Perchance to Dream

by Lyssa Chiavari

  He trails off, and then adds something that Letta has to strain to hear. She can barely make out the words, but she is sure he whispers, “Or not at all.” It’s these words that propel her forward, jamming her finger into C.p. Pol’s chest.

  “Who?” she shouts at him, but he just stares at her, his mouth opening and closing like a bug-eyed fish. She’s so close she can see the strings of spit in his mouth and smell his acrid breath. She whirls on the other council members and they all step back, holding their hands up like she’s going to attack them. Like she’s uncontrollable.

  “Who?” she screams, slamming her hand against her forehead. “Who is replacing my mother? Answer me!”

  “I am,” a voice says loudly and clearly. It’s a voice that Letta recognizes. She looks up to see her aunt Claudia standing in the gateway, dressed in prestige white with the captain’s badge pinned proudly to her chest. The garish red of the badge is like a blood stain against the white.

  “You?” Letta is breathless. She steps forward. Pol places a clammy hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs him off easily. She looks back at the council, her eyes no longer filled with rage, but pleading now. Pleading with them to reconsider, even though the tantrum she has just thrown has guaranteed she will never be fit to lead.

  “But she killed my mother,” Letta says, and falls to her knees, unable to muster the energy to stand any longer. She can feel the shocked stares of the council boring into her back, but their voices melt together. Through the haze, she hears murmuring. It’s Pol’s voice, but it sounds so far away, like sound waves radiating off a distant planet.

  “Someone send for the Law Officers.”

  The words register deep inside her and her brain clicks into drive once more. Accusations made against the captain always result in one thing—the accuser being relocated to a lower-level jail cell. Then they are given one of two choices: work as a laborer in the Agriculture Center, or be released to the infinite hands of space. Neither option seems appealing to her. She has no desire to shovel up animal droppings or harvest the modified crops, and even less to relinquish her life. She curses herself silently. She should have kept quiet, maybe investigated more. As it stands, the only evidence she has comes from a source no one else would ever believe.

  She looks up at Claudia, expecting to see a frown of worry or anger at being outed. However, Claudia merely looks bored, as if she were accused of murder every other weekend and finds the whole affair tedious. She is flanked, now, by four guards. Each guard is a low-ranking cadet, dressed in the customary Law Office black uniform, standing two-by-two at her side. They hold their e-batons loosely in their hands, the hard sticks humming with electricity. Their eyes dart around the room, on high alert for danger. Letta recognizes one of them: Tess Pol, C.p. Pol’s eldest child. Her tightly-bound red hair is unmistakable, as very few people have red hair on board. The only other that Letta can think of is C.p. Pol’s son.

  The sight of the guards sets a flare of anger rushing through Letta. The very fact that Claudia brought protection to what was supposed to be a simple funeral only further proves Claudia’s guilt.

  Claudia shifts her hand slightly, brushing the arm of Tess Pol. Tess gestures to the other three guards, and they descend upon Letta like a flock of vultures swooping on their prey. Only after a delayed gesture from Claudia do the hands, hungry for violence, release her.

  Claudia smiles that wide, toothy grin of hers. “It’s all right, Leticia. Grief makes strangers of us all, as I’m sure you would agree.” Though she speaks to Letta, it is clear she’s addressing the whole room. Letta can almost feel the tension ease out of the others with each word of poison that spills from Claudia’s lips. She scrambles to her feet, pushing away the hands that try to help her up. Unlike everyone else on this ship, she is not one to so easily forgive and forget. Claudia holds her hand out for Letta to take, but she ignores it. Claudia shrugs and clasps her hands together, holding them close to her chest, that suspicious smile never fading from her face.

  A figure emerges in the doorway behind Claudia and moves to her left. It is Letta’s father. Letta feels herself relax slightly. This is the first Letta has seen of him all day.

  Well, that’s not strictly true, she corrects herself. He’d been at the funeral, but he was more of a stoic, impregnable presence Letta could only sense behind her. From the whispers of the crowd she knew her father was there, felt him standing close, but she never saw him. Now his face looks vacant, his eyes raw and his lip bloody where he’s gnawed it out of stress. It’s a shock to see him wear his grief so plainly. Never once has Letta known him be anything but the strong, enduring pillar of the community that she and every other resident aboard can depend on.

  In his hands is an instantly-recognizable purple card. Letta has one herself, slotted into her identification band, buried deep in the smooth, dark skin of her forearm. It gives you the name of your Genetic Partner, the only person on board whose DNA is distinct enough from your own as to prevent inbreeding. Her father’s should still be inserted into his arm. It should say her mother’s name.

  Her father only glances at her briefly as he passes the chip to Claudia. Claudia grins, so wide that Letta hopes her cheeks rip apart.

  “Ah, thank you, Grant!” Claudia rolls up her sleeve and pushes the chip into the micro slot on her arm. It is such a quick and fluid motion that for a moment Letta does not register what it means. She only stares at Claudia’s arm as she rolls down her sleeve.

  “Tell me if I’m right, Leticia. Sisters share similar DNA structures, do they not?” It’s like Claudia has gouged open Letta’s skull. But Letta ignores the obvious question. A child in preschool could answer that. It is not an answer Claudia wants—she wants acknowledgment of what that tiny, innocuous movement actually means. Letta can only combine every bit of rage and grief boiling within her and direct it toward her father in the form of what she hopes is a chilling glare.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Letta. We have so little time left before we land, and it is our duty to reproduce. You would do better to start thinking of your own Genetic Partner than of mine,” her father says in defense, but it sounds as if he is reading off of a cue card, like they are not his words. He’s just Claudia’s parrot now. Letta has never felt such disgust for her own family before.

  Her father has the gall to look indignant as he places his hand on Claudia’s shoulder and squeezes it gently. In return Claudia places her own hand on top of his. Letta suddenly has the urge to rip their hands apart, hopefully injuring one of them—preferably Claudia—in the process.

  “In this time of strife, we must present a united front to the residents of the Elsinore,” her father continues, oblivious. “Letta, trust me, this is what your mother would have wanted.” Letta almost wants to laugh. Her mother wouldn’t have wanted this. She wouldn’t have wanted it to seem like she’d never existed. She wouldn’t have wanted to see her husband, Letta’s father, so desperate to move on that he clings to the next person who can give him any sort of power on board.

  Letta is reluctant to admit it, but her father and Claudia do present a united front. Now all they’re missing is the grieving daughter who looks to her aunt like a mother. But Letta refuses to play that role. She doesn’t understand how they could even expect her to, or how two people could be so obtuse.

  “You have no idea what my mother would have wanted,” Letta accuses, her skin burning.

  “And you do?” Claudia asks. Her question hangs in the air, as sharp as jagged glass. Letta is at once aware of the council behind her and what’s left of her family in front of her. She realizes she wants no part of either.

  There is a shimmer behind Claudia, like heat rising. Letta’s gaze fixes rigidly on the spot. Her surroundings slip away as her eyes focus on the doorway.

  Her mother emerges from behind Claudia like a cloud. Her hazy body solidifies and she stands very still. She looks immaculate in her captain’s uniform and badge, her curly black hair combed to the
side and braided tight in the exact same knot Letta tied her own hair in that morning. Her mother places her index finger on her lips, shushing Letta. Then she floats backward into the hall, beckoning her to follow.

  Letta lurches forward, desperate to not lose her view of her mother. She shoves her way between her father and her aunt, pushing their cloying grip away with her hands. There is a small oof from her father, but Letta ignores it. If he’s injured, he has Claudia to look after him now.

  In the hallway she sees her mother disappear into corridor B-6, just around the far corner. Letta picks up the pace running after her. Behind her, Claudia shouts, and then Letta hears the thumping footfalls of the guards following close behind. She speeds up, her own feet slapping the ground loudly.

  She passes a group of maintenance workers, but they barely glance at her, so focused are they on their task. She rounds another corner and sees her mother slip into a room just ahead. The Recording Room. Letta’s passed by the door with its silver sign often enough. It’s locked. It’s always locked.

  She begins to roll up her sleeve, the noise of the guards growing louder and louder behind her. She presses her bare forearm against the scanner. Nothing happens. She wiggles her arm left to right, and finally the machine beeps.

  NEGATIVE ENTRY

  She curses. Of course Claudia would have recalibrated the scanners for her own ID band, but how she managed it so quickly was beyond her. Letta’s own band used to give her access. Her mother made sure of it. Letta slams her fist against the door in frustration. In a fit of desperation, she tries to pry the door open herself, rolling her shoulders and attempting to jam her fingernails into the plastic sliver between door and wall. Her fingers slip and she bangs her head.

  Rubbing the tender spot on her forehead gingerly, she turns around and leans against the cold metal. She can hear the guards clearly now, their breathless chatter as they draw closer. They appear at the end of the hall and shout into their comms.

  “We have sights on her, Captain.”

  “Orders to approach and detain.”

  Letta notices a slim red box jutting from the wall opposite her. A small window on its front protects a lever. The words printed across the glass spark an idea in Letta: the fire alarm. All doors on this level would automatically unlock, and any open doors would shut immediately. All oxygen on this level would also be sucked out by the vents. She hesitates, her hand poised over the box.

  Another shout from the guards spurs her. She punches through the safety glass, yanking the lever down. The vents judder into action, working swiftly to remove oxygen from the nonexistent fire. The light changes from the white glare of the overheads to a slow, beating red as the emergency lights click on and the alarm blares a wailing cry. The fire doors further down the hall slide shut in the guards’ faces. Letta grins at her success before pushing open the Recording Room door and locking it swiftly behind her.

  Once inside, she relaxes slightly. Her head is throbbing, but she can’t tell if it’s because she’s hurt it or because of the lack of oxygen. She goes to the small slot on the wall present in every room on board and takes out the oxygen mask. There’s enough there to last two hours, but she’s willing to bet that Claudia will get to her long before the mask runs out.

  She briefly considers whether or not the guards got masks, not to mention the maintenance workers down the hall; but she pushes the thought to the back of her head. She can’t dwell on that now. She pulls the mask on and activates it, the sudden rush of pure oxygen making her dizzy.

  Her hands sting from trying to pry her way in and she shakes them, as if the pain will simply fall out. Blank screens stare down at her from all four walls, looming over her, poised to peck at her the way she has seen birds do to worms on the Earth documentaries.

  The main screen is in the center of the far wall. Letta runs her hand under its control panel, searching for the switch. She’s been here before, she knows what to do. The familiar hot plastic smell as she turns the monitors on reminds her of the times she visited the place with her mother. Her mother always said that a captain didn’t have to know how to fix everything on board the ship herself, but she did have to know how it all worked together. Letta can’t help but smile as she remembers the hours she spent here, with nothing but the quiet whir of the machines and the slow rattle of the broken air vent.

  The sound is comforting to Letta now, a familiar mechanical chuckle coming from the vent in the ceiling as it sucks the oxygen out. The screen in front of Letta flickers to life and opens onto the control panel. She quickly scans it for anything from her mother.

  Reflected against the screen, she sees her mother’s apparition point to a folder labeled Captain’s Log. She opens it and sees that her mother’s methodical organizational skills were also present in her filing system. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of dated folders, all rolling back to when her mother was first appointed captain by the Council twenty years ago.

  The most recent entry was dated for two nights past. The night her mother died.

  Murdered, Letta corrects herself. The night her mother was murdered. She opens the file and her mother’s face fills the screen, alive and full of color. A stark contrast from the specter she’s seen wandering the halls.

  “Captain’s Log. Date: the sixteenth day of the eighth month of the year two thousand five hundred and fifty two. Tenth Captain Leticia Hamilton.” Her mother rattles out the list of facts quickly and without emotion. “Today’s tasks were completed in full. The nutritional vaccinations were distributed among the general populace efficiently and with little discomfort. The Med Center wishes to improve on the formula, but I am reluctant to give the go-ahead until I have seen further tests. However, the doctors have assured me that certain confidential experiments have been run, and they are just waiting on the follow-up results.” Her mother stops suddenly and looks up to the camera. She sighs.

  “Are you paying attention?” she says in the voice she usually reserved for when Letta came home with a bad grade from the Education Center. Letta moves closer to the screen. This is it, she thinks, this is the proof I need. Her mother taps on the glass and Letta lurches back in surprise.

  “Letta, are you paying attention? There is something you need to know.”

  How did her mother know Letta was going to view these recordings?

  “This is not a recording, my Letta,” her mother says, more kindly this time. Letta pushes away from the control panel and her chair rolls back, toward the door. She grips the arms of the chair tightly in her hands, gaping at the screen. Behind her there is a scrabbling sound as the guards unwittingly replicate Letta’s own attempts at breaking into the Recording Room. She doesn’t worry about them, though. There is no way they will be able to get in.

  The fire alarm stops suddenly and everything is still. Even Letta’s mother on the monitor seems to be watching, waiting, listening.

  “Letta, let me in,” a voice outside says.

  Claudia. That creeping sense of dread anchors itself. Claudia can get inside. She only has to scan her arm and the door will unlock. Letta’s only chance is to hope it will take another minute for them to reset the alarm and bring the system back to normalcy. There’s no time to watch the video. She grabs one of the transfer wires hanging limply from the screen and attaches it to the slot in her arm. She wants to download all of the logs, but she knows she won’t have enough time. She can only hope she gets the most recent, at least.

  “Letta, you know that I can easily open the door,” Claudia says as Letta begins the download, “but I am giving you the chance to open it yourself. Prove to me you are responsible.”

  1% complete.

  The automated intercom crackles to life. “Attention, all Elsinore residents. The fire drill has ended. All functions will return shortly. Please be patient as we test our systems. Our safety concerns are your safety concerns.”

  12% complete.

  Letta grips the arms of the chair tightly once more. She longs to bri
ng the log back up again, but she can’t risk Claudia walking in and seeing it playing. The door will only hold for so long.

  22% complete.

  The intercom bell rings again. “Attention, residents. Sections C to E of Upper Deck 1 are now functional.”

  Letta breathes a sigh of relief. She’s in Section B. Safe for another minute. The loading bar jerks forward, and Letta begins to chant in her head, please finish, please finish.

  65% complete.

  What will she say when the guards and Claudia burst in through the door?

  74% complete.

  What lie will they all buy?

  82% complete.

  There is only one thing that will work. The one thing that both Claudia and Letta’s father want. The one thing Letta whole-heartedly cannot bear to agree to. But she can’t see any other way. She has to play the part designed for her, whether she likes it or not. It’s the only way to find the truth.

  “Attention, all residents. Sections A, B and F on Upper Deck 1 are now functional. This brings us to the end of our emergency test. Thank you for your cooperation. Remember, our safety concerns are your safety concerns.”

  93% complete.

  The door behind Letta crashes open with a thundering boom. Guards flood the area and Letta jumps to attention, keeping her back to the screen, trying to conceal it. There are even more guards now, older ones she vaguely recognizes from patrols of the Law Office quarters during her captain training. She holds her arms behind her and squeezes the cable with one hand, ready to pull it out. It just needs a few more seconds to complete the download.

  The guards part like the Red Sea, and Claudia marches through. She raises her hand as if to jab Letta in the chest, but restrains herself; although, Letta notes, considering the pinched look on Claudia’s face, it is with much difficulty.