The Galactic Arena Prequels (Books 1 & 2): Inhuman Contact & Onca's Duty

by Dan Davis

  Roi, his eyes closed, muttered a single word.

  “Guilt.”

  Max, startled, snapped out of his revere.

  “You’re awake,” Max said, checking the readouts. “That’s good. Very good. How are you feeling?”

  His eyes flicked open. The whites were all red. His cells were committing suicide one by one but still the effect was cascading and his degeneration was accelerating. “Guilt, Max.”

  Although there was little point in doing it, Max found himself performing a cursory physical examination of Roi’s eyes, his pulse. He checked his lines, in and out. His bowels were breaking down and the bags were filling with blood faster than the IVs could replace it. His patient winced at his touches but made no complaint. Max increased the rate of intravenous fluids and upped the painkillers to dosages that would have killed anyone not experiencing profound agony.

  “Guilt?” Max said as he worked. “I suppose that is the emotion I am feeling. Failure, self-doubt. I feel like I let you down, Roi. I apologize.”

  “Idiot,” Roi muttered. “Not your guilt. Mine.”

  “I see,” Max said. “What do you have to feel guilty about?”

  Roi turned his head slightly away, eyes flickering closed. “How’s Lissa?”

  Max perched on the edge of the bed by Roi’s thighs. “Much the same as she always is. Withdrawn. Quiet. Another patient of mine that I have failed to help. I can find nothing wrong with her bloodwork or scans. I am forced to conclude that her social behavior is not a malady but simply the way she is. Who she is. It does not impact on her work, of course. She continues to increase the effectiveness of our life support systems with immense dedication. I have begun her hormone replacement therapy at much lower doses than I did with our other two female artificial persons but I hope it has an effect on her self-confidence and happiness.”

  “Never meant to endanger Mission,” Roi said. “Only save her.”

  “Save Lissa? From what? How did you endanger the Mission?”

  “Reactor Engineer Chief John Gore. He would change the Mission Log, saying he was in the Reactor when he was not. One time, I followed him. And I saw. What he was doing to her.”

  Roi fell silent. When Max had processed what Roi was implying, he wished he was human enough to express an oath. Instead, he felt a profound sadness. Then, dawning realization.

  “That time when Gore was brought to medical,” Max said, recalling clearly the last time he had seen the Engineer. “With a head injury. You said it was a loose section of pipe. All the human crew assumed so but it was time for the Big Sleep. No one looked into it.”

  A faint smile tweaked the edges of Roi’s mouth. “Should have strangled him. Stabbed him with screwdriver. Almost did. More than once. But. Thought I could make it look like accident. Set it up. Swung that pipe into his skull. So hard. Not hard enough. Then you strapped him into the tanks.”

  “Doctor Sporing did,” Max said. “Not me. You really tried to murder Gore?”

  A low rumble came from Roi’s throat. “Got him in the end.”

  “Do not tell me you caused the explosion,” Max said. “Do not tell me that. Why?”

  “Wanted him dead. Needed him dead. Was only right. For what he did. To her.”

  “How did you do it?” Max asked.

  Roi’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Easy. O2 pipe behind his hypo tank. Ignition system. Didn’t mean big explosion. Just small fire. Wanted to cook him in his tank. Went wrong. Gas build-up inside wall. My fault. My guilt.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Max said. “You brought us so close to destruction. So many systems went down.” Max paused. “Cavi has been confused about how all the vital comms components were so thoroughly destroyed. She has been hypothesizing chain reactions along the systems. But it was you. You destroyed our comms too, didn’t you. You wanted to kill Gore, fine. But why stop us speaking to Mission Control?”

  Max’s heart hammered inside his chest. He wanted to drag Roi out of his bed and shake him.

  “Comms system,” Roi said, coughing. “After explosion. I knew. They would have killed us. I knew. There is a remote. Remote. Kill Switch.”

  “You destroyed so much,” Max muttered. He remembered how Roi had stood by while the fire raged initially, then how he had disappeared. That must have been when he obliterated the communications systems.

  “Never meant to endanger Mission.” Roi’s eyes streamed. Tears pink with blood. “Just hurt him. Punish him. Kill him. Never wanted to kill others. Only to help her. Save her. Always, to save her.”

  “You nearly killed all of us,” Max said, surprised by the emotion in his own voice.

  “I’m. Sorry,” he muttered. “Tell her. I’m sorry.”

  Roi never regained consciousness. He died four days later.

  PART 5 – DESTINATION

  It was a matter of record that the name of the system—hyposleep—was chosen by Terra Pharma Biotech’s marketing department rather than the R&D one. Considering that severe and (without expert medical intervention) fatal hypothermia occurs at a core body temperature of 28 Celsius, the temperatures involved in the process were indeed hypothermic as they reduced core temperature to 8.5 Celsius down from an average of 37 Celsius. So, hypo from the Greek meaning under was a fair and accurate use of the word.

  On the other hand, the individual inside one of the tanks underwent nothing like a natural sleep state.

  The tanks pumped out 80% of the occupant’s blood and replaced it with a chilled synthamniotic solution. The same fluid filled the tank around them as well as their lungs. Swimming with stem cells, the solution provided not only vital components of electrolytes, proteins, carbohydrates and lipids to fuel what little function remained but also a synthetic cocktail of almost-deadly molecules to reduce cell metabolism while protecting and preserving cell structure, from the coiled DNA inside to the outer membrane and everything between.

  If you opened a hyposleep tank and dragged the occupant out, you would find a body that fulfilled most definitions for biological death. They were only preserved through the continuous toil of the tank systems, fed by electrical power and periodic top ups of water. Could only ever become alive again through specific medical intervention.

  So, nothing like sleep. More like a state of near-death that would become actual-death should the complex processes not be followed carefully.

  A more accurate name for the system, in Max’s opinion, was hyperdeath. Hyper from the Greek meaning over or above. A state just barely above that of clinical death.

  But, for any marketing department, that would admittedly be a hard sell.

  There were no protocols for decanting an injured person from a hyposleep tank. All the literature was based around ensuring the user was at peak physical health before being placed inside and the risks associated with hyposleep increased at a geometric rate with age and underlying health conditions.

  The tanks were used for healing back on Earth but not for such prolonged periods. As far as Max could tell, no one had done any long term experiments or if they had, the results had never been published.

  Doctor Sporing had aged, that much was clear from the periodic, in-tank blood tests Max had performed over the years. His DNA had degraded, his muscles had atrophied, his skin had lost collagen and his hair had thinned, grown brittle. But his burns had healed. The scar tissue was only 20% as extensive as it would have been had he not gone into the tank. And the toxins and stresses his body had been under had gradually leeched from his system.

  “Will he survive the procedure?” Navi asked from across the medical center.

  “There is only one way to find out,” Max said. It had become one of his favorite Earth sayings and he knew it slightly irritated Navi when he said it because of the frequency with which he used it. The fact that she knew that he knew that it irritated her and yet still said it paradoxically reinforced Navi’s affection for him. It was a kind of amusing tolerance that indicated closeness. Social interaction often s
eemed to be a curious, non-logical thing but it was actually a form of private joke that enhanced bonding by its uniqueness to their relationship.

  Still, he had discovered not to take this too far or else she would be irritated beyond the bounds of affection.

  “But yes,” Max said, realizing she needed actual reassurance. “I very much hope that he will survive the procedure and I fully expect him to live.” As far as he was concerned, she didn’t need to know he reckoned the doctor had a fifty-fifty chance for surviving without a serious brain injury.

  In preparation for the procedure, Max had rested himself for four days, fed himself up with extra calories to saturate his liver and muscles with glycogen, injected vitamin complexes and prepared an array of stimulants and nutrients to keep himself active for the forty-eight hours or so he needed to bring his patient back from chronic hyperdeath. What he really needed was a full medical team working in shifts. But he had only himself and the medical AI. His B-Crew colleagues had proved more hindrance than help when he had attempted to train them.

  He almost lost Doctor Sporing when transferring him from the tank’s life support systems onto the medical bed and he could not get everything connected up in time. The doctor’s IV lines attached to cannulas embedded in his skin and these had degraded and removing them had collapsed the plugs. Max had to tap new ones before he could hook up the bed’s systems. The doctor suffered cardiac arrest during this process. The AI-controlled arm proved itself invaluable, administering the drugs and providing cardiopulmonary resuscitation with its CPR end-effector.

  When he finally did it he found himself breathing heavily, leaning over the doctor. The AI cycled through its manipulators until it was able to give Max a “thumbs-up” with its version of a human hand. Max returned the gesture, even though he did not find it as amusing as the AI evidently did.

  “I assume all those alarms were an indication that things did not go well,” Navi said.

  “It was my fault. I didn’t heat him up slowly enough. He may have additional tissue damage but if that’s the case I’m not sure the extent of it. I’ll chill him again now. That should assist with recovery.”

  She did him the courtesy of not exclaiming her concern or sympathy and he carried on with the work.

  When the task was done, Max gave the AI standing orders, slept for a day and then monitored the doctor for a week. But they could wait no longer and it was time to wake the doctor up.

  He was extremely confused for many hours, seeming to wake and look around but apparently without registering his surroundings or interacting with anyone.

  “Is that the brain damage?” Navi said, extreme reserve in her voice as if she was afraid even to ask the question. “From back when he was burned?”

  “This is normal for long duration hyposleep. I have watched footage of people crying out, raging and speaking to people who were not present. Yes, this is normal.” He hoped it was the truth.

  Max was willing to give the doctor as long as he needed but the Mission Parameters had to be adhered to. He gave the doctor a series of microdoses of stimulants until he came back to himself. His eyes focused on objects, on Max’s face. On the backs of his raised hands, medical tubing running out of the edges of scar tissue where it disappeared under his arm bandages.

  “Doctor Sporing,” Max said. “Everything is alright. You are on the Ascension and you are in the medical compartment. You have just woken from hyposleep.”

  He repeated himself until the doctor nodded and asked for water.

  “I’m strapped to the bed,” the doctor said, sitting up and sipping from a straw, looking around at the machinery and tubing that linked his urinary, digestive, endocrine, cardiovascular, lymphatic, renal and respiratory systems to the machines. “What is my condition?”

  “Stable, improving. But it is sensible to bring you back slowly.”

  “Release me,” Doctor Sporing said. “Immediately.”

  Max nodded. “Certainly,” he said. “When you are ready.”

  “What did you say to me?” Sporing said then coughed. Max gave him a sip of water. “I gave you an order.”

  “You did,” Max said. “But you do not yet understand the situation.”

  Sporing looked confused, on the edge of outrage. He squinted around the room again, then down at himself. “Why are my arms bandaged?” His voice was small. Quiet.

  “I thought it prudent to shield the scar tissue from your sight until I could explain why you received those burns and your current condition.”

  The doctor’s face drained of color. Max had planned his words carefully but there was no easy way to explain the entire situation. He thought that this would be the approach least likely to over stress the doctor’s body. But human psychology was the most complicated thing in the universe.

  “For Christ’s sake, give me a full report, Max. Now. What is going on. Where is everybody?”

  “Shortly after you and the rest of the crew began the outbound hyposleep phase, there was an oxygen explosion and fire in the hyposleep compartment. I’m very sorry but every crewmember other than you was killed in the incident.”

  Max recalled the destroyed face of Commander Park drifting into the observation window. The eyes black pits, the skin around them burned and bubbling. Extreme emotion sears itself into the brain like metal prongs gouged through hot plastic. The patterns established after a single incident, the groves worn deeper with every reapplication. How can the darkest of memories be overcome if they only ever get stronger with each recollection?

  “They’re all dead?” Doctor Sporing said after a long moment. “All? Even Jim?”

  “I am very sorry, Doctor,” Max said and he was. But he had also had a long time to get over it.

  “The Mission,” Doctor said, wiping tears from his eyes. “What do we do about the Mission? Get Mission Control for me, now. Have you reported the incident? I must get a report sent, tell them I am alright. Get me a screen.”

  “Doctor, please,” Max said, modulating his tone so it would be both calming and authoritative. He had recorded himself speaking many times and reviewed every minute of it so that he would be the best speaker that he could be. “You must stay in bed for the time being. This is a shock for you and I want you to remain calm while I explain everything to you. Do you understand?”

  Max pushed the serotonin release dosage he had prepared. It was effective immediately.

  “Yes, yes,” the doctor said, settling back. “I understand. Thank you.” He sighed.

  It was remarkable how one could change someone’s reality with the application of serotonin.

  “The Mission is continuing,” Max explained. “We hope to complete the Primary Objective.”

  “Good, that is good.” Doctor Sporing took a sip of water. Sucking on the straw made his thin face appear skeletal. “Mission Control is operating the ship remotely?”

  “Sadly, the primary and secondary communications arrays were damaged beyond repair during the incident and we have not been in contact with Mission Control since.”

  Doctor Sporing appeared confused more than anything. “If that’s the case, how can the Mission be continuing?”

  Max ensured that he spoke lightly. “The B-Crew has been performing all necessary Mission tasks. And performing them quite well, I might add.”

  “B-Crew? Are you serious? For Christ’s sake, Max, you’re out of your mind.” Doctor Sporing looked Max up and down, as if checking he was who he said he was. “It will require much more than your ordinary activities to get us out of this mess.” He sighed. “If indeed we ever can. There is so much to do. Yes, the ship’s AIs are capable but there is… I mean, there was… so much technical expertise on the ship. We will have to reestablish communications before we do anything else. Call Cavi in here. That’s an order.”

  Max’s body tensed. Clearly, the deep conditioning remained a part of who he was, at least on some level, in spite of his hard work deprogramming himself. Yet, his conscious mind had power
over his unconscious urges. He stayed by the doctor’s side.

  “I’m afraid that you do not understand, Doctor Sporing. We have completed far more than our ordinary activities since the explosion. We located and sealed the hull breach and repaired the O2 pipework. We recalculated and redirected the ship trajectory. We rebuilt a single working hyposleep tank from the wreckage of all the others and manufactured hundreds of liters of synthamniotic gel. The reactor radiators required complete reconstruction because of a fundamental design flaw. We brought most of the AIs back on line and got them to help us repair the deflector field. Not before most of us received huge doses of radiation, unfortunately but I developed a number of treatments for prolonging our effective working lives. I developed bespoke hormone replacement therapies for all of us, kick starting our endocrine systems up into similar levels for human adults which has actually helped as much as anything to drive us. Prior to the first breaking maneuver we had to replace all of the engine nozzles, which was probably the most difficult activity of all—”

  “Wait, wait, stop.” Doctor Sporing rubbed his hands over his face, his tubing wobbling everywhere. “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Sixteen years, eighty-four days.”

  The doctor’s vital signs fluctuated for some time as he sighed and shook his head. It seemed as though the doctor was on the verge of asking something and then, perhaps, of arguing. Instead, he looked Max up and down again. Looked around the compartment, perhaps noticing the changes that Max had wrought to the layout and contents over the years.