by BL Craig
Many undead news feed reports attributed the idea to draft the undead into war to William. The living news attributed it to Admiral Shen, the Mirada fleet commander.
AfterLife news broadcasts reported that the entire crew of the Yan Luo, 10,000 reanimates, had been lost in the battle. Of course, Elva knew, AfterLife was responsible for letting the reanimates be taken by the Navy. The administrators could have stopped the appropriation of the Yan Luo workers, but AfterLife was already the sole authority over reanimate existence and the object of most reanimate angst. William’s face plastered all over the FirstLife feeds was an easier target for their immediate anger and fear.
He might not be the monster the undead pundits denounced, but Elva knew the Navy. Like almost all fleet personnel she had been born on a Navy base, raised in a Navy family, had attended a Navy school, and had joined up herself the day she was eligible. They were almost a country unto themselves. She knew their arrogance, their frustration, and the constant need to prove their worth—not just to justify the budget, but to justify their culture and values. The Earth Defense Navy had been without an enemy for so long that it was becoming hard to keep up the facade of purpose. They were little more than a space-faring coast guard. As a younger officer, Elva had known that hunger for glory and distinction, with no possible outlet.
Regardless of whatever had happened on Mirada, William had played the celebrity game and the living could not get enough of the handsome young hero. The adjustment period from interstellar hero to undead nobody was going to be difficult. There was no place for ambition and fame seeking on her ship. He would have to relearn most of what he knew before she could trust him.
* * *
…
* * *
Alex Nguyen turned out to be a 300ish year old Vietnamese professor of geology, grandmother of twelve, and second-generation settler of Babylon. Communications turned out to be her side hustle on the ship. Her primary function was as ships geo survey analyst. She was polite, if distant, and answered all of William’s questions on the way to his quarters. No, it was not usual for a new reanimate to be assigned to a position so quickly. Yes, the Mikki and Tilly usually worked in tandem. The Tilly would enter a new system first to do the initial recon and scans. The Mikki would follow when they finished the previous system and start the more detailed work on the promising sites identified by the Tilly. The Tilly would then move on when the system was fully surveyed. This meant the two ships spent about half their time in the same system. Yes, the Captains of the Tilly and the Mikki were a married couple, an arrangement that predated their deaths. No, Alex didn’t know of any SecondLifers who married after death. Technically, the dead had no legal status beyond the rights granted in SecondLife contracts. Elva and Jason had both been Captains in the Navy with their own ships. They had died together in a transport accident. The Tilly had been converted from a sub-light commercial mining ship to an AfterLife survey ship about 175 years ago.
They arrived at his door. She wished him a perfunctory good rest and went off to her next task. William’s room was capacious, for a space vessel. No doubt when the ship had been a commercial vessel this room had housed four or more crew in racks. Now, there was a bare bed against the wall opposite the door that could fold up. A desk, also anchored to the wall, was positioned to the right of the door, along with a chair with magnetized feet. A footlocker rested at the end of the bed, and a vertical wardrobe stood in the corner to the left of the door. The rest of the space was empty, making the furnishing look even more spare and pathetic.
A door to the right of the wardrobe opened into a small bathroom. There was no sign of a head, which made sense, considering the no eating, no drinking business. The shower was a generous single upright. The lack of toilet meant the shower could have a full swing door rather than the horrible accordion doors found in the shared Navy shower stalls. He checked the shower and found the stream of water shot out vigorously. There was a sink and small mirror as well. A private bathroom was unheard of for anyone less than a commander in the Navy. He had been sharing tiny communal bathrooms for nearly ten years.
He found the seabag secured in the wardrobe. Inside the door was a full-length mirror–the first opportunity he had to fully examine himself post resurrection. His normal china-doll skin, extra-pale from his months aboard ship, had taken on a slight bluish tint. Tilting his head, he could make out the faint lines of the AfterLife watermark on his cheeks and forehead. Peering more closely, he could discern that the intricate pattern was fractal in nature. A repeating variant of the Julia set, if he remembered his exotic math correctly. It would be arresting if it had not been imprinted on his flesh. The skin at his neck looked shiny and new, just a little less worn than the rest of him. It was probably a graft of some sort.
The metal plate had a brushed nickel finish with an elegantly embossed AfterLife phoenix. If he grew his hair out it would be less visible. The Captain’s tidy twist he noticed, could have covered the plate, if she had parted her hair on the other side, but she had not done that. He suspected she was not the kind of person to try and paper over a defect or avoid harsh truths. He attempted to get a look at the tiny module on his spine but could only catch fleeting glimpses of a small silver disc peeking out from the skin.
The rest of him looked the same as it had when he’d gotten ready to meet Carly . . . whenever that was. Thinking about Carly conjured a lump in is throat. He refocused on the mirror. His golden blonde hair was rumpled and tufted from drying while he was laying on a gurney post decanting. The straight nose was unchanged save for the watermark. Oval sapphire eyes under lightly arched sandy brows, showed a slight hint of veining in the sclera. Instead of the usual red of tired or irritated eyes he saw tiny lines of bluish grey. The rest was the same as always. Jaw just wide enough to be masculine, without becoming too prominent. Small cleft in the chin that could be mistaken for a dimple. Tallish, athletic frame with broad shoulders and narrow hips.
He had always been uncomfortable with the way people responded to his good looks. “You should enjoy it,” Carly smirked when he reacted awkwardly to compliments, “I certainly do.”
One of the many photos William kept on his nexus was his last family portrait. Most people, had he shown it to anyone, would have noticed how frail Sophie looked, 12 years old, but hardly any larger than the 7-year-old William. Her limbs were atrophied, but her smile was radiant as she leaned against their dad. When he looked at the picture, William saw three curly brown heads, three pairs of mahogany brown eyes. Two noses with a little bump near the bridge. Three pointy chins. Dad with his big ears, noticeable even in the mass of hair he rarely had cut. Mom smiling at the camera, with just a hint of tension around her eyes. Down in the front and just a little to the side, part of the group, but also separate, stood the little golden boy, wide-eyed, with only the thinnest smile. He looked like a stranger crashing the party.
William suspected the gene editors had decided to go above and beyond when they made him. He was also pretty sure, what they’d done was illegal. So, figured the tech, why not go whole hog while we’re breaking the law and make him classically beautiful. As though they suspected he would need looks in order to find acceptance in the world he was being made for, a world where he was doomed to fail at his primary design.
He hoisted the seabag to the bed, flipped back the flap, and unbuckled the clip holding all the neatly stacked grommets in place. The contents immediately began spilling out on the bed. Topmost was an Afterlife nexus that was slightly larger and more rugged than the personal nexus he had carried in the Navy.
He sorted through five of what appeared to be standard bridge crew uniforms. Five sets of working blues. Another set of casual wear, and assorted undergarments. A pair of midweight boots suitable for life on a ship. Personal care items: toothbrush, razor, small mirror, and other bits and bobs. Using the smaller mirror while facing away from the full-length wardrobe mirror, he was able to get a better look at the control module. It wasn’t mu
ch really, just about 30 degrees of arc from a larger cylinder about 7cm in diameter and ½ cm thick. No glowing lights, marks, or controls of any kind.
He took out the nexus and pulled up the map of the ship to find his way to the Captain’s office.
* * *
…
* * *
The Captain was reviewing the specifications for the new rail gun the techs on Elysium had installed before this mystery mission. It never boded well when superiors gave you a weapon and did not tell you what it was for. A chime indicated someone was waiting outside. “Come in,” she said. The door opened and William stepped in.
She saw him taking in the office, surprise on his face. The Tilly’s original configuration had called for a crew of twenty with most double bunking. The original Captains office was little bigger than a broom closet, so she had moved into one of the free cabins. The warmly decorated space was no doubt not what he had expected. Elva had hung art pieces on the walls, including an Arcadian tapestry, a gift from her husband. A small fainting couch rested against the back wall. Elva liked to lie on it and put her feet on the wall when thinking through problems. The rich oriental rug on the floor was an irregular from a factory on Bardo. Not suitable for shipment to the living worlds, but the weaving error was hidden under the taman wood desk, also a factory reject she had repaired herself. While the pristine products went to the living, AfterLife let the high-functioning buy imperfect pieces for cheap. There were the usual items one found on a desk, a photo frame, pens in a brass cup, and some stationary. Most work was done by nexus, but Elva liked the feel of real paper.
“Please,” she gestured. “Have a seat.”
He sat down and waited.
“Well, Mr. Butcher, this is all highly unusual. Corporate wants us on some special assignment and we were short a pilot. I apologize for the haste of your assignment. Normally, you would have had plenty of time to acclimate to SecondLife. Most new reanimates spend weeks or even months on Elysium before transferring to a dead world for training. You wouldn’t have been there that long, considering your Navy background, but still, this is highly unusual and no doubt traumatic. We’ll do our best to help you settle in during the trip to Mirada. As an atype, your life will be more similar to FirstLife than it is for the drones, but it’s still a big adjustment.”
“Atype, ma’am?”
“As ‘high-functioning’ reanimates we are technically “atypical” but we use atype because it’s shorter, and “high-functioning” is deceptive. The drones are perfectly intelligent. They just don’t have the range of emotions available to us and the living.”
“I think the drone who reanimated me made a joke. About my death.”
“It’s possible. They often find things we would consider irrelevant interesting.”
“Are there any drones on the Tilly?”
“No, we’re all atypes. You’ll have noticed we’re very lean on crew. Our ability to stay awake and alert for long stretches of time makes us much more productive as crew members. We also share duties. Each crew member has a primary role and many secondary. Brooks and I can both pilot well enough, but the helm and navigation will be your primary responsibility.
“When we are in FTL, everyone takes a single four-hour watch per day. Sometimes watch falls during regular duty hours and sometimes during rest time, but never during rejuvenation. Being on watch is very much like being on call. You need to log notable events and be the first responder in case something happens. It is not necessary to be on the bridge during watch. When we’re in system, however, someone should always be on the bridge. That duty will fall disproportionately on the two of us, and to a lesser extent, Haruna, our chief drive engineer. The rest of the crew have science survey duties that keep them busy when we’re in system.
“I’m sure you have many questions. A lot of those can be answered by working through the normal orientation on your nexus. Use the checklist to make sure you don’t miss something important. For now, I want to focus on the ship and your duties here. With that in mind, let’s do the tour.”
* * *
…
* * *
The Tilly was large. Not a cruiser, but still spacious. The Captain took him out of the crew cabins through a series of multipurpose rooms. “This is the mess,” she said, stopping in front of the door to a large open room with movable tables and chairs. “Yes, I know, we don’t eat, but that’s what it’s called.” William saw a bank of cabinets and counters along one end of the room. There was a sink, but no other kitchen appliances. The Captain added, “It’s our primary socialization space.”
Next, they passed a conference room with six chairs around a rectangular table. There were a number of labs: bio lab, geo lab, spectroscopy lab, med lab, astrophysics lab, atmospheric lab, and a few more he lost track of, but saw they were marked on his ship map. Most of the labs were small rooms packed with equipment and a little bit of counterspace. Many were located closely together, but a few were removed to insulate sensitive material.
There were dozens of maintenance hatches and closets, all neatly labeled. The bulk of the ship was taken up by the bays. A large cargo/loading bay was stacked full of crates and equipment. The bay had large external doors and an airlock.
“As you see, we end up storing a lot of samples and equipment here. Most of what we keep in this bay is stowed in sealed crates or is safe in hard vacuum. We do sometimes need to bring the big survey probes in for work. When that happens, we need to push everything out of the way and move anything sensitive out.”
Nearby was a smaller extra vehicular activity bay (EVA) for the rare times when the crew needed to go outside, either in space or on a planetary surface. There were racks of suits and a couple of rugged vehicles. William was dumbfounded that just six people maintained and used all of this equipment. As if reading his mind, the Captain said, “We often team up with the crew of the Mikki for bigger jobs. Many hands make light work.”
They passed the vat room, where various algae and slimes grew, on the way to engineering control. The Captain waved her hand at the room. “We’re not going in. It stinks.”
It must smell very bad. William had only gotten the slightest hint of any scent at all since arriving on the Tilly. That had been near one of the chemistry labs. Perhaps the Captain’s sense of smell had remained more intact than his own post-reanimation.
“And this,” gestured the Captain, “is engine control. Haruna and Brooks spend most of their time here.”
Engine control consisted of a number of consoles and several vacuum secure doors on the far wall. William assumed these led to the sub-light and FTL drive cores.
“Haruna, this is Mr. Butcher, our new helmsman. Butcher, this is Mr. Haruna, our slightly mad chief engineer.”
The engineer was a short, compact man with midnight skin and a full head of meticulously braided, textured hair. Some of the smaller braids were pulled into larger plaits, keeping any from falling into his face. They also served to hide the phoenix embossed plate on the side of his head. Haruna glanced up from the console at William, “Everyone calls me Addy,” he said, nose already back down facing the console.
“William,” William responded.
“Addy keeps the Tilly just a little faster than the rest of the Hades Fleet as matter of pride.”
“Ha!” barked Addy. “Don’t let her straight arrow posture fool you. The Captain’s a speed freak. She loves my drives.” He petted the console, grinning, but not at William or the Captain. William saw just a hint of the “mad engineer” the Captain was referring to.
The watermark was both more prominent and more faded on the engineer’s dark skin. It lacked the bluish quality of William’s mark, looking more like a finely lined series of scars. It was easier to determine the pattern without overtly staring. The lacy light-colored lines looked like some an iterative function of a hexagon.
The Captain led William outside of the engineering control door. “That’s all the important parts for now. Clarke w
ill introduce you to all the hidey holes soon enough. I’ve asked Brooks to start training you on basic FTL plotting. Meet with him on the bridge at 15:30. I’m a firm believer in settling into work sooner rather than later. It will give you an anchor. Go ahead and take the time until you meet with Brooks to rest and work on your orientation materials.”
* * *
…
* * *
William returned to his room and flopped flat onto the bed. Finding nothing of comfort on the grey ceiling panels he rolled on his side and curled up into a ball, hoping sleep would take him. What was Carly doing now? She thought he was dead. He was dead. They were supposed to be together, celebrating their engagement. He was supposed to be with her on Eden. His chest grew tight. He was not sure if it was an attack or grief. What was he mourning? Himself? She was not dead, but he would never see her again. She would never know he still existed. The tightness hovered in his chest but did not progress into anything else.
An indefinite amount of time later, unable to escape his own brain, he sat up and grabbed the nexus. He had been unable to cry, denied even that relief, which was perhaps the greatest indignity yet. He went through the process of loading his personal settings and permissions and then scanned through its functionality. He found that he could view most of the ship’s systems, and as pilot of record could even access some controls from the device. With a few more permissions, he would be able to do his job entirely from this cabin. Maybe I can become a hermit and grow a great big beard. The presence of the razor implied that he could still grow hair. Not even death could save him from the never-ending battle against stubble.
