* * * First Entry * * *
Rewritten
“Where are they, Captain?” I whisper into the comms device pinned to my uniform. I’m hefting a Winchester M94 gauss rifle with an electronic scope, eyes and fingers at the ready.
“One level down. Maintenance Bay 3.”
The ship’s lights keep flashing distress red, distorting my vision. I’m trying to work my way down the corridor. Smoke appears to be pouring out a lot of the vents, and I can just barely see through with the enhanced lighting of my helmet visor.
“Are they moving?” My breath is ragged. Sweat is pouring down my brow like Niagara Falls.
“No, they’re all sitting around having tea, Private,” the Captain’s voice yells into my ear. “Of course they’re moving. I’m counting five.”
I could feel my stomach drop several feet at the Captain’s words. I’m about to face five, potentially armed rebels all alone with nothing but the rifle rattling in my shaking hands. I want to wake up from the nightmare I’m sleeping through. Surely my situation was breaking all sorts of army protocols; then again, I suppose that protocols have long since been thrown out of the reinforced windows.
Footsteps echo down the corridor as I whisper into the comms device. “Umm, Captain, I don’t suppose that I could get some back-up then? It’s just five…”
“Shut up, Private,” the Captain barks into my ear. “You know fully well that I can’t spare another man with the violence in the main hall and the hangars.”
Mumbling a few words of acknowledgment, I double my attention back to the smoky corridor in front of me. The thick glass that makes up the window beside me offers no comfort from my mission. Boundless, inky blackness stretches out as far as the eye can see. Occasionally, a gorgeous burning star or a rocky asteroid would break the emptiness of Deep Space that I’m drifting in. They no longer seem interesting. I feel a stab of resentment at the humans that have come before me; the humans who would have lost themselves in such a sight.
They had fled from their home stricken with pollution and disease and disappeared into the stars within the very metal marvel that I’m creeping through. High-powered telescopes had shown a second chance for humanity; a world of possible inhabitability hundreds of years away. The last humans boarded the generational ship knowing that while they would never see their new home, their descendants would. It was a tale to send the human spirit soaring.
Like every story though, I think bitterly as my steps echoes down the stairwell I’m in, there’s always a tragedy waiting nearby. Good-will and the giddiness of escaping Armageddon lasted for a century or two and then the Troubles began. The melting pot of humanity didn’t deliver a delicious harmony of earth but instead a horrid concoction of prejudices and hatred. Groups were formed. One side seized power. More wrapped themselves closely around the powerful. Others rebelled. The war began.
Fifty years later and here I stand, inching down a stairwell towards almost certain death due to some resentment that I don’t even understand. The people who work in the main hall or farm in the eco-room know little of the war. They think that it’s mostly a band of mischievous, yet largely misguided individuals fighting a battle for their own ideals. We never tell them about the sabotage, the terrorism and the killings. It’s better that way.
Whole swaths of the ship have been unreachable for the government for decades, but never has the main hall been attacked. It’s the home to so many innocents. Then a bug arrives with malicious intent within the ship’s main computers, originating from the maintenance bay that I’m slowly making my way to. Most of the army have been sent to quell the attack within the main hall. Some have rush to the hanger where the small, one-manned crafts are being sabotaged by another attack. All of which, left the unenviable and apparently honourable job of ensuring the security of the ship to me.
Pushing open a rusting door, I wander down another corridor. The smoke isn’t so bad here. I can see a hideously green number three standing at the end of the corridor and the grip on my gun double. It is still shaking like crazy. Taking a moment to consider my plan of action, I’m left with the dilemma that I’m positive most soldiers face in their lives. Hopelessly outnumbered, my greatest weapon is the element of surprise. However, I don’t know whether I’m capable of firing on someone without giving them a chance to defend themselves. It feels too much like murder.
I take several more steps forward, trying to control my heavy breathing before I catch sight of the first shadow. It is tall, commanding. I falter for a moment. Either my senses are tricking me or I’m facing a giant. My legs wobble and I feel my nerve slipping away from me, rushing back up the stairwell that is seductively calling me. For a moment I think that I’m actually going to do it; I’m going to become a deserter and live within the bowels of the ship, scavenging for food. And then the pain consumes every single thought.
***
“Have you seen all of it then?” a voice said, knocking Alfie’s off his line of thought like a land-tremor. “You must have.”
Looking up, Alfie found himself staring into the bluest of blue eyes. A woman was standing by his table, her smile wide and dazzling as she took the seat opposite him without invitation. No one else was in the cafeteria. The intimidating red walls were pristine and the chairs were neatly resting by the tables they had been sent to accompany throughout the day. Alfie supposed that the courthouse was so new that not even the lawyers knew about the cafeteria that hid within the corner; they had probably chosen far friendlier cafes within the town’s hub. He didn’t want to leave the court though, he didn’t want to the see that statue leering down at him.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Alfie said, shaking his head at the black-haired woman.
The woman’s smile didn’t falter as she leant forward, displaying her enticing cleavage as she pushed a cup of piping hot water-infusion drink across the table to him. “Can’t we just talk?”
“I don’t drink Warick herbs,” Alfie replied, sniffing at the cup in front of him before he pushed it away with his skinny, long arms. “I know who you are. Marian Oates, you run the Newsnet. I’m not giving you some sob story to post.”
“I’m not here as a journalist, I’m here as someone who studied history and law at the Academy. Come on, this is a groundbreaking case. A case that originated on the Genesis. A case that has been denied leave of the court for centuries. What’s the real story behind it? Why has it taken so long to come to the bench?”
“Firstly, it was too dangerous for my family to bring to light. Then it was said to be too sensitive. Then there were logistical problems about a major trial being held while a new planet was being colonised. And then my family simply forget about the case completely,” Alfie answered despite himself. He was always like this when someone questioned him about his family’s past. Always eager to try and exonerate his descendants from slurs and insults. The woman in front of him had no doubt researched him.
“Until you,” Marian said.
“Until me.”
“And the only reason explaining why, is my original question,” Marian smiled. “You’ve seen the whole thing, haven’t you?”
Glancing down at his shoes with his green eyes, Alfie wondered how it would look if he sprinted from the room. He instantly knew he was falling into a journalistic trap, but he felt cornered within the small, empty cafeteria. The trial would resume in only ten minutes. He couldn’t exactly run away from the woman. She would only find him again somewhere else. She would pick out his blonde hair from within the court room as the walls of history tumbled down.
“You don’t have to tell me what’s on there,” Marian said kindly, fluttering her eyelashes. “I’m going to find out soon enough anyway, aren’t I?”
“I suppose,” Alfie agreed.
Marian leant forward again, Alfie’s eyes slipping south for a moment before they snapped back up at the woman’s words. “All I really want to know, all anyone really wants to know, is why are you doing this? Why are you suing the government?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not going to get anything out of it,” Marian whispered, almost as if they were sharing a conspiracy. “Even if this proves everything you’re family has been saying, you won’t get any compensation. The republic government is a different state entirely to the colonialist parliament. And they were completely different from the government that resided on the Genesis. The government won’t be held liable for anything that happened on there.”
Looking deeply into the blue eyes of Marian, Alfie slumped back in his chair and glanced at the clock once more. “I just want people to know the truth.”
***
“You four, leave now.”
I awake with my temples throbbing, my helmet still firmly sitting upon my head. The Captain is muttering hurriedly in my ear but the words seem to join together in one indiscernible sound. A shadow is moving on the wall. Facing away from me are whirring machines, a computer of some sort. Crates are my classmates as I realise I’m propped up on some box of supplies, other similar squares all around me. A blurry figure moves in front of me and I can smell the stench of alcohol for the second time in my life. The rebels had captured our supply years ago.
“Can I assume that the good Captain is watching your every move through that fabulous helmet?” a gravelly voice asks, my eyes desperately trying to focus.
“Yes,” I wheeze, making out a sharp, bearded face in front of me. Unlike my bullet proof uniform, the man wears simple civilian clothing. There’s nothing civilian, though, about the two blast pistols that sit on either hip.
“Good, very good,” the man says, smiling down at me. “Open up the comms unit so I can have a little chat with him.”
My fingers rush to the device upon my uniform, fumbling with the buttons as I race to comply with my kidnapper’s order. If I don’t upset him then I might survive. I vaguely hear in the back of my head the Captain’s voice, screaming at me not to engage, but I’m not listening. I just want to live. The Captain can’t kill me. Well, he can’t right now.
“It’s done,” I blurt out, seeing a green light flash at the very bottom of my vision.
“You’ve done well,” the bearded man grins, patting my shoulder. I feel my stomach tighten. “Captain Rooke, I know you’ve always wanted to meet face-to-face. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but this is the best I can do. Please, be as expressive as you like since I can’t see your quivering face.”
“Let my man go, Weston,” the Captain’s voice floats out of the comms unit. “If you really want to meet then I’ll come to you, just let Private Pollock go.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I need you up on the bridge so you can fully understand what I’m saying. Anyway, it might be best if we have a witness to our conversation. Then again, it might not. We’ll decide that later; it depends on how you play your meagre hand.”
My blood runs cold; my eyes stinging as the sweat from my brow drips south. Weston Bor is the man standing in front of me, the leader of the rebels that are currently tearing through the ship, killing indiscriminately. To the civilians he is known as nothing more than someone with differing views on the governance of the Genesis. In the military, we know him better. He is a cold-hearted killer, a terrorist and nothing more. I want to scream out in anguish. I’m going to die. The monster in front of me is smiling as I realise he’ll be the last face I ever see.
“No, no, no,” Weston says, swinging around a chair to sit down in front of me. I’m missing parts of the conversation as my brain filter in and out of sheer terror. Too scared to be humiliated, I’m still dimly aware that I’m nothing more than a vessel; a communication device. “I’ll be the one doing the talking, Captain.”
“What do you want, Weston?” the Captain’s voice barks from my collar. Even now I’m gratified that he would be willing to risk his own life to save mine.
The rebel leader leers at me, or rather at Captain Rooke, as he draws out an electric cigarette from his pocket. “I want the same thing I’ve always wanted, Rooke. I want the same thing that all us rebels have wanted for decades: control of this ship and the end of military rule. Oh, I also want you to die. That’s a demand I’m adding on without the help of my predecessors.”
“I’ll cut right to the chase then and I’ll tell you to go to the deepest, coldest corner of space, Weston,” the Captain replies savagely. I silently beg him not to anger the rebel. The Captain isn’t the one sitting helplessly in front of the man with the gun.
“See, this is why you disappoint me, Captain,” Weston grins, unnerving me further. He makes a flourishing hand gesture, the e-cigarette between his fingers. “You never think out of the box. Deep space? Please, I deserve more. I deserve what you’re going to get. Death. Heartbreak. Infamy. I take it you’ve noticed the bug within your computer? That’s why you sent this dashing man down here?”
I’m breathing so heavily that I’m sure that the Captain must be struggling to hear Weston over me, his own voice cutting through my audible fear. “Yeah, we’ve spotted your little computer bug, Weston. And we’re already closing it down.”
“Good, yes, I so hoped you would waste your time with that little fly. It means you haven’t seen the giant spider creeping behind you,” Weston laughs, the chair scraping against the metal floor as he stands. “Let’s dispense with this game. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Rooke. You’re going to record a suicide note, detailing various crimes that your forces have committed. Don’t worry about the truth. Just make them as heinous as possible. And then, once you’ve done that; put a bullet in your head.”
That’s why Weston needs me, I think as he walks away to the computer panel on the other wall. He needs me as a bargaining chip, but surely the Captain would never let one life be worth so much. I feel a shudder past through me as I realise the sense of horror that must be working its way through the Captain. He’s becoming my executioner.
“Don’t worry about me,” the words rushing from my mouth before the rebel can stop me. “Don’t worry about me, Captain. Don’t let him talk you into it.”
“Oh,” Weston says, turning to face me. My heart drops several inches at the theatrical smile upon his face. “You’re think you’re here as some sort of blackmail? How cute. No, if that was how I’m backing up my threat then I would be embarrassing myself. No, Captain, please, remove everybody from the bridge. You’re going to want some privacy for your final moments.”
“Why would I do that?” the Captain asks.
“Because if you don’t, I will kill Dumbo here and then you won’t know what is happening as your entire ship falls apart and I kill everyone!” Weston yells, the spittle from his mouth nearly making its way across the entire length of the room. I recoil, my bounds becoming tighter, at the anger across his face.
Several seconds of silence crawl slowly pass me, my eyes flickering all around the room. I don’t expect to find anything to cut my bindings; however, perhaps the Captain might see something that can help him. I stare intensely at the computer panel for a second, giving him a moment to find any weakness about Weston before I turn my attention to the crates that are gather around me. Surely the Captain can think of something.
Apparently, there’s nothing in the room because I hear the Captain ordering the crew off the bridge. Weston’s smile is so wide now his ears are twitching. “Right, they’re gone,” the Captain mutters through the comms device.
“So, before I begin my magic trick,” Weston says, glancing back at me from the computer panel. “Can I assume that you’re not going to just grant me complete control of the ship by me just asking nicely?”
“Yes, let’s make that assumption,” the Captain replies.
Shaking his head like a father suffering from a severe bout of disappointment, Weston turns back to the computer panel and taps at the screen in front of him. “Well, I did offer you the chance.”
I make sure to watch the computer panel in front of me, trying to take in every detail for the Captain to see. Weston is furiously tapping at every corner of the multiple screens. He types something in a little box. The e-cigarette rises to his lips and he draws in a breath before tapping four different buttons in the bottom corner of the left-most monitor. He opens a file and then closes it as swiftly as the machine can cope with. There’s more typing and then another box appears within the middle, quickly confirming some unseen command.
“What the hell are you doing?” the Captain roars and my heart thunders inside my chest. “The screens; they’re all dying.”
“Are they? Hmm, is that any better?” Weston grins, turning back to face me. I feel helpless within my binds. I can’t make sense of the letters and numbers flashing before my eyes upon the computer panel.
Furious tapping noises come from the comms unit and then the unmistakable sound of a fist pounding a smooth, metal table. “Revelation? What? You think this is funny, Weston? You’ve shut down the entire system and replaced it with a bloody, stupid word. You’ll kill everyone if we can’t navigate.”
“Oh, I haven’t shut down the system,” Weston says. My skin crawls as he walks swiftly across the room, leaning down right over me. His face is near mine; his breath clouding my visor. “I’ve just locked you out of the Genesis’ system. I’m not too surprised you don’t get the joke though, I never really had you pegged as a religious scholar.”
“So what? You’re going to threaten me by locking me out of the system until I kill myself and hand you control of the ship?” the Captain asks, the growl of his voice almost animalistic. “We can break your little program, we can regain control.”
Weston pulls away from me, my vision clearing as the rebel wipes my visor with a flick of his sleeve. “Outside the box! Think outside the box, Rooke!” he yells, spinning on the spot. “I know you can break my little magic trick, but it’ll take time and I’ll tell you what; that’s something you don’t have a lot of.”
“The next asteroid field to avoid is a month away, that’s plenty of time.”
“No, you have about five minutes,” Weston retorts, walking back over to the computer panel. I watch, my hands shaking upon my knees as he begins to tap at the screens again. “Aren’t you a little suspicious why I’ve chosen to attack the hangers today? Why I’m destroying every short-manned craft on this hunk of junk?”
“So that I couldn’t afford to regiment of men to kill you?” the Captain suggests, laughter ringing out from Weston’s mouth.
“Partly, yes,” the rebel leader says, pressing a button that appears on the screen. “But also because I don’t want a single person to escape the choice that you make today. Now, if you look to your left then you’ll see every single escape pod currently floating away from this ship.”
The Captain swears loudly and I snap my neck to the left even though there’s not a single window in the room. The hairs on my back are standing up as I picture the small metal cylinders spiralling into space. Weston’s right. With the one-manned crafts damage and the escape pods jettison, no one can leave the ship. We’re completely trapped. I know now that Captain Rooke will fall upon his own sword and my throat constricts.
“You don’t have to do this, sir,” I breathe, hoping that the words won’t carry to my captor.
“Actually, he really does,” Weston laughs. “Otherwise, I’m going to shut down the cooling system. I’m going to overheat the engines. I’m going to destroy the farming controls. I might even lower the radiation shields.”
“You win,” a voice offers from my collar.
A bitter tear enters my mouth and I recognise that I’m crying. Salty rivers are forming on both of my cheeks. I’m just as helpless as the Captain; we’ve been beaten by a rag-tag group that hides in the shadowy bowels of the ship. Voices are drifting just out of reach from my ears as I stare with watery eyes at the computer in front of me. Maybe, just maybe, someone might come and rescue us but in my heart I can still hear the gunfire roaring miles away on another part of the ship. There is no one else.
“Why does Captain Rooke have to die?” I ask without thinking, the words escaping from between my lips. “He can just surrender. Give you the ship and offer you his support.”
“I have to die, Pollock,” the Captain replies before Weston can even open his mouth. “If I live then there’s a voice that can refute everything that this bastard says. I’m a massive liability if I live.”
“Also, if you die it’s just far more tragic and theatrical,” Weston adds, kneeling down in front of me. His eyes are staring straight into mine and yet I know it’s Captain Rooke he is taunting.
“I suppose so,” the Captain agrees before he begins to ask about what must be said in his suicide recording.
I don’t want to listen, but I find myself digesting every word. They lodge themselves in my throat as I try to swallow them down with the salty tears that are now flowing freely from my eyes. Somewhere, the sadistic part of me, points out this is the final proof that I’m not cut out to be a soldier. I should be facing the death of myself, my captain and my government with a stiff upper lip. Instead I am sobbing like a little child. I find myself longing that Weston will kill me before the Captain dies.
“Sssh,” Weston soothes, patting my shoulder once more. “Shush now, little one. You’ll want to hear this.”
Biting down on my lip, I hold back the sobbing and concentrate on my shaking hands. The Captain deserves someone to hear his final words aside from his murderer. I whisper words of comfort to my commanding officer and instead I find him comforting me, telling me that everything will be okay as I nod along to every syllable. At least he’s saving countless innocent lives; our deaths won’t be in vain.
“I, Captain Joem Rooke leave this recording as my final statement,” the Captain begins, a steady, even voice emanating from the comms unit. “As Captain of the Genesis and highest-ranking member of the Bridge Government I must hold myself responsible for the crimes of my forces. They have killed indiscriminately. We have mistreated our fellow shipmates, treating them like war criminals rather than the proud, righteous people they are. We share differences in how we should govern and we have seen that difference as a justification to treat them like vermin. I believe that a People’s Assembly should be called and all parties should be invited to form a new government.”
The Captain pushes steadfastly on and I swallow back the lump in my throat, letting every word sink into my mind. Then, without warning, my head splits open in a blinding pain. My sight turns white and a scream rises up my throat. In a single second of understanding, I know what the Captain is doing; I know what that brilliant, fantastic marvellous man is doing and then my head slumps forward and I hear a single gunshot ring out from the comms unit.
Somewhere Weston is towering over me, taunting me with his victory as a gun is floating in front of my face. I can barely contain my smile. He’s lost. As the bullet shatters my visor and pain floods through my body, I take solace that everyone will know how much of a monster he is. I don’t know when you’ll watch this or who you’ll be, but all I can ask is that Captain Joem Rooke is treated like the hero he was.
***
Silence reigned in the court room as the wall flickered black, static filling the air before it turned back to the warm, mahogany colour that it had been painted in. Sitting in the witness box, Alfie risked a look at the crowd that has crammed themselves within the viewing balcony. Marian’s hand covered her agape mouth, repulsion and shock etched across her face. The government’s lawyer had visibly paled. The judge looked sick. For the first time, Alfie thought with a grim sense of satisfaction, everyone knew the truth.
“May I ask,” the judge croaked, his voice breaking. “How that recording came into being? I found in the pre-trial hearing that independent observers have proved that the memory has not been tampered with, but it has still not been revealed how this recording exists.”
“The soldiers of the Genesis, before the fall of the Bridge Government,” Alfie began, his own voice shaking under the weight of his emotion. “They all received memory chips that recorded to a hard-drive every second of their lives. It filed sights, smells, tastes and even thoughts. It was used to ensure that there was never any misconduct by the men who had sworn to protect the Genesis. Captain Joem Rooke, my ancestor, used his final moments to make a copy of Private Edgar Pollock’s last memories. That copy was sent to Joem’s wife with an order to keep it hidden until it was safe to reveal to the ship at large.”
The judge nodded, scribbling at the electronic pad in front of him before he turned to face Alfie once more. “And before you leave the stand do you have any final statements to make?”
“Outside this very courtroom there’s a statue of President Weston Bor, the man who threatened to wipe out the human race to further his own means. In schools across this planet, and soon to be others, boys and girls will be taught about how the villainous Captain Rooke tried to squash a valiant rebellion and then committed suicide once he had failed. All I ask, all I need, is for history to be rewritten.”
* * * Second Entry * * *
To Sleep Perchance to Dream
whitespace“Where are they captain?” I whisper into the comms device pinned to my uniform. I’m hefting a Winchester M94 gauss rifle with an electronic scope, eyes and fingers whitespaceat the ready.
whitespace“One level down. Maintenance Bay 3.”
whitespaceThe ship’s lights keep flashing distress red, distorting my vision. I’m trying to work my way down the corridor. Smoke appears to be pouring out a lot of the vents, and whitespaceI can just barely see through with the enhanced lighting of my helmet visor.
whitespace“Are they moving?” My breath is ragged. Sweat is pouring down my brow like Niagara Falls.I feel myself nodding off as the soldier relays his story. To him, this is a nightmare he’s been reliving again and again. To me, it’s the same story I’ve heard repeated a thousand times from the pensive mouths of those laying on my couch. We have the technology to fight wars with mechs yet we still send men like him into the grinder every day. Even when they come back physically whole their mind is shattered. They don’t get all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Nope, they get a burnt-out military psychiatrist who stopped seeing them as people about ten years back. They get me and a military pension.
“Stay calm. Remember, you’re safe here”
whitespaceThe push comes from behind. At first it reminds me of a warm breeze, like the one I felt on Sunset Beach when we were vacationing a few months earlier. Only this whitespaceone doesn’t smell like salt and tropical flowers. It has a sweet smell, yes, but it also smells charred, like something is burning. The smell fills my nostrils and I don’t whitespacerealize where I’ve experienced it before until the roar of the explosion reaches my ears.
whitespaceIt comes to me too late. The force pushes me through the corridor and I’m sent tumbling in a mass of bodies, smoke and debris. I look down as it’s happening and I whitespacesee…I see. The pain, Oh God The Pain!“Breathe. I want you to take deep breaths now. Feel the cool air on your skin.” I wonder if I sound as bored as I am. This poor schmuck will be half a man for the rest of his life. He deserves better than my half-hearted platitudes.
His breathing has slowed but I can tell he has gone far enough for the day. “Alright Kevin, I’m going to count down from three. As I count you will slowly wake up. When I reach one, you will open your eyes and be back, safe, on my couch. Are you ready?”
whitespace“Yes”“Three, the heat is leaving your body. The air is cool and still. Two, you are leaving the ship now. You are above it and though you know what has taken place, you also know it cannot hurt you here. One, you open your eyes and are back with me, safe.” The soldier opens his eyes and looks at me calmly. He sits up and swings his broken body back into his chair.
“How’d I do, Doc? Am I getting better?”
I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently. “You’ll get there, soldier. Good work today.” My mind is already on the next appointment, a quick psych eval for a new test pilot. I’ve forgotten Kevin’s screams as the door swooshes shut behind him.
I walk to my desk and push the intercom button. “Alright, Jane, send the next
victim in.” I’m only half-joking.
The door swooshes again and I raise my eyes to apprise my next patient. She walks in with all the determination of a charging bull, the flare in her eyes matches her stride. There’s more life pulsing in one strand of her curly black hair than in any broken shell that has walked through my door in years. I want her instantly.
We are a glorious mess of limbs and sweat before the hour is done. My fingers press into her soft skin as she rides over me, gasping in pleasure. Her skin is flushed, her body taut, as I press into her again and again. I relish her taste, her smell, her feel, but even more I relish the fire she has lit within me. My body feels alive and desperate to cling to that feeling for as long as possible.
She gives me a smile as she leaves my office and I give her a satisfactory review on the psych eval. I don’t expect to see her again. Neither of us is looking for a relationship because we know where it will lead. Some loves are meant to burn hot and fast, defying gravity and propelling you out of the atmosphere until you are left cold and spent, orbiting your old life in a claustrophobic shell of your former self. No, better to hit the ejection seat and float back to Earth than to burn up on reentry.
Sometimes, however, life has other plans. With her mission scrubbed, Lena is assigned to test runs on the local base. We keep seeing each other whenever we get a chance. Both of us agree this isn’t going anywhere. She can be reassigned at any moment and I am much too old for her at any rate. We carry on that way for years until one day we wake up and we have house, a son, a life together, and no idea how it happened.
I’m sitting on our couch, watching the news and musing over this very thing when the anchor utters the eight words that will finally blast her away from me. “…first deep space manned mission has been approved…” She will go; it’s all she’s ever wanted. I wrap my arms around our son Daniel and kiss the top of his head.
I’m holding him just like that as we watch her launch towards Earth Orbiter. It will be another month before the mission is ready to go. We talk to her every night on the vid that has been installed in our home. It is a long goodbye and it is hardest on Daniel. Somewhere inside, I know I’ve been saying goodbye since we first met. Like I’ve always known that my old bones wouldn’t be enough to cage her. When Daniel was born I had thought for awhile hat she would stay, but then I’d catch her looking at the stars and I was reminded that it’s only a matter of time.
She explains the process to our son again. She will be in a deep sleep as she travels. So deep, in fact, that she will stop aging. He will grow up and be an old man like me before he sees her again. He doesn’t understand it now but I know he will someday. For now I hold him tight and whisper soothing words into his ears. Inwardly I wonder if heartache is worse than war and hope my son will recover better than I.
For the next ten years we receive weekly reports from Systems Admin at headquarters. Daniel, who is built like his mother but has a mind much like mine, has decided to go to college. He checks in less and less frequently. I have retired and begun researching a new genetic modification program being offered by the best military scientists. One of the benefits they claim is an extended life span. That is all the excuse I need to sign up.
After another five years I am a first generation Cygen. Implants now allow me to correlate information in new ways. May brain is abuzz with new ideas and my body feels younger and stronger than it ever has. I can do and see things that were impossible before and I know that I am the first step in new human evolution. But as the program is rolled out to the public, the backlash is much stronger than even this old psychiatrist could predict. The world is soon divided into haves and have-nots with Genetic Purists on one side and Cygens on the other.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Fear is always hiding in the shadow of hatred. The Purists fear us because we represent their obsolescence. They drape that hatred in a shroud of concern for the purity of humanity. There are more of them than there are of us. We lose and soon I am required to identify as Cygen everywhere I go. I have been given a longer life and the price is my freedom. I look at the sky and know I made the right choice.
It’s at night that I miss her most. Even after fifteen years, her fragrance lingers on our pillows, her laughter echoes through our halls. I see the ghost of her at the dinner table and rocking in the swing set that lies vacant in the backyard. The weekly reports become a grim reminder that she has left me in a maze of memories, a museum to her. Mentally I damn my decision to prolong my imprisonment in this body. Yet the torture is bittersweet, for even now I feel more alive than I did before she walked in that door. I breathe in her flowers, and close my eyes.
When I sleep, I feel my mind reach out to her. I break the bonds of gravity and float up through the atmosphere, up past the Orbiter, and out into the black beyond. I am searching for her there in the endless void. I travel a well-known route, slipping past Mars, and winking at Jupiter. I travel until our sun is a distant star, until our galaxy is a swirl of light dancing in the dark. I travel until I hear her dreams and then follow them like an ant on a sugar trail. In my dreams her mind is my secret pleasure and I rest with her there in the darkness.
But on this night my dreams are haunted by the wail of sirens and a shot of adrenaline. I feel her wake up in shock. A helmet is being pressed on her head and she breathes in panicked gasps until her body accepts its new reality. Her warm sleep is now a cold and broken ship. Seven of her crew have died and the ship’s computer is blaring directions. I wake up bathed in sweat and fearing for her for the very first time.
At first I think that these new dreams are just the worries of an old man. My body may have ceased to age but I grow older and older every year inside. The world moves faster and I feel I am falling out of synch. Analytically, I know that she is drifting in deep space so far from contact that no one could possibly know what is happening aboard her ship. But I know it. Every fiber of my being screams at me and begs me to pay attention. I push my worry down until I receive the weekly report three days later. It is a short, computer generated report that says only: Damage to forward hull. Seven pods destroyed. Crew has begun repairs.
My hands shake as I read the report. They are still shaking when my son pops on screen a few minutes later. “Dad? Did you see that? Is she alright?” He sees my hands and the mixture of confusion and horror on my face. “Dad?” I say nothing, trying to process what has happened. It doesn’t seem possible. My dreams, are they real? “I’ll be there tonight,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone before the vid winks out.
I’ve regained my composure by the time Daniel arrives. He finds me drinking tea on the back porch, watching the sun settle into the hills. I’m not sure what to tell him but he goes straight for it and my weary soul has no time for tact. “Dad, what do you know? Is she…is she dead?”
I wrap my arms around him like old times only now his shoulders rest higher than mine and they’re so wide my fingers can barely wrap around. “No son, she’s alright.”
“The report only said…”
“I know what the report said. She’s alright.” I can almost hear his mind working, trying to discern whether I’m speaking from facts or emotions.
“Dad, I…”
So I tell him. I tell him all of it and he looks at me the way kind people look at those whose minds have left them. He thinks I am old, broken, or crazy. He thinks I don’t know and I don’t blame him. He is kind when he leaves. We hug and he says he will call soon, but there is a new worry to his voice. I know that tone. In his mind I have just become a burden, a debt coming due. Though I know he is incorrect, my son faces his new knowledge bravely and I love him for it.
I visit her often over the next week and watch their progress. The ship is repaired and the remaining crew hold a funeral for those who were lost in the accident. I watch her face as she mourns her crewmates and then I slip out into space with the fallen, following their new voyage into the unknown. I wonder if their dead can see now as I do and, if so, do they know I am there?
A day before the next report is due I send my son a quick message:
The report will say the ship is repaired. A funeral has been held. The mission remains on target. I get home the following day and I have a response waiting for me. It says only:
I am coming. I don’t need to read the report to know I was right and my son is intrigued.
He arrives the following day and things are much different from the way we left them. Daniel no longer looks at me like a new responsibility. Instead, his eyes sparkle at the hint of some new discovery. He breaks out his pad and pulls up the books he has read on the way over. “I want to test this,” he says, “but Dad, if this is what I think it is you’ve just changed everything!”
We spend the next month observing. I observe Lena and my son observes me. He takes copious notes about my vitals and records all the information I tell him. We observe the correlation between the info I give him and the reports we receive. Soon we both agree we have enough to inform the powers that be.
I use my old contacts and score a meeting with the new brass at HQ. Walking in, I can tell immediately that this will be a tough meeting. The old general in the center is eyeing my implants and his face has “Purist” written all over it. I press on and tell them everything. I explain what I’ve seen and what I know. My son gives them the data we’ve recorded and explains what they have. They listen as they have agreed to do, thank us in a perfunctory manner, and then escort us quickly out of the room.
For weeks I think our work is all for naught. We hear nothing from the brass. I continue to visit Lena and begin travelling beyond her ship. I pick random points of light and travel towards them like a young couple turning on a country road, ready to find what the world will show them. I see worlds like our own circling stars so distant that their light isn’t even a glimmer in our night sky. I see vast, murky nebulas and pulsing quasars. But mostly, I see the void.
Leaping from world to world, light to light, I learn quickly how small we are. The abyss that stretches between worlds seems a pond for a bigger fish. This minnow starts to wonder what is lurking in the dark. I swim further than before and start searching for a nameless truth. It is only when I silence my own mind and stop seeking specific points in the void that I hear it.
The song, if it can be called a song, pulses through space in low even waves. It is a ripple in a pond so large that its affect is barely perceptible. It’s only as I follow ripples toward their origin that the song begins to fill me. At first it is just a whisper of something new but as I begin to follow it my mind is filled images of things that have been and things that will be. I see beings and worlds unknown to me (even from my travels) bloom into being and whither on the vine. I see galaxies as brief sparks of light, planets as dust particles floating in the sunlight.
And still I follow the song for its lure is now too strong for this tiny fish. The song is a whir of creation and death, an embrace of the horrid and the sublime. It reels me further and further into the black until at last I glimpse the face of the singer himself. It is an old face, a face of weary chaos. The sound as I approach it reaches through my consciousness and plucks the strings of my being until even my physical body hums in response. I look upon the ancient one and see that his eyes are closed. Realizing in that moment that his terrible song is a dream, I tremble at the thought of such a thing awakening upon the universe.
The song is overwhelming my senses and I pull my consciousness back for fear of being lost in its beautiful nightmare. The journey is long and for awhile I fear I have drifted too far from safe waters. I surf the wave of the being’s song in the hopes it will push me homeward. My soul rides through what feels like an endless sea and I begin to despair that I shall never again feel the ground beneath my feet.
But then I see her. Our galaxy shines, a well kept lighthouse welcoming me in the darkness. I race back into her arms pausing only briefly to verify that my Lena is still safe upon her own journey. Pulling my consciousness back from the black I watch our planet become large in my vision. I realize then that we are too small to see the universe any other way. If our souls do not escape our bodies, we will be doomed to see the universe with only our eyes.
I awake to find Daniel standing over me. I am no longer in my home. Machines twitter in the background, responding to my brainwaves, pulse, breathing, and all manner of vitals. He sees me open my eyes and I watch the relief wash over him. “Dad!? Are you alright?” I try to sit up and find my body is too weak to move. I try to speak and find a tube has been pushed down my throat.
It is a week before I am well enough to go home but in that time so much has changed. Once I am able to speak I tell my son and the doctors everything. The brass sends special ops the next day and I am ordered to stop speaking to any non-authorized personnel. My medical care is paid for and I am told to expect a visit once I am on my feet.
They waste no time. My son and I are hardly in the door when a black vehicle pulls in front of the house. A man I recognize only from news reports steps out and confidently approaches my home. He does not knock. He walks directly into the living room and takes a seat in the chair opposite me.
“Mr. Voceft, I have read your files and determined that your discovery is of the utmost importance to the continued safety of our race.” He sits perched in the chair, trying to keep as much of his body off the fabric as possible. “You, sir, have been taken out of retirement and reassigned.” He hands me a small envelope and waits as I open and read it.
Once I’m done I look up at him; so many questions fill my eyes. He stands and I do the same. We shake hands as he says, “Welcome to the Remote Exploration Division. I expect your work on Astral/Neural Travel to begin as soon as you are well. You will be given all the resources you need.” He leaves without another word.
Daniel and I remain standing in the house, looking in disbelief at one another. “It was the screaming that first tipped them off,” he says. “The things you described…they said no one but those with the highest clearance is even aware of such things.” He runs his hand through his hair in worry. “Dad, what do you think they’re going to do?”
I think of Lena, locked in her bubble, pushing through space and missing the message of the journey. “They’re going to study me, son. I will most likely die.” Strangely, I am at peace with the thought. Somewhere inside I know that a new chapter of humanity has begun and that long after my death the name of Ralph Voceft shall live on.
* * * Third Entry * * *
Immediate Danger
“Where are they captain?” I whisper into the comms device pinned to my uniform. I’m hefting a Winchester M94 gauss rifle with an electronic scope, eyes and fingers at the ready.
“One level down. Maintenance Bay 3.”
The ship’s lights keep flashing distress red, distorting my vision. I’m trying to work my way down the corridor. Smoke appears to be pouring out a lot of the vents, and I can just barely see through with the enhanced lighting of my helmet visor.
“Are they moving?” My breath is ragged. Sweat is pouring down my brow like Niagara Falls.
“Negative.” She says.
“What’s with this heat, Captain?” I ask, “Lotta smoke in here.”
“Smoke or steam?” She sounds unconcerned, maybe even a little impatient. “I’m dropping the ambient temperature in the M-Bay 3. I’ve rerouted the ventilation ducts from the exchangers through the access corridor, bring it down more quickly. Steam is to be expected”
I grunt affirmation and wipe condensation from my visor. “Right, steam.”
“Good, that’s normal. Let me know if the flashers turn solid,” she says. “I’ve overridden maintenance protocols to freeze ‘em out down below. The system is protesting.”
I glance up at a light above my head, still flashing orange-red, casting strange shadows among the pipes and grating of the catwalk.
“If those stop flashing you let me know, soldier. Otherwise, keep moving.”
I take another step toward the lift, then another, wiping the dripping steam from my vision about every third. I’d just lift the visor if I wasn’t so sure I’d catch a blast in the face as soon as I did. I whisper again into the comm checking in with the rest of the team. Their call-numbers came back; “232Alpha, 657Peter, 435Tango.”
“Hot as hell down her, Whiskey.” That’s me. 808Whiskey.
“Take it up with the Captain, Tango.” That guy is always whining. Hell of a soldier, loves to complain. “Captain,” I buzz her again, “What’s up with guy down below? What should we expect?”
Nothing worse than an impromptu bug-hunt. Doesn’t happen often, but often enough that a guy learns to ask questions whenever he can fit ‘em in. Most of the time we get a real briefing and everything; but every so often someone up in command gets a wild hare and next thing you know you’ve got a pile of sons and husbands and brothers risking their lives digging through some dusty old nest on some bass-ackward no-name planet for some random thing or another that somebody with a clipboard decided was worth our time.
Admittedly, sometimes it was. But that doesn’t make it any easier to pull your tired ass down a boiling-ass, derelict causeway on an hour of sleep.
Shoulder strap is digging into my collar bone. I adjust my hold my rifle listening for the Captain’s reply. She’s not talkin’. Women.
Wouldn’t be so bad if there were a few of them, at least, crawling around down here with us. But ever since the New Doctrine passed in 2348, women in Service have been relegated to command positions only. Apparently they’ve been classified as “more civilized,” a “higher class of human” less prone to “violent acts of machismo.” Basically, one of the Matriarchs decided that ladies in command are less likely to get people killed.
We’ve all got opinions on that.
“His name is Simon Cooper,” I shut off my mind-bitching as she starts talking. Probably only get to hear it once. “He’s a counter intelligence agent believed to have gone rogue. We’ve reason to believe he’s established a meeting with a contact right below you, right now.”
“That it?” Tired was making me cranky. Agent or not, going independent wasn’t a crime in itself. There are dozens, hundreds of men and women just like the Cooper character, making a living as informants and agents and double-agents and double-double-agents. Lots of ‘em were ex-Service. Shit, lots of ‘em were current-Service. There had to be more to this guy.
My thumb mashes the button on the lift as I keep digging. “Seriously? A rogue agent? That’s what you got my whole team out of bed for?”
She was ignoring me know. I could almost see her staring at the ceiling pretending not to hear me. I’ll try it with a bit more testosterone, “Captain! I’ve got three other men down here, sweating their balls off with no idea what we’re walking in to. You need to tell us. Who is this guy?”
“That’s privileged information, Whiskey.” There’s tension in here voice.
I’d try another avenue, “What’s he done? Why are we down here?”
“He knows what he’s done, and that’s enough for you.” Her temper was up now. Guessing she didn’t get a whole lot of sleep either. “Your job is not to ask questions. You and your
boys,” there was vitriol in the word, “follow orders.”
The lift is sliding into place before me, the noise covering over the mumbled invectives of Peter, Alpha, and Tango. I feel myself smile involuntarily; those guys can be hilarious.
Her comm channel clicks back on, I don’t remember it clicking off. “All you need to know is he’s a civilian and a Citizen. Watch your step, watch your language, and try not to hurt him while apprehending him.”
“What about his contact?” I step into the lift, and lower the safety bar.
“Unknown.” Terse. “She makes any sudden moves, shoot her.”
Unknown, huh? I started doubting that as soon as she said it.
“What does she mean, ‘she?’” A’s voice chimes into my ear.
“Can it, Alpha. Let’s try to be professional here.” I, too, am hilarious. “Everyone at your station?”
“Check.”
“Check.”
“Roger.” Asshole.
“M-Bay 3, on my mark.” My thumb hove over the lift key. “Mark.” I press it and the lift jerks into motion, crawling belabored into the depths below. It wasn’t fast. In fact, calling it slow would have been giving it undue credit. It robbed this whole operation of drama.
Damned thing made more racket than a freight train hauling a load of wind chimes. If it weren’t for the fact that we had all the service exits covered, I think this Cooper guy would have beat feet outta here a long time ago. He had to know we were coming, “Captain.”
“I hear you, Whiskey.” She took her time responding.
“Cooper. He likely to be armed?” Seems like a reasonable question; let’s see if it draws a reasonable answer.
“Not likely.” I wasn’t what was chillier. The slow descent into the Maintenance Bay, or her tone.
“Motion scan show any movement?”
“Two. Humanoid. Central sector of the bay.” Her voice lowered noticeably, “They’re sticking pretty close together.”
“Copy that.” The lift shudders to a stop beneath me. I raise my rifle to my shoulder, “Alright Dogs, you heard the Captain, move in.” I started forward motion, “Two targets, humanoid, central sector. Unlikely to be armed, apprehend both if possible . . .”
“And shoot the woman if she tries anything; we heard, Whiskey. Let’s get this over with.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. One thing about Tango’s whining was that he tended to echo the tiny little boy voice inside us all. The one that had better things to do than whatever this bullshit was. The one that got hungry, thirsty, scared, horny; Tango in his own way, spoke for the group more often than I think any of us realized. And sometimes I wanted to punch that guy.
“Freeze!” I heard Alpha shout, using his soldier’s voice. “This is a secured area, place your hands behind . . .” I’d heard the spiel before and tuned it out.
I did a quick turn around a corner; gun raised, and came face to face with our target. He was a small, moon-faced man, with a narrow chin and a broad nose. He was huddled wrapped in a blanket or jacket or something with person, female. Both of them sat motionless, abject terror written across their faces at so suddenly coming face to face with armed soldiers. They didn’t look like nefarious criminals. “Check ‘em for weapons.” I motioned with the barrel of my rifle.
Tango took the blanket by an edge and yanked it free with a flourish. Beneath was exactly what you’d expect. The man and woman wrapped about one another she’s half in his lap. His pants are unbuttoned; his hand is up under her shirt.
The look on her face is telling me exactly how frightened he is. I’d be willing to bet he had a white-knuckled death grip on second base and she was on the verge of shrieking. I think only Peter’s pistol in her face was holding it in. He had that, “Make one wrong move.” Look in his eye.
Peter has issues.
I was trying my damnedest to stifle laughter and brought the Captain back online, “Captain. We got ‘em. I guess.”
“Oh, shit, he pissed himself.” Alpha was laughing. Sure enough, a steady stream of urine was coursing its way down her goose-pimpled leg. She wanted to push him away so bad; she also wanted just as badly not to be shot in the face.
“Patch me in, Whiskey.” The Captain commands me, “Give me visual and audio. I want to see him; I want to speak with him.”
I did.
“Simon, you son of a bitch!” the Captain’s voice bellowed out of the tiny speaker on my comm. Tango let himself go, exploding into fits of laughter nearly dropping his gun. Alpha wasn’t doing much better. “Her?!” The Captain continued.
“Sheila?” Cooper stuttered, unsure if he was safe to talk or not. Probably not, but we weren’t the immediate danger anymore.
Peter relaxed and holstered his weapon, shaking his head dismissively. He turned his back on the whole affair. Musta clicked for him, too.
Tango was still laughing breathlessly, “Oh, man,” he was gasping for air, “Now I’m gonna piss myself.”
I unclipped my comm and set it on a nearby pallet. Somewhere the Captain could still see her wayward spouse. The non-stop stream of profanity and rage never let up for a second as I reseated her vantage point.
Captain Sheila Cooper, decorated leader, respected, office, roused four trained killers to scare the piss out of her cheating husband. Mission accomplished. Lowering my weapon I patted the poor bastard on the shoulder reciting the old saw, “Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned.”
Peter was standing motionless as I approached. He was just looking straight ahead with tired eyes, “I’m going back to bed.”
