes of new literature, manuals, and star chart updates. Michael was happily reading a treatise by Lucretius Mesk on the vulnerabilities of Star Traveler Network reliance. That was until the chewing broke him out of his reverie.

Looking up, he saw across from him near the small viewport, a young woman with dark hair who was deeply engrossed in a compu-pad in front of her. There was an open bag of carrot sticks beside her; she twirled one of them between her fingers. Bridgette Bailey stuck it into her mouth and broke off a piece with a loud pop. In the silence of the room where only the random shifting of the Alcubierre warp field’s hum could be heard, the carrot sounded like a gun shot.

“Dear goddess, what are you eating?” demanded a voice from his right. Though the voice spoke standard, there was a distinct accent to it. “You sound like some Bashrok gnawing on bones, Bailey.”

Phasia Eshevet was not someone that most people missed. She was the only Xaltean woman aboard ship. Her dark black hair was cascading down her shoulders, and she wore a loose white top and skirt that Michael knew was called a tvekel by her people. He only saw her in it late in the evening when she was relaxing. It seemed her talk with Sinclair Barrett, their captain, had relieved any concerns she had.

Bridgette Bailey’s full saucer-like eyes were on the verge of panicking, but as soon as she saw who was speaking, they narrowed. Bridgette took another carrot out and bit into it, never breaking eye contact with the other. Phasia, herself, also narrowed her eyes at the action of the onboard linguist.

“Goddess! You're so annoying,” Phasia snarled, slamming her compu-pad down on the table.

“At least I’m not a slut.”

Bridgette must have meant to mutter the words under her breath, but the room had gotten inconveniently quiet as the star drive shifted the field again. The words reverberated through the lounge.

Phasia’s eyes narrowed; She stood from her seat slowly. “What did you call me?”

Michael instinctively wanted to intervene, but he resisted. Captain Sinclair Barrett had made it clear to him in one of their meetings that confrontations were going to happen to the crew and to allow them but make sure they didn’t get out of control. Michael was pretty sure Sinclair was referring to these two.
Bridgette looked as if she was going to back away, but her blue eyes changed to one of resolving. She stood also and spoke with measured words.

“I said at least I’m not a slut.”

Phasia’s mouth dropped open. She closed it and folded her arms across her chest.

“How...how dare you.”

“How dare you!” Bridgette snarled back with a ferocity that Michael had never seen before. “You have belittled me and hounded me ever since we wound up on this ship together and I’m sick of it. I’m not going to let myself be pushed around by some whore who can’t keep her clothes on for a few minutes a day.”

What color Phasia had in her face drained away, and her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. A slight gleam came to her eyes. Bridgette opened her mouth to speak but closed it silently.

“I’d rather be a slut than some naive virgin who clings to a religious cult to feel important,” Phasia shot back.

Bridgette’s face colored but before she could say anything more, Michael decided it was time to stand.

“Save it,” Phasia told him as she scooped up her pad. “I was done here anyway.”

With that, the woman left the room, and Michael sat back down. Bridgette also did but could not get comfortable. After a few minutes, she made a half-hearted excuse and mumbled under her breath before leaving the room.

Michael sighed as he stared at the compu-pad that never left his hand. Interpersonal relationships were difficult to grasp for him.

“It was bound to happen.”

Michael looked up and saw the secondary entrance to the lounge that connected them to the galley. Sinclair stood there with his coffee leaning in the doorway. He sipped on it as if he hadn’t just seen two of his crew viciously attack each other.

“Nothing we could have done?”

“They’re the polar opposite,” Sinclair said coming over and sitting down across from his first officer. “Bailey grew up in an extremely strict and conservative environment. She has never really experienced other cultures and peoples. She’s clinging on to what she knows as a semblance of stability.”

“And Phasia?”
“Phasia is the antithesis of everything The Holy Innocentia and their Great Sheppard preach against. You know the three tenants of Celestianity?”

“Loyalty, purity, and austerity. Even I wound up in a few of their Sunday schools as a kid.”

Sinclair chuckled at that. “Phasia’s people are the exact opposite of the tenants. Our Xaltean crew mate sees Bailey as a threat to her identity.”

“What do we do?”

Sinclair stopped for a few moments as he stared at his coffee then took another sip.

“We need them to learn and see each other as people and not the representation of evil. How do you feel about Phasia? Any worries?”

“No,” Michael said with a shrug. “I admit I had some of the preconceived notions and a concern she’d try to jump me in an empty corridor, but I have never seen someone work as hard as she does.”

“Her training won’t let her slack.”

“Training?”

“I can’t go into a lot of detail,“ Sinclair said with a sigh. “But Phasia isn’t just some random Xaltean. She has been trained by a house.”

“Which?”

“Shova.”

“Ah.”

The elite artists of the Empire. Michael had seen some of their work, whether it be paintings, sculptures, woodwork, they were exceptional. That explained Phasia’s attention to detail.

“How about you stop by and check on her in a few minutes, Michael?” Sinclair suggested.

“And do what?”

“Lend an ear. Let her vent. I’ll check on Bailey and see if I can’t guide her to be more…understanding.”

Michael looked down at his treatise. It didn’t seem that important anymore.

“You got it.”