Chapter 9 - Two Issues at Once
The train had just stopped back at the town when Adam got a radio call from Zodiac-Altair. “As I understand from the remote diagnostic,” Dr. Weiss said, “the probe’s spectroscope is also broken. That will require a bit more finesse; you should be able to remember how to fix it, or so Commander Darcy said. Failing that, contact for instructions; I can show you. Out!”
Adam sighed as he stood up – great, he thought; how am I going to fix something as delicate as that? He had seen that particular instrument in his training, where its fragility was prominently noted. He did note its function as well – it was a broad-spectrum detector, meant to find dangerous amounts of radiation in wavelengths higher than ultraviolet, though it could also find lower-spectrum stuff. Adam thought it was unharmed when he first rewired the probe’s battery with Antir’s help – guess not!
He followed Antir out the train door, ducking down as he did before, and made his way across the platform out of the station. He flipped up his monitor – forty-eight percent scrubber capacity remaining. No worries – he thought he saw the local sun start to descend over the western horizon. I’ll make it back in time to fix up the spectroscope – it’s probably easiest to get instructions from the ship; it would be a waste to sterilize twice just to fetch a book.
He still had the ticket in his pouch, but watched Antir to see what she would do with hers. In the end, she just threw it in the trash at the station’s exit. Adam contemplated doing the same, but thought otherwise – this was his first ticket, and it was covered in Indigen – er, Ukhǃerr writing, and he needed all the samples he could get, just like Elena did for her biology work.
Speaking of. . . Good thing I still have my tools here, he thought, patting the relevant pouch. Looking around, he saw that the town had eventually gotten used to his presence on this world. One step closer to learning their language – but would they trust me to do any useful work here?
Only time would tell.
·–·––
Once he got back to the landing site, he was pleased to find that the probe had been left undisturbed – though there was a curious small patch of fresh soil beneath it. As he looked, he found it was positioned perfectly where the probe’s sampling arm would grab it. Ah, so it was just doing its work. Though not completely, if they have to call me for more repairs. He sighed – alright, I’m burning daylight, let’s get started.
First, a call. “Zulu-Alfa, this is Somerset,” he opened. “I’ve arrived at the probe site with tools. I’m requesting remote guidance, over.”
“This is Zulu-Alfa,” Anton responded a moment later. “I have manual in front of me, I can use it. Do you have screwdriver, pliers, spare wire? Over.”
“Affirmative on the first two, but not the wires. I’ll have to cycle through to retrieve some.” But I could probably make it work. “Please advise, over.”
Adam could hear Anton sigh on the other end. “You may have to. . . ah, kak eto. . . ? – to improvise, yes. First, use screwdriver to open the covering panel, the one marked for light sensitivity, do you see it? Over.”
Now, where would that be again? After searching it for a moment, he found the covering on the back of RPMR-1 – dented inward and heavily scratched, as though something had been trying to get in. “I see it,” he radioed. “Opening it now.” Unscrewing it was a pain, both in how much effort he needed to exert and how delicately he had to do it as well, to make sure he could get it back on as well. Was it one of those lupine analogues? Can’t be ursine – the whole thing would be thrashed. Eventually the cover came away – and what he saw was disheartening.
The instrument itself was trashed. Wires were chewed and strewn every which way, including (but mostly) in a circle in one otherwise empty corner, lined with straw and other dry vegetation. In another corner, he found decayed plant matter. What in the world? . . . The best explanation he could come up with was that some rodent-like creature had crawled inside the dead probe and started making a nest in the spectroscope, tearing up the wires to make itself at home. The dented plate must have come from a carnivorous predator, having smelled out the rodent’s presence, and started clawing and banging away at the probe, trying to get in to catch it. It was a miracle that the plate was still even attached, and could still be removed normally.
He had his work cut out for him.
“Konstantinov, you’re going to want to see this. . . stand by.” Adam reached up to his helmet-mounted camera and took a photograph of the ruined equipment. This is going to turn nasty, isn’t it?
But instead of a string of vulgar Russian, Anton simply let out a sigh. “The instrument is destroyed. You cannot repair it.” Ah well, at least I tried. “Logically we will have to send a replacement probe, but RPMR-1 is the only working one.” A pause. “No. . . I have a better idea.”
Uh-oh.
“We tested all the probes – is how we know RPMR-1 is the only one without problems.”
Well, when you first launched it, I suppose.
“RPMR-2’s spectroscope failed to start, but RPMR-3’s is working properly. If I can rip that out and somehow send that to Rhysling, to you, you could install it on the ground. I’ll see to do that. Out.” For a cryogenicist, Adam thought, Anton sure thinks well like an engineer.
For now, he set the cover atop the probe, and the screws inside the compartment. Of course I’ll have to clean that out sometime, he vowed – when the spare part arrives, of course.
But it had been a long day, what with two train rides and a new place to discover and explore, and he needed some dinner and rest. So he climbed up to the suitport, plugged himself in, and started sterilizing.
––·–·
As the sun started to descend over the horizon, he grabbed and started rehydrating some cream of mushroom soup. One hundred seventy-five milliliters of hot water for five to ten minutes, the instructions said. He left that by the galley, and started sucking down a packet of fruit paste – which, oddly enough, did not require rehydration. I guess they don’t do so well in transit without water? he hypothesized. He stood by the window, admiring the golden hue of the alien sky. Though he couldn’t see it directly, he wondered how the others aboard Zodiac-Altair were doing. So far three others were out of cryo and roaming about – Commander Louis Darcy, Dr. Anton Konstantinov, and now Dr. Elena Weiss. How unlucky they must be, he thought, that they could not explore the surface of Rhysling first, to make first contact with the Indigenous. But then, he thought next, how lucky they must be as well, that they need not brave the same dangers as I.
He ran his hand through his freshly-washed hair, wondering how he was going to learn their language. To be sure, he had solved a number of mysteries so far – the language was primarily oral, with a written counterpart, the sounds were all things he could reproduce (albeit with practice) – hell, their facial expressions and most of their body language are perfectly identical to our own! But there was always the possibility that he was missing something – human ears were not nearly as flexible as equine ears, and he lacked a tail and all the signals it could produce. All he could imitate so far were delightful and convenient coïncidences, but how far could they possibly pan out? Surely there’s a limit, and then I’ll have to deviate from anthropology altogether.
All these and more he had already noted. But now, he’d have to find a job. I guess it’s to make sure I’m not just leeching off of their good will. Or perhaps they want to see if I’m truly as harmless as I claim to be. And even then, how can I make sure that their trust for me extends to the rest of Zodiac-Altair? – And to the rest of humanity, for that matter? So many concerns. . . . He sighed. I just have to take things one day at a time – one task at a time. The language I’ll have to learn on the fly for my job, if they’re not willing to teach me. The replacement spectroscope still needs to arrive, but then I’ll be able to install it on my own. His eyes drifted over to the now well-used probe maintenance manual, having been in and out of TPRU-1 more times than he could bother to count. And all his tools were left outside, still in the suit’s pouch. Despite their vulnerability, Adam wasn’t too terribly worried about them being stolen – the Indigenous, for the most part, still saw him as a stranger, an outsider, and wanted nothing to do with him or anything connected to him. But then, he realized – that means it’ll be that much harder to get a job. Plus, he realized as well, wouldn’t Antir work as an ad-hoc reference for my nonexistent résumé? As long as they see us friendly to each other, I’ll do much better. Plus, she can explain my predicament much better than I can at this time.
A random thought crossed his mind. The soup – oh yeah, the soup; I’m pretty sure it’s ready now. He got up and checked the packet. Oh yeah, that’s ready alright. He set the fruit preserve packet aside and started on the soup – which made him gag. It had been ready for quite a while, and had even started cooling. He couldn’t inject more hot water to heat it back up, lest he risk bursting it open all over the interior of the lander, and shorting out something vital for his own survival. Next time, I’ll have to set a timer to keep track, he thought. If I could find one. If I have one. For now, he had an empty stomach, and a too-cold packet of cream of mushroom soup to suffer through to fill himself up for the night. If only I had thought this far ahead. . . .
·–·
Anton wasn’t faring any better himself.
He had been rehydrating some cream of mushroom soup for himself in the Cancer galley when he got the call from Dr. Somerset from the Rhyslinger surface. Dr. Weiss was busy in the gym and couldn’t be interrupted, and Commander Darcy was fast asleep elsewhere, so it was up to him to take that call. It turned out he was looking to fix the spectroscope on RPMR-1, and needed some to repair it. Perhaps that was something that slipped his memory as well – or Dr. Somerset was just lazy.
But now, in a fit of desperation, he came up with a radical solution – cannibalizing a spare unit from one of the remaining two RPMR probes. But that posed two problems – how would he be able to retrieve it? Not to mention, how would he send it to the Rhyslinger surface safely, without any problems?
The first question was answered at the stern of the bridge module – there was an airlock, with a pair of Orlan-DMA suits strapped to the walls and waiting for someone to embark and leave the ship. That meant spending an hour prebreathing, maybe an hour and a half. He didn’t have time for that at the moment – he’d still consider a solution for the second question, but for now, he still had to eat, with his stomach complaining.
Anton, originating from the Soviet Union, was used to hardship – but when supplies were this plentiful, and had kept so well for so long, he felt his usual techniques for suffering through hardship hardly applied. And then he remembered the soup, still rehydrating.
He made a mental note to return to the problem at hand, to deal with something more pressing. He pushed himself off the walls and made his way back to Cancer as fast as he could steer himself. Alas, when he got to the soup, it had already turned cold. It wasn’t the first time he had cold soup – but it didn’t make it any better. Especially when it was freeze-dried and vacuum-sealed back on Earth.
“Čort voz'mi. . . .” Next time, he vowed, he’d keep food on his person while it was rehydrating. If only he had thought this far ahead. . . .
·–·
The next morning, Adam woke up with the sun. Not any sooner, not any later – am I finally adjusting to Rhysling’s rotational period? It would be convenient for his work, but not exactly for theirs – certainly when they constantly have to convert dates and times between Rhysling and Earth for any report transmissions back to mankind’s homeworld.
Regardless, he had work to do. And he couldn’t do it alone.
And Antir seemed to recognize this as well – when he opened the window shutter, there she stood, with a paper scroll in her front hoof. Where Adam was just getting started with his day, not even having had his breakfast yet, she was already bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and greatly impatiently waiting for him. So Commander, you were saying about me being a gentille alouette?
He grabbed the first things he could find – goulash, again, typical – and some cereal bars. He knew the instructions by heart by now, and let it sit to rehydrate on the galley counter. He got started on the cereal next, making sure Antir noticed him eating. Priorities, people! Priorities!
She understood, but still she urged him on, trying to hurry him along. He pointed at the packet of goulash and tapped his wrist, motioning the hands of a clock with his own arms and hands. These things take time, he was trying to say. While he was killing time, he shut the shutter, wolfed down the remaining cereal, then got started with suit garments. First for waste absorption, then for cooling – the latter made him feel too cold already, but he reminded himself that it would come in handy later down the road. At the very least, he had already replaced the carbon scrubber for the suit the day before – a force of habit that has proved to speed things along, if yesterday’s events taught him anything.
He grabbed his goulash and reopened the shutter, only to be greeted with an annoyed expression on Antir’s face. What? he thought. Can’t I get some privacy to change? He held up the packet, and motioned with his finger that it was meant to enter his mouth. Antir leaned in closer, until her horn started tapping on the glass – but still, she wanted to get closer. He noticed this, so before he actually started eating the goulash – which was still rehydrating, to boot – he held it up to the window. She squinted to see through her own reflection, and turned away in disgust when she noticed it was made from beef paste. Adam shrugged – I get it, it’s not for everyone. You least of all.
He sat down by the window and started sucking down the barely-reconstituted stew, sensing the still-palpable impatience from outside. The stew somehow disappeared down his throat in a matter of minutes – and in all fairness, the spiciness helped distract him from the insufficient reconstitution, for which he was grateful.
Alright, he thought, standing back up and disposing of the now-empty packet. You and me, Antir. Let’s get this done.
·–
:04. . . :03. . . :02. . . :01. . . :00!
As soon as Adam disconnected from the suitport, Antir wasted no time grabbing him up in her telekinesis. She carried him off the lander, to the road, on their way to town. Somehow he never felt any motion from the acceleration – it was all one smooth operation.
He tried to wrestle himself free from her grip, but it was much too strong – and as he struggled, he felt her force tighten on the suit’s ball-joints, preventing him from moving. Adam trusted Antir, he didn’t suspect any ill intent – but this was much too forceful for him, and he wasn’t the least bit used to it.
Finally they got to the northernmost edge of the town, where she set him down. She thrust the scroll into his hands. He unfastened the band and let it furl open. It was a list of twenty-four jobs, arranged in a list three by eight. All of these things were things that Adam, as a large bipedal creature, could do – and all were as well presumably within walking distance of the lander. The town is my oyster, he thought, and all I have to do is find and pluck the pearl. Let’s get started. He pointed at the first item – which displayed a humanoid figure moving a large rectangle through a series of concentric circles. Curious. I wonder what that could be? . . .
Without delay, Antir grabbed him up and took him to. . . wherever that job would be. At least this time it was by his hand – but then, he had to run to keep up with her pace.
·–·–··
A few minutes later, Antir dropped his hand – freeing it up to let him rebind the scroll and stow it away inside a pouch. When he looked back to the scene, he saw a great abundance of fine white chips and dust on the ground. Not just any chips and dust – this is wood, he realized. She’s taken me to a lumber mill.
Various equines were working on a log, one that had just been cut down from. . . probably that forest he was exploring the other day. Just like early Jamestown, he thought. I wonder how much of this town was cut away from that forest – and how much they have left to cut. Some of these ponies had mouth-mounted tools meant to strip bark from the trunk of the tree; some more were starting to cut the log in various specific places – ones that appeared to be measured from the base – some were sawing the branches off the trunk, taking care to make sure the resulting stumps blended smoothly with the trunk, some were taking those cut logs and making further cuts through them – but longways this time, turning the log into a set of planks and beams. It was all a smooth operation, but hardly clean with all the dust it made.
And this was a job he could apparently do, according to Antir.
[ᵑʘeˈsɤ ʃeɹʙ̥iˈe] a voice cried out – which was apparently a command to halt work immediately. An equine approached him and Antir – pulling off a pair of goggles with a hoof, coat and neckerchief profoundly coated in sawdust. [ɹiˈkě ɑlɹiˈmɑ] he told them.
Thankfully, Antir answered for Adam. [ɑ̃ˈtiɹ l̩sɑˈpɑ ɑlˈɹu . ɑ suˈlɑ] – she pointed at the man in the metal suit – [eˈdem zɤmɹ̩ˈzed ɑlɟɑˈmu] She set her hoof down. [edemˈlej ɲoˈɣu ɸɯsɯ̃lceˈmɯ . ɑ mɯl suˈlɑ kipɑosˈlɑ ʃɤkɹ̩ŋ̊l̩cem̥ɯ]
The other equine looked up to Adam, hoof on its chin, as though considering something. After a moment, he turned back to Antir. [ɹiˈɣě ɑzɑɹɑnɑɟɑˈmu]
But before Antir could reply, there came a loud metallic snap, then a cry of [ˈɑj ˈɑj ˈɑj ˈɑj] – apparently a chain had snapped while carrying a freshly-peeled log, and the workers were backing up to avoid being crushed under its weight. Thankfully, it was not hoisted very high. This gave Adam second thoughts about working in the lumber mill – the Strauss was strong, but he wouldn’t trust it around heavy logs like that. Coupled with the risk of cutting through the suit with the saws. . . yeah, hard pass for the mill.
Neither was the unicorn keen on the human working alongside them. He saw how their equipment had failed on them – how easily he could be crushed beneath its weight, how easily he could break biosegregation with a ill-timed cut, not to mention that he couldn’t communicate, and thus, coördinate, with his coworkers – and he had to refuse. He pulled out the scroll of jobs, and pointed at the next one, making sure Antir could see his choice. She noted it, then took his hand in her telekinetic grip and led him out the sawmill and down the road, while the mill workers started replacing the chain themselves. I wonder where this next one is. . . .
·–
The answer, as it turned out, was at the town’s farrier. Adam stepped inside the building, right behind Antir. Indeed, here was the farrier, forge burning bright behind it, hard at work shaping a horseshoe. This shoe was large and thick, needing hard swings of a mouth-held hammer against an anvil to shape it properly.
Who’s it for? Turning his head away, he saw a rather large and heavy-built equine sitting nearby – who had been watching the farrier hard at work, but was now making eye contact with Adam. Its hooves were thick with keratin, its fetlocks unshorn, and the hindquarter-mark was of an apple-like fruit – green, against red fur. Is this one related to Nyeledirve? If not by blood, then by work. . . . Given its great size and the sort of work it would do on the orchard on the outskirts of town, it would need especially thick shoes. No wonder the farrier was so hard at work.
So hard at work, in fact, that despite the patron noticing, the farrier did not acknowledge either him or Antir for some time. Only when it looked up to check the new horseshoe against the patron’s hoof, who raised it up for the farrier to see, did it see a great white shape out the corner of its eye. Spotting Antir as well, it quickly looked to her, motionless otherwise, seemingly eagerly awaiting an explanation. [n̥ɑ.pɑ.ˈtɑ] Antir opened – a greeting of some sort, I have to guess. [suˈlɑ eˈdem zɤmɹ̩ˈzed ɑlɟɑˈmu . ɲoˈɣu ɸɯsɯ̃lceˈmɯ . ɸelˈse eʃ mɯˈlil l̩bɑˈβǔ]
[eʃ mɯˈlǐl] the farrier replied, pointing at Adam. Antir nodded – then started looking around the shop, trying to find. . . something for some reason. I guess it’s looking for something for me to do. [eŋbizɯ̃ˈɹɯ . ɹiˈɣě ɑzɑɹɑnɑɟɑˈmu] There’s that question again, but what does it mean?
The farrier took the hammer into its mouth and swung at the horseshoe. Two solid hits later, it held the shoe up to the customer’s hoof, and looked between them carefully, to make sure it was a perfect fit. Apparently it was – since it next grabbed some nails from another nearby bin.
The patron drew a breath, and looked away, apparently not wanting to see what would happen next. Yet the farrier was very careful – with a surgical precision coming from years of practice and experience, it hammered each nail in a semicircle around the rim of the hoof. One by one, seven nails were driven into the keratin, until the shoe was securely attached.
Only then did the patron set its hoof upon the ground. The shoe did not come off – nor did the other two, which were forged similarly to that one.
The farrier was grabbing two more shoes from a ready-made set hanging from a peg on the wall. It placed them in a pair of tongs, screwed the tongs shut, then inserted them into the fire. Adam realized that each of those shoes were only about half the thickness of the one he had forged. So it’s technically wearing six shoes right now, and needs eight for a proper set. I can only wonder how often it wears through these. . . .
The farrier took a moment to speak – if Adam had to guess, it was to answer Antir’s question rather belatedly. [kɑˈlɑ ʙ̥elˈse xɑɹɑʙ̥osɑᵑǃɟɑˈmu . kipcɑkˈjɑ enzeniˈɹe] it said – and seemed to indicate the still-new shoes mounted on nails driven into the wall.
But what did it mean by this? Adam turned to Antir and tilted his head, to signal confusion. She responded by taking six shoes off the wall in her telekinetic grasp, and holding them up to him. [sɑ̃ˈlu . iˈm̥ɑ̃ . kuɹˈso . deˈŋe . uˈɹu . iˈzɑ̃] she pronounced slowly – and with each word, she emphasized one more shoe in her grasp than before.
Wait, that’s counting! She’s counting the shoes for me! Those are their numbers! She had counted those six shoes exactly, but to her, it would be ten. She deposited them back on the nail on the wall.
Which left Adam to ponder just what she had meant by all of this. Did she perhaps want me to count shoes? he pondered. Why? She knows I can count. . . unless it’s to keep inventory? I could do that, I reckon. Get a chance to practice counting on their terms, even if it’s a trial by fire of sorts.
It was certainly a choice to consider – but for now, he simply walked away from the forge, scroll already in hand. Once they were outside, he pointed out to Antir a random item on the list – and she, as usual, led the way.
–·
“Going somewhere, Konstantinov?”
Anton had been spending the last hour or so prebreathing by the airlock, having already donned some cooling and waste garments, when Commander Darcy came up to the bridge. Anton pulled the mouthpiece out. “I only need to get a spare part from RPMR-3,” he explained. “It would not be long.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for? There isn’t anything broken aboard – is there?”
“No.” Anton put the mouthpiece back into his mouth, and kept purging out the nitrogen gas from his bloodstream. He continued speaking with the hose in his mouth. “Dr. Somerset said that spectroscope for RPMR-1 is beyond repair. It demands replacement therefore.”
“M-hm. And you thought to cannibalize one from one of the other probes?” Commander Darcy followed up. “That’s some clever thinking, Doctor, I’ll give you that – but how will you get it down to the surface?”
“I still figure that out, to be truthful,” Anton confessed. “Do you have idea?”
“I do not.” Darcy put a hand to his chin. “How long have you been prebreathing?”
“Hour and twenty minutes.”
“That’s plenty long enough. Suit up – and be careful. The ship is still in motion – go straight to the probes, bring only what you need to extract the part, and come straight back as soon as you have it – and do not, I have to stress, do not detach yourself from the tethers.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. “They will save your life – mark my words. I’m sure you’ve had this drilled into your head back in Moscow, but I just feel better making sure you know, so am I clear?”
Anton nodded. “Yes, Commander.”
“That’s good – last thing I want is to lose our only cryogenicist. Now, what was I going to do here? . . .” Commander Darcy lost himself in his thoughts, as he turned back to the terminal on the ‘ceiling.’
Meanwhile, Anton shut off the oxygen tank, took off the mouthpiece, and placed it in an antibacterial bag. He grabbed a marker pen and wrote his name on it – first in Cyrillic, by reflex, then in Latin. Once he was done, he clipped it to the wall. There was a box of spare mouthpieces, but since this was his first spacewalk, and therefore his first prebreathing, he wanted to make sure that his mouthpiece was his – to prevent spreading his own germs around the crew and ship.
Next, Anton grabbed the nearest suit – these Orlans were made all the same, for ease of maintenance far away from home – and slipped inside the hatch in the suit’s back. It was a tight fit, not like the Strauss was, but he made it work. Once he was in, he hinged the life-support backpack shut, clamping the lock once it made contact. These suits were heavy – a hundred kilograms is nothing to scoff at – but that meant almost nil in the microgravity environment of Rhyslinger orbit. He hit a switch to seal and decompress the airlock.
As the pressure dropped, he started reflecting on his almost insane plan to get RPMR-1 back in working order. Yes, of course Dr. Somerset would need to do the act of replacement, but he needed to get the part to him. This was the first step – getting the part. The next one was to get it to Rhysling, and to Adam by extension. Anton had been thinking about that part of the plan for the past several hours – and even here, in the approaching vacuum, he was still considering how he was going to do this.
In the space of a few moments, the airlock was completely empty – judging by the near-lack of noise through his suit. As he moved around the vacuum, all the noises that he would normally hear were greatly muffled, as they now had to travel through the fabric of the suit instead of the free air. Anton rotated the handwheel slowly several times to open the airlock – the door swung inward, revealing a blank black sky. Below him was Altair’s fuel tanks. Above him, Rhysling.
“Altair, this is Konstantinov,” he radioed, as per protocol. “I am exiting the airlock and beginning extravehicular activity. Acknowledge, over.”
“This is Zulu-Alfa,” the reply came at once. “Godspeed, Konstantinov, and stay safe. Out.”
Carefully, Anton started making his way out of the airlock. Once he was fully out, he closed the airlock behind him. He turned downward immediately after leaving, and started heading ‘down’ to the ‘bottom’ of Altair – where all the probes were docked.
RPMR-3 was the sternmost of the three, according to the manual. Not to mention that their shells and heat shields were clearly marked in Cyrillic. Once he got a visual of what he was looking for, he all but beelined to the probe.
The Soviets, as they did with all their other probes, did not make it easy to access them while in-flight – not from inside the ship, nor from outside. This was meant to maintain biosegregation, since the probes themselves were thoroughly sterilized, and ensured that no Earthborne contaminants would make their way to the Rhyslinger surface.
Still, desperation breeds ingenuity – and sometimes ingenuity comes in the form of glinting steel. Once he clamped the tether to the ‘underside’ of Altair, right in front of his prize, Anton grabbed a screwdriver that he brought and started undoing each screw around the heat shield, one by one. Though there at first was a great deal of resistance, as a set of explosive bolts also held it firmly in place, he was determined to get at the probe inside. This one was never supposed to land on Rhysling, not after failing so badly on its initial system check.
Finally, the heat shield started coming away from the rest of the shell, exposing the probe to the naked vacuum of space. The shell was sealed in a vacuum, to prevent air from altering Rhysling’s atmosphere, but here also made sure that Anton wasn’t blown away – even if the tether would prevent that as well. From there, he needed to find which was the ‘front’ and ‘rear’ of the probe – the top and bottom were clear enough, but unfortunately the top was where the spectroscope was located.
Somehow Anton was able to fit the Orlan’s helmet and life-support backpack close enough to see. He started unscrewing the plate, slowly, one fastener at a time. The screwdriver was magnetized, and he stored each bolt inside a pouch on the suit. Finally, after undoing all four, the plate started floating away with the last screw. He stowed the fourth screw with the plate, and the screwdriver for the time being, then carefully started tugging away the instrument’s connections for power and data.
“Vot tak. . . .” He had the spare spectroscope firmly in his gloved hands. He didn’t bother screwing the plate back on, but did reättach the heat shield to the shell, and started making his way back to the airlock. “This is Konstantinov,” he radioed. “Instrument is secure, and I am going back to the airlock, over.”
“Copy Konstantinov, see you soon. Out.”
–·––·
As the sun started descending over the horizon, as it did every evening, Adam returned to the lander – plugging himself in, waiting the two minutes, and stepping back inside – and Antir bade him farewell with a hoof on the window pane. Unfortunately, after trying a few more different jobs, none of them seemed to work out to him – much to their frustration.
After putting the farrier’s offer on the backburner, the next job he had apparently picked was at what appeared to be a spa. This one was run by two equines, whose appearances were so similar yet so opposing – their fur and mane colors were pink and blue on one, and vice versa on the other. Adam surmised that they were related by blood, and so proud of that fact that they took to changing up their appearances just so they would be matching, yet opposite. He observed how they took care of their own patrons – among other things, massages, mud baths, hoof- and horn-filings – so those horns are made of keratin, he realized, and need to be filed down periodically – no doubt for a high price. He did, however, bump into Nǂesell while he was there.
Adam was starting to consider working at the spa more seriously than he had initially intended – if nothing else, the idle chitchat would help further his studies of the Indigenous language, not to mention that he could become much more familiar with their equine anatomy this way. Unfortunately, as safe as his suit’s gloves kept him from any germs penetrating this way or that, he also ran the risk of injuring the patrons, as the flexing was disjointed and could even pinch their skin – for which they could hold the spa liable. And not even just that – he also happened to be there at the same time as Sulfoyarnǃa, who apparently did not take kindly to anyone intruding into her quiet time. In the end, the two equines running it refused his employment politely, leaving him and Antir to move along.
Next was farming, where he ran into that large red equine again. Turns out his question about his relationship with Nyeledirve could be answered with “both” – the fruit farm appeared to be family- or clan-owned and run. Adam watched how these equines harvested the fruit – they carefully arranged several buckets at the bottom of them, then gave the trunk a solid hind kick. Their skills weren’t just with how much force they applied, but arranging the buckets just right, so they caught the most amount of fruit. No doubt they have it down to a science, Adam remembered thinking. It was hard work, to be sure – perhaps too hard work for him, where from kicking the trees’ trunks himself or climbing up the trees to pick the apples right off the branches, he could suffer heat stroke inside his suit – a dangerous situation back on Earth, and almost surely lethal on Rhysling. So farming was right out as well.
But they did have a barn – and in that barn they kept all the fruits they had harvested so far. Alongside those were various products they made with those fruits – fruit preserves, alcohols, and so forth. The alcohols caught Adam’s attention. From what he remembered from his anthropology studies, every civilization on Earth was founded on the fermentation of something, typically some kind of grain or starch. Sumer and Egypt both had wheat and barley, China had rice, Mesoamerica had corn. . . and apparently Rhysling had fruits. Interesting choice to cultivate – how did that come about?
But these were farmers, and as far as he could tell, they could manage inventory on their own just fine. Their livelihoods depended on it, after all. So if they ever made an offer, Antir must have refused it on his behalf, because off he went again to the next and final job.
This turned out to be at a floral shop. After ducking below the doorway, he was greeted with. . . a vacant interior. Vacant, save for a good variety of flowers. Adam pondered what these were meant for – decoration? Or are these edible? Perhaps both? Regardless, Dr. Weiss was going to have a field day with just this shop alone. He felt tempted simply to move the probe right up to the shop, but dismissed it as folly – not only was this a long way from the lander (and he didn’t want to bother Antir with such an odd task), he wasn’t sure how the town’s denizens would react to such an odd contraption.
And yet, another question remained. Were they out for lunch or something? Adam pondered. Call me crazy, but I think it’s rather late for that sort of thing. . . . Finally, one of them poked its head out from behind the counter – then just as quickly hid again. Oh, they’re still not used to me being here. Even so. . . really? Antir tried to reason with them, but they were all convinced of Adam’s dangers. Seriously? You’re the greater danger to me!
Once Antir explained the situation to them, they seemed confused. Apparently to them, he must have been some kind of supernatural creature bent on hunting down these equines. But here he was instead, looking for a job around town. While they spoke, Adam’s mind drifted over to the flowers – some of them seemed out of place for him. So he decided to sort them out himself. He couldn’t read labels, of course, but he could tell where they were intended to be grouped. He simply followed that pattern, fixing it, making sure chaos was shaped into order.
He became acutely aware of their silence just as he was finishing sorting out their flowers. When he slipped the last bouquet of hyacinths into its proper place, he turned around to find all three shopkeepers narrowing their eyes at what he was doing to their wares. Antir seemed to get an idea, and appeared to make an offer for an inventory-keeper. Apparently that was one of their jobs, but naturally Adam was more than capable of staying on top of things. There wasn’t an immediate ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer just yet, however.
As they were leaving the floral shop, he started to realize that, despite Antir’s fatigue with tugging Adam along all day, it seemed like she was gauging him – gauging his knowledge, his skillset, his limitations, anything that could help nail down the perfect job. The last place she dragged him to appeared to be a temp agency of sorts, with several working equines filing in and out – well, mostly out, at this late hour. After what Adam had been doing all day, he had inadvertently proved himself as a capable worker. After Antir spoke at length, seemingly recounting the whole day’s story, they were quick to offer him a space (through her trusty chalkboard) as a temporary inventory counter.
And Adam was all too happy to accept.
But he wouldn’t start his new job right now – they let him off for the day, but told him to be back at a certain time in the morning. Of course, he still had trouble telling time by native units, so he took it to mean ‘sunrise’ – easy to track. Though of course, it means I have to be up early, he thought – and chuckled, as he started on his dinner. Wouldn’t be the first time, either!
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I'm not sure why Adam needs a job in the first place, he has his own food, water, and place to live. The only thing he's using of the locals is their time, but they're not obligated to be around him.
The job thing is truly bizarre and makes no sense. How about "Translator?" "Ambassador?" "Liaison?"
How long until hordes of ponies begin protesting about illegal aliens from outer space coming to Equestria to steal their jobs?
10950925
Celestia wants him to pay taxes since he's living on her land, obviously.
I'd assume that Ponyville grows by cutting in to White Tail Woods, rather than the Everfree Forest. The former is apparently tame while the latter has its rather justified reputation.
Heh. Moral of the story: Don't eat the cream of mushroom soup. Nothing good comes of it.
Wait, the mission has only the one cryogeneticist? I feel like if you'd want redundancy anywhere on the roster, you'd want it with the guy who knows how to defrost everyone else.
Well, they also have baked goods, so they definitely have beer as well. It's just kept off-camera.
I suspect the Everfree's opinion on that is "I have many trees. You have one lumber mill. Let's see which gets devoured by the other first." Far better to log the Whitetail Woods (which Ponyville actually does in the comics.)
In any case, definitely not my first guess for Adam's employers. Let's see how well he can absorb the language as his immersion continues.
Same opinion as Sir Budginton and readsponies, he is an alien, bringing the first step of an extra-planetary meeting. I'm surprised Celestia didn't simply invite him to the castle, as an ambassador, and around scholars, but asked him to get a job. He doesn't speak their language, clearly comes with a mission, and has landed successfully, so it's easy to conclude he is not here by accident and needs special care. Mind you I have still some trouble with English, so it's possible I missed some key elements.
10951068
I agree with them, and honestly im still here because I want to see how it goes once twilight can speak English or Adam can speak pony.
10951070
I feel that. The willing suspension of disbelief is getting harder, as this story tends to be realistic in a lot of ways.
The job is even worse because of the need to be on their local days. How would you like a job where the hours moved 8 hours each day? Plus the need and risks on the suit. It is just silly in every way.
...
again, i must complain about the language barrier
not only because of my previous issues with it, but now also because of this asinine job hunt arc
the two elements just cannot function together
look, Ted, i know you think you're being cool with this premise, but it's just such a fucking asspain that i honestly think the story would have been better off if you went a different direction with it
like, say, having them speak a language that is just shy of being english but has a few strange phrases
that plot idea was ripe for the picking, but you went with this frankly asinine idea instead
you think i like having to complain about this? fuck no, i think the idea of ponies being aliens is such an underutilized idea! but fuck, man, this language barrier is irritating. it's like an author decided to make half the dialogue in their story ancient greek, non-latinized at that, for seemingly no reason besides "they wanted to"
i seriously do want to just enjoy this story, but i can't when i can't even understand half the perspectives in it
10950925
Agreed.
10950925
i'm assuming it's some cultural thing
like how ponies get their cutie marks and just... intrinsically know their purpose in life and society
Today's code is
TESHINANAE.ETARU
The '.' is in fact a full stop/period, so that gives us something to go on with regard to parsing our first sentence.
The first sentence, minus spaces, is
YŪKŌNOMAHŌHAKETSUSHITESHINANAE.
First part is still probably YŪKŌ NO MAHŌ, but that's all I've really got.
Really hoping I've got the code right this time, at least.
Edit: Looking at charts, it appears I've found a bug in the code translator I was using. ".-" is 'i', not 'e'. So the line should be TESHINANAI.ITARU
Our first sentence is YŪKŌNOMAHŌHAKETSUSHITESHINANAI. This is tiring.
Katakana, copied from charts, double-checked:
ユーコーノマホーハケツㇱテㇱナナイ。
At least he hasnt got the job which his total isolation from the enviroment makes him perfect for.
From a Golden Oldie story.
Strikebreaker.
Skip the conlang whatever (whenever the ponies speak) and just read the rest of the Chapter until the Author decides to make everything readable English, i.e. when Adam has learned their language. *sigh*
10950925
Also, using the suit too much will wear it out faster, some moving seal may fail leaking air out (or in) or some mechanical system may fail as well.
But yeah, an alien landed on the planet, does not speak the language, is obviously wearing some kind of environment protection suit, appears to be an explorer with some kind of mission with others depending on him. The best idea Celestia has is "he should do some work for us, in addition to whatever mission he's doing". She probably got the wrong kind of mushrooms delivered that day.
This job hunting arc is really just the strangest thing, honestly. And while 10951131 could have been more polite about it, I agree that it would have made a lot more sense if the language barrier was 'just' shy of being understandable instead of untranslatable gibberish. Or better yet, he could breath the air of the planet, but not for extended periods of time due to the oxygen levels being too pure or something.
Ok, I just found this story and got so excited! First contacts are one of my favourite stories. I've seen many people complaining about the language barrier, but I have the exact opposite problem. The near identical body language, culture and social structure make the barrier an inconvenience at best. Worst of all, there's a story happening BEFORE learning Ukh-!err, or even creating some kind of pidgin language. Like, of course there should be like stuff happening, but the entire reason Adam's there is to learn the language, and he's not even taking notes on common words!
I mean I understand it maybe "Conlang lessons disguised as a fanfic" isn't the thing you were going for, but the first chapter hinted to that very heavily, and I got a little bit disappointed when it turned out to be a HIE story with a conlang.
That reminded me of something from years ago. US military MREs used to contain compressed, freeze-dried fruit bars, and I adored them. They had a delicate, very crisp texture, almost like crumbly styrofoam, which I know sounds awful, but they quickly melted in the mouth and the fruity flavor was intense and (to me) very pleasing. You actually had to eat them pretty quickly after opening the package, or they would start to draw enough moisture from the air to begin losing their crispness.
These were made with a unique process. As I understand, they packed mixed fruit into a bar shape, then freeze-dried it, then moistened it just enough to make it soft and pliable, then compressed the bar into a smaller shape, then freeze-dried it a second time. That got the maximum amount of fruit packed into the absolute minimum size and mass. However, production eventually stopped because the elaborate process was too expensive, and there is no commercial counterpart for the same reason.
>Everfree lumber
There's not really a canon origin I've seen for timberwolves, either. I can't imagine their attitude would improve from becoming a chair.
There is Burnt Oak, who sells firewood, but not sure where he gets it.
Aren't the probes also designed to be dropped (at least when functional)? Going to laugh if the plan is, eventually, to stick it back in and send down a pile of spare parts in the shape of another probe.
10951351
I was wondering about that too. I'm not sure what they could jury rig to get a piece of delicate scientific equipment down to the surface.
Maybe the reentry bits are malfunctioning on the two other probes. An embarrassing number of probes have ended up landing by lithobraking.
So they’re not great at building spacecraft are they? I mean, they’ve had a 0% success rate. The single probe that was actually functioning has needed multiple repairs already.
I would have loved to see a scene where Anton is giving a massage to Nǂesell.
10951016
Only two things are certain in life, on any planet apparently: taxes and death. 🤣
You said "greatly impatient waiting for him". Did you mean "greatly impatiently waiting for him"? Either could work, but it got my attention.
There was another thought or comment I had about this chapter while I was reading it, but sadly, I forgot it.
the immediate premise for this story was an instant and irresistible magnet for drawing my attention, and this latest chapter has successfully made it apparent that that premise was little more than a surface-level gimmick for a painfully generic human in equestria story. if you want to write a story about first contact and language barriers with a fully featured equestrian conlang, please do write one some day. i'd love to read it. as it stands this is just a self-insert human oc meeting the mane six and then meeting celestia and then finding a job and then shenanigans ensue, but with the extra steps of pony dialogue being written entirely in untranslated, untransliterated IPA. i'm doing the main character's job for him at this point, actually taking notes about the language and trying to figure out out. why does the linguist seem so uninterested in this? why is he just playing along with the cliche human-in-equestria story beats? what a disappointment.
My own headcanon has the Everfree Forest as a surviving remnant of a vast forest that once sprawled across what would become Equestria. It would explain why so many wild things and monsters have become concentrated there, pushed into ever-smaller area while pony civilization expands.
10951339
I remember those fruit bars,some of my colleagues used to pour water into the packets to make fruit salad,I liked them straight out of the packet.
Some of us happen to enjoy cream of mushroom soup.
Twenty plus years of military service,and the field rations that go with it,pretty much gave me a cast iron gut anyway.
Forgive me if I'm not as polite in expressing it as the overhwhelming majority of other commenters saying something similar, but this "get a job" thing is completely stupid.
He has a job. He is a linguist for whichever space agency launched the Zodiac-Altair. How exactly is he going to justify to his commander?
"Oh, sorry sir, but I can't perform that mission-critical task you want me to do right now, because I'm too busy counting pens at my Ponyville dayjob."
"Дерьмо, comrade. Why the hell do you have a pony job? Who authorized this? Why didn't you tell us? What prompted you to do this without approval?"
"Uhh...I really wanted to buy a souvenir watch?"
No. This is dumb.
He can't speak the local language. He's in a containment suit. He has no local knowledge or skills. He doesn't have a cutie mark. He's twice their size and has different biology and isn't going to fit in chairs or be able to use their pens or whatever other tools they expect him to use. He's going to scare customers. He's going to be a complete and utter inconvenience to whatever job they have him doing.
Why would the ponies even want him working? Even if they're such die-hard capitalists that they insist on extracting value at every opportunity, employing him in menial labor is a compete and utter waste when they could be trying to acquire technology from an advanced space-faring race. Or perhaps plying him with creature comforts so that he reports to his superiors in the scary, unknown, technologically advacned alien race that the natives are friendly and maybe shouldn't be bombed out of existence. Or perhaps invited to stay at Canterlot and assigned an entire team of linguists so that they can learn the language so they can have a negotiations advantge over the other Equestrian races. Something that him having a day job is not going to make easier.
The only thing that makes sense is that this is some sort of cultural issue. Perhaps males are an underclass, and the matriarchal society finds it so offensive that a male not be engaged in petty labor that they're getting him a job so he doesn't wind up burned at the stake by angry vilagers. Is that really the angle you're going for here?
None of this makes sense. It's been done a bazillion times. And from the comments, I don't think anybody really wants to read about him counting pens and doing inventory management.
I implore you, have it all be a silly misunderstaning. Maybe the ponies never wanted him working at all. Maybe they were simply asking about his profession in the way they might politely inquire about a cutie mark, and he completely misunderstood. Maybe none of these visits Twilight took him on were job interviews, maybe she was just introducing him to to ponies around town so they'd be less scared of him and he completely misunderstood what was going on. Maybe when he shows up to what he thinks is a job, the ponies will look at him like he's crazy because it never even occured to them to demand that the strange alien in a lifesuit from an unknown, technologically advanced space-faring civilization "get a job."
It's not too late to salvage this.
I, myself, had at first thought that he was being passed around to the different places and shown different jobs so that there could be information bleed from the more technologically advanced to the less.
The temp agency thing, and the idea of him doing inventory seems a bit...well...lacking.
There was a story I read, long ago, where a human empire bumped into another human-inhabited world. They met someone wearing what was to them advanced tech and asked how it worked. The human using it had no idea, and they concluded that the humans here had fallen into a dark age.
It turned out that the human had no idea the same way that the average person on the street wouldn't know how to make stone tools.
The offering of jobs might be used to see what the humans can/can't do, but the jobs being offered are on the level of 1800's work and they are being offered to one of 50 humans chosen out of 7B humans to arrive here.
10952222
Hit it right on the head.
Some of y'all be lacking in your reading skills and hating astro-boy getting a job. Perhaps thinking of their skill based society and jobs? They know he's: smart(landed a rocket) , good at math(first contact), sorting was the first demistrated skill he gave outside what couldve been simple math to them.
Maybe also think about how limited contact is to them, and how limited he is inside the suit. Or how he'll have to tell his crew about their culture? Even working a smiple job as that could raise their appeal enough to allow the rest to land? How is he gonna tell them what kind of work they can do culturally? Radio signals hurt unicorns, remember? Maybe thry'll have to stop using heavy tech until they get permits from the crowns?
Author you're doing a killer job setting elements up. Ignore the people with 0 reading skills.
I think it's pretty obvious that Twilight's attempt to get him a job are due to either some sort of cultural misunderstanding or twilight being twilight. Notably, I'm not sure the ponies entirely realize why he wears the suit. Perhaps twilight thinks he's a germaphobe recluse and wants to socialize him better; maybe she interpreted some edict from celestia about welcoming him to ponyville to mean they should fully integrate him. In any case, it's perfectly believable he'd do what the aliens want him to do-- he understands that they care about performing exchanges, and he doesn't want to cause offense. Plus, this enables the beginning of a formalized trade relationship.
The twist: this ISN'T Equestria! THEY ARE ACTUALLY DEMONS AND WILL TRICK HIM INTO SIGNING A CONTRACT HE THINKS IS FOR A JOB, BUT IT'S ACTUALLY GIVING HIS SOUL TO DISCORD... who is actually the Devil, and even plays a fiddle!
This makes lots of sense!
10950998 Ponies don't want no freeloadin' space monkey sittin' around breathing their... er... I guess he's not breathing it... well then, absorbing their valuable divine sunshine! That costs bits, ya know! .... DON'T QUESTION IT!!!
10950925
Seconding. Presumably, as has been stated, this is a test or misunderstanding of some sort. There are few other scenarios which make logical sense.
But, remember the clock that Adam was eyeballing. There are things to be bought - and, he's parked on their land, so he'd be expected to pay land tax in a number of scenarios.
The cost of living solves a number of things... especially since Adam cannot provide competitive work stuck inside the suit, is physically weaker than, physically less able than (he has no wings and no "magic"), and unable to understand the language of the people here.
Meaning that his money would likely have the presumed cost of living taken out as logical compensation, leaving him only with the spending money to save and spend.
10958213
Or they're going to charge him rent and pay him in script rather than bits, till he owes his soul... To the company store.
In the comic books there was a lumberyard near the everfree. Emphasis on was becuse the yard manager was dangerously overharvesting for profit and the Deer who live in the forest fucked him up with help from main 6
In the right places, that idea doesn't sound too bad; for a time of anticipation and thrill!
I think you made the right call in not slowing down the pace here, though, because our linguists narrative was moving fairly fast.
I'm interested to see what sort of job Adam finally ends up with.
Okay this job arc is ridiculous and so out of place. The guy literally cannot speak, read, or understand their language at his current state. Man got scolded for sprinting in his suit before, and now he's gonna do even more mission detrimental shit for crying out loud. Has he given up on doing his actual job as a linguist? His ass should be on fire trying to learn and decipher the alien language in a timely manner. Did the cryo guy defrost his brain wrong? The studious purple horse also feels like out of character. If you are so eager to rush the literal space alien to get a job, at least try to help a bit with his glaring problem of communication first?
All that detail, research and exposition in the beginning made for a realistic approach nullified, because of the author's questionable narrative choices. Who cares how accurate and realistic the space suit parts and other details are when the story isn't convincing?