Chapter Text
The year 4817 is a year of many things. For some, it is stressful. For others, a chance to relax. And for one young man, it is both in equal measure.
Dirk Strider stands aboard a decent-sized sailboat, gazing out from the prow like the captain in some pirate movie that Jake would probably like, because he likes every movie, who is he kidding? He is far from land, far enough that, whatever direction he turns, all he can see is choppy blue water. The sky is bright and streaked with thin swirls of cirrus clouds, a lighter blue hemisphere resting atop the darker one like the halves of a Fabergé egg.
At the helm stands Dad Crocker. As it turns out, in addition to being a consummate businessman and amateur baker, he is a capable sailor. Dirk is quite literally learning the ropes from him.
"My pop-pop loved to take me on the water when I was a lad," the elder Crocker exposits. (Dirk adamantly refuses to call him Dad. They are not related.) "Back then he lived in Mississippi, and we would fly down to visit him on holidays. He taught me everything I know, and I'm happy to pass that knowledge on to you."
Dirk nods and pulls the sheets to stay their course.
They're headed for nowhere in particular, just sailing out into the Bay of Turtles until one of Dirk's friends inevitably blows their cover and they have to move on again.
"It's been so long since I've been able to get on the water," Mr. Crocker continues. "I always wanted to take Jane, back on the old planet, but with her schooling and my job and CrockerCorp's meddling, I never got the chance."
"No offense, Mr. Crocker, but I came out here to be by my lonesome, not to be talked at ad nauseam."
"Then why did you invite me along?"
"Because you're the only person I know who can operate a sailboat."
"I'm still shocked that you don't know how," Mr. Crocker remarks, "seeing as you lived your whole life out in the middle of the ocean."
"Well, what can I say," Dirk replies. "I was busy reading Voltaire and Derrida and building robots."
To tell the truth, Dirk is afraid of the ocean. He hates the fathomless depths of it, the endless, suffocating blue beneath his feet. He hates the way it can swallow him up in itself, keeping him from breathing in its dark waters. He fears the ocean in the same way that he fears his mind: he does not want to get lost in it.
So he breaks it into manageable pieces. Keep the surface for his skipping rocks and his fishing and his books and thoughts; leave the unplumbed depths for sharks to lurk in.
"Speaking of Voltaire," says Dirk, "have you, perchance, read 'Candide'?"
"Can't say that I have," shrugs Mr. Crocker. "What's it about?"
"It's about a sentiment with which I believe John would concur, were he an intellectual. Candide is a naiive young man who has the mistaken belief that everything is necessarily for the best. Over time and misfortune, he tries to uphold his belief, but it collapses in the face of the great travesty that is existence."
"That sounds like an awfully depressing book," says Mr. Crocker.
"On the contrary; it's incredibly amusing. The contrast between Candide's unceasing optimism and the savage unfairness of life is played for laughs and for sarcasm, not for misery. Plus, the message is not a complete contradiction to everything being for the best; in short, not everything is for the best, but the best may come from anywhere. The end of the book gives the lesson that life may be hard, but we must attend it with hope and good nature. We must tend to our garden, as it were. As such, 'Candide' is one of the more lighthearted existential takes I have read."
"Why, what have you read?"
"Oh, a great many things," Dirk says. "I had nothing but time with which to educate myself. You name a great classic work of literature, I've probably read it. In particular, I'm partial to Kafka, Lovecraft, Cicero, and Jane Austen."
"Jane Austen?" parrots Mr. Crocker. She's the one name he recognizes. "Forgive me for saying, but she doesn't strike me as your literary type."
"Her stories highlight the absurdity of the society in which she lived. Absurdism is one of my favorite literary genres, as you may have been able to tell from my mentioning Kafka."
Mr. Crocker nods, pretending he understands. He's not a particularly well-read man; he prefers newspapers to books. They're easier to carry and quicker to finish. And he's never heard of Kafka. But he's no stranger to trying to understand a young person's interests despite his own lack of knowledge in the field. He did stage a scavenger hunt for Jane's fourteenth birthday, after all. It wasn't particularly difficult, but then Mr. Crocker is no detective, amateur or otherwise. He's a straightforward fellow, saying what's on his mind (unless, of course, it might hurt someone's feelings, which he fears voicing his lack of knowledge might do for Dirk) and not prone to secrets, though he does enjoy a bit of japery thanks to the influence of his family.
Dirk continues in this way, extolling the relatability of Fitzwilliam Darcy, until Mr. Crocker interrupts him.
"Look at the fish!"
They are not fish, exactly, but a species more genetically similar to axolotls, cavorting at some times in the water and others in the air. Their cheek gills evolved into a secondary set of fins that allow them brief moments of flight as they jump. They are, frankly, adorable.
Dirk simply nods and adjusts the boom.
"Incredible creatures, aren't they?" Mr. Crocker's voice is strident, just a little too loud for Dirk's sensitive ears. "The fauna on this planet never cease to astound me."
"What did I say about talking at me ad nauseam?"
Mr. Crocker looks equal parts peeved and put out. "That wasn't very polite of you, Mr. Strider," he reprimands.
"Oh, my apologies," says Dirk as genuinely as he can manage. "I didn't intend to offend your sensibilities."
He simply nods, eyes shaded by the brim of his hat.
"You're an odd duck, Dirk. But I like you."
Dirk is genuinely surprised. "Why?"
"Why like you? Well, what's not to like?" Mr. Crocker chuckles. "You're obviously a well-educated and well-mannered young man. You've been a pleasant, if taciturn, companion so far on this sailing trip. And Jane speaks very highly of you."
"She does?" It takes an effort of will for Dirk to keep from expressing his astonishment to its fullest degree. Despite his rigid self-training, a little leaks out.
"She does indeed. Jane finds you to be a brilliant young man and a dedicated friend."
A dedicated friend. Who would have thought? All Dirk can think of is how horrible of a gift his deceptive copy of Detective Pony had been. It was made of his own self-interests, crafted with nary a thought as to what Jane might appreciate. Jane does not have an interest in philosophy or literature (so far as Dirk knows).
He relates as much to Mr. Crocker, who ponders on it.
"I think..." says Mr. Crocker, "I think what matters when it comes to gift-giving is less the content of the gift and more that a gift was given. Sure, an appropriate gift will be more readily received, but the sentiment still remains: you care enough about my daughter to give her something, and moreover, to give her something you yourself made."
Dirk nods in silence. For a while, the only sounds are the rushing of the wind and the splashing of the waves.
"May I read it?"
"Pardon?" asks Dirk.
"May I read your rendition of Detective Pony?" Mr. Crocker clarifies.
"Oh, I, um, it's not, I doubt it would be terribly interesting to you," Dirk stammers. "I wouldn't consider it worth your while."
Mr. Crocker maintains a stern fatherly demeanor. "That's for me to decide, I would think."
"To be frank, it embarrasses me. It's far from my best work, and I dislike the disjointed nature of the beginning. It's about as disjointed as a contortionist, all tangled up and motionless. You'd need to hire twenty-four chiropractors to get it back in shape, that's how disjointed it is."
Mr. Crocker nods silently. "You can decline, if you wish."
"Oh no, that would be impertinent of me," Dirk protests. "If you wish to read it, you may. I wouldn't deign to stop you."
"It is your book, for a certain sense of ownership. I wouldn't read it if you didn't want me to."
"I don't-" Dirk groans. "Let me be more straightforward. You may read it, though I would prefer if you didn't. It's up to you. Oh, but you'd have to ask Jane. She has the only copy. Perhaps I should preserve it somehow..." he muses.
They lapse into an uncertain silence.
Mr. Crocker decides to break the ice. "So, who is Kaf-"
As he speaks, the boat runs aground with a shudder. Both passengers are thrown forward, stumbling. Dirk swears.
"Watch your language," chides Mr. Crocker.
Dirk stares at him for a wordless minute, then looks away.
Unknowingly, the pair has stumbled into a shallow region of water near a fault line. Volcanic activity has created mounds of igneous rock brushing just below the surface, and in one instance, above. They have run aground on this small, rocky island, hardly thirty feet long and twenty wide. It is sparsely populated with plant life: the occasional tuft of grass and a single, very brave tree.
They have lunch on the tiny isle.
"I want to build a house here," Dirk says as he polishes off his sandwich.
Mr. Crocker stares at him askance. "I beg your pardon?"
"I want to build a house here," he repeats, enunciating crisply.
"I heard you the first time. I was simply befuddled by your statement."
"Why?"
"Why would you want to build a house here, of all places? It's a tiny island in the middle of the ocean, very hard to reach except by accident, nowhere near any of your friends, with hardly any signs of life in sight!"
Dirk tilts his head. "You answered your own question."
Mr. Crocker flings his arms into the air, though not without an air of good nature. He is not one to upset easily; his temper is as solid as rock and as slow to change. Dirk is the unstoppable force and Mr. Crocker is the immovable object.
"What?" Dirk asks defensively.
"Nothing, I'm simply befuddled by your wanting to live here. The reasons I gave for why most people wouldn't want to live here are apparently your reasons for wanting to."
Dirk wants to live on this island because it is a detestable place. He doesn't believe he deserves anything better. He wants to live in the ocean not because he loves it but because he fears it. It's what he's used to, having a dumpy isolated dwelling, and he doesn't dare ask for more than that.
But instead of any of the above, Dirk says, "I'm not most people."
"I can see that," says Mr. Crocker. "Very well. If this is what you want-"
"It is."
"-then I'll help you as best I can to make your dream a reality."
Dirk ekes out a sliver of a smile.
They sail back to the mainland to hire a contractor. All the while, Dirk makes dozens of sketches of how he wants his new home to look. Mr. Crocker flips through some of them and notices that they are mostly composed of squares.
Not many contractors are willing to take on the whims of a teenage boy and the guy who is probably not his father, but they find one eventually.
"I didn't even know there were islands that far out in the bay," the contractor says. To tell the truth, they're also a little leery of this stoic triangle-shaded boy (who, come to think of it, is vaguely reminiscent of the Prince), but money is money and a challenge is a challenge. So they sail back out, armed with droids and supplies and somebody with actual architectural know-how.
The contractor stares at the island, stares at the building plans, stares at this sixteen-year-old wearing a wifebeater and baggy cargo pants, stares at the straight-laced behatted man next to him.
"Aren't you a little young to be building your own house?" they ask.
"I wouldn't imagine so, no," Dirk replies, completely unaware that he has just failed to quote an Old Earth television show of which he sadly has no knowledge.
Let's speed up time a little and turn the next several weeks of construction into a montage. Picture Dirk sketching up plans and arguing with an increasingly bemused architect. Picture concrete-laying drones buzzing about the fractional square mileage of the island. Picture girders sinking into water and stone. Picture half a dozen boats providing this eccentric child with droidpower. Picture Mr. Crocker calling his kids, checking in on them with construction sounds in the background, making sure no, they do not need to go forward in time again. Picture Dirk and Mr. Crocker, anxious but not showing it, sitting still in a seashuttle descending on a day trip to the nearby seadweller town of Phorcys. Picture hammering, sawing, wiring, cursing, whirring, pouring, plastering.
Picture the final product: a brutalist concrete building reminiscent of Dirk's old apartment. It stands aloft on I-beam pillars and a central column with a stairwell leading down to the island itself. It looks very much like a miniature floating parking garage.
Follow Dirk and Mr. Crocker as they climb up the spiraling staircase to the ground (for lack of a better word) floor. There are no windows in the stairwell; being in there must be what it feels like to be rebar. Follow them as they emerge into a tiny hallway with an even tinier bathroom. The hallway ends in a large, unfurnished living space with a kitchenette. Follow them through a door on the other side of the room into a smallish bedroom. Turn as they look through a set of sliding glass doors out at a balcony overhanging the water.
Dirk, as he did with Detective Pony, immediately sets about making the place his own.
"According to my knowledge of architecture," Dirk says, hastily tucking away his phone, "this building would be considered a folly."
"What's a folly?" Mr. Crocker obediently asks.
"Aside from being a term meaning mistake, a folly is a building with no perceivable purpose." Dirk pulls a JPEG-ridden poster out of his sylladex and plasters it onto a wall. "Traditionally, it is some sort of decorative tower that rich people would commission for their gardens, but any building of peculiar appearance could be classified as a folly."
"What's so unusual about this-" Mr. Crocker holds up a dismissive hand. "Never mind, I can answer that."
Dirk nods, carelessly tech-hopping items out of his sylladex with little to no regard as to where they land. "The term originated as meaning that the building's construction showed folly in the builder. I would judge that to be the case here."
"Why's that?"
Dirk stops for a moment and turns to meet Mr. Crocker's gaze. "You've met me, haven't you?"
"I'm not sure what you mean by that."
"I mean that I would be considered a folly. I have a great lack of practicality. I'm so impractical that I'm downright cumbersome. Put me on a trailer truck and tag me with an "Oversize Load" sticker. Oh, the size of me!" He laughs without mirth. "'I am large, I contain multitudes,' Walt Whitman said. Truer words have never been written."
"You have terrible self-esteem," Mr. Crocker muses. "We should do something about that."
Dirk opens his mouth to reply but feels his phone buzz with a message. Mr. Crocker does too. They draw out their devices and examine the identically-worded message. They look at each other.
Dirk swears. Mr. Crocker does too.