Warp & Woof: Chapter Three
A science-fiction serial
Warp and woof (warp and weft): (from dictionary.com) The essential foundation or base of any structure or organization; from weaving, in which the warp — the threads that run lengthwise — and the woof — the threads that run across — make up the fabric.
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And now the third chapter:
Warp & Woof
Chapter Three:
Cтрелки
(The Strelki)
Galina
All those years ago, they loaded the first families onto the fleet and sent with them a consensus of what it meant to be Russian, or so Warp’s mother had once said. Ever since, there have been two threads of thought. They’re not factions; neither thread is militant, and neither is really a side one takes over another. These two thoughts rise and fall like waves passing through our generations. One thought says that we must preserve all that we know of Mother Russia and maintain that legacy across a sea of stars. The other says we cannot know the Russia we left behind, and even if we could, their culture would have evolved into something our fathers never predicted. Our job is not to fossilize the past but to grow out of it. The Russia-that-was is the soil; we are the tree.
Doctor Galina Popov listened without comment as Warp talked.
“If the Strelki are the tree, Tret’ya is the pruned branch,” he continued, “and we are the last of its fruit to rot.”
Before their first session, Galina conducted her research on the survivors and their families; she knew what parts of his life Warp was open about and which ones he concealed. He talked about his mother’s position and rank, but never her name, not once. She was Svetlana Tereshkova. He avoided mentioning his father, Oleg. (Warp was the second of his name.) His father—a member of Tret'ya’s Command—abandoned his family, and Warp had edited him out of his life. Maybe that wasn’t pertinent to her immediate objective, but she found it interesting.
Over the month that it took the dog embryo to gestate, Warp had become her best patient. He gave her more than his trust and placed upon her an innocent and complete faith. Maybe for that reason, she never asked about his father. She knew if she asked, he’d tell her, whether he was ready or not.
The month prior had been something else entirely, in those weeks while Svetlana still lived. Those caught within a single chrysalis hadn’t died immediately but lingered, trapped in a sleep from which they never awoke. The neural evidence of traumatic dreams stubbornly persisted, and conventional treatments failed. Expertise preserved across centuries proved impotent. All the people’s cavalry and all the people’s army couldn’t put them back together again.
For those patients related to conscious survivors, which only meant Svetlana and Zasha’s fiance, Galina suggested a bold experiment.
“The other heads balked, citing ethical concerns,” she told Warp, “but your mother will suffer no more and no less due to what I propose. The difference is whether we participate in that suffering.”
“Participate?”
“Eventually, they saw I was right.”
“What are you recommending, exactly?”
“I want to wean your mother off the drugs and apply a neural blocker. It will keep her from moving and dissociate her from any physical pain, but the crux of her suffering is mental.”
“Why? To what end?”
“To communicate,” she said. “As doctors, we’ll get a better understanding of what they’re experiencing; as family, you’ll get to say goodbye.”
“She’d be awake?”
“Probably not, but any unconscious state won’t be medically induced. I’m pulling back as much of the veil as I can, but I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to reach through.”
“And the suffering?”
“She did a great deal of talking before the drug regiment was introduced, and it’s likely that will resume. If so, it won’t be easy to hear.”
He blinked and ran a hand across his eyes. “I want to hear my mother’s voice again.”
Not like this, Galina thought but then said: “We can make that happen.”
Galina had heard their babbling cries, and their words, like invading armies, had laid siege to her mind. She made the unilateral decision to medically deepen their comas, a decision the other heads quickly supported. What she’d heard of their suffering haunted her, and others might have kept the victims silent for as long as they lived, but each word left a question that would never be answered if they weren’t brave enough to hear.
So she stated her case. She didn’t lie, but at the same time, she could never say enough. To propose the possibility was to mislead and understate; there could be no other way. She asked, and Warp gave his consent, as did Zasha. No one else had family lingering.
In his Diary of a Writer, Fyodor Dostoyevsky claimed the Russian soul was “suffering, ever-present and unquenchable, everywhere and in everything.” For every human being, however, there was always a limit to how much torment they could take, even for a Russian.
What did being Russian mean for a citizen of the Strelki? Galina thought she knew a little of how Svetlana might answer, although the scope of her knowledge was confused between what she’d heard and the dreams Galina, herself, had woken from in the night, her gown clinging in patches of sweat. They intertwined with her waking thoughts, like vines choking out a flower, and she hoped that in hearing Svetlana again, she might better separate the two. She’d gain insight into the mental world of the victims of the Tret'ya disaster, and she’d regain her own thoughts as distinctly her own.
In former times, the first families entered the fleet and brought with them a consensus that to be Russian meant Orthodox Christianity, although no longer the meat of the meal, it had been the herb that flavored everything. Being Russian also meant being a skeptic and a philosopher who pondered the deep meanings of life and questioned the answers others so readily proffered. It meant the unbreakable bonds of friendship and family; almost no earthly force could overcome them, and yet never once had Warp mentioned his father, who had still lived at the time of the disaster.
He wouldn’t like what he was about to hear, and Galina hated her willingness to have him hear it.
#
Later in their stay aboard the Pervoye, the survivors would have their own apartments decorated to their tastes, even replicating what they’d lost, if they so wished. They’d have access to the scope of the ship, at least to the extent of any average citizen, but in those early days, Command limited their exposure. When Galina came for Warp, the other survivors watched him leave the confinement of their assigned space, much (she imagined) like inmates watching another prisoner depart on furlough. No matter the emotional trauma that awaited, they’d envied him, but Zasha watched with less jealous eyes; her time was coming soon.
Galina moved Svetlana to a private room, a luxury that hadn’t been necessary when the victims were kept silent. Her bed lay within a circle of cameras, ready to record every word and every facial gesture. Once Svetlana began to speak, it seemed doubtful Warp would allow the experiment to continue, and a condition placed by the other heads was that the patient would be returned to her deep state immediately upon the family’s request. Galina couldn’t know if she had minutes or only seconds, and every word spoken or mouthed in voiceless horror had to be preserved and studied.
As always, she recorded Svetlana’s brain activity, and she hoped by repetition of phrases (and if prior experience meant anything, there would be repetition) she might be able to map vocal expressions with their cognitive counterparts. Those cognitive recordings, when compared against records from other mental diseases, present and past, would offer a better understanding of the victims’ shared dilemma; and when compared to brain scans of the survivors, a prognosis for survival could be established.
She opened the door, and Warp ran to his mother’s side, the wrappings that guarded her radiation burns acting as a talisman, warding off his touch, but Galina would not have interfered if he’d held her. For however much longer Svetlana lived, neither physical pain nor healing was her concern.
Galina brought Warp a stool, a small token of kindness for the condemned, and asked if he was ready. When he nodded, she modified the flow of Svetlana’s drugs. Then she stepped back, out of the way of the cameras, and waited.
—Thaddeus Thomas
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Thanks for sharing this with us
This is terrific writing. I love the way your mix the exotic feeling of sci-fi with the literary analysis of the Russian soul quoting Dostoyevsky. I think you're doing an excellent job of embuing your characters with those qualities.