Maybe I’ll put on someone else’s too-tight flight suit and look sexy all by myself. I start to imagine Capria in her flight suit. As loose as it was, it wasn’t loose enough to hide all her curves. I see her for just a moment before my insides churn at the memory. It hurts more than it helps.
“What now?”
I’m clean. And dressed. The drones are working their way through the Galahad, seeking out stress points, damage and messes. The next time I return to the cryo-chambers, they’ll look like new. I lick my lips. Feels like I’m running my tongue across stone.
The mess deck requires no chef or galley. The AI handles it all, delivering the perfect amount of artificially flavored nutrient slurry, based on prior bowel movements. It’s a two-minute walk down gleaming white hallways, and ten seconds in the lift, to get from the bathroom to the mess deck, which is located above the cryo-chambers, bathrooms, and two floors of crew quarters. Above the mess is the gym, a place I only visit when my schedule calls for it—three days a week for ninety minutes.
“William Chanokh,” I say, standing before the food dispensary.
“Blood sample required.” Gal has a homogeneous voice, neither masculine nor feminine.
A small slot, fringed by green light and large enough for a single finger, opens. Without a recent fecal sample, Gal wants my blood. I place my finger in the hole. Back home the act would often elicit crude sexual jokes from new recruits, most of whom were never seen again. No quicker way to get kicked out of the program than to have sex on the brain. Truth was, we all had sex on the brain. Some of us just hid it better.
A cool breeze runs over my finger, and for a moment, I can’t feel it. Then the light turns red, and I withdraw my finger, the numbing agent already starting to wear off. I turn my hand over, ready to suck away the bead of blood from where I was pricked, but the puncture resealed too quickly for any to escape.
Unseen parts whir and hiss. A tray slides into place behind a glass divider. A cup, bowl and spoon lower onto it. Two more cups follow. Then two nozzles descend. One trickles pink liquid into all three cups. The other unleashes a mash of steaming diarrhea that will taste better than it looks. We were told all meals would taste like they were ‘home cooked.’ Problem with that promise is that most of the crew never had a home cooked meal, and those that had, couldn’t remember what they tasted like.
I sit down at one of five round tables. There are supposed to be another nine people sitting at the table, their gray butts planted on the long, curved bench surrounding it. And then forty more at the other tables. Meal seating rotates so that everyone gets a chance to know everyone else, and cliques aren’t allowed to form.
No chance of that now. My tray echoes in the room that should be full of voices. I hear them for a moment, everyone excited, eager to finish their shitty, first in-orbit meal and get to analyzing the planet below. But then I sniff my nose, and in the silence of reality, it’s loud enough to break me out of the fantasy.
I sip the pink liquid. Fruit punch. It’s pretty much the last thing I want to be drinking, but as soon as the fluid hits my throat, a craving is triggered. I drain the first cup, move on to the second, and stop halfway through the third. My insides sponge up the liquid. Pressure returns to my veins, and strength returns to my muscles. I might be unkillable, but I can still get dehydrated. But I wasn’t just dehydrated, I was drained of blood, sucked nearly dry by the undrinking vampire named Tom. While I seem capable of impossible feats, I can’t, like the Big Bang, create something from nothing.
That said, I’m not very hungry. I take a bite of the slop anyway. It’s salty and has fibrous chunks that are vaguely meaty, but most definitely are not from an animal. After my third bite, I’m feeling better about things.
The food tastes good.
The quiet is peaceful.
I’m going to turn this ship around, return to Cognata, save the surviving crew, and wake Capria to a tarnished, but not completely failed mission. A chuckle burps from my mouth and sours my stomach.
Why am I laughing?
Why the fuck am I laughing?
I look down at the bowl. While I neither see, nor taste anything viler than expected, I know it’s there. My food is drugged. When my blood sample showed elevated levels of adrenaline and cortisol, my food was laced with mood enhancers. Had I been surrounded by people, talking and laughing, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the shifting state of mind. But here, by myself, with absolutely nothing to feel happy about, the drug’s effect stands out like an erection in one of these flight suits—yet another way the over-sexed were weeded out.
The image makes me laugh, and that makes me angry.
I scream and overturn my tray. Empty cups bounce to the floor, drumming out a beat for a few seconds. The bowl overturns with a slap. The tray doesn’t make it much further. It’s far less dramatic than I intended, but so what? No one is here to see it.
“No one is here!” I scream and swat the bowl. It strikes the next table and spirals, spinning brown gore in every direction, satiating my need to make a mess. “No one is here...”
I wasn’t lying to my shrink.
She wasn’t real. And she mostly existed to distract me from madness.
But I never lied to her.
I am an introvert, but I hate solitude.
I do now, at least.
The quiet of it. My inner voice, without external input, can get lost in chaos. The stillness and sleepy feeling of the cryo-bed dulled the sensation and allowed my imagination to drift. But here, fully awake and without anyone to talk to, my thoughts feel like Pearson’s screwdriver in my chest.
I need direction.
What came next? I made a list. A spreadsheet. But I can’t remember it now. I’m pretty sure showering and a meal were on it, but what else? I pound the table with my fists, and then with my head.
Direction and motivation comes in the form of a single word: Answers. I stand from my chair, feeling renewed and too damn happy.
I need answers.
7
Keyboards and computer monitors never really went out of fashion. Some people made the switch to tablets and touchscreens, but the people who pounded words, numbers, and data for a living were most efficient and happiest when they could stand up and walk away from their work, and not be expected to carry it with them. Eighty percent of the crew still used a keyboard and a mouse to navigate Galahad’s quantum computer systems. While there isn’t much limit to Gal’s processing power, mankind hit its limit thousands of years ago.
Most people, anyway. Some people—tech-jocks—like to think they’re smarter, and faster. ‘Some people’ being myself, and Tom.
I like to think it’s because we’re the next stage in the evolution of mankind’s intelligence, but I’m pretty sure it’s ego. We’re our own rock stars, no matter how pasty white our un-sunned skin becomes. That used to be a thing anyway, I think, being undead pale. Tech-jocks used to be called nerds, or geeks, until those terms became honor-badges. We’re not really smarter, we just have a knack for the virtual. For the not real. And I’m not really sure that says anything good about us.
But we were the future. Without us, Gal wouldn’t exist, and navigating the universe at FTL speeds would be impossible. Even a tech-jock couldn’t complete the endless amount of calculations needed to analyze, access, and avoid every obstacle as they emerge from the void. But Gal can, thanks to me, and to Tom, and to an army of fellow tech-jocks who weren’t cut out for space travel. We’re moving through time and space, and I can’t feel the course corrections, whether they be a few feet, or a light year.
The thing about tech-jocks that really sets us apart is that we prefer not to use keyboards, mice, touchscreens, or the laziest of computer interfaces: voice commands. We do our computing in the virtual realm, using Virtual Command Centers (VCCs). Wearing a full bodysuit containing millions of biofeedback nodules, we can feel the digital world. We can create and live inside worlds of our own, which is less pitiful and more dangero
us than it sounds. Inside the VCC, anything is possible. We can manipulate the universe itself, run models and simulations, and test theories that are impossible to test in the real world. But it’s also easy to forget which world is which.
Before VCCs had automatic, eight hour cut-offs, tech-jocks routinely died from overexposure. Seventy-two hours without a break could lead to starvation, or dehydration, but it was usually a Gray-Crash: a kind of mental unhinging leading to a catastrophic system shutdown. The strangest thing about Gray-Crashing is that the victims would be so separated from reality, they wouldn’t be aware they were dying—even after their hearts stopped and their brains began to shut down. Now that I’ve died several times over, I think Gray-Crashing sounds delightful.
But I’ve never gotten close. I know how to self-regulate, and I generally stay in the VCC for only three hours at a time. And not just because I don’t want to die. I just don’t like the idea of having my piss drained via catheter, or shitting in an adult diaper. It’s undignified.
Also, I get most jobs done in under three hours.
I’m that good. It’s why I’m here. In space.
Alone.
My esteemed position doesn’t seem so special anymore. Mankind’s hubris, a measurable amount of which came from me, has resulted in a kind of personal hell.
But, how?
That’s what I’m here to find out.
I stand in the center of the 2500 square foot space. The walls, floor, and ceiling, like most of the Galahad, are stark white, smooth, and can be lit in a myriad of colors and lumens. Unlike the rest of the ship, the illumination is always faint here. VCC use can make eyes light-sensitive for a few minutes. The light is kept dim to keep migraines from springing on users like squirrels throwing a surprise party.
The bodysuit I’m wearing is officially called a Virtual Integration Sensor Array (VISA). Unofficially it’s called a body-condom because it’s rubbery and skin-tight. Millions of tiny haptic feedback nodes are embedded in the virtual skin (my preferred name for it). They can vibrate, simulating the delicacy of a gentle breeze, or constrict the fabric, applying pressure to the wearer’s body. And if a pinch is called for, tiny electric shocks do the job. Nothing in the VCC’s virtual reality truly exists until it’s applied to a real world application or the AI, but after just a few minutes, it can feel real.
For an experienced user like me, it feels real the moment I put on my headset.
And it nearly breaks me.
In the years before the Galahad left Mars, I spent every work day in my VCC space. Those who don’t use VCC would call it a glorified digital office. I called it home. I suppose it’s like returning to a childhood house. Memories of past accomplishments, virtual parties with my fellow tech-jocks, private moments away from the prying eyes of reality. The difference between VCC memories and real world memories is that I could replay them. But I don’t. It would hurt too much. And I could get lost. I need to move forward.
My starting point is a game room. It’s old-school classic with a pool table and darts. There’s a movie screen, a juke box, and game consoles. Posters line the walls. I could step inside any virtual movie, listen to any song, and play any game, all the way back to Bach, Pong, and the Wizard of Oz. Of course, playing Pong while listening to Bach might be a treat, but I found Oz to be a mind-screw. I couldn’t identify with Dorothy or her nauseating band of helpers. I identified more with the wizard. I’ll stay behind the curtain, thank you very much.
That’s not true now. Even the Cowardly Lion would be better company than myself.
You are alone.
The thought comes like a sniper’s bullet, slipping into and out of my head, leaving chaos in its wake.
Capria is here, I tell myself. She’s still alive.
But no one else is.
Find out why.
I walk through the game room, rounding the pool table like it was real, and head for the Womb. It’s a comfortable, dark endlessness where creation occurs. With a flick of my wrist, the red door adorned with a pictograph of a big-bellied woman, slides open. I step through into the black beyond, and I’m even more comfortable here than I was in the carefully crafted and decked-out game room.
Here, my mind and body become a tool. Accessing and manipulating code becomes a dance. Fluid and passionate. It’s less language writing, and more creative experience.
God, I sound fruity, like some new-Martian beat poet.
I settle into my old world, and for a moment, I blank.
Day one after waking from cryo-sleep is supposed to feel like no time passed at all. You fall asleep and wake up feeling refreshed, memory intact. It’s as close to teleporting across the universe as you can get. In theory. My reality is that I have ten years of dreams and fantasies rattling around in my head. I’ve written code and run simulations in my own mind. I’ve retooled this interface. But none of that ever happened. It was less real than the VCC.
So I’m rusty. I start slow, accessing my personal saved projects, fiddling with code, letting my mind and body get reacquainted with the ebb and flow. It comes back quickly. I’m moving at half speed, and with far less elegance than I became so proud of, but there’s no one evaluating me now, and all I need to do is access Tom’s personnel files.
I curl my fingers into fists and pull both hands toward me. This should instigate a security check. My eyes, fingerprints, and very DNA will be scrutinized over the next few seconds, verifying my administrator status, and from there, the culmination of human knowledge—including the crew files, Gal’s AI, and the Galahad’s security footage—will be available to me.
“Hello?”
The voice catches me off guard. Makes me flinch in real life.
There are a number of things I should probably do in response to the voice—Tom’s voice—but all I manage is stunned silence.
“I’m sorry, but if you’re not me, and I’m the only me, not you, then fuck off. Your ass is blocked. The ship is mine. All of this is mine. Unless someone is really listening to this... Shit. Fuckin shit. Okay. Who cares, right? It’s still fun. This is all just fun.” He laughs, not the deep booming laugh he’s known for, but a high pitched, mid-sized mammal squeal. Air out of a balloon. “Oh! How about this?”
A thousand different sound files filling every audible frequency and maximum volume barks in my ears. It’s just a half second, but it drops me to the floor. I scream, pulling the headset away. A high-pitched squeal chases me out of virtual reality, but it’s not coming from the headset. It’s coming from my ears.
I lie on the floor, staring up at the dull ceiling, facing a brand new problem.
Tom changed the security protocols. That in itself is no easy task, but he was clearly out of his mind already. I can get around his new security. I have no doubt about that, but he was on the team because he was good. It’s going to take some time. Maybe a lot of time.
How long was Tom awake?
I close my eyes and resist the urge to throw a tantrum.
I’ve deduced the answer to one of my many questions. Tom fucked with Gal before we left. Nothing drastic. A single digit change to his wake-time would have allowed him to wake up a year before everyone else. It would have been easy to miss. As for why, I get it. He wanted to be first. Like all tech-jocks, he was competitive by nature. He wanted to be the first awake, and the first to see Cognata. Instead, he became the first FTL mass murderer.
After five minutes, the ringing in my ears subsides and my emotions level out. I disable the VCC headset audio, place it back on my head and begin a task that will take me the better part of a year.
8
Psychosis elevated Tom’s genius. Made him think in ways that normal people—sane people—can’t comprehend. Because there’s no order to it. No reason. I’ve been throwing myself at his security, and all I’ve managed to do is reveal how much pain a virtual skin is capable of delivering. Turns out, it’s a lot. Tom’s new protocols removed the safety restrictions. I’ve been strangled, crushed, and
given electric jolts powerful enough to rob consciousness. I’m pretty sure I’ve been killed by it, but I’m not entirely sure, since coming back to life doesn’t feel much different than waking up.
But the past year hasn’t been a complete waste. I’ve learned a lot.
If I’m not gushing blood or sweating, I don’t need to drink. Or eat. I can spend seventy-two hours in the VCC and not die. And if I’m not eating or drinking, then I don’t need a catheter or an adult diaper. That’s good news, because even though there’s enough food and water on the Galahad to last me a lifetime, I suspect I might be around for longer. I’m not sure yet. I’ve only been tracking my age for a year, but in all that time, my shaven hair hasn’t grown. At all. It’s like my body is stuck.
I don’t need to sleep, either. I can sleep. It’s just not a requirement. My psychological state, like my body, is impervious to human limitations. No matter how little I sleep, how long I starve myself, or how lonely and desperate I feel, my mind remains intact. Sharp. Alert. The only thought of suicide that crossed my mind was a curiosity about why I haven’t considered it yet. It’s not that I can’t sleep—I sometimes do, just to hear other people talking—it just serves no physical or mental purpose anymore.
I’ve also learned that as smart as I am, I will never be a match for Crazy Tom. I’ve spent 6,570 hours in the VCC. I’ve created an entirely new coding language in an attempt to sneak past his firewall unseen. I have tried every password—written, body language, spoken, and symbol—that I could think of, but none worked.
Only Tom can get through.
Which is why, after an entire year of trial and error, and then a full ten minutes of kicking myself, I’m back in the cryo-chambers. I haven’t returned since I left, naked and blood-coated. The drones have done their job as well as I believed they would. The walls, floor, and ceiling sparkle with newness. Thanks to Galahad’s self-sustaining design, it always will.
I walk past a line of frosted cryo-beds. I could warm the glass with my hand and see their faces, remember who they were and the good times we had, but there are no peaceful expressions hidden beneath the white. Each one will be contorted in a different kind of anguish and raw shock. As resilient as my psyche might now be, short-lived torture still holds no appeal.
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