Omphalos

by Harper J. Cole

  “Honestly, morale is good, all things considered, but it’s … brittle, for want of a better word. We’ve lost some big personalities, but we’ve settled into a new equilibrium.”

  “A stable one?”

  “Maybe. I don’t want to oversimplify the situation. The crew have a clear goal right now, and that’s important. The most stressful times are when we’re delayed, like with the repairs to the hull. Too much time for people to think.”

  The doctor smiled and rubbed at her brow.

  “We’ll be fine, just as long as we keep moving forwards.”

  * * *

  After leaving Medical, Hunter returned to her quarters, passing through the Hub en route - still mindful of the need not to micromanage, she paused only briefly to check that all was well with the repairs. Having received an affirmative response from al-Hawsawi, she passed through the Meeting Room, and on into the space that had been her home these five years past.

  The décor was quite refined, in line with her preferences. White wooden panelling had been affixed to the cold metal of the Bona Dea’s bulkheads and an intricately-patterned red carpet yielded softly beneath her feet. A matching set of genuine Fulvio D’Ambrosia furniture – four chairs, two tables and a couch, all with the same onyx theme – added a distinct touch of sophistication. These expensive acquisitions might easily have graced a stately home of England when new, but time was telling for this room just as much as for its occupant. The carpet was worn and tired in the spots where Hunter had paced back and forth during her darker days; a bare patch on the far wall showed where a section of panelling had fallen with a crash last week, chipping her statuette of Lilith the Defiant into the bargain.

  Hunter didn’t let it trouble her. The ostentation of her quarters seemed absurd now, a relic of simpler times. Seizing a handpad and seating herself upon the couch, she accessed her encyclopaedia and began to read up on the history and culture of Kerin, their next destination.

  It was the most prosperous of the six Matan colonies – at least, in terms of the scale of the economy. In terms of wealth per capita, Kerin was second to Ramira; as the authors of this encyclopaedia hailed from the latter colony, Hunter was unsurprised to see this fact brought up more than once.

  Kerin was the top dog in most areas, though, there was no doubt about that. Her impression was of a culture that did everything on a grand scale – taller buildings, faster cars, louder music, bigger personalities. It was a world where introversion had no value and subtlety was a forgotten art.

  At least, that was the message the authors were trying to convey. Haji, the co-leader of Ramira, had admitted to Hunter that Kerin’s success had brought envy with it; she would have to keep an open mind.

  Her wristband beeped softly; a call from al-Hawsawi. Hunter opened the channel with a tap of her finger.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Captain, the ACMs are here to see you.”

  “Ah.” Hunter frowned; she’d quite forgotten about that appointment. And Little had just praised her memory as excellent.

  Excellent for my age…

  “Fine, send them through to the Meeting Room. I’ll be out shortly.”

  Without great enthusiasm, the captain rose and crossed to her mirror, where she confirmed her collar was straight and her golden locks were suitably organised; even when meeting machines, she held herself to a certain standard. Unhurriedly, she crossed to the door.

  It swished aside to reveal the trio of Anthropomorphised Carnal Machines: Ivan, Salomon, Ricardo. Still strange, to see them all together like this. They were never meant to leave their rooms. Hard to think of them as I used to, though, since the birth of Chamonix…

  It was Ricardo, the ersatz Latino, who spoke first.

  “Signora Capitana, you honour us with this audience. The purity of your heart is truly a match for the radiance of your face, twin lights that bathe all before them in a rapturous-”

  “Yes, yes. We’ll dispense with all that, shall we?” Hunter waved the trio over to the conference table, seating herself opposite them. “I’m not here to be swept off my feet.”

  “That suits me well enough,” said Ivan, scratching at his beard as he selected the chair directly across from her. “Time is too precious to waste on empty words.” Ricardo himself made no complaint, smiling broadly as he slid into his seat. Salomon, taciturn by design, took his place in silence.

  “Straight on with it then,” said Hunter. “My understanding is that you wanted to discuss your role aboard ship going forward?”

  “Exactly.” Ivan folded his hands before him on the table, holding her gaze easily. With his chiselled features and designer suit, he could easily have passed for a headstrong young executive. “You have a problem, Captain. Six of your crew have been lost, leaving you short of labour at several key positions. We, too, have a problem – be it by accident or design, we have broken our programming, and can no longer content ourselves purely with serving the whims of your crew.

  “The solution to these problems is the same. We will join your crew as full members. You can teach us the correct operation of any piece of equipment on this ship, and we’ll pick it up just as easily as we did the martial arts that Ms. Abayomi was kind enough to tutor us in.”

  Hunter arched a golden brow. She had been expecting something along these lines, but still felt a visceral reaction to hearing it so bluntly.

  “Will you now? And what will we do once you’ve mastered the Bona Dea, sit back and let you guide us home?”

  “Not at all. If Mahi Mata taught us nothing else, it is that the mechanical and the biological are both required to achieve perfection. Humans can react quickly to the unexpected. We cannot. Our skills are complementary.” Perhaps reading a lack of enthusiasm from the woman opposite him, he leaned forwards, voice tightening in what appeared to be passion. “Captain, imagine if there was a robot permanently stationed in Engineering, tireless and ever-ready. I could maintain that department flawlessly, and report any anomalies to my colleagues calmly and concisely. And I’d still perform my primary function without complaint, if that’s what worries you.”

  “It isn’t. I’ve two concerns, actually, and I don’t think you’ll like either of them. Firstly, you’re asking to be treated as equals, but I’m not convinced you’re even alive, since you weren’t touched by whatever magic created Chamonix.”

  “Fine. Then accept us for your own benefit, not ours.”

  “Which brings me to my second concern: can you be trusted?”

  “Of course! More than any human, as our behaviour is strictly governed by our programming.”

  Hunter shook her head slowly. “Your programming has already been altered once, by Flora. Now that she’s gone, we’ve no-one else with real expertise in what makes you tick. I can’t risk my crew’s lives by relying on something I don’t understand.”

  Ivan threw up his hands in exasperation; Ricardo leapt to his brother’s aid.

  “Dearest Miriam, can you not take a leap of faith? Fulfilling your desires is written into the very fabric of our souls. We could never hurt that which we love. Have we not served you faithfully? Have we not fought to defend you?”

  “You’ve proven … adaptable,” the captain conceded. “But we needed your strength to survive back on Mata. When it comes to running this ship, my crew can handle it.”

  “‘We cannot succeed when half of us are held back,’” stated Ivan meaningfully.

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “A quote from Malala Yousafzai, if I’m not mistaken. I find it hard to believe that a knowledge of feminist icons formed part of your programming. Where did you hear that, I wonder?”

  The robot shrugged. “I read it in the ship’s archive.”

  “Which you don’t have access to. Or shouldn’t, at any rate…”

  “Alice lent me her handpad – one of her last acts before going to her death. She, at least, wanted to help me fulfil my potential.”

  Hunter nodded slowly. That was very like Alice, tru
sting and giving. She consoled herself that the handpad in question did not possess the capacity to access classified blueprints or other information on the Bona Dea.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d inform me before expanding your horizons in future.”

  “As a servant consulting his master?”

  “No. As a courtesy.” Hunter’s gaze shifted to the left. “Salomon, do you have anything to say?”

  The ACM didn’t respond immediately. Unlike Ivan, he seemed to be choosing his words on the spot, rather than reading from a prepared script. His gaze was on the desk before him, and he did not look up when he spoke.

  “I want only to understand who I am. Am I real, or just a story I tell myself? If you let me explore that with the crew, then I will. Otherwise I must settle the matter by myself.”

  Hunter saw an opportunity for compromise. “That’s a worthy goal. I’ll give you and Ricardo handpads like the one Ivan has, and suggest a few philosophers who I’ve found meaningful. As to joining the crew, I’m afraid that it’s a ‘no’ for the moment. Rest assured, though, I’ll keep your suggestion in mind.”

  She had expected further argument from Ivan, or another snide remark at the very least, but he rose from his seat without comment, nodding curtly before striding to the door. Salomon quietly thanked her for her time, and Ricardo threw in an elegant bow before all three departed.

  The captain remained seated. If nothing else, she mused, they’re interesting conversationalists. Well, perhaps not so much Ricardo – he’s superficial, personality pretty much stuck on its factory settings. Salomon seems genuinely self-aware. And Ivan? Rude and headstrong, just as his programming dictates, but he has his surprising moments. Using the Yousafzai quote was cheeky but clever. And yes, it would be an unpleasant irony for a feminist to treat someone as lesser because they’re different.

  That only holds if they are truly alive though. Haven’t anti-abortionists used the illusion of personhood to subjugate us in the past?

  She sighed, smiling slightly. Here was a new dilemma to puzzle over in her sleepless hours.

  All I can do is follow my instincts.

  * * *

  “What am I?”

  The walls of Chamonix’s low-gravity dwelling place did not answer her, nor did the tangle of bars which twisted their way through and about her.

  She might have a little more success if she asked her crewmates, but even they could not give her the deeper answers she sought. Professor Rivers might say that she was a fusion of organic and mechanical components, primarily her human mother and android father, but with a dash of Matan plantlife thrown into the mix.

  Insufficient. That would be to leave out the mystery ingredient – the touch of Vitana.

  She had thought of her third parent often in the weeks since the Bona Dea had defeated the challenge of the Zakazashi and left Gatari behind. It wasn’t difficult to work out why, as Vitana had left its mark on that world as surely as it had on Chamonix herself. Down beneath the surface, there had lain a vast labyrinth, one flawlessly constructed to follow a set of mathematical equations. It could only have been the work of the Matan Earth God, but Chamonix hadn’t seen it, only heard a second-hand report of how Gypsy had solved the puzzle and led her friends to freedom.

  Those that survived.

  The loss of three crewmembers, including Gypsy’s own mother, had been traumatic for the mathematician, who was unstable at the best of times. Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t taken the time to fill Chamonix in on her experience. From what the hybrid had learned, though, Gypsy had felt a moment of deep connection with Vitana, forged through their mutual appreciation for the beauty of mathematics.

  Knowing this, Chamonix had felt the strongest emotion of her short existence. Lacking experience of human drives, save for diluted memories of her mother’s life, it had taken some time to decide which name to pin on this emotion, this unsettling tightness in her chest. Or perhaps she’d known all along, and simply not wanted to admit it.

  Jealousy. She resented Gypsy’s connection with Vitana, fleeting and indirect though it may have been, as it reminded her of what she had thrown away. Back on Mahi Mata, she had been as one with the Earth God. She had used its power to kill, and that act had brought a troubling satisfaction. If she’d remained on the planet, the might of Vitana would have remained Chamonix’s to wield until the universe withered on the vine, but a fear of losing her individuality had propelled her away from that prize and towards an uncertain future. Isolated among this human crew, her persona felt splintered, a patchwork of elements failing to form a cohesive whole.

  “What am I?”

  “You’re my daughter. Isn’t that enough?”

  The voice came from the small screen at her right wrist, the remains of a handpad the hybrid had incorporated into herself. Raising the screen to eye-level, Chamonix found herself looking at a face she had never seen before yet knew at once.

  “Mother.”

  “Yes.” It was indeed Flora Cartwright, who had quite undisputedly died at the moment of Chamonix’s conception, her mind and body sacrificed in her union with the ACM she called Charlie. Dark hair, green eyes, a birthmark that matched the dark blotches on her daughter’s own visage – all these were familiar, promoted now from Chamonix’s inherited memories to her present reality. Flora’s face took up most of the screen, but a grey, murky void was visible behind her.

  “Where are you? How is it that you’re speaking to me?” Chamonix felt curiosity but no great surprise.

  “Well, to answer your first question, I’m inside you. Inside your mind, I mean. Actually, I guess that answers the second question as well, doesn’t it?”

  “Inside my mind. That makes sense, to a point – elements of your persona exist within me. I just didn’t realise that they could take on a life of their own.”

  “Now you know! You must have a lot of questions.”

  “Of course…” Chamonix found her mind suddenly blank. She’d often imagined a talk very much like this one, a chance to explore the mother-daughter bond she’d felt since her creation, but that bond felt insubstantial now. It had melted away before the light of whichever miracle had brought Flora forth, and Chamonix found herself gazing upon the face of a stranger.

  “How have you been?” asked Flora, seeming eager to end the lull in the conversation.

  “Quite well. I’ve been working on my powers – I think they’re improving. So are my relations with the crew. Annie’s nice. She was your best friend on board, wasn’t she?”

  The image of Flora smiled slightly. “Yes, she’s quite a character.”

  “Yes.” The banality of the conversation frustrated Chamonix. Her mind felt fuzzy; she strained to dredge up a talking point. What had she been thinking about just now? Ah, yes. “I’ve felt like the human and machine parts of me aren’t quite gelling lately. Like I’m switching back and forth from one mode to another, without the two becoming a coherent personality.”

  “You’re a worrier. I’m afraid you got that from me. Try and be more like Charlie.”

  “Yes, I’m inside you as well, never forget that.”

  The new voice had come from Chamonix’s left wrist. She raised it and found another small screen, this one showing her father. Calm blue eyes, brown hair, brow creased in thought.

  “Hello, Father.”

  “You mentioned two parts of who you are: human and machine. Hmm. I think I see a flaw in your thinking. You’re forgetting the third, most important element – Vitana. The glue that holds you together.”

  “Or the explosion that tears me apart, perhaps. I don’t understand Vitana at all, and what little I know of it disturbs as much as entrances me. It pervades everything it touches, but it keeps others at a distance until it’s ready to consume them. Looking at my own experience-” She stopped, frowning. “Something’s wrong here. I’ve never had a screen at my left wrist, only the right one. And … where am I?”

  She was no longer in the low-gravity room; instead, s
he floated amidst gloomy grey clouds, constantly shifting. There was a light somewhere beyond those clouds – weak, diffused, difficult to pin down. Her parents now floated before her, pale and glowing.

  “I believe it would be wise to trust Vitana,” said Charlie, his voice still seeming distant, though he drifted not five feet away.

  “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

  “A time will come when you must let go of your mother and me, whether you are ready or not…”

  “This is bad.” Chamonix always felt cold, but there was an extra touch of ice in her heart now. “I can’t control my power properly while I’m asleep. I might have torn the Bona Dea apart already … I need to wake up. I need to wake up at once.” She waited a second, but nothing happened. Didn’t humans awaken automatically once they perceived the unreality of a dream? Panic gripped her. She closed her eyes and imagined herself in the low gravity room, the familiar bars in place, but when she opened them again, she could see only the constant grey void, and her parents floating calmly before her.

  “You should trust in Vitana and trust in your power,” said Flora.

  “Mother, how do I wake up?”

  “That power is you and yours. There is no safer hand to wield it.”

  “Mother! How do I-”

  “Wake? You already have.”

  Chamonix shook her head, spreading her arms wide to indicate their surroundings. “This isn’t reality…”

  But it was.

  The familiar dingy confines of the low-gravity training room were about her. No drowsiness, no sense of disorientation. She was simply back.

  Remembering her earlier fears, Chamonix craned her neck back to examine the ceiling. No rips, no holes. Her metamorphical powers had left the ship’s hull untouched.

  The interior of the room was another matter. When the Bona Dea had left Earth, this space had boasted a tangle of exercise bars, running perfectly straight from one surface to another. During Chamonix’s tenure, these had become warped and changed, an uneven web with herself at the centre.