by Rob Dearsley
I should try and get some sleep, but there’s little chance of that. I can’t even go to see Matthews any more. He’ll want an answer.
Eventually, sleep comes in sporadic fits where the lines between reality and dreams blur. The overhead falls away and I can see the ship around me. Lines of light flow toward the Core, a ball of white incandescence, just forward of the ship’s centre. The lines are the ship's nervous system and the Core, with its precious intellect, is the ship’s brain.
“XO, to the bridge.”
I clamber out of bed, stretch, pull on my uniform and ride the tram to the bridge.
The bridge is buzzing with activity. At least double the number of officers that were there last night man the stations now. Only military efficiency stops it from being bedlam. We’re going into the system on a combat footing. Apparently, the captain’s not taking any chances.
I’ve been called paranoid before. But even to me, this seems over the top. Does the captain know more about what’s going on here than he’s let on, even to me? Part of me wonders if he would confide in me if I were a more experienced officer. The rational part of my mind knows my experience, or lack thereof, has nothing to do with it. The captain and I have a good relationship. If there were more, he’d tell me. Or have a good reason not to. Perhaps he’s under orders.
I find the captain standing at ease on the upper deck, hands clasped behind his back, looking out the front windows. Part of me always wondered at the design predilection for putting our command centres in exposed positions, instead of buried deep within the hull. Matthews says it’s a throwback to ancient earth ship designs, and tradition trumps common sense every time – his words, not mine.
“Sir.”
The captain turns to face me. “XO, you’re here. Good. We’ll be exiting jump-space in one minute.”
I open my ship-link and check the weapon status. They’re all running hot, practically ready to fire the moment we're clear of the jump point. I probe further into the network and find that while the other ships are battle ready, they’re not on quite the same hair-trigger as the Heimdall.
“Sir, why are we running hotter than the rest of the fleet?”
He leans in to whisper, I can smell the sweet musk of his aftershave, see the salt and pepper of his half-a-day’s worth of stubble. Something has him on edge.
“What I’m about to tell you could destroy the Imperial government if it got out.”
Angels. What is he about to tell me? What could possibly be so bad that it could end the political careers of the whole cabinet? I say nothing, waiting for him to decide whether he can trust me with something this big. I’m not sure I would. But apparently, he does. He pulls me to one side, giving us more privacy. The bridge officers know to give us a wide berth.
“About ten years ago, the ship I was on was conscripted by a bl-ops team for a project code named Tabula Rasa. They were researching the viability of replacing the second-gen clone minds with living donors.”
“What?” My voice rises in alarm. The captain glances around quickly. No one has taken note of my outburst, or they’re merely ignoring me. I lower my voice before continuing. “They put conscious people into the Core Minds?”
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, as though steeling himself for what’s to come. “Yes. They were supposed to have been psychologically scrubbed. Their memories, their experience intact, but their personalities, their souls removed through conditioning. The perfect blank slate, no need to train ships, or rely on copies of copies. Proper real-world experience from the start. Enhanced wet-dry interfaces, the ability to expand storage dynamically as needed.”
“What happened?” I ask, not sure I want to know, but feeling I need to see this through. I owe it to the captain to let him finish.
“The scrubbing didn’t work. They remembered who they were. They went mad. Lashed out at us. Drove half the crew mad through the ship-link. You never forget the sounds a man can make when his mind is being torn apart.”
“How did you survive, sir?”
He doesn’t reply at first, then pulls down his collar to reveal a messy scar just to the left of his spine.
“One of the bl-ops agents cut out my link, and we firebombed the Core. Another team set the ship's reactors into overload and we managed to get to an escape pod. Out of a ship of fifteen hundred, only ten of us got away. We were all sworn to secrecy.”
“And you think the fourth gen minds on these ships are a second attempt?”
He nods. I know the implication. If the same thing’s happened here… and HQ lost contact more than four hours ago. It could already be over. The only safe option is to hammer those ships into dust.
“Ten seconds to jump,” the nav officer announces.
We walk back to the observation deck and stand side by side as the blue-white of jump-space peels back to reveal reality.
The Heimdall isn’t the first of the fleet to exit jump-space. Two other cruisers are already wrecks, tumbling through space. Thor, a heavy barrage boat, all armour plate and short-range weapons, is holding station between the Odin and the two prototypes. I look down at my flex. The only designation the new ships have is X1 and X2.
Neither of them manoeuvres to flank the outmatched gunboat. They just stand off, pouring fire into the Thor.
Whether they fired first, or Thor had orders I don’t know about, is academic now. The fleet is under fire and we have to stop the X-ships.
I tear my eyes away from the scene of utter devastation to check my flex and the fleet-link. Something is wrong. Over half the remaining ships aren’t responding. A wing of battleships, light units built for speed and manoeuvrability over strength, swings in for a flyby. They close in on the X-ships, their engines pushing them up past point five C as they go in for the attack run. All of a sudden, they stop. I scan the fleet-link for them, but they’ve gone dark. More ships come in behind us. Not sure what to do, they form up around the jump point. We’re already heading in-system. The captain barks orders, bringing our biggest guns to bear on the X-ships.
Data scrolls across my flex too fast to read. I can’t keep up like this, and I need to get a handle on the situation. I open my mind to the fleet-link.
Oh, heavenly Angels. My knees almost buckle under the pain. The wing of battleships are screaming, a high warbling that cuts through everything. Even with the chatter from the other ships I still can’t hear the Odin.
With an effort of will, I close off the fleet-link. Outside, the battleships have come back online. They whip around toward the Thor.
They ram her, the three smaller ships gouging huge holes into Thor’s armour plate. Oh Angels, what’s happening?
I turn to the captain. His jaw, his whole posture is tight as he calls orders.
“Sir, I can’t get any response from the Odin. What do we do?”
“We need to take out those ships.” His slate grey eyes meet my own. “Get every other ship that’s still sane to join us in an attack run.”
His choice of words isn’t lost on me. He’s guessed what’s happening.
But no one could have anticipated what happens next.
“Sir,” Matthews calls from the weapon stations. “The prototype ships have stopped firing. So has the Thor.”
I’m close enough to hear the captain swear. I follow his gaze. The Thor is right alongside the Odin.
Through the link, I can feel the attention of the X-ships on the Thor.
“Lock all weapons on the Thor. Fire everything we’ve got.” I’m a second behind his reasoning. When it dawns on me, I swear much louder than the captain.
“Sir?” Matthews asks, confusion wrinkling his features. “You want us to fire on one of our own?”
“Yes,” the captain snaps. “Quickly, before it’s too late.”
“Sir,” a scanner officer calls, her voice trembling, disbelieving. “The Thor has opened fire on the Odin.”
To be fair to the sensor officer, I wouldn’t have believed it if I wasn’t w
atching as the close-range barrage tore the Odin’s flanks apart.
Static floods the fleet-link. Screams, whispers, whimpers pressed against the back of my head. Is this what happened to the captain’s ship last time?
It takes more effort now, but I push the link down, suppressing it as hard as I can. I’ve trained years for this. I should be able to deal with it.
“Sir, we’re within weapons range of the Thor,” Matthews says.
The captain gives the order to fire. I look forward, expecting the space in front of the ship to fill with plasma, missiles and shells, as the cruiser fires every one of her two hundred and fifty weapons.
Nothing happens.
“I said fire.” The captain walks toward Matthews.
“We’re trying, sir.” Matthews is leaning over a younger officer’s shoulder, manipulating her console. “The Core Mind is blocking us. It’s almost like it’s rewriting the firing controls.”
The captain stumbles. No one else on the bridge would have noticed the slight misstep, but I’ve known him long enough now. He’s always so sure of himself and it carries over into everything he does.
“Sir.” I go to him, talking in low tones. “Tabula Rasa?”
A slight shake of the head. “Worse.” His voice is taut.
He carries on, back to the middle of the bridge. I’m left standing by the weapons station. What could be worse? How could anything be worse?
A scream cuts through the bridge. One of the officers bucks from his chair, his back bowing, eyes rolling up into his head.
I run to the downed officer, now curled on his side.
“Easy there, soldier.” I rest a hand on his shoulder.
With a scream, he strikes me. I have a fleeting impression of pitch-black eyes and a brownish hue to his skin, then I’m airborne, sailing across the bridge to land in a heap on Matthews.
By the time we’re both back on our feet, security on the bridge is moving warily toward the officer. His uniform shreds as his body changes in front of us. I can hear the wet popping as the joints in his legs reconfigure. It’s enough to make me want to vomit, but I can hold it together. I must. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
The former officer rises to his full seven-and-a-half feet, letting out a high, warbling scream.
The security officers fire. The lightweight rounds from their side arms do nothing to deter the creature, only anger it. It rushes for them, its speed blinding. Before I can even register that it’s moved, two officers are dead and the third is held in the creature’s seven fingered grip.
I sprint for the weapons locker at the back of the bridge as more security enters and are cut down like wheat.
I punch in the combination for the locker and pull out a heavy rifle. It’s not really designed for ship use since it can punch through internal walls, but right now I’ll take my chances. The creature has finished off the second security team and is coming for me.
I raise the weapon, flick the safety off, and fire. The weapon’s deafening boom echoes around the bridge, or maybe just my head. The more powerful rounds rip through the creature, almost tearing it in half.
Breathing hard, I lower the gun. It suddenly feels like a lead weight in my hands. My defences slip, and for just a second, I can hear everything.
Burning, flames, I’m on fire. My bones snapping, my flesh crumbling. And the voice, screaming, mad and enticing.
Burn them all!
I laugh, delighted at the idea. Make the universe burn, it deserves no less. I’m not sure if I’m saying that or something else is. But it doesn’t matter, it’s the right thing to do, the only thing left to do.
When I open my eyes, Matthews is looking down at me. What happened? How long was I out?
“Easy, Hannah.” He helps me to rise.
“Status?” I ask, my voice still shaky.
“We’ve got reports of the turned crew members all over the ship. Captain called for lockdown, but the computer’s not responding right. Systems keep going down all over the place. The captain wants to talk to you.” He helps me to the steps up to the observation deck where the captain sits. In the window behind him, is a scene of utter chaos. Some ships are completely dark, others are firing on each other. The Odin, somehow still operational looks as if it’s trying to turn its weapons on itself.
“Sir?” I ask, dropping into a crouch in front of my captain.
“XO, glad to have you back with us. I was worried for a second there.” He smiles, but it’s tight and drawn. He looks tired, not just normal, eighteen-hour shift tired, but end of the line, barely hanging on tired. “I can hear them.”
“The X-ships? Like Tabula Rasa?” I don’t care who knows anymore. If shouting it from the rooftops would help, I’d gladly do it. Let the universe burn. The whole human race can burn to ash for everything they’ve done.
With an effort of will, I stop myself. These aren’t my thoughts. I’m loyal. This isn’t me. The thoughts running through my mind scare me almost as much as the fact they’re there.
The captain nods. “They’re not just insane, they’re smart as hell. They’re convincing the other ships’ Core Minds to their cause.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “A slaves’ revolt.”
Remembering the foreign thoughts in my head and how easy it had been to accept them, I can see how they are managing it.
The captain presses a data key into my hand. I look down at it and back up to him.
He must have seen the unasked question. “It’s everything we’ve been able to salvage about what happened here. I need you to get to a shuttle, or an escape pod, and get that back to the rest of the fleet, or HQ. They need to burn this system, destroy everything. It’s the only way.”
“Sir, I’m not going to abandon this ship.” I’m not going to abandon you is left unsaid.
“Damn it, Hannah.” He grabs my arms, pulling me close, he’s still strong despite his age. “They’re insane, and they blame us! They want us all to die for what we’ve done. And, they’re convincing our ships, our crews it’s the right thing to do.”
“Blaming us for what?” I could hear the anger in my mind, but I still didn’t understand.
“For making them. Now go. Run.”
“Sir, please. You can come with me.”
He shakes his head. “Lieutenant Matthews, get her off this ship. Whatever it takes.” He gives me one last look before pushing himself up and walking to the observation deck. “XO, it was an honour serving with you.”
My chest tightens and my eyes blur as Matthews drags me from the bridge.
In the lift, my grief turns to anger, and Matthews is an easy target. I lash out, catching him unawares. The blow to his jaw sends him reeling.
“Why?” I scream as he blocks another blow. He just looks back, helpless. He doesn’t know what to say and I know he won’t hit me back. I’m not sure what I’m even asking. There’s just too much, too much loss, too much pain, too many voices crowding into my head, pulling me in different directions. This anger, this rage at being forced to run while my captain, my friend, stands and fights to the end, alone and surrounded by darkness.
“Why?” I ask, again, more quietly this time. My voice, my very self, deflating along with my rage. I wait for some other emotion to come in, fill the void left by the fleeting anger. But nothing comes, and I’m left empty.
Matthews wipes blood from his chin onto the sleeve of his uniform. Seeing him as though for the first time, I reach into my pocket, feeling the cold bite of the ring, remembering the turbulent mix of emotions when he’d given it to me, and after. I love him, there is no doubt. I hold on to that, like the last light at the end of the world.
“Hannah?” His voice is quiet, uncertain. He’s scared I’m going to lash out again.
“I’m—” The word “fine” is on my lips, but it’s not true. I’m as far from fine as I’ve ever been. “I’m better.”
He helps me to stand and I stumble, falling against him. Feeling his strong body beneath my
hands. In another life, I might have enjoyed it. But that’s all gone now. I’m left hollow and alone.
“Aft shuttle bay?” I ask, pushing away from him, lest he gets the wrong idea.
He nods. It’s going to be a hike, but he knows a shuttle is our best bet for getting out of this system.
A squad of Marines meets us by the tram. Big men, all over seven feet. Combat armour, capable of stopping heavy rounds, is bolted about them. Their high-powered rifles can breach the outer hull if we’re not careful.
“Sir,” the lead Marine addresses me. “We’ve still got control over the tram, but we don’t know for how long.”
Matthews and I ride the tram surrounded by the black glistening armour of the Marines. Miraculously, it takes us all the way to the aft section, leaving us with a twenty-minute run to the shuttle dock.
As soon as the tram doors open, something reaches in, grabs the nearest Marine and hauls him out. It all happens so fast, he’s gone before I even have a chance to register. The Marine commander is faster, hitting the switch to close the doors.
I’m halfway through a sigh of relief when a massive boom makes me start, my breath catching in my throat. The doors bow inward with the force of the blow.
The Marine commander mashes the button for the next stop. Another blow almost knocks the door off its runners.
The Marines brace themselves against the doors as arms reach through the gaps between the deformed door and the frame. Claws scrape over their black armour. The Marines hunker down and push harder. One cries out as a hand grabs the back of his head, slamming it against the door.
At last, the tram glides into motion. We hear sickening thuds from outside as the arms withdraw.
Thankfully, the next stop is quiet. We leave the tram and begin the long walk back to the shuttle dock. We’re in medical now. Room after room of automated surgical suits flank us as we walk down the corridor. The lights have gone down in this section. The dull red of the emergency lights gives Matthews and the Marines an evil, almost daemonic aspect.
