This was literally a nightmare I had; tried to make a story out of it.

 

1.

The AT15A banked steeply towards the surface. The dark, cold water pressed around the small submersible; the pilot, Capt. Kendon Mkell opened a small pouch of caffeine. The patrol route was nearing to the furthest point of the ocean he was supposed to check before turning back, and he was tired. This run was one of those half-day exercises of boredom, but he tried to keep alert; he was fully aware that things could change any time. Routine and boredom was the worst enemy of any soldier; when things go south, as they invariably do, he did not want to be caught with his pants down. Everything conspired to make him drowsy: the muted lights in the cockpit, the murmuring noise of the propulsion system, the featureless darkness outside of the viewport… he needed the boost. The sensory array was on a passive mode, only receiving; the turbines were quietly pushing out water without generating much noise that any enemy craft would be able to pick up. He was quite certain nobody was around in a thirty kilometer region, but even if the RTT had any watercraft around, he should be safe from a first-strike from distance. It was really hard to pinpoint the source of the noise these waterjet engines made; the whooshing sound was very diffuse on most instruments and sonars. The enemy would have to be really close to make an accurate measurement; so close, in fact, his own instruments would give him warning about any metallic objects larger than a beer can in that range.

 

He skirted around the sunken wreck of the NSS Liberty. The gigantic warship was floating submerged in the ocean; a causality of the war raging over and under the Pacific Ocean. Kendon switched the sensors into active mode; the low pulses of the sonar made his inner ears itch. The screen was really noisy due to the small floating objects around the wreck. Pieces of the ship, equipment, dead bodies all congregated around the gigantic dead craft. The submersible was an interesting amalgam of an aircraft and a submarine; unlike most of the submarines of old it resembled a fat little airplane that had a manta ray somewhere in its family tree. The blunt nose housed the cockpit with an actual viewing port -a luxury in submarines. The short wings were round and deltoid, and the engine nacelles were hanging from the mid section of the ship. It looked like it could fly; in reality it was modelled on aircraft and rays. The cockpit’s viewing port was relatively large; it served a very useful purpose since in the very short range dogfights these crafts engaged in normally, visual clues were essential for the pilot. There was no time for the traditional slow cat and mouse hiding games submarines of old usually played. This was a vicious, fast and brutal way of waging a war underwater, which resembled the Second World War dogfights more than anything else. Since the ocean was a complex web of currents and thermal layers, it was an incredibly difficult and complex battlefield. Small crafts like his could hide from sensor scans by crossing into another thermal layer or current; the scans would not be able to penetrate the boundaries of these layers. One minute your target could be right in front of you on your instruments, the next it could disappear by diving into an oceanic current, only to emerge behind you. On territorial waters sonar buoys were used to monitor the ocean to a considerable depth, but on contested waters this was not possible; these were the dangerous regions where entire enemy formations could lurk under your craft without you ever realizing it.

 

Mkell watched as the faint glow from above illuminated the floating debris around his craft. Visibility was -as usual- very low; he only saw objects rushing towards him when they got to four-five meters to the viewport. He was forced to engage the active sonar since he ran the very real risk of running into something he does not see; he still jumped when a dead body slammed against his cockpit window. The dark waters robbed the colors from the corpse rendering it a monochrome spectre. Most of the body was still intact and the uniform perfectly recognisable, despite of having spent weeks in the freezing water. The fish did not yet get around to eat the corpses; something in the water released by the dead ship kept them away. Kendon shook his head, and tried to calm down. He kept telling himself that the collision with the dead seaman only exacerbated the effects on his heartrate of the caffeine he just consumed but with very little success. He gently steered around larger pieces of floating debris, checking the vicinity of the wreck. This was the largest object around several hundred kilometers; perfect hiding place for any enemy craft.

 

Suddenly an active signal- something live, something energized among the dead debris. Something that was under power; something that had no business to be there. The sensors locked onto the object; a flick of a finger, and the armament came to life. A feral grin spread on his face. “Gotcha”, he murmured. The HUD (head up display) put a red diamond over a small fleck – the enemy craft. Now he had a visual point of reference, too. The sensors narrowed its scan range automatically to get a more accurate reading. Another second and the turbines went full power as well; the small, blunt nosed craft jumped ahead in the water. Mkoll felt his heartbeat in his ears again; the hunt was on.

 

The enemy craft- after all, what else it could have been- powered up as well, forking around the debris littering the area. The AT15A rushed after it. A small canister detached itself from its back and headed to the surface. Since radios do not work underwater, this small transmitter was needed on the surface to alert the HQ of the intruder with all the data the patrol craft managed to record. In a short amount of time this region would be swarming with allied watercraft and aircraft. Until then it was up to the patrol to deal with the threat. The two small crafts pushed themselves fast in the water; cavitation bubbles were trailing from their wingtips and the waterjets. The previous drone was now replaced the roaring of the fully functioning propulsion system. The serenity of the cockpit was transformed by warning sounds and other noises of a warcraft in full readiness. Mkoll came near the enormous hull of the Liberty. The proximity warning was beeping as the black metal surface rushed under his craft. He swooped over the gigantic, copper colored screw and under the rudder, down into the inky black depth.

 

The enemy craft kept going further down, rushing towards the ocean bottom almost six kilometers deep; of course both crafts would be destroyed by the pressure before approaching even a fraction of that depth. Mkoll doggedly followed the ship. The rules of engagement allowed for certain amount of risk in chasing enemy infiltrators, but the object was to chase them off, and not necessarily destroy them. Any foolhardy chase would only jeopardise the area’s security. Mkoll only had about three more kilometers to destroy the submarine; after that he would have to return to the patrol area, secure it, and wait for the reinforcements to arrive. He intended to do his damned best not to let the enemy escape.

 

Hundred meters down. The enemy was approaching a thermal barrier; the sonar returns clearly indicated the boundary between the two thermal layers, and overlaid it onto his HUD. “No you don’t” he said, as he watched the enemy craft approaching this invisible layer; he let two fish off, and went into a steeper dive. The fish -the torpedos- were sleek, ultra-fast missiles that could achieve an incredible hundred and fifty kilometers per hour under water, but at the cost of being loud as hell; a sure way to alert to the enemy of the approaching doom. A bright white flash answered his attack as the enemy craft released a combined flair. The device scrambled visual, heat seeking and sonar-guided ordnance; however it illuminated quite a large portion of the ocean around it. Mkoll caught his first actual glimpse of the fleeting enemy: a small craft, not unlike his own. Probably an infiltrator gathering information. The craft was now invisible to his instruments as it was already below the thermal boundary, but he could see it quite clearly.

 

Before entering the layer he turned his craft to passive mode, and slowed down considerably; this way he would sink into the thermal layer undetected; he hoped his prey was still going full power, which would make passive tracking possible, while making him invisible to his prey. He gently eased the submersible into the lower thermal layer.

There was no sign of the enemy; his instruments picked up nothing. It was possible his prey went passive as well, but Mkell doubted it. Something was off. He felt tempted to go active again, and ping the area with a sensor sweep, but he knew he needed to be patient. He increased his altitude, to get back into the top layer, but nothing; he turned his craft down again. No sign of the intruder. He slowly increased the throttle, reaching cruising speed, when suddenly his craft slowed down and stopped. One of the waterjets cut off, and then silence.

2.

His first reaction was annoyance; he thought it was a mechanical failure. A quick check on the instruments showed everything in the green- the craft was fully functional. The number one jet cut off because of obstruction; the second one worked, but the craft still slowed down to a standstill. He tried to restart the stalled engine, but it refused. When increased the output on the second one, the craft shuddered violently, and then stopped completely; the second engine cut out as well. Mkoll sat back; the annoyance gave way to stupor and then worry. “What the… what is going on with you, old girl?” asked his craft. He tried to override the engine safety controls to get them going again, and in the furor of activity he almost missed the jolt. Something started to pull his craft. Something was pulling it downwards.

 

He quickly released a second transmitter, and then frantically started to work on the engine restart procedures. Nothing. The craft- even though it was undamaged and fully functional- did not respond to anything he did. It became clear: he had to get out of his doomed craft. There was nothing he could make out, something WAS pulling it down. He could not even begin to think of anything that was capable of grabbing and immobilizing an AT15, but his imagination filled the blanks out very well. He pulled the ejection handle, which would have released his cabin from the frame of the submersible, but nothing happened. The small, explosive bolts separated, but the craft was held together by something.  He started to get jittery; something unexplained was going on, and he was a hundred and fifty meters under the ocean surface. He knew the enemy craft was inconsequential now; something much worse was happening to him than the dangers of a dogfight. He tried the sonar, but the ping returned nothing. He turned all the floodlights on so that he could look around the vicinity of his craft, but most of them were simply blocked. Blocked by what? There was hardly any light escaping. He tried to launch a couple of fish from the two torpedo tubes, but the torpedo bay doors were blocked. He did not expect the warheads to do anything anyway, since they needed clearance from the submarine before they were armed. Still; it was impossible even to launch them. Something held his craft in its grips, and it was dragging it towards the abyssal plains below…

 

3.

He knew he needed to escape before he got too deep, and was crashed under the immense pressure. Something gripped the ship, so he needs to evacuate. And do it without getting caught himself… He got out of his command chair, and started to frantically get his suit fixed up. He wore a survival suit for the mission; now he was attaching the gloves and the bottom ring of the protective helmet to the rubberised, insulated suit, and the rebreather apparatus on his chest. He needed to get out. He was afraid of the dark outside, but staying here would be death. In the near absolute icy blackness he had to leave his little piece of warm protection, and find the way to the surface while some unknown horror kept his craft in its clutch. He was shaking; five years of vicious combat did not prepare him for this. The thought of leaving the craft wanted him to just stay and wait for the end; about two kilometers down the outer shell would fail catastrophically, killing him instantly. This fate compared to the long swim to the top with the invisible threat behind looked better and better the longer he stayed and thought about the escape. He knew he had to move soon, or he’ll be unable to do anything at all. Once most of his gear was on, he opened the compartment for the flairs, and took three out. With a tape he fixed them together, and connected them to each other through the detonator heads. His hands were trembling as if he was deathly cold, and could fit the wires into their slots only with difficulty. The flares were set to detonate manually now. He clasped the helmet on, made sure the seal was engaged, and pressed the emergency flooding button. The cabin slowly filled up as the invisible force tugged on the submarine; dirt, papers and discarded food wrappers  swirled around his torso. His mouth was dry, and it was really difficult to keep his breathing regular… but he could not do anything until the compartment was fully flooded. The cold started to engulf him, and his whole body was shaking. He tried to see something, anything in the dark outside, but nothing came. He thought of the enemy craft; it was possible it met a very similar fate. He wondered about the pilot, and what he was doing; suddenly the thought of fighting another human being under these waters seemed foolish indeed.

The cockpit took two minutes to fill completely; it felt like an eternity to him. He slid the jury-rigged flair back into its compartment, and grabbed the trigger wire; once the cabin side hatch closed, he pressed the emergency button, which flushed the flare out into the water. He tried to calm his nerves, and get himself composed enough to start the escape, when two faint lights appeared in the cockpit window. He did not know how far they were, or what they were really; his imagination, however ran absolutely wild. He saw two huge, fluorescing eyes staring inside his cockpit, and screamed.  

 

4.

Kendon pressed his eyes shut and pushed the button.The flares went off with a cold-white flash outside the small submarine, and ignited the other flare rods as well. He blindly stumbled to the back of the cockpit, and opened the small hatch on the back of the AT15. The pressure was enormous, and he felt clumsy and sick with fear. With his eyes still closed he released the emergency balloon, and pushed himself out. Even through his closed eyes he was almost blinded by the light. He felt around with his hands until he found the wire of the balloon, and kicked himself away from the submarine. Following the line he started swimming with an undulating movement towards the surface. His heart was pounding in his ears and his throat; he did not open his eyes. He felt the six kilometers of depth under him; he felt the uncharted, cyclopean mountains, and the horrors lurking between them. He did not dare to open his eyes; just kept swimming following the life-line of the balloon to the surface. He expected something enormous to grab his legs at any second to drag him down to the deep, inky blackness below. The surface was about three hundred meters above… three hundred of torturous meters trying to reach the surface, the air, the world outside. He took as shallow breaths as possible in order to minimalize the noise from the rebreather apparatus. The cold water pressed against his skin; despite of the insulating fabric of his suit he felt the deadly chill setting in his body. With the pounding in his ears he risked a quick glance to the side. The water below him was flat, pale blue as the flares were burning with an angry white light below him; above the absolute blackness. He saw the shadow of his submersible, but he shut his eyes again in terror before he could see what held his watercraft in its grabs. His mind was screaming in panic, and all he could do was to swim and not to succumb to it. He knew that if he saw what captured him with his submarine, his mind would give up, he would lose his grip on reality, and he would die there, in the hostile, icy depth. He bit on the mouthpiece hard and kept swimming to the surface in the ice-cold black water while the hot tears were running down his face.

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Sometimes I write stuff. It just comes out. I’m not really sure what to do with these stories, so here is one.

 

The sunrise

The sunrise was always a wonder. The way the deep black of the night slowly gave way to the grey sky and the black ocean… and then the riot of colors: at first dark reds, oranges, until the sun appeared turning the cold, black water into blue again. He loved the sunrise, even though he has watched it every morning for millennia. The sun’s fire was his fire; this is when he felt some tiny sliver of it burning in him again.

This sunrise was even more special than all the others. It was the last one he would ever see. That small sliver of fire was turning ember… it was time.

He lazily turned into the southern wind, and slowly spiralled upwards, always upwards. Below him the endless ocean became a featureless blue surface; no land was in sight. He has spotted two of the giant albatrosses whose lives very much mirrored his own, but even they could not hope to ascend where he was.  He was alone; even his kind did not come this east, preferring to stay closer to the islands where the earth’s fire is close to the surface. Only the very old or the injured come to the east. His long wings lazily flapped twice; it felt good to be on the move.

He always found it amusing: a creature of air and fire living over the cold, dark ocean… He was not afraid of the water; eons ago, when his kind waged war against mankind, he had plunged in the ocean, taking a wooden ship with him. The cold water suffocated him, it threatened to extinguish his fire, but he could endure it for a limited time. In fact, he endured longer than the humans he dragged down with their boats. That war was savage and unnecessary; hundreds of his kind died, as did tens of thousands of the Men of the West on their boats, in their villages and towns.It took centuries and an exceptional man to end the conflict. The reasons for the war were simple and yet tragic. Mankind learned to fare the oceans. They finally left their continents, and started exploring the endless oceans. They got close to the islands where the his kind reared their young. They upset the balance of power. How dare these creatures whose lives can be barely measured in decades challenge the ancient race? How dare they threaten their most sacred islands?

They threatened the them by simply existing. They upset the balance of things, and this lead to war. First, only the boats were burned, but when the armada of men came to avenge their dead and dragons died, too. His kind moved west, to deal with the threat at its source. Dragons appeared in the mountains, destroyed villages, burned up fields and livestock; things were spiralling out of control. Dragonkind had fire and the air; mankind had their war machines spitting out long rods of true steel, and people who could use magic against the dragons. Now mankind was eager to bring the war to their islands as well; countless eggs and youngsters were murdered by men. He grew up in this conflict; and he grew old during this conflict. He knew bitterness, he knew anger, he knew murder. And then the small, lone boat appeared.

The boat was painted black: black hull, black sails, even the ropes were painted black. The sail bore a sigil of a red dragon. Only one man came on this boat: a tall, young man with a red ruby on his forehead. He came as an emissary of people who were just as hateful and bitter as his own kind.

They did not kill him. He, as one of the oldest surviving member of his flock, talked to him in the common tongue. They talked, and they started the long and difficult process of making peace. An uneasy peace; a peace pregnant with resentment and hate, but it was a peace. And this peace held. The east remained for the dragons, while they left the west with its continents and mountain ranges for mankind. They departed not to return – ever. He felt the emissary die years later – betrayed and murdered; a victim of petty power struggles between the petty kingdoms of the short-lived humans. He felt sadness and he felt rage, but he kept the peace; he did not fly west to avenge him. Dragons don’t have friends; yet his human was the closest he could call one. He still wore the ruby as a sign of the contract between the two races and of the newfound respect.

The second human came centuries later. This time he came for help. Something evil appeared in the west. Some corruption spread, turning and twisting everything in its path. Plants, animals, humans; even corrupted and twisted parodies of dragons were marauding the western continents, spreading the contagion to the east. The purity of life was no more. Dragons believed of themselves to be the First in Creation. They were creatures of freedom; they saw themselves as the guardians of this world. And something has threatened it. Something had dared to corrupt even dragons, who lived far in the west. Dragons, who were long lost cousins of their race, who became only legends even in the memories of his people… This was unacceptable. Some argued to leave the west to its fate, but there are always cowards in every society; even amongst dragons. So they went to war again. He and this emissary became leaders of this joint army. The human became “the Dragon Rider” in the legends of his people centuries later, which amused him immensely; these fables made him out a little more than a flying horse, after all. He cared not how the tale was span in the west after the war ended. They went west, they found the source of corruption, and with great sacrifice they have destroyed it.

This war changed things. The previous separation disappeared; dragons started to inhabit desolate mountain ranges, deserts; some even settled close to seats of power. Some were lured by the new, the novel; some were lured by power, some were asked by the humans to stay, and some were lured by treasure. A dragon needs no gold or precious stones; yet some pillaged, robbed and murdered for these things. Most of them were dealt with by either their own kind, or by human armies and mages. Some saw this mingling as signs of corruption in itself, but change always scared some people; even dragons. He himself lived in the court of the man he befriended, giving him counsel, helping him keep the hard-won peace, making sure the Chaos cannot return. But once the king died, he felt the call of the east; the open ocean called him. He became a legend again; this time a legend of the wise sage, and not the all-destroying Worm, as people knew him in the previous war.

He turned into the Sun… the fire in his throat hissed in the icy wind.

He looked down at the surface of the ocean. He thought of the gigantic creatures he saw before. Giants, larger than even he, singing their strange songs, and wandering the endless blue ocean; their thoughts were too alien for his mind to interpret. Yet their lives mirrored his in a strange way… always swimming, yet always needing to come up to the surface for air -they too were beings living on the edge of life and death. He imagined what happened to the ones who grew too old, or suffered too grave injuries by the monsters of the deep to keep swimming. He imagined them slowly sinking into the dark coldness one last time, knowing that this time there is no ascent. They descend to the very bottom of the ocean, all the way down to the crushing depths, their bodies providing food for the denizens of the deepest ocean. They shared this fate, his kind and their kind; it was a fate he has chosen. He felt strangely at peace of the thought. He has seen his kind die before; a lot of them died violent deaths, and in some cases he himself was the cause. They just burned up, as their own fire consumed them.The ones who died peacefully simply flew east to disappear -at least, most of them.

Like he did now. He left his flock, and came here, where there is only air and water, like many has done before him. For centuries now he felt his body grow heavier, his fire weaker; as if he was slowly turning stone…. which was, in a way, was exactly what was happening. Once the fire went out, dragons became immovable stone, like the earth’s bone. He has seen what happened to his kind when they became too tired, too lazy, too heavy to fly. So it was time. One last choice to make.

He closed his amber eyes, and started to fly… to really fly. Loops and rolls, dives. Once a thing of effortless joy, now something that left burning pain in his body; yet he felt happy. He knew of tales of  majestic birds singing one last song before their deaths; his song was of roaring fire and the savage joy of flight. One last loop, and he turned towards the water. The ocean waited for him.

You know how negative times negative makes positive in math? (-2*-2=+4)

Well, it works in real life too. Incompetence twice equals competence.

Enter the Saga of Our Bathroom.

The power shower finally gave up the ghost a couple of days ago. I obviously called the letting agency (Martyn Gerrard) to have it fixed ASAP, since we like to live like civilized people and take regular showers (once a day, preferably). Their response was that certainly, they will discuss the issue with the landlord as it is not an emergency -we still have a bathtub.

There are two problems with this approach. First, that it is an emergency, the immersion heater for the water cannot produce enough hot water to fill the bathtub 2 inches deep… hardly enough for a bath. The second is that the bathroom looks like a construction zone already, and it’s been like that for two months- obviously the landlord is not rushing at things.

No matter my arguments, the letting agency decided that if bathing once a year was good enough in the Middle Ages, it will be fine for London in the 21st century, in an apartment we pay over a grand a month.

So we ended up boiling water in pots and filling up the bathtub like that. Yay.

However, there was a twist in the story, and this is where the original observation comes in.

Last night a repairman showed up (without any previous arrangements; they never called), to change the immersion heater. Which is not faulty.

It turns out he should have gone to flat 23 instead of 17, but his work sheet was wrong, and also mistakenly marked our power shower as “work finished”. Which explains why they never called. Somehow, someone marked the job done. (I guess it’s a way to be efficient.)

Anyhow, since he was there, he took a look at the power shower, and fixed it temporarily. The switch is faulty, and if we turn it off it will not turn on again… and it might turn off on its own as it did when I realized it was faulty. I know it can because I was under it, in the process of taking a shower…

Astonishing. Two cases of incompetency essentially restored- albeit temporarily- our shower.

Even more astonishing the letting agency now say that

1. He fixed the immersion heater which he did not even touch

2. He fixed the power shower, so no more work is necessary and the case is closed.

They also have not responded to my emails inquiring about the mould and “cosmetic” (their words) issues of every single panel being torn off in the bathroom for over two months now.

I can’t really stay angry; it’s just hilarious. Can’t wait for the next instalment.

The last couple of days have been an emotional roller coaster for me.

First I learned that British sausages were fine when nitrate salts were concerned, but not the German-style ones. That’s somewhat of a good news- at least there are some sausages that do not contain carcinogens. Great stuff! Not all is lost!

Then today the news hit: most British sausages –especially the vegetarian ones I prefer so I can indulge without feeling bad for eating meat- have more salt in them than a McDonald’s cheeseburger with fries… which means no bowel cancer risk, sure, but instead you get the increased risk of cardiovascular diseases.

I can’t deal with this anymore; they build up your hopes and then dash them in a second…

I have to walk about a mile to the Tube every day, and spend this time listenting to podcasts. Usually history (History on Fire, or Martyrmade), but sometimes I switch to politics or anything else that catches my fancy, really. The other day I left my headphones at home, and came to an uncomfortable realization.

I seriously debated turning back and walking home to grab them adding another twenty minutes to my commute. This is when I realized I don’t actually just think. I fill my time with books, podcasts, radio – while I don’t actually think, reflect on what is happening around me, or just explore my own thoughts. Weird, isn’t it? I honestly don’t know if I’m listening to Teddy Roosevelt’s life because I’m interested, or because I feel uncomfortable being left alone in my own head. I guess this is a good step in the right direction- realizing the need for change.

Next you know I’ll be sitting under a tree watching my belly button.

It has been nice to see the whole sexual abuse issue blow up; it was quite high time for that.

I would talk about something else, though, with the full knowledge that it might upset people. Academia is rife with abuse of all kinds, not just sexual, and it seems like this part is very much forgotten by everyone. The sole focus on sexual abuse is not conductive to addressing the real issue: despite of being the strongholds of liberal thinking, academia is more feudal than any modern systems I’ve experienced or heard about. Your line manager, your PI holds absolute power over you, and abuses of this power are rife. And guess what? You have absolutely no recourse or protection -unless, ironically, the abuse in question is sexual in nature. I’ve witnessed two professors dismissed for making repeated passes on their students. They behaved inappropriately: they were essentially trying to hook up with the attractive young women in their labs, and suffered for it. (One of the few ways of losing a tenured position.)

 

I’ve never seen anyone suffer the consequences of terrorising their students or for sabotaging their career. Just like sexual abuse it’s hard to prove. And unlike sexual abuse nobody takes the side of the victim if he or she comes forward.  I am not trying to relativize one form of abuse over another, and I’m not trying to depict myself as a greater victim; I’m trying to point out that the problem is much deeper rooted than the present flurry of articles and revelations imply. I have some personal experience with abusive PIs; I was driven to depression and thoughts of self-harm during my first attempt at a PhD in the US, and frankly, nobody gave a shit.

 

The situation was typical, really: a husband and wife team, with the husband, professor Fields, being a widely acclaimed peptide scientists, and the wife being an ex-MSc student of his. As a side-note: she always liked to talk about how difficult it is for women to succeed in science, how much harder they had to work. Well, she certainly did: she seduced her MSc supervisor who divorced his wife, and married her. Boom, instant advancement to laboratory manager. She was quite famous of her ambition: anything you did in conjunction with her husband’s lab (even if you just used the CD Spectrometer or the MALDI-TOF instrument), her name went onto the paper coming out of the results. Highly unethical, but who’s going to argue with the wife of the head of your department?

 

She was also a horrible human being. (I suspect she still is.) She had obviously an axe to grind, and since her husband left her free run of the lab, she used her power to make the lives of students a living hell. Perhaps it’s no surprise that before the batch of students of which I was part of nobody managed to get their degree in this particular lab for seven years. True story: I actually chatted with some random guy at a bar in Fort Lauderdale (some 30 miles from my university), and when he heard the name of the wife, he said: “man, I heard she is a real bitch”. So yeah. My problems weren’t unique.

 

Because she made the three postdoc’s life miserable, they were all too eager to pass this misery onto the students, especially students who were not directly managed by either of them -me, in other words. When I arrived, none of the three gracias (the postdocs) returned my greetings; they slammed doors in my face, and in general ignored me. After six months someone told me: this was an initiation period. We’re talking about women over thirty with husbands and kids here- yet, here we were, re-enacting Mean Girls. The other students obviously read the writing on the wall- nobody likes to be friends with a leper, so the atmosphere was just perfect.

 

Everybody who worked in that lab had serious issues (except for one golden boy, who was groomed to be the first in seven years to acquire a PhD, so he got tremendous support from her). One student was actually mentored by a postdoc from another laboratory, and, since our dear lab manager refused to order supplies for him, the said postdoc supplied this guy from another professor’s funds. Let it sink in a bit: a student could only work in the lab managed by the head of department, because some other professor’s money was used to order him supplies.

 

Well, I did not have anyone buying me stuff. Apparently until you were successful, the lab’s finances were closed for you; none of my orders went through, none of my primers got ordered. (I don’t have to detail how insane this attitude is, I hope.) After three months of repeated requests I went directly to the PI who was quite livid when heard of this issue; the orders were approved for a short while, and then they stopped again; the wife became even more openly hostile, on the other hand for daring to go over her head.

 

Not surprisingly my research was not going well, and the pressure I was put under for it was tremendous. I felt trapped, isolated in a hostile environment; I really was a pariah in the laboratory, and I did not have many friends outside, since it’s kind of difficult to make new friends in a small town inhabited by millionaires, and not having anything more than an odd restaurant and strip mall. I wasn’t an undergrad, and the graduate students in general had families and were not interested in mingling with the same people they share their miseries every single day in the lab. I didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Obviously failure begets failure in both personal and professional levels. I became detached, angry, scared. I spent a tremendous amount of money of my mother’s to get to Florida, and felt trapped. Sure you can say: why didn’t I leave? Because I felt there were nowhere to go. If I left I had nothing to do but to go home and accept that I’ve squandered all that money, all those years, and face the fact that I’m unemployable with no PhD, having spent years abroad. (In retrospect it was not true; but you are not necessarily thinking rationally under duress. I felt I had everything to lose.)

 

And so I became suicidal. It wasn’t a conscious thing; no grand plans of killing myself in a spectacular fashion, or looking up ways to do it online. It just got into my mind uninvited. For example I would regularly refill the liquid nitrogen dewars in the cold room as part of my duties. It wasn’t like in the UK where you have very strict safety regulations: no oxygen sensors, no alarms, no buddy system or ventilated rooms. The dewars were kept in a small room and the only safety you had was to keep the door open. While I was waiting for the nitrogen to transfer I found myself thinking how nice it would be to close the door, and just spill the nitrogen out. Or, when I went out to the beach (which was almost the only way of stress relief, and ironically may have been the reason why I was able to hold out as long as I did) I felt like just letting myself taken out to the open water by the current.  This is when I realized that holy shit, my brain was trying to kill me.

 

My time in the lab ended with a bang, actually. Jenny dearest came over to me after a presentation I held in a lab meeting, and started shouting at me. She did that quite often, but this time I was really, really out of fucks to give. She had no justification for shouting since my research did not proceed due to her refusing to process and approve my orders, and giving me support, as you know she was supposed to. I had good grades (3.67 GPA as a biologist taking advanced organic synthesis classes), my presentations given for the department were excellent (they really were), and I felt absolutely hopeless and at that point I knew I had nothing to lose. So I did not pull my tail between my legs as I did before, but stood up for myself. I did not shout back even though I would have liked nothing more than to shout at her; however I knew I had to be better than her. My heart was beating so hard it almost burst my ribcage, but I (outwardly) calmly answered her. And then I gave her my mind. Factual, no insults (of which she had a lot), collected. And then I went over to the office of her husband and told him what happened and that I cannot remain in this lab any longer because his wife is ruining my life (and his lab incidentally).

 

He was stunned; I was told an hour later the whole department was echoing of him shouting at his wife. And I joined the lab of Vetter, the German a day later.

 

I should have known. I did not know it at the time but she went over to his office and told him half-truths and straight-out lies, poisoning the well for me even before I started. I did not understand why, but I was under immense scrutiny in my new lab. All my mistakes, all my words were actually recorded. I had two meetings with my new supervisor who made me sign statements which were not true -statements about how and why I failed in his lab or twisting out things I’ve said. I was there less than two months at the first meeting, so it is kind of expected to not succeed; this is the nature of research. I was numb and stunned in these meetings and signed without thinking -this way he made himself safe from any complaints later on, and then he just dismissed me just after four months. (Ironically none of his other students got along well, and dropped out one after another; he ended up moving to some little state university in North Dakoda. I wonder if he thought about his statistically improbable bad luck getting so many poor students one after another, or perhaps gave a deep thought about his management style instead.)

 

Anyhow, after this I just took three classes over the summer semester with the good will of a professor who approved my request, and graduated with a MSc degree. (Another one.) I felt strange. As if a huge stone was lifted from my shoulders. I had no job, no visa, and I was happy and free. I mean truly happy. The nightmare was over, and I did not even realize how bad it was until after… it was like that story with the frog who is slowly boiled alive without him noticing.

 

I spent an awesome August working at the Gumbo Limbo Nature Center, swimming in the Atlantic in the mornings, going home and looking for jobs in the afternoon. Probably the happiest time of my life.

 

What my point is with this story that it’s not a sexual abuse problem that we see in academia. It’s certainly a part of the overall problem. It’s a power abuse problem. And if you have power you will abuse it as many ways as possible -sexual or otherwise. Weinsten and the other creeps were not “just” horrible towards women (or men) they fancied. They were reportedly an absolute terror for all of their underlings. Demanding sex was just one part of the privileges they enjoyed. Completely breaking down, destroying human beings, derailing lives, because they can was also on their routine – like what the famous wife did described above. This should not be ignored, either, just because bodily fluids are not exchanged in the process.

 

As I mentioned before PI’s hold the power of life and death over their students – it really is a feudal system. A lot of them are aware of the responsibilities they have; but a lot of them -men and women alike- are willingly abuse it. Even if a PI is not abusing his or her students, PIs are incentivized to keep them in the lab as long as they can as essentially free labor. You know all those Nobel laureates and other successful researchers? The bulk of their work is done by PhD students and postdocs, who spend an enormous amount of their time in the lab. The chances are none of the graphs, none of the micrographs they present in their Nature and Science papers were done by them; the data and the graphs created by their peons; they managed and directed the work. It’s like the pyramids which were built by masses of slaves for the glory of the pharaoh. (I have to add that this is a historically incorrect view, but makes for a good hyperbole.)  I’m being unfair, of course; the direction, the management comes from the PI. But the contribution of the blood and sweat of their underlings is usually ignored.

 

Graduate students and postdocs -especially in the US- are exploited regardless of being terrorized or not. This exploitation is a form of abuse, no doubt about it. You are forced to work in a lab years longer than you should be working because your PI will not allow you to finish. You are making enormous sacrifices in your private life: you’re at least ten years behind financially than your peers, and forget about finding a stable relationship and having children. And you do this in return of the promise that you have about 7% chance to land a tenure position where you will similarly exploit students because the system implores you to. In order to succeed, you essentially are forced to hold on to students as long as you can.

 

Unwanted sexual advancements are just one aspect of this system. I too was abused in Florida by my PI and his wife. So were many people I hear describing their experiences in Ivy Leauge Schools where the spirit of competition is taken to an extreme, so students feel inclined to sabotage each other’s work (I’ve heard several stories; even my closest friend, who was my only ally during my trials in Florida had a camera set up to monitor her stock of reagents). It’s a system where your PI might cancel your visa while you’re on holiday, so you only learn you lost your postdoc at Harvard on the border when you cannot get back to the country… the list of horror stories is long. Reportedly even my dear PI had one of his fellow students blow her brains out in the lab one night when he was doing his PhD, but the circle has obviously not stopped.

 

I’m not sure how this could be addressed. But I thought I’d add my voice to the discussion. Even though I’m a white male and my abusers were female, and nobody touched my privates. They just took three years of my life, pushed me into a dark place from which I had to climb out alone and unsupported, and essentially killed my chance to fulfil my aspirations I held since I was a child to be a scientist. You will be the judge of how serious it is even if no gonads are involved in the process.

 

There are these commonly held beliefs that simply refuse to go away, and I have no idea why. They are entrenched in our culture, and despite of being blatantly untrue, and easily refutable, they hold on, like a tick onto a dog. These are successful memes that survive in our collective conscience despite of being useless -or in the case I’m going to mention, downright dangerous.

My most favorite one is the one about finding North by looking at what side the moss grows the tree trunks.

Honestly, have you ever seen a tree before? Just go out into any park; you don’t need a forest. Moss grows all over the trunk. Everyone who has ever taken a look at a tree knows it- yet people still keep repeating it, and the idea persist.

It’s weird how these memes got themselves into the culture so successfully no facts can make them go away. Perhaps it’s the cultural version of how a virus propagates its genetic information to the next generation.