A pure fractal made in Apophysis 2.09
I was glad for the insight that the visit of Her Uppaaimarn Highness Princess Shaain had given me into the life of my uncle, Admiral Benjamin Banneker, insight that I could not have as a child, or even as a very young woman 46 years his junior. In his old age and my maturity, it all made sense: this man whose whole life was a testimony to careful reverence and responsibility was now widely revered and quietly held a major safeguard to the future of humanity in space in the grasp of his mind.
What made no sense was how many people utterly hated Uncle Benjamin.
“But we don't understand it because we know and love him,” Lt. Cmdr. Doohan said. “I've known him since childhood just like you, Captain, and we have the privilege and blessing of knowing him in this great work we are all doing. But to some others, Admiral Banneker is just the name and image of something – not someone, because they don't know him as a person – that is endangering something far more important to them than, say, the future of humanity in space.”
“Jimmy,” I said, “that's the scariest thing I've heard all week!”
Meanwhile, our grand old admiral soldiered on, having formed a warm mentor's bond with my first officer and ship's science officer Helmut Allemande. The two men had in common many things, including an essential and utter unbotheredness in the face of the powerful people they were ticking off with their honest and brilliant science. By this time, half the people mad that I had gotten the captaincy of the Amanirenas that Cmdr. Allemande was in line to get were now furious with the commander and telling people they would never let him be captain.
Cmdr. Allemande brought out another side of my uncle – both men were quiet, humble, and consummately professional, but also shared a big sense of humor and could troll with the best of them.
“Now, gentlemen, you know there are regulations about drinking on duty,” I said one day with mock sternness about their reactions to any and all complaints about them doing the right thing. “Y'all gotta lay off these cocktails of haters' tears!”
Because both men were skilled storytellers and also vocalists, the “bartending” was always on point – on a particular weekend Cmdr. Allemande made a gift of a postcard to Uncle Benjamin and walked right out, walking all the way around the block and coming back with a huge smile.
“I told you baritone lasts like bass does,” the basso profundo said. “I heard you laughing clear down the block, Admiral, and up the block as I came around the stretch!”
“You both need to to quit this!” I said, laughing because I also knew the reference on the card. “I know that So-and-So was full of hot air yesterday, but he doesn't deserve this level of trolling – OK, well, maybe he does, but not like this, y'all, not like this!”
“It only took Cmdr. Allemande six hours to find it!” my uncle said as he wiped the tears from his eyes.
“I strive for efficiency, Admiral and Madame Captain,” my first officer said demurely in that huge voice, and Uncle Benjamin was gone again.
The postcard had the image of the Kites of Gnari'el, and the tale went that a particularly pompous old wizard put a curse on a particular people in the ancient days before most people on their world knew that their planet rotated on its axis and thus their sun did not rise. It so happened that the dawn the wizard chose, knowing better, was also the day another of the system's worlds further in would eclipse the sun – so, it would remain dark all morning, during which time the wizard would demand certain things before “releasing the sun” back to the people.
However, there was a scientist in that town who knew the trick that was being played on the people -- Gnari'el was his name. He instead made his brilliant kites and put them across the eastern horizon. He knew that the morning winds would still get those kites aloft – and so his kites would pull the sun back into the sky in the minds of the people.
The challenge was duly made – the wizard came pronouncing his curse, and Gnari'el stood in the public square and made his response: “It doesn't matter what you say – the winds will pull the sun back into the sky before the end of the morning, so stop it.”
“Do you know who I am, you pathetic little tinkerer?” Uncle Benjamin cackled in his most terrible old wizard's voice at this point in telling me the story.
“Do you know who we the people of this planet are, and how we belong to the Creator of the worlds and stars, not to you?” Cmdr. Allemande boomed, taking the role of the far younger Gnari'el.
“Y'all need to retire from this fleet stuff and go start an entertainment outlet,” I said as they started singing the song from the musical in marvelous harmony, with my baritone uncle taking the higher passage at the third line of each stanza and Cmdr. Allemande finishing the last part with his booming basso profundo:
“The harder and harder the wizard huffed and bragged and bluffed with all his fluff,
The higher and higher the kites arose – the wizard froze, for wouldn't you know –
The sun was soon ascendant in the sky, and that tired wizard was told 'Goodbye!' "
Kites of Gnari'el at late sunrise, with the pure fractal made in Apophysis 2.09 flipped and put on a prepared canvas with a sun also added in Paint 3D
“The people then heard Gnari'el, and all the truth that he would tell
The wizard wished nothing the truth would bring – he snatched kite strings, but here's the thing:
He soon was cussing clear across the sky – flew off on a sin and a shame – oh my!”
Monday morning: the press caught up with Uncle Benjamin about what Mr. So-and-So had to say. The grand old admiral rose to the occasion.
“Yes, I was made aware of what Mr. So-and-So had to say on Friday of last week, and I want to personally and publicly thank him because there would not otherwise been so many scientists inside and even outside the fleet so far as the material is publicly available, double-checking and confirming our work. Mr. So-and-So's stated concerns and objections only served to highlight the importance of getting the work done right, and I deeply appreciate the opportunity we have had to further demonstrate that we are doing just that. I hope that when I present my commentary about his company's supplying of the fleet regarding the matters at hand, he and his company will also enjoy similar benefits.”
And he just went on and read the report, for public consumption – the end of the world, as Mr. So-and-So knew it, because when Benjamin Banneker put you out there, you may as well have grabbed the Kites of Gnari'el and gone cussing across the sky.
My husband, Capt. Rufus Dixon of the commercial fleet, almost choked on his fruit that morning – “All that huffing and puffing that man was doing, with those kinds of problems? You're done, son. You're DONE!”
Cmdr. Allemande came into the turbolift to the bridge, whistling the song about the Kites of Gnari'el …
“Commander, I will have you thrown off the bridge if you forget not to whistle that during the shift! I can't do anything about Admiral Banneker out here big trolling, but you?”
“Yes, ma'am – sorry, Captain.”
“Sorry you two got caught doing all this is more like it – I know you and he both worked on this devastating commentary all weekend because of how his eyes were sparkling on your Germanic turns of phrase!”
“Yes, ma'am – sorry, Captain!”
And my normally impassive first officer leaned against the bulkhead and laughed until he cried, rattling every deck we passed with his colossal basso profundo.
“I'm sorry, Captain,” he said as he pulled himself together. “We get so tempted by the material they keep presenting us, and it really is a catchy tune –.”
“I will have you thrown off the bridge, Commander!”
“Yes, ma'am. Sorry, Captain.”
(But see, YOU can whistle it or sing it if YOU want to -- I did while writing this post!)
I was so done with this man as all day, in quiet moments, members of the bridge crew kept coming to check on Cmdr. Allemande because his eyes were a little red when he came on the bridge, and we all knew he was still mourning for his Uncle Hans, but his answering smile was so warm and full of joy that there could not possibly be anything wrong … and there wasn't.
“We're rooting for you all the time, Admiral!” Lt. Cmdr. Almuz said when my uncle made it to the bridge. “We're behind you all the way, sir – let 'em have it!”
Lt. Cmdr. Doohan rolled up that evening with a bottle of soda for the admiral, and said “I knew I had to keep it alcohol-free and family-friendly, so when I saw it at the antique food store I knew I had to get it for you, Admiral!”
The label read, “Priss and Vinegar.”
“You know what, Lieutenant Commander?” I said as my uncle rolled laughing, “I would tell you to go somewhere and sit down and be confined there for a minute, and then call Cmdr. Allemande and tell him the same thing, but the admiral here is going to overrule the order, so--.”
Nowadays Uncle Benjamin and I talk a little more seriously about what he wants on his headstone, but just a little more seriously – the centenarian admiral broke up everybody at the house one day by suggesting, “I thought about a quote from Psalm 23 – 'He prepared a table before me in the presence of my enemies, and my cup ran over' – but then I wanted to add, 'so, wherever He and I are, so also is the party' – and then I thought, 'But I don't want a headstone that big,' so ...”
“You need to stop it – you're not wrong, but you still need to STOP IT!” I said, although, of course, knowing him and loving him as an adult, I'm glad he hasn't yet!