The Blessings of Tybanis

She sat at the corner of the path where the dock wandered back to the space station main hall. We weren’t that far apart, only the thin fence of the commissary separated us. She leaned against the wall, her eyes scanning every person who walked by. My eyes were on her, someone fascinating to watch on my break. We were fellow passengers in this space station orbiting a resource dense moon. There wasn’t much separating us, and my nose wished she was further away. 

A faint music ringing through the hallways, something holy and in a cryptic tongue. I tried to ignore it hoping to avoid the inevitable. I wondered if I should get something from the counter of the commissary for her. It wasn’t my fault she was there, it wasn’t my responsibility. The complex economics of the station put her there, and there were supposed to be institutions to help her. 

She had the pocked skin of a raoush junkie. An oversized jumpsuit hung on her thin frame. All she had was an old noodle bowl that should have made it to the recycler a week ago and a cardboard sign. People could drop food in but she didn’t have the teeth to chew the tough ration bars she’d collected. The cardboard sign had an account name on it that people could transfer credits to. The info wasn’t anything revealing, just some panhandling co-op account that would split the money at the end of the day.

Her gaze darted through the commissary and I looked down at my bulbous cup before her eyes landed on me. It held what passed for coffee and I wished I could take a planer to my taste buds after every sip. 

It was a real shame the authorities hadn’t gotten around to regulating the excitement out of raoush. Regulation had worked on the classics like heroin. Drugs went from legal to fashionable to outdated in only a few generations. Just pop into a corner store to buy clean equipment and you’ve got yourself a relaxing evening. As it was today, raoush was too complex for that. Eventually, a white-robed judge of the Central System would come by and sort the whole thing out. Until then people like her were a reminder that there wasn’t enough to go around. Hard work would keep you fed and safe. The docks were hard work but the work she had to do was harder. Someone could fix her situation, but inaction served as a reminder to keep the rest of us in line. 

Then a parade of zealots turned the corner and ruined the peace of my break. The group sang into amplifiers, blew brass horns, and banged anything that passed for a drum. The racket rang through the cavernous dock, competing with its symphony of tools. Their noise probably defied the laws of physics and echoed even into the vacuum of space, warning any elusive alien life they’d made the right decision not contacting us humans. The instruments swelled in a crescendo and the singer belted out the last note of some holy praise to their god. With a crescendo, the song came to a close, and the singer in a jumpsuit made of a motley of colors spoke into his microphone. The words came out of an amplifier attached to his hip.

“Young child of Tybanis,” he said, addressing the woman at the corner. “Do you have a donation for your god?”

“I don’t remember popping out of his hooha and into this rubbish bin,” her voice was hoarse and drowned out by the tools of the dock.

“Do you have nothing for the god of the depths of space and time?” The speaker projected his silky voice down the halls and through the commissary. It drew a crowd from the break tables and I had to stand to keep my head above them. “Why hold on to what was never ours to begin with? He rewards anything you can spare with prosperity.” The man’s eyes lingered on something behind her sign that I couldn’t see. “One planet into two. Two ships into a fleet of four.”

It didn’t take a white robe’s education to know she needed a blessing. Although I had my doubts that this group would come through for her. She fumbled with a thing behind her cardboard sign, knocking it down and ruining any chance of free publicity. She lifted a contraption up towards the man.

It was a unique piece of kit. Raoush junkies could cobble a starship out of jumpsuits and hair ties if it’d get them a fix. This contraption was once an auto-IV, likely stolen from some medbay or emergency pack. Someone mounted part after part onto the thing and repaired pieces that were meant to be disposable. New widgets were mounted on the sides so it could accept raoush juice. A little purple bulb almost full of liquid sat on top and it splashed side to side as she brought it back to her chest.

“Daughter of Tybanis, he would surely bless such a prized possession. Why have one when you could have two?”

It was a week’s worth of juice without being frugal with it. The last thing this station needed was more of the stuff.

She looked at the priest skeptically. I’d been told by a mentor: “if a contract’s too good to be true, there’s definitely a loose bolt they’re not telling you about.” 

“One second,” she said, rolling up the sleeve of her oversized jumpsuit. She placed the contraption on her arm and it did its work. The pneumatics made an awful hiss that no fresh auto-IV should make. Half the purple liquid drained from the bulb before she stopped it. She wasn’t doing anything explicitly illegal, but it took guts. Or a disinterest in the opinions of onlookers. 

“Bless it,” she jammed the contraption towards him, purple liquid sloshing in the bulb. Some of the crowd backed away in shock, thinking she was already transfixed by the juice. She still had a few minutes of clear headedness before the drug took effect.

The man took the device in his free hand and into the microphone he boomed, “take a good look at what this faithful daughter has offered. If even the weary among you can find the will then what does he expect of those who are of sane mind and spirit?”

I grimaced at the words but looked at the device in the air. It had scratches, dents, and a unique paint job that only a mind on raoush would find appealing. Then her prized possession disappeared behind his robes.

“Where’s my blessing?” the woman asked, her old bowl held up on scrunched knees.

“Patience, darling,” he said. The priest chanted words that weren’t in Common Tongue and a drummer played the snare at his waist. The priest’s hand reappeared from his motley colored robe struggling to hold the pair of items in one hand. “Witness the power of Tybanis, god of the depths of space and time. He can bless you with plenty in this dark void of space.” The pieces were above his head for the whole crowd to see. His voice amplifier transfixed supporters and doubters alike.

“He had another one under his cloak,” I heard a welder say as she readjusted the grip on her mask and wandered back to work.

I looked at the two devices. The chipped paint job and scratches were identical. A talented matter printer could create twins but it’d be little more than a stage prop.

“They’re mine,” she said, lurching off the ground and towards the devices. She got her hands on the pair and pulled them from his grasp. She inspected them likely wondering which was the original, or if it even mattered.

She stuffed them under the folds of her baggy jumpsuit and pulled a half empty plastic pouch out. It was full of slimy stuff they give to patients unable to chew. It was older than anyone ever intended it to be. Possibly refilled, more likely used sparingly. “I’ll give him this. I’ll give him this,” she said, shoving the pouch into the speaker’s hand.

Others in the crowd offered up what they had to give. New terminals, expensive tools they’d been using, and even plates of food from the break room, hoping to have more than they started with. Keeping my eye on the food pouch I watched it slip into the folds of the man’s robe. Away from the microphone he said, “Tybanis thanks you for your donation.” He slipped away without another trick.

“What about you pal,” someone said at my shoulder. He wore a patchwork jumpsuit with a brass horn held under his arm. The woman struggled after the priest shouting curses but couldn’t get past the mob that was once a crowd. “Do you have anything to donate to Tybanis?” the fellow asked.

I took stock of my inventory. A few hundred credits in my account, a wardrobe of worn out jumpsuits, and a half-drunk bulb of coffee. Even if Tybanis could double the digital currency I’d still be at work by the start of the next pay cycle. I shuddered at the thought of suffering through the coffee again, and knew I didn’t have anything to give the man.

As more disciples disappeared into the zealous group the band started playing. They stood in a circle creating a wall of noise and instruments to protect the countless donations the disciples continued to deliver. Soon the dock workers caught on to what the woman had learned and began flinging more than insults at the group. 

“You want to donate?” the fellow next to me asked. “We’re heading out soon.” 

“He’s not delivering on his promise,” I replied. 

The disciple shrugged his shoulders in disregard. “If Tybanis duplicated everything given, we’d ruin the complex economy of this station. Have faith that these people will be blessed in due time.”

His words reminded me of a drinking buddy whose tab always wound up charged to my account. Badges replaced the raucous band subduing the mob they’d created. Before I could question him further, he’d disappeared and the parade of zealots marched back down the station’s main hall. 

Maybe the crowd would get justice but it was just as likely the law would designate it a gift freely given and that there was nothing that could be done. The woman had returned to her spot against the wall staring up at something only visible to a mind on raoush. Her bowl and hard ration bars were trampled by the crowd, disregarded by everyone in the station. 

I headed for the counter of the commissary for a smoothie. It wasn’t my responsibility to take care of her, far from it. But the Badges and zealots had proved this station was as uncaring as the void outside the hull. Fellow passengers were all she had. Having recently taken stock of my inventory, I knew I didn’t have much more.