Work Text:
Whenever I tell people that I've been assigned off-world to an interstellar ship’s maiden exploratory voyage beyond the confines of our solar system I'm met with a flurry of excited comments and questions, as is to be expected. Most of them are scientific in nature, dripping with curiosity about the weapons system or the intricacies of the FTL drives. Some military junkies will ask me about my rank, who the captain is and if I'm a pilot or a medic in sick bay. Some will even try to shoehorn me into heated debates about the potential dangers of anti-matter fuel as opposed to the more outdated, yet far more wasteful use of fossil fuels.
The way their faces fall when I tell them what I actually do... will be doing on the ship... I just can't stand it anymore. It's the same face this asshole is pulling on me as he checks my credentials.
"Teacher, huh?" the customs officer nearly spits out, as if the words taste like absolute shit in his mouth. "You gonna be babysittin’ kids in outer space?"
"I suppose so, yes," I reply, biting back an urge to be snide. "Most of the crew have families. Families mean kids. Kids need an education. Even in space."
The officer's mouth curves downwards and twists, apparently still tasting feces.
"You sure you wanna spend decades out in space locked in with a bunch of critters? At least here on land you can go home, grab a beer and forget about them for a while."
I don't typically judge people by their knowledgeability but the sheer dullness of this guy's worldview stirs in me a well-repressed instinct to be violent. Perhaps that's why he's been stationed as a simple border security officer; just muscle, just another “redshirt,” as they used to call them back in the day.
God, I feel kind of awful thinking that.
"It's a very long assignment, yes, but that's precisely why I signed up,” I explain. “Even with cryostasis, by the time we reach the Lyra sector, the youngest ones onboard will be in their late twenties. They'll need to know more than just specialised knowledge on astronautical engineering, computer science and other technical subjects. They’ll need to know everything. Hence, a well-rounded call for civilian experts of all fields was issued, despite it being a military vessel."
"Whatcha teachin’?" The officer asks, chewing on something, not lifting his eyes to meet mine. I start to wonder if he'd even heard what I just said. If he even understood it.
"Art and Music History. Plus a minor in English lit," I reply, curtly. The guy gives me a look that asks seriously? and I reply with another that says don't even go there.
"Permit?" He curls a finger in front of my face, going back to not looking at me. I roll my eyes. Why didn't he just do this first and spare me the aggravation?
I hover my right hand over a pad on his handheld and a floating screen comes up with my assignment info. He looks at my image on the floating screen, layered over my actual face, for a long minute, as if pretending we're not the same person. Another scare tactic. They really do train these guys to be insufferable on purpose, I'm now thoroughly convinced.
"Alright, Mr... In-dray Sar-waste-y," he mumbles, butchering my name. “You're cleared for access. Shuttle leaves for the launch dock from gate B-12, at o'seven hundred hours. Good luck with the critters."
I correct him, overpronouncing the syllables. "It's Indra Saraswati, and thanks." I guess, I add in my head and duck to grab my things by my feet. The officer waves a hand at me to wait.
"What now," I ask, this time not bothering to hide my eye roll.
"What's that in the case?" He tilts his head towards it, gruffly.
I pull up the case so he can see it, unlocking the clasps. "It's my sitar," I say and show him.
"The hell is a sitar?" he asks, frowning. "Looks like a weird guitar."
I knew he'd ask. Goddammit.
"It's an ancient Indian instrument. Yes, it resembles a guitar, in that it's also a string instrument, but it sounds different."
"Huh. You gonna round up the kiddies and sing them songs on the ship?" He grins. "I can't believe they're spending taxpayer money on this."
At this point, I realise I am not going to get on that shuttle and I am not going to get to ship out because I am going to end up lunging over the counter and bashing this bigot's head into it and subsequently getting myself holed up in a jail cell somewhere in this godforsaken base.
But then I hear Surya's voice behind me.
"Indra, you done? Come on, we're gonna be late." He then turns to the customs officer, who stares at him with that same stupid look on his face, but at least the grin is gone.
"Is there a problem, sergeant?" Surya pulls out his badge, though his uniform and medals were enough to straighten the officer into a respectful posture. "Dr. Saraswati's time is important and he is sorely needed aboard our vessel. You wouldn't want to be the one responsible for him not making his shuttle flight, now would you?"
The officer swallows. "No, sir."
"At ease," Surya concludes and the officer simply nods, then stands in salute position the entire time we walk away, Surya carrying my sitar case for me and nudging his head at me while he whispers, "Come on, let's get you out of here."
"Thanks man," I tell him once we were out of earshot, far inside the astroport, wandering between shops and people. "I'm just sorry you have to keep coming to the rescue every time I get into trouble."
"Yeah well," Surya replies, shrugging. "Just the way it is. I watch out for you."
"Yeah, but," I begin to argue but he gives me a soft slap over the head, messing up my hair in the process, to shut me up.
"Seriously, don't mention it," he chuckles, grinning. "What's the point of being in the military if I can't pull rank from time to time?"
He puts a hand on my shoulder. It's so very warm.
"I'm sorry there are still idiots out there that can't see just how important your job is," he says with an earnest smile that sticks to me too.