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bairnsidhe) wrote2017-11-21 06:50 pm
Voidmaids
readera on the Fishbowl double-offer! Remember to claim yours, because more creativity is always good.//////////^^^\\\\\\\\\\
They tell tales on the stations, warning young spacefarers away from certain lanes. Haggard old space-salts, hunched over a beer warn of well-traveled areas where you should never, ever turn on your sensors. They paint horrifying pictures of the dangers, while they sit in comfy chairs in the station tavern.
I really don’t believe them.
Oh I believe they’ve seen strange things, I’ll even believe in the strange, vacuum-dwelling aliens they claim are so dangerous. I just don’t believe they’re all evil and blood-thirsty, seeking to destroy ships and space their crews for snacking. There has to be a balance, a light to the dark, a fire to the water.
You see, I hear other tales too.
I hear stories of ships lost, their nav systems worse than useless, the hull leaking O2 like a sieve leaks water, out of fuel, out of heat, out of hope. I hear stories of them being dragged, dark and cold, unable to fly themselves, out of asteroid fields and returned safely to home. I hear stories of spacers who lost the line during an EVA, clinging by fingertips in the clumsy suits to the side of the ship, unable to reach the airlock, being gently picked up from behind and carried back to the safety of the side ports. It’s not in the taverns, but in the back halls, in the shops, whispered tales that start “Did you hear what happened?” and get more secretive as they go. I wonder sometimes if we don’t fear the good stories more.
And it’s not just the spacers.
I hear stories from the old bards, who sing the songs and tell the tales of an Earth That Was. They have a name for these creatures, or at least their planet-bound sisters. They recite tales much like the old men and women of the station taverns, needle-toothed sirens singing sailors to their doom, a man named Odysseus tied to a mast while his men shoved beeswax into their ears. They also tell stories of a gentler nature, half-women rising from stormy seas to carry shipwrecked sailors to shore. Who dream of humanity with a much kinder eye than many of us have, and sacrifice much to see it fulfilled.
They call them mermaids.
I keep the stories of mermaids in one binder, and the stories of voidmaids in another. I collect them and catalogue them as I travel the stars looking at people on different planets. I may be working to study the known cultures of aliens, but there’s nothing in the Xenopologist’s Charter that says I can’t also prepare for an as yet unmet culture as well. Because I do believe that one day we’ll meet the voidmaids, and when that day comes, I want us to have a head start on asking them the right questions. I don’t want us to waste time asking “are they a threat to us” when we could be asking them why they save us. I feel the same way about the mermaids of the Earth That Was, and I wish we still had a chance to befriend them. Since we don’t, I look out the view port at the ocean of space, the water of the vacuum, and try to imagine the sleek body of a voidmaid, somewhere out there, among the stars.
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(Manhattan clam chowder, on the other hand, I like....)
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Yes ...
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Wow!
Re: Wow!
Re: Wow!
Speaking of exotic rescues, have you ever read my Poems About Phobic Starships? They're linked through the Serial Poetry page.
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Re: Wow!
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This was awesomely cool. :d
-Fallon~
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-Fallon~
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Asking why they help is a lot more interesting than asking whether they're dangerous... The latter gets you a one-track outcome that - IMO - is pretty boring. The former? Worlds of possibilities.
- Jones
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