The Entire Bastard

The Entire Bastard

by Thomas Iota

(answering a writing challenge from Chris Campbell)

Betty annoys the hell out of me.

In fairness though, she's a much better teleop to work with than that bodacious imbecile Dave.

When Dave guides a probe, his lassitude fills up the cabin like transparent, phlegmatic gelatin. You could probably cut it into sticks, wrap it in waxed paper, and sell it at great profit to insomniacs or to the parents of hyperactive children.

Dave insists we keep all the lights at minimum during his whole shift. A sliver of sonar swings like a silent pendulum, though always only from left to right, rendered in the antique, analog cowl of the teleop's viewer. Unless I make a point of standing behind him (which he detests), I can't see the pings themselves. Instead I can only see the curtains of light rebounding from the peeling paint of the port sagittal bulkhead, limning his corpulent, hirsute, headphoned, and nigh-motionless silhouette in hypnotic waves of firebug glow.

Far below us, the ROV scuttles around in the seafloor sediment, buoyancy always just too negative, kicking up cockscombs of sediment like a blind, thrashing prawn.

Meanwhile the silence is filled only with the crackling of the mylar bag, the implacable bovine grinding of Glaaki Snacks dying, one after another, within his powder-stained beard, and his loud, apneic breathing, back and forth like a sodden bellows.

In agonizing slowness he drowns himself – abandoning his humanity to become an office-chaired tardigrade, a biomechanical heater and humidifier – gradually turning the walls of the cabin into a sealed membrane bulging with his own loathsome effluence.

Then SLAP! Without any warning, Dave smites the console with his slimy paw. "Another great shift in the bag!" Why does he do this? I never see it coming! My heart is in my throat every time... so much signification of nothing.

Dave never finds a single relic, but his offshift persona always explodes immediately into this Darwinius Epicurus affectation of proficiency.

"Yep! Catch you next time!" I manage to say weakly. "On your way out, try to tumble over the bowsprit, then be sure to keep to the keel, so the screws can excise the sin of your carcass from our otherwise nearly tolerable world!" I think.

I never manage to say it aloud.

Instead I start to speculate. If my words are always inadequate, maybe I could demonstrate my intentions to Dave instead... maybe with a recovery gaff... maybe when he and his cheap, black rum are on deck at night, when the swells are pitching, halfway through celebrating another fruitless sweep...

But by then he is already out of sight. The teleops work in four-hour shifts, and we recons pull eights. On top of that, Dave always absconds fifteen minutes early and I always drag out half an hour late.

Usually at his early exit is when I stand and stretch for a moment. It's almost always a big one. My shoulders crack noisily, my shirttail pops out, and, with my head up here by the vent, I begin to think the cornmeal-cheesewhiz miasma in the cabin might actually be dispersing.

Of course it is then, exactly then, with the black hairs curling around my fish-pale, convex abdomen still visible, that I hear the dulcet voice. "Hello Jeff!" she smiles around her crinkling nose. She is already pretending that this smell has nothing to do with me.

I suck in. I smile back. I smooth my hair and tuck my shirt. "Hi! Betty!" I feign. "You ready for a great sweep?"

"You bet!" she enthuses.

But I wouldn't take that bet. I know her success rates.

I also know she is going to briefly wield an alcohol wipe like a scimitar, deftly cut through all the chipotle-nacho grime around her, and toss it into the center of the waste bin without even looking.

Her dark hair is cut short, but still too long to be regulation-male. It brushes her chin as she dances through the steps of the ablution.

Seven thousand miles away, in a marble atrium, Rodin's Thinker is staring through the Earth, directly at Betty, thinking that her polished bronze skin is the only thing more perfect than his own, his flexing muscles interminably lifting and depositing the same heavy thought: "Why do they hurt us like this?"

Beneath her shapeless overalls, Betty's body is just slightly too thin to be that of a professional surfer, just slightly too short to be a swimsuit model. Not that she would ever consider herself as the find.

She is every inch the archaeologist. She'll fold that athlete's form effortlessly into that so recently cleaned chair. One leg will curl under her bottom. She'll wind her slender, lithe fingers around the yoke.
A stunning hour or two will glide past the monitors while we conduct another legendary sweep. (We always do.) The ROV will vector immediately to where the worst cross-braced wreckage intertwines with miles of crumpled tube bore. The little probe will ride through the wreck without a single snag. It will pass over the sediment, displacing less evidence than would a passing shadow. I will get broadside scans with stereoptic clarity greater even than even during my best days in the simulators.

Sharp as a kestrel, she'll ride the currents. Soon she'll say something like "Oooh, Union Carbide!" and wave me over to the sonar cowl, where, shoulder to shoulder we will see... Well, she will see and, with her finger, describe and make evident some ancient insigne of the bygones.

I will control my breath. I will be very aware of the pressure of her upper arm upon my own.

Eventually I will become aware of the outline of the find, but I won't truly recognize the symbol until we have stable uplink again and I've used her keywords to search for it. It will take me an hour, maybe three, to catch up with what she saw at a glance – another relic, another ancient miracle – caught like prey with the sharpness of her eyes, in the keenness of her mind.

I want to see it. I want to be able to see it so easily, but, I can't. Yet, to be honest, I would rather just see Betty. I'd rather just see her – watch her wide eyes glimmer in the green luminescence, stare at only that -- while she sees the artifact.

Union-what!? How does she keep all these straight?

"Well, that was a pretty good session," she'll intone, once the shift rushes to its end.

"Yep! We make a great team! Hey, we should celebrate! Have you ever heard of a cocktail called a 'Negroni'...," I'll think. Instead, "Yep! Good one! See you next time!" I'll say.

But, by then, she and her indubitable smile are already out of sight.

I wish I could still see it. I wish it would re-enter my vision.

Why does she hurt me like this?

Betty annoys the hell out of me.