Proxima Dreaming

by Brandon Q Morris

  Gronolf nudges him with one foot. “Wakmir invited me,” he says.

  “Second to the left, then left again, and right,” the sitting soldier says without looking at him.

  “And who is waiting there?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Gronolf is tempted to strike the soldier. He outranks this common soldier considerably, and the underling should treat him with more reverence. Yet he is off duty now, and Wakmir’s friends probably wouldn’t like it. Therefore he simply steps over him. In doing so, his knee hits the soldier’s touch-arm hard, seemingly by accident. Gronolf hears the man groan, but he ignores the noise.

  Inside Sector 132 the light has been dimmed. Gronolf follows the path described to him. He reaches a large steel door hanging from only one hinge and ajar. Behind it, he hears voices he doesn’t recognize. He pushes the door open and enters the room. All those present turn around to face him. He counts fifteen males standing in a group. They had probably been discussing something until a moment ago, and conversation stopped the moment he entered.

  “There you are, Gronolf.” Wakmir leaves the group and walks toward him. “What an honor for us.”

  “I don’t know whether I am an honor or a punishment,” Gronolf replies as he looks around. He is the highest-ranked person here. The warriors come from different companies.

  Wakmir waves him forward. “I want to introduce you to Oknar.” He points at a tall warrior who is considerably older than the others. “He is a kind of mentor for us.”

  Gronolf approaches and spreads his arms. This gesture demonstrates all his strength, because now he seems even taller and wider.

  Oknar immediately submits. “I am Oknar,” he says. “Having you among us is an honor.”

  “Let’s wait and see,” Gronolf replies. “Why are we actually here?”

  “These accidents,” Wakmir says. “They really worry us.”

  “Well, not the accidents themselves,” Oknar corrects him. “Rather the fact that the leadership obviously ignores them and plays them down. By now, innocent warriors die every day, and what does our leadership group do about it? They deny that there even is a problem.”

  Oknar is right, Gronolf thinks. While he knows that the leaders actually are trying to do something, the average Grosnops must think that they don’t matter at all to their superiors.

  “And what do you want to do about it?”

  “We are not sure. It seems pretty obvious the Omniscience has something to do with it. We know where it is located. If we destroy it—”

  “—the Majestic Draght will lose its only pilot,” interjects Gronolf.

  “Piloting a ship can’t be that difficult,” Wakmir says.

  “You forgot the drive,” Gronolf says. “Any irregularity can build up quickly. The dark matter generator reacts to gravitational fields the ship will inevitably cross. No Knowledge Scientist can react quickly enough to that.”

  “So the Omniscience has power over the entire ship,” Oknar says. He doesn’t sound disappointed, but rather seems to have expected this.

  “Correct,” Gronolf says.

  “Then we have only one option—moving against the leadership. Our superiors can no longer ignore these accidents. They have to force the Omniscience to stop these attacks against innocent crewmembers.”

  Oknar arrived at the only correct conclusion, from his perspective.

  Gronolf can’t argue with his idea without giving too much away. “Is this room bug-poof?” he asks.

  Wakmir proudly points at a member of the engineering department. “Our specialist made sure of that.”

  “Good,” Gronolf says, though he is not convinced the room is really secure. The Omniscience can access any data circuit. Perhaps even the leadership group has been lulled into a false sense of security. Tomorrow he and Murnaka will find out.

  “A rebellion against the leadership is a serious matter,” Gronolf says evasively.

  Oknar aims his front eye at him. “Of course. We believe, though, that most will support us. Just ask around if you don’t believe me. Nobody is happy with the leadership anymore.”

  “Nevertheless, we should not rush things.”

  “We? Does this mean you are joining us?”

  Gronolf does not answer right away. He probably has no choice. He can only stay informed if he at least pretends to participate. If he rejects them, the actions of the rebels will surprise him eventually. And that might happen at the most inopportune moment. He will try to delay them until his mission is finished.

  “How many of us are there?” Gronolf asks.

  “Hard to say,” Oknar replies. “We don’t really keep official membership lists. I would say we have one or two members in almost every unit. In case of emergency, we definitely should be able to mobilize a couple hundred.”

  A couple hundred—that is not much compared to the total number of crew members, which must be seven times seven times larger. Yet if the others remain neutral, it might work. It depends on how much they still respect the leadership. Probably less with every day.

  “We should not rush things,” Gronolf says. “A rebellion would lead to casualties on both sides. However, if the leadership group does not voluntarily give in, I don’t see any other way in the long run.”

  Archive, Darknight 10, 3350

  The heavy buckle of the tool belt closes with a loud click. The vacuum equipment dangles from a belt loop, ready to be used. Gronolf carries his weapon over his shoulder. He leaves his quarters without saying goodbye, just as if he were leaving for daily training, which is probably what his comrades are thinking. He walks slowly toward Sector 1. Murnaka has not contacted him again and he already wonders when she will join him. Suddenly she stands in front of him.

  “What a coincidence,” he says.

  “I have been waiting for you.”

  How did she know he would be coming this way? No matter, it was probably the most likely route. Gronolf gives her a friendly wink with his front eye, but she does not react to his gesture. “Where do we have to go?” he asks.

  “The security zone is in the hub connecting the drive and the living quarters.”

  Near the sector borders there are fold-out maps in the walls. Gronolf wants to open one of them to get an overview, but Murnaka stops him.

  “I have an offline map here.” She shows him a roll about one foot long. Then she opens the map by rolling it out into a square. The map consists of a transparent material. It is not any thicker than his skin, but if you look at it from above it seems to have great depth.

  “A mobile holo-map?” Gronolf asks. He can’t help but shape his stomach fold into an expression of amazement. These maps are incredibly rare and expensive.

  Murnaka moves her hand across the edge of the map. The image zooms accordingly, so that one can eventually see the entire Majestic Draght. The vessel is cube-shaped. The spherical drive sits in its interior, like the kernel of a sea chestnut. From this drive a kind of tube leads outward; to be more precise, a channel formed by magnetic fields. Around the drive there is a structure several arm lengths thick, which surrounds it like a shell. The Omniscience is located there. The area is completely inaccessible to the crew.

  If necessary, the Omniscience will repair itself, using special machines. The drive core cannot be repaired, as it is constantly in a fragile equilibrium, like an egg balancing on its tip. Only the Omniscience is able to keep it in balance, and if it fails, the egg would burst, and the entire ship with it. It was partially for this reason the Knowledge Scientists gave the Omniscience a certain degree of autonomy. The limiting factor, as smaller predecessor models had shown, was always the fact that the crew made wrong decisions.

  Gronolf’s companion points at a tiny cube. “This is the room we have to reach and secure,” she says.

  “And we can really deactivate the Omniscience from there?”

  “No, that is impossible. Then we could no longer control the drive system. However, we can sever the connection of the Omn
iscience to the outside world.”

  “Then it will be alone with the drive core, in eternal darkness.”

  “You said that very poetically, Gronolf.”

  He is not sure whether she is serious or whether she is making fun of him. Yet he does not show any reaction. “Well, that is the case,” he says, “if it receives no signals from the outside world, isn’t it?”

  Murnaka seems to ponder this. She moves her touch-arms right and left. “You are probably right.”

  “Then it won’t be very happy about it.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “And what if it relinquishes control over the drive unit?”

  “Then it would kill itself. That contradicts one of its basic rules. It is not allowed to harm itself.”

  Right now, Gronolf feels quite ignorant. Isn’t Murnaka officially a learner, while he is the experienced officer? “Let’s go,” he says.

  Murnaka types something on the map and then rolls it up again. Then she pulls a kind of button from her belt pouch, moistens it with stomach acid, and sticks it on her skin at chest height. Gronolf recognizes that it is a sound button.

  “This way the map can tell us where to go,” Murnaka says.

  This way the map can tell you where to go, Gronolf thinks. He starts to dislike this mission, because it looks as if he will have to follow an inexperienced learner no matter what happens. Yet he does not comment, because whoever awarded her the responsibility for the expensive map must have had certain reasons. He is obviously considered primarily as a protector watching Murnaka’s back.

  His companion starts moving. Gronolf follows her. This way he can at least admire her from behind.

  Soon he is no longer familiar with the corridors they are traversing. Tunnels, doors, new tunnels, and then a large room, one following after the other. At first he tries to memorize the path, or at least keep an image in his mind, but after ten turns he no longer stands a chance. They are making good progress—until they encounter the first locked door. Murnaka looks at the map, which insists that the door should be open.

  “There is no other way,” she says.

  “Good, at least that’s a change,” Gronolf replies. He takes his weapon off his shoulder. He can quickly blast through the door.

  “Perhaps it would be enough to cut through the lock,” Murnaka says, offering him a small welding gun from her tool belt.

  Gronolf is disappointed but refuses to show it. The harpoon will have its chance. He aims the welding gun at a point near the door lock and moves it in a circle around it. When he is about halfway finished, he notices a breeze. A bulkhead slams down behind them.

  “Vacuum mask,” he warns her, takes his mask off his belt, and puts it on. Murnaka does the same. Shortly afterward he manages to kick in the door. He has to hold on so that the air pressure won’t suck him inside.

  The room behind the door is large and empty. There are bunks along the walls. This might have been a sleeping area once. One can only survive here with a mask. His companion consults the map, but she doesn’t say anything. He follows her through two more doors. They have arrived in a room that must have been a kitchen. Cooking utensils are neatly arranged on a shelf. The stove looks freshly cleaned. Murnaka suddenly stops. He can barely avoid bumping into her from behind.

  “What’s up?” he asks. Then he realizes Murnaka cannot hear him due to the vacuum. Her right touch-arm points downward. Gronolf steps aside and sees what his companion tried to avoid. A Grosnop is lying on the ground. The male is holding a cutting tool in his hand. He must have been surprised by the pressure loss during his work.

  Another one of these ‘accidents,’ Gronolf thinks. How many of my comrades have been killed by the Omniscience so far?

  Murnaka hits the top of the table so hard that a dent appears in the middle, but he hears no sound. She raises her arm again, but he grabs it. If she keeps hitting the table she might injure herself. She looks at him. He notices the anger in her front eye, its lid trembling, yet she obviously is trying to suppress this emotion and replace it with something he interprets as gratitude. Gronolf is glad that he is unable to say anything right now.

  Murnaka points at a narrow door to the left. It won’t open. The air pressure behind it probably is still normal. Now they have to be careful. If they simply open the lock, the vacuum will spread to the neighboring room, and they would help the Omniscience in depopulating the ship.

  Gronolf turns around. The kitchen is not very large. He closes the door behind them and welds it shut for safety’s sake. Then he starts opening the door in front of them. Another bulkhead slams down in the distance. He notices it by the vibrations of the floor. The automatic system has noticed the loss in pressure. The kitchen is gradually filling with air. Gronolf watches his vacuum mask’s display. Soon he will be able to breathe normally again. Once the area is safe, it should be possible to open the bulkhead further ahead.

  Murnaka touches his hand and points at the dead male.

  “We have to leave him here,” he says. “Otherwise the Omniscience will notice that we are advancing.”

  “Don’t you think it noticed us cutting doors open? It already knows we’re coming.”

  She’s right. He picks up the corpse with all four of his arms. Due to the time spent in the vacuum, it has become very light. Murnaka steps aside so he can carry the dead into the adjacent room. There he discovers a bed. He places the corpse on the sleeping beam. One might think he simply fell asleep peacefully.

  “Control room. We have found a corpse. Please pick up in...” Murnaka looks at the map, “Sector 332.”

  “Confirmed.”

  Gronolf looks at his companion. She shows no signs of weakness. Nevertheless, he feels it is his duty to ask, “Should we take a break?”

  “Are you tired?” she asks him. “I am not.”

  “Then let’s go on.” He waits for her to get moving. Murnaka closes her right eye. She seems to be concentrating on what the sound button on her skin tells her. Then she walks away with rapid steps. Gronolf has to hurry so he won’t fall behind. She is really well-trained and in shape.

  Obviously, the learners have not grown soft. He could not chase his recruits through the corridors at this speed. However, Murnaka has longer legs because she is a female, so it is a bit easier for her. The halls and rooms they enter and leave seem deserted, though sometimes they encounter a technician or a soldier standing guard. The leadership has not given up the plan to keep the sectors habitable.

  The map either leads them around airless zones, or those particular zones are becoming rarer the closer they get to the center. This allows them to proceed swiftly.

  Gronolf allows himself some thoughts that have nothing to do with the room in front of him. What will the new world be like? The Space Scientists calculated that it should be habitable and offer water. It is for that reason his people risked everything and built the Majestic Draght as a colony ship. Old texts contain hints about a world with only one sun. Gronolf loved these stories as a child, but he was always aware these were only fairy tales. Now the fairy tales are coming true.

  Murnaka slows down after a while. Is she finally getting tired? wonders Gronolf. He winks at her, but she doesn’t react this time either. Instead, she places her load-hands on the pit of her stomach. This is a warning sign. What is she warning him about? Murnaka comes closer, so close that her typically-feminine scent enters his smell sensors. Gronolf would like to take a step back, but how would she interpret that?

  “The sector in front of us is secret,” she whispers. “So secret I did not even know about it until now.”

  “What is going on here?” He adjusts his voice level to hers.

  “My father described this to me before the launch. The leadership group has developed an alternative program to compensate for the accidents.”

  “How would this work?” Gronolf asks the question, but he already has an idea of what the answer will be, and he doesn’t like it at all.

  “J
ust like in the double sun system. Females lay eggs, males fertilize them.”

  He does not want to hear that. If it is true, it would represent an enormous breach of taboo. Eggs are only allowed to be laid by certain females on certain days, in the sand of an ocean beach. Any child knows that this rule serves to protect the double sun system against overpopulation. In ancient times it was different, but in a modern society, too many descendants in a plex survive.

  “They are not allowed to,” Gronolf says. “I now understand, why...” He stops in mid-sentence.

  “Why what?”

  “The leadership abandons our traditions in order not to endanger our cooperation with the Omniscience,” he says.

  “There is no other way.”

  “You really think so, Murnaka? Who are we to break with the traditions of our fathers?”

  “Space travelers. We are space travelers.”

  “So when we arrive at Single Sun, we will be different from what we were at launch.”

  “Yes, Gronolf, every day will change you and me. We will never again be what we are today.”

  “Oh, certainly not.” Gronolf can’t quite follow her argument. Giving up ancient traditions for a short-term advantage? It seems wrong to him. Yet it would be useless to reproach her. After all, she has to obey her father, just as he must obey his.

  “I am just asking you, Gronolf, to behave inconspicuously while we traverse this sector. Stay calm, no matter what you see. Will you promise?”

  “I am calmness personified.”

  The entrance to the area is blocked by a yellow double door. Murnaka enters her authentication code at the lock sensor. The system does not reply. He can see she is getting nervous, as her eyelids are trembling. So maybe she is not as cool and collected as she pretends to be. Murnaka repeats her code, but nothing happens this time either.

  “Is there a way around this zone?” Gronolf asks.