At the Helm: A Sci-Fi Bridge Anthology (Volume 1)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “It is around time for your feeding, Orion,” Dan said, finally. A circular seal in the counter adjacent to my bed peeled open to reveal a hollow tube. A bowl filled with lumpy, brown-colored soup rose through it, spoon already resting on the rim. The sight of it made me grimace.

  “I’m not hungry,” I replied.

  “I must insist that you do not refuse another meal. As the active Monitor, your continued health is imperative.”

  “Not for long,” I grumbled. I reached over, grabbed the bowl and twirled the spoon around in the goop. There wasn’t any name for it besides food, but it’s what I ate every single day. According to Dan it bore all of the nutrients necessary for keeping me healthy. I lifted a spoonful, but instead of bringing it to my mouth I tilted the spoon and allowed it to tumble over the edge.

  Dan said nothing. Finally, I decided I was hungry enough to end my meager boycott and have some. It tasted no different than water.

  “Forward and forward I go, never looking back,” Dan said as I swallowed. “My limit no one knows; more of me do they lack. Like a river I do flow and an eagle I fly, but am never gotten back. What am I, Orion?”

  Another riddle. He knew exactly how to keep my mind occupied when I needed it most.

  “What’s an eagle?” I asked with my mouth full from another scoop of my meal.

  “Sorry for my oversight. It is an avian species indigenous to Earth, belonging to the Accipitridae family.”

  “Dan ...”

  “It is a large species of bird,” Dan corrected.

  “Right. Bird. The animal with hollow bones and wings with feathers, correct?”

  “In simpler terms, yes. They can fly even where there is gravity. Let me show you.”

  A beam of illumination shot out from a lens embedded in my room’s far wall. The particles of light quickly formed into the three dimensional figure of what I assumed was an eagle. Its feathers fluttered as the projection soared through the imagined sky. Its outstretched wings were almost as tall as I was.

  “Beautiful,” I uttered. I placed down the bowl and reached out, my fingers slipping through the pixels of light. “Hollow bones you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “How strange,” I snickered as I hopped onto my bed.

  “Have you arrived at an answer yet, or did I stump you again, Orion?” Dan asked after a few minutes passed in silence.

  Seeing the majestic eagle had almost caused me to forget the question. My limit no one knows; more of me do they lack. I reiterated a few times in my head until it started to ache. My mind was too cluttered to think clearly. “No, but I’m not giving up yet,” I answered.

  • • •

  My attempt at taking a nap after eating mostly led to me spending a few hours staring at the bare ceiling. Heavy as my eyelids may’ve been, sleeping was the last thing I wanted to do. I knew I’d get plenty of rest soon enough.

  I sat up and began to rub them when suddenly an orange-hued light shined through the viewport. It was more brilliant than any light I’d ever seen before.

  “Dan, what is that?” I stammered, my face beginning to feel like it’d been placed in a warming oven.

  “Sorry, Orion. You will have to be more specific,” Dan replied instantly.

  “That orange light coming through my viewport!”

  “That is originating from Alpha Centauri B, one of the three companion stars in the system nearest to the Earth.”

  My brow furrowed. “A star?” I questioned. “Is it exploding? I’ve never seen one like that before.”

  “I assure you that you have seen many that are similar in composition. It appears large only because it is 98,420,000 miles away.”

  “Is that far?”

  “It is a similar distance as that which exists between Earth and its star, Sol.”

  “So ... it’s like the sun?” My eyes widened. I stared back toward the light until they went dry.

  “From the perspective of one of this system’s planets, yes. It could be considered a similar entity.”

  “I don’t understand. Did we make it?”

  “No. As I have informed you before, the programmed destination of this vessel is the star system, Tau Ceti. The planet Pervenio Corporation researchers have discovered orbiting that star has an eighty-three percent chance of being able to harbor human life. That is the highest probability of any celestial body within one thousand years of travel from Earth, considering modern technological abilities to traverse space at the time of the Hermes’ departure.”

  I frowned, but as I hung my head I pieced together something he’d said and sprung to my feet. “But you said there are planets here! What about them?”

  “The planet in this system with the highest probability of being habitable is nearby Luxar, with a seventy-four percent chance of being able to harbor human life.”

  I took a moment to do the math. I wasn’t anywhere near as quick at it as Dan was. “That’s only nine percent!” I proclaimed. “If we’re that close, why don’t we find out ourselves?” I could barely contain my excitement. My hands were almost trembling as they wrapped around the frame of the viewport.

  “I have been programmed never to slow the Hermes until reaching Tau Ceti. The loss of time due to deceleration would add a decade onto the voyage. By my estimation it would then take two hundred and eleven years to reach the system from this point.”

  “But ...” I stuttered before I was swiftly rendered silent by what I saw. I assume the Living Ring rotated too far and eclipsed the star because the light vanished as quickly as it had appeared. I leaned back, my jaw hanging open. For Dan maybe hundreds more years of travel might’ve seemed worth it over nine percent, but to me it felt like I’d just been punched in the gut. Never had I been so close to anything in the universe beyond the ship I knew.

  “Have you figured out the riddle yet, Orion?” Dan asked, attempting to distract me. His monotone voice didn’t change, but after nearly thirty years I could somehow always tell when he knew I was dismayed.

  “No,” I muttered. I continued to stare through the viewport, waiting anxiously for the sun to reappear.

  “You only have nineteen hours remaining—”

  “Stop!” I bellowed, so loud that if the Life-Chambers weren’t filled with liquid I might’ve woken half of the inhabitants outside my quarters. I leaned my head against the cold metal wall beneath the viewport and stopped myself right before my clenched fist slammed into it. “Just stop.”

  Dan went silent. I turned around and caught a glimpse of Inhabitant 2781’s Life-Chamber outside of my room. I decided that I needed to get as far away from the chambers as possible to clear my head. I hurried out of my room and around the Living Ring, staring at the floor so I could avoid seeing any of the inhabitants.

  I finally stopped in front of the ladder up to the cramped corridor which bridged to the Conservatory. Dan unsealed the entry for me without a word and I began to climb. Humid air greeted my nostrils, making it slightly more difficult to breathe than in the rest of the ship. As I reached the top of the ladder, zero-g gently lifted my body. I drifted into the space—a tremendous, hollow sphere around which the Living Ring rotated. Rows of plantings and heat lamps wrapped in 360 degree arcs as if I were in a sea of green. Dan’s many appendages tended to the crops, probably using Fish’s remains to fertilize them.

  “Would you like to tend a crop?” Dan asked me. “I can deactivate a single one of my arms to be replaced by you for the time being.”

  I thought about it for a moment. It was nice that Dan trusted me with something so crucial. It took him many years before he was willing to let me help with the crops for the first time. I found it to be a calming exercise even though I knew he didn’t actually need any assistance. His plants never struggled. Their leaves never even wilted.

  “Thanks, Dan, but it’s alright,” I responded as I pushed off of the rounded wall and floated toward the center of the sphere. I wasn’t in the mood to perform another menial task. From time to
time I didn’t mind just letting the universe cradle me.

  “Are you positive?”

  “Positive. I just want to float here.”

  I closed my eyes, laid back and pretended that for the first time I was in space. The darkness of my eyelids made it easy to picture as I hovered weightlessly. I imagined stars glimmering all around me, constructing a universe of infinite possibilities. I imagined what the planet Luxar was like. If it had cloudy skies like the Earth Dan had taught me about, or green grass...

  “Time,” I whispered suddenly.

  “Sorry, Orion, I could not hear what you said,” Dan replied.

  I cleared my throat. “Time,” I repeated. “More of me they do lack. That’s the answer to your riddle, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Dan replied. To me he sounded like he was almost proud. “I thought I was going to stump you.”

  “Not this time.” I opened my eyes and smiled. Then I pushed off a nearby crop and let the momentum carry me back to the bridge leading out of the Conservatory. As I caught onto the wall and gazed upon the crops, the truth behind the riddle hit me.

  “Dan,” I began. “I know it’s wrong of me, but ... I’m not ready to die.” I had never said it out loud. As I finally did, it was hard to keep my lips from trembling. A tear lifted off of my cheek and floated away.

  There was a short pause. Then Dan said: “You are not going to be recycled for many years, Orion. You are just going to be placed in a hibernate status like the other inhabitants.”

  “Don’t you see? It’s all the same. I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t feel old. I want to visit the stars outside of these walls. I want to be there when this ship’s mission is complete.”

  “I do not wish to unsettle you further, but you know that neither of those desires are possible.”

  I wiped my cheeks. “I know, and I know that you can’t understand what I’m feeling,” I said. “I barely do myself and I learned everything I know from you. But I’m begging you, let me see the stars one time without shielded glass in my way. Let me gaze upon Alpha Centauri at least, with my own two eyes.”

  “I am sorry, Orion. I have been programmed not to permit the release of any of this vessel’s airlocks unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  I chortled under my breath. I wasn’t sure what else I expected to hear. Regardless of whether or not his riddles were his own conception, Dan was never one to defy his maker. Neither had I been, for I was a product of Dan as much as he was of his programming.

  “I am reading an elevated heart rate again,” Dan said.

  He was right. I was as anxious as I was thrilled. For the first time in my life I knew exactly what I wanted. I didn’t want to waste my final hours distracting myself with a few more menial tasks. First I’d have to make my selection, and then I was going to see the stars for real. No matter what.

  “Dan,” I said. “I think I’ve finally chosen my replacement.”

  • • •

  I quickly traversed the Living Ring. When I reached Inhabitant 2781, I stopped and got as close to the glass enclosure of her Life-Chamber as I could.

  “You’ll have to find a name as well,” I whispered to her. “I don’t think I’ll be here, but be kind to Dan. He tries his best.” I placed my hand against the tube. My fingers curled as if they were threading through hers. It wouldn’t be fair of me to wake her against regulations just so that I could hold her hand. She’d have to find her own destiny as the Hermes’ Monitor, as I did.

  “Dan, you were right,” I said. I gazed down the hall at the Life-Chambers vanishing around the bend. For whatever reason I knew that all of them would be safe in her hands. “She should be the next Monitor.”

  “You have made your selection?” Dan asked.

  “For you, yes. Inhabitant 2781 is to be the seventh Monitor of the Interstellar Ark, Hermes.”

  “She is a suitable choice. There are eighteen hours until your shift will come to an end and she will be awakened. Is there anything you would like to do before you must return to your Life-Chamber, Orion? I can generate another riddle.”

  Without answering, I rounded the Living Ring and climbed into the long cylindrical passageway which branched off toward the engine room. In that corridor, which like the Conservatory lacked any sensation of pseudo-gravity, was the ship’s central airlock exiting into space. I’d performed minor repairs there before, but only then did I see it as anything more than another hallway.

  Spacesuits hung along the walls across from it, exactly a thousand of them. They were all empty and faceless, as if filled by ghosts. I drew my weightless body in front of one and stared at it.

  “Orion, what are you doing?” Dan asked calmly.

  “Dan,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve always wondered. Did any of the other Monitors ever get to go outside these walls?”

  “The opportunity never presented itself. A Monitor would only need to perform reparations from space if the ship’s radiation plating were damaged.”

  “Did they ever ask to go?”

  “There were certainly periods of curiosity, but, like you, they were content to remain within the safety of this vessel. A vacuum is no place for organic beings.”

  I removed the suit from the wall and noticed that my fingers were quaking with excitement as I did. I pulled it open and began to slip into the bulky outfit, carefully checking all of the seals as I did so. It wasn’t difficult to figure out. I grabbed the bulbous helmet off of a shelf and held it up. I could see my face in the reflection of the visor. My eyebrows were graying and my flesh was soft and pale, with a patch of shallow wrinkles forming beneath my hazel eyes.

  “Dan, open the central airlock,” I requested. “I would like to survey the integrity of the hull before I pass along my duties to Inhabitant 2781.”

  “Request denied. I assure you that the Hermes’ exterior remains in optimal condition.”

  I knew that. Dan had unbelievably perceptive sensors all throughout the Hermes. If he could tell when my pulse was raised, of course he would’ve informed me if there was anything wrong with the radiation plating. I sighed. There was no use trying to trick him. “Dan, please. I only want to see.”

  “As I have already explained, I cannot permit you to exit at this time. Is there anything else you would like to do?”

  Convincing Dan may have been out of the question, but I remembered that I’d opened up more panels on the Hermes for maintenance than I cared to count. Even though manual overrides were forbidden, I was intent on seeing space before the long sleep took me. It pained me to know that doing so would go against Dan’s wishes, but he didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He may have raised me, but something inside of me was different.

  I gritted my teeth and fought my reservations as I pulled myself toward the hatch. Once there, I used the tools contained in a pouch connected to the suit to remove the cover of the keypad. I began fiddling with the wires inside until the inner airlock hatch popped open with a snap-hiss. Red lights started to flash and an emergency alarm wailed.

  “Please restore operation of the central airlock,” Dan said, politely as ever. “Manual override is not authorized.”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I lifted the helmet over my head and stepped forward into the cramped airlock.

  “Orion, you are not acting rationally,” Dan continued. “I would advise you return to your quarters and try to rest. Perhaps you are in need of feeding?”

  As the helmet sealed there was a whistle, and then silence. “Forgive me, Dan,” I mouthed. I patted the smooth surface of the ship’s metal interior as if it were his body. “But I’ve made my selection. My vigil is over. Now it’s time for me to live.”

  Before he could answer I switched off the helmet’s built-in radio.

  I clipped the ship’s tether to the belt of my suit. Then I sliced through more controls, signaling the confined space to depressurize. Once the process was completed the inner seal slammed shut and the outer seal po
pped open. I drew myself slowly into the opening.

  Stars shone by the thousands in front of me, filling the entirety of my visor as they were mirrored twice over by the glass. For the first time in years I couldn’t perceive the continuous hum of the Hermes’ many systems. The only thing I could hear was my own hastened breathing. I exhaled slowly and sidled out until I could grab onto the hull of the ship.

  “Here we go,” I said to myself. I climbed along the bridge connecting to the engine until I found a familiar nook between it and the Living Ring. The tiny viewport there had a view of my bed. I positioned myself as comfortably as I could get before gazing out over Hermes.

  The sight was enough to make me smile. The vastness of the cosmos may have been a hard reminder of how much there was which I would never see, but it was as striking in its enormity as I’d expected—an endless sea of blackness teaming with life I had no doubt was there.

  Suddenly, a blinding sliver of orange-hued light reflected off of the Conservatory’s exterior, causing me to fall to the side and accidentally allow some of my suit’s tools to come loose. They began to drift away, and I frantically stretched out my arm to grab them. As I did the ever-rotating Living Ring exposed me to the source of the light. It was the star, Alpha Centauri B. Without the viewport in its way it was even grander and brighter.

  The Living Ring continued to rotate toward the light, heating up my body even through the suit. The tools were floated beyond the reach of my tether, like shards of diamonds bathing in the alien brightness. I stared until I had to blink away the stinging sensation in my eyes.

  “Orion. Orion, can you hear me?”

  For a second I looked around, alarmed, before realizing that the familiar voice was coming from inside of my helmet. Dan had overridden the radio controls and switched it back on.

  “Yes ... I can,” I said.

  “What are you—”