by Purple Hazel
And speaking of health, showers were required once every galactic week, which was effectively every seven Earth days, though crewmembers did not experience time in the same manner as folks back home. Clocks showed the current time of course, based on Greenwich Mean Time, but a twelve-hour work shift was really only six hours to the people working on Santa Maria. Thus, crew men and women had plenty of “free time” to enjoy themselves however they wished, even if their options were necessarily somewhat limited.
Because of this, many sought out fellow crewmembers for comfort as often as possible; and though pretty much everyone knew who had been with whom by year five, most everyone did strive to remain as discrete as possible with their casual liaisons, given the circumstances of their rather confined existence.
The showers themselves were quite different than most had ever experienced. They were officially called Hygiene Chambers, but no one really called them that. Banks of them existed, with no differentiation according to gender. There was merely a unisex changing area and booths one could walk inside. Crewmembers could then activate a switch that sealed them inside and a dry cleaning powder would be sprayed over their bodies which adhered to pores in the skin and cleaned out bacteria, leaving the body in near-pristine condition from head to toe. Upon completion, blowers inside activated and vacuumed the body of all the dry residue accumulated on their bodies.
Body and facial hair could also be removed by activating a laser on the skin to be absorbed by the melanin in their hair follicles; basically manipulating the wavelength of light and the pulse duration to successfully target specific tissue. This clever automation was a good way to stay clean longer and be somewhat less offensive to fellow crewmembers during those long days in between showers.
During sessions in the Hygiene Chambers, crewmembers experienced no real change in body temperature and the entire process took only a few minutes. Blood, feces, sweat, hair, and body oils were all removed, leaving the body squeaky clean; then a soothing mist would be applied which rehydrated the exterior to prevent dry skin or chafing. Leaving the shower, a person would thus feel quite refreshed and exhilarated.
Not surprisingly, these showers became a popular place for people to meet up for a shag at nearly every hour of the day. It became the norm; and Captain Berwick, being in his mid-thirties at the time of launch, fully anticipated this.
He politely looked the other way. These were hard-working scientists and engineers, after all. No diseases. All of that had been tested before they even prepared for launch, so there was no real threat of epidemic. “Hey, if the kids wanna play, let ’em,” is what the Captain always said. “Just be sure you’re ready for work come time for your next shift...that’s all I ask.” Tommy Berwick always seemed to have a natural sense for what was a possible threat to security—and usually knew when to let things go.
Of course, dereliction of duty was not permitted. Moreover, such a thing could be detrimental to ship’s morale. Thus, it was far wiser to allow these young people to blow off some steam once in a while. Or as Tommy put it, in his thick English accent, “Hey, when they’re on the pull, let ’em drain their balls, if they wanna. What do I care?” This, of course, flew right in the face of military regulations outlawing fraternization among crewmembers on an active vessel.
That being said: straight or gay, female or male, everyone had needs to fulfill, and the Captain certainly appreciated that as much as anyone else. Because of this, crewmembers often had relations with several different crewmembers during those first five years. Just who and when and how many times...things like that didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things—at least, that’s what the Captain believed.
“Get your dirty business taken care of, and get on with your duties, mate,” is what Berwick often said, even when he’d walk in on a couple having sex in the shower. He didn’t care really. No one did, in fact. It kept people sane after all...or at least relatively stable, if nothing else.
Chapter 11
Year Ten
Not everyone was satisfied with these occasional diversions though. Shower hookups couldn’t fulfill everyone’s psychological needs, and that was an unfortunate inevitability. Because of that, crew men and women were bound to turn to other activities—or substances—to relieve their boredom. Young-Min Jo discovered this early on, in fact, as he, just like Ozzie and Shamiso, reached puberty and learned from other adult crewmembers quite a bit about how they were coping with the oppressive loneliness and occasional despair otherwise normal people might experience inside a galactic space vessel.
He was assigned to the hydroponic garden center and there he found, to his chagrin, that some of his colleagues had carefully smuggled Cannabis seeds inside plastic bags hidden in their rectums. From this “stash” he learned, they intended to grow marijuana plants carefully concealed within the massive gardens onboard the ship, then later turn them into Cannabis resin for human consumption. Not surprisingly, the garden became an increasingly popular place to visit for many crewmembers trying to cope with the mundaneness of space travel.
Within five years of launch, the garden was discretely producing newer, more potent strains of marijuana every six months or so; and the staff working in the garden center were developing edible variations to give participating crewmembers their desired medication. It eventually became the worst-kept secret on the Santa Maria. Even Captain Berwick, of all people, became a regular customer, though he had couriers up on the command bridge to act as go-betweens so no one would actually see him acquiring it.
Frankly, the whole operation was considered hush-hush right from the start; and open discussions of what was really going on in the garden was frowned upon, even as the voyage continued into its tenth year. Additionally, not every officer onboard approved of it. Kelvin, for one, established this early on with his team handling the matter pod launches. Ironically enough, even given his own past, he was diametrically opposed to it; and personally shunned its use. If there was marijuana being grown on the Santa Maria, people were bound to be abusing it one way or another. He, of course, knew that better than anyone.
“Show up to work high, and you’re out of here,” he’d warn them on occasion. “I’ll bust you down to cleaning detail and you’ll be scrubbin’ shit off the walls for the next ten fuckin’ years if I even think you’re wasted while on duty.” To his relief he only had to enforce this once...and the replacement he chose? Why, Ozzie Guerrero of course! Biologically only fifteen years old by year ten of the mission, he was already 1.8 meters tall and physically fit from head to toe. Rock solid might be an even better term for it; and he very well should have been, too. He and Kelvin were regular workout buddies at the ship’s athletic center.
But Young-Min Jo was also just as impressive on board when compared to young officers like Ensign Guerrero. His innate grasp of chemistry grew by leaps and bounds when surrounded by such incredibly bright young men and women. And his adaptations for the food distribution system, or chow line as the crew humorously called it, made him something of a folk hero on board. That alone set him apart from others working in his hydroponic garden section who quite likely expected to secretly grow pot and get stoned practically every waking hour during the journey to Kapteyn B.
Not Young-Min though. He saw an opportunity to better the lives of practically everyone else on the ship; and that’s essentially what he spent most of his spare time working on, forsaking most other recreational activities in the process.
Chemically altering and mixing plant hybrids then introducing cannabis into the process was no small feat after all. Splicing plants like tomatoes with marijuana and combining the roots in a grow pot, the marijuana leaves would eventually die and fall off, he learned. Then the roots of the cannabis indica plant would take over the rest of the process, infusing the resulting fruit or vegetable with THC. Indica proved to be the best strain for this purpose, he discovered. Mangos could be used. Potatoes…also strawberries and other fruits, he found!
But
it wasn’t as simple as merely growing marijuana-hybrid tomatoes, tomatillos, green beans, spinach, carrots, squashes, yams, and citrus fruits; then serving them on buffet lines to hungry crew members desiring a little help from Mother Nature to get through the day. He had to freeze-dry produce and override the system if necessary whenever the computer detected substances like cannabis introduced along with them. Nevertheless, he pulled it off, and once accomplished, those crewmembers desiring medication of one sort or another got their daily doses applied at meal time, without ever having to pay a visit to the garden in person. Accomplishing this elevated Young-Min to the status of celebrity amongst his fellow crewmembers.
Very soon thereafter, wherever he’d go, people would greet him warmly and enthusiastically. “Hey Doc!” they’d holler toward him. Or they’d call him Dr. McCoy, which he dearly loved as a nickname, once Tommy Berwick explained who that character was from American pop culture. It was far better than ensign anyway. No one besides the Captain ever really called him Ensign Jo anymore. Certainly not by year five. He was more popular on board the Santa Maria than he’d been back at the orphanage!
Besides, it was a hell of a lot safer there than in those gloomy dormitory hallways back in Uxbridge…
* * * *
Meanwhile, back on Earth, his twin brother Kwang-Min was approaching age twenty in Earth years, and sure enough, just like the Space Programme staffers had predicted ten years earlier, he’d been plucked from that ugly orphanage outside Toronto right when he’d turned thirteen.
Admitted into the Government Program for Gifted Children, he’d been sent to a plush dormitory filled with bright teenagers from all over North America and put through intense studies to train him for a career in chemical engineering. Not surprisingly, he’d excelled in chemistry right from the start, and that was rather timely in that large pharmaceutical companies by 2096 were in desperate need of young talent coming out of college, for the very culture of societies within the Global Alliance of Nations was changing—and changing rather quickly all around him.
North Americans, after sixty-eight years recovering from and struggling through daunting challenges such as the Great Collapse and its aftermath, then experiencing those exciting decades of recovery and the boom which followed, had by now become avid consumers of pharmaceutical drugs. Advances in science had paved the way for this and most everyone from every generation seemed to embrace this new reality as well as the opportunity for relief from their stressful lives. Drugs could seemingly solve all their problems these days—and with little or no side effects. Besides, even if there were any side effects, there was a drug for that as well.
If concocted in just the right formula, a better quality of life could be had by simply taking just the right pills or combination of them in such a way as to maintain the proper attitude and outlook on life at practically any moment. The working classes, both white collar and blue, soon accepted this modern verisimilitude. Social stigmas associated with pharmaceuticals dissipated more and more as the years passed. It was the same in Europe too. By 2096, most people fervently believed there was a drug for darn near any problem, challenge, malady, or condition.
This was the world Kwang-Min was entering into by his late teens and he could see it unfolding around him every day. Impotence? There was a drug for that. Erectile dysfunction? Sex drive deficiencies? Low testosterone? Depression? Mood swings? Obesity? Bloating? Infertility? Premenstrual Syndrome? Birth Control? Yes, they had a drug—or likely several—for most all of those. Need to concentrate better at work or in school? There was a drug for that. Need to sleep better? Oh yes, they had a drug to accomplish that as well and by now, addictive narcotics were almost a thing of the past.
If it needed to be engineered, chemists seemed able to come up with a new formula for it. And every year, earnings reports from Big Pharma were growing by leaps and bounds. New drugs were being announced every six months or so. More were in the works as well. Kwang-Min saw this going on and seized upon it. Because of this, in his free time, he forsook everything, including dating, to grow his own little smuggling operation by bringing in cheaper, generic versions of already popular drugs and selling them on the streets of Toronto.
He even used a network of former city kids to re-package the drugs into mock-ups of the real thing. These were young people who’d been dumped into society and working at menial jobs, barely scraping by. He turned many of them into distributors—along with their girlfriends in some cases—and even a few of them into enforcers to protect his distribution network from competition as well as detection by the authorities.
It was unethical and, of course, illegal. He, more than anyone, had the intelligence to know better. Nonetheless, he built it into a going concern by age twenty. He had couriers and the necessary muscle to oversee and protect them, spread out across the Toronto area and even made runs to cities as far away as Hamilton and Ottawa. They’d travel Highway 401 down to New Detroit, or journey across Lake Erie to Cleveland on freight ships. Then, when they needed to get to New York, they’d slip across the old U.S. border at Niagara Falls and make their way into the now heavily industrialized city of Buffalo.
And yet with the creation of each layer of go-betweens and lowly mules doing his deliveries, it became more and more difficult to peg him as the ultimate source for this operation. Truth was, most people working for him at the lowest levels never even knew his name.
All he really needed—certainly by the year 2096 at least—was a means of going legit, at least on the surface, so that he could break into the highly profitable world of Big Pharma and become a major player in the international arena. “Better living through chemicals...that’s what it’s all about,” he’d comment on occasion to his minions working the streets with his generic pills smuggled in from China, India, Afghanistan, and Pakistan. His subordinates would laugh and nod obediently every time he’d say that. It was an old expression that went back a hundred and forty years or so, but it was still timely even in this modern era.
They loved him; all those fellow former orphans working for him. He was helping them get their bills paid while more specifically providing them a way out. Meanwhile, with every passing month, Kwang-Min was quite literally raking in the Euros as couriers delivered pouches of contraband and returned with drop-offs of cold, hard cash…
* * * *
Not so with Young-Min, however. His operation—run by fellow chemical engineers in the hydroponic garden and focused on achieving maximum efficiency for the rest of the crew—was comparatively aboveboard by year ten of the mission. Approved by the Captain, though not officially by any stretch of the imagination, and participated in by many among the crew, the garden was serving almost everyone a regular dose of Tetrahydrocannabinol to make their dreary seven-day work weeks both bearable and tolerable.
Because of this, sex was not the only drug on board people could rely upon. For some that was simply not an option anyway. More than a few didn’t have the looks or the personality for pursuing it; let alone the patience.
But THC? Now that was a whole other ball of wax. It could now be had by simply scanning the palm of their hand in the chow line, and rehydrated food laced with goodies from the garden would be discretely conveyed to them, right along with their daily calorie allotments. A little dose of happiness, perhaps. A little help staying relaxed. A way to sweep away their blues for a while. It was a far cry from what his twin brother was doing back on Earth!
Of course, weed and casual sex weren’t the only possible methods of relief available to the crew of Santa Maria. No, Space Programme had certainly thought ahead when designing the craft. The design team knew that for some of the more driven among the crewmen and women, the urge to achieve satisfaction and emotional balance would lead to needs for physical release. For that reason, the ship’s athletic center was a terribly popular venue on the Santa Maria.
This facility was a huge area designed with elliptical workout equipment, weight training machines, and aerobic dan
ce programs for those inclined to sweat out their stress while maintaining proper physical fitness. Practically everyone went there regularly, and what’s more, absolutely everyone was required to perform a minimum of five 30-minute cardio sessions every week just to prevent muscle atrophy. That said, most crewmembers found the place to be a decent social gathering place at the very minimum and went there several times a week if not every day to meet up with friends.
Artificial gravity existed throughout most of the ship of course, but the gravity inside the athletic center was enhanced to replicate the effects of surface gravity on Kapteyn B. Thus, a thirty-minute workout, or even a twenty-minute aerobics program, would exhaust most anyone—even Kelvin or Ozzie, who were physically-fit and working in strenuous jobs to begin with. But there was another good reason for regular visits from the rest of the crew. The athletic center also had virtual reality rooms next door which replicated scenes from movies or situational conflicts that required active movement.
These enclosed chambers were a great way to get or stay in shape, and most of the crew loved them immensely. They were quite popular and usually had people signing up for reserved use days in advance.
A Virtual Reality Chamber or VRC was essentially a large circular room with a six-meter tall ceiling and thirty-square meter interior. The surface activated an electrified field which allowed the occupant or occupants to run, jump, crawl, swim, or whatever the program required of them. The rounded walls, high ceiling, and pixelated floor then combined to depict a three dimensional world where the player could reenact a battle scene, sports challenge, or crisis situation like a natural disaster. Players could even program science fiction monsters or Earth predators for hunting, or to be hunted by, and have to chase or elude them to advance to higher levels.