Chapter – 12
Schulz’s two degrees of madness. It was a common phrase in the convoy. When traveling through the expanse of space, every degree of directional change translates into hundreds of thousands of kilometres once a destination is reached. Mars can be seen in the distance, but somehow no one seems to know for sure if the convoy was on the right course. The convoy's main computer says it's travelling in the right direction, but Schulz and his people say differently.
Whether it was computer or human error, a minority of the fleet believed the convoy was drifting to disaster. That minority altered their course by a simple two degrees. Obviously the angle of change wasn’t always two degrees. It changed slowly over the years as the fleet got closer to Mars, but two was the average decided upon for the campaigns, rallies, and propaganda. Schulz proved himself a great leader back on Earth, but no sensible person would follow him over the fleet's supercomputer.
Whenever a ship changed course, mayhem often ensued. The convoy news stations filled the channels, politicians had their hands full with debates and criticisms, and as always, the departing ships struggled with infighting. It didn't matter which ship turned. There were always people aboard who resisted. Escape pods were launched, riots broke out, and sometimes entire ships were destroyed. To Robert’s memory, there hasn’t been a clean separation of ship from fleet since Schulz and his original separation.
Robert was a systems specialist, nothing more. He understood software, not hardware. Many would say the two went hand in hand, but that was the drawback of being a specialist. Robert relied entirely on other specialists to complete a job. A lower engineering deck was ten degrees Celsius hotter than it should be. A systems specialist could fix the problem if it had anything to do with computers. Damaged equipment, however, wasn't Robert’s field.
A ship’s crew was comparable to a set of tools. Each tool had its purpose, but nothing further. A nail couldn’t be driven into wood with a screwdriver. Robert felt like that screwdriver sometimes, determined, but ultimately useless.
When did a human being become a tool? When did a crew become a collection of drones?
Robert decided to visit the engineering deck with temperature troubles, seeing whether or not he could be of use. He climbed down a ladder until his feet met with the metal grated floor. He wore socks only, and the netlike grates made shifting his weight uncomfortable. The temperatures at this level were high. He began to sweat.
Robert was relieved to find the malfunctioning terminal so easily. It was difficult to find anything down here. All lights were a bright red, everything uniform in appearance. This part of the ship wasn’t commonly open to visitors. None of the usual mechanics were here today, however. Robert could work in peace.
His fingers moved with a trained speed, summoning the information he required from the panel. His eyes scanned the screen, then he pulled up more information. The data was correct, the systems flawless.
“Self,” Robert said aloud. The difference between a crew and drones was the perception of self. If a tool viewed itself, it could see no more than a tool. A drone viewing itself could only see part of a whole. A person viewing itself could see any number of things.
They could see a tool.
Robert Peters, systems specialist.
They could see a drone.
Robert Peters, crewmember.
They could see an individual.
Robert Peters, human refugee.
They could see any of these things. They only needed the courage to look.
__________
Robert couldn’t sleep. He tried, with no success. He couldn’t escape a burning question.
Who was he?
He knew his name, his rank, his opinions, but that wasn’t enough. As Robert was beginning to understand, he was on the verge of enlightenment. He had the chance to see himself, no bias, no flattery, no exaggeration. He could look at himself for the first time, but he couldn't do so lightly. Once seen, the face in the mirror couldn’t be unseen. He would be trapped with the knowledge forever.
Robert paced the length of his room again and again. He should have been asleep hours ago. Back and forth he went, occasionally shooting a glance towards the single mirror hanging innocently on the far wall. It watched him, threatening him with the understanding it held. He only had to say no, and it would never bother him again. He only had to say no, but he couldn’t. It was too rare a chance to throw away. Once thrown away, it couldn’t come back.
Maybe for truly great people, this wouldn’t be such a difficult decision. They might take this chance eagerly. Not Robert. He was terrified by what he might learn.
He forced himself to stop pacing, looking at his reflection from a distance. His ordinary face looked back at him. He tightened his fists and straightened himself. Taking a deep breath, he made his decision.
Robert marched forward. As his reflection grew larger, it became more terrifying. Resting his hands on the small table before the mirror, Robert met the mirror’s gaze.
“I want to know,” he said.
The mirror looked back indifferently, doing exactly what a mirror should, until the reflection nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. Robert could feel himself nodding, but it felt external. He was in control, but passively. To him, the reflection acted on its own.
“Few have the chance,” the mirror said in his voice. “Even fewer choose to take it. If you tell me that you’re sure, you will see what I have to show you.”
Robert considered this a moment, then met the mirror’s gaze again, his heart racing. “I’m sure.”
The image in the mirror nodded again. “Well then,” it said, narrowing its eyes, “see!”
Then Robert saw. The image facing his didn’t change, but Robert looked deeper, inside himself. Every memory, every action, every emotion was dragged from the shadows, kicking and screaming as each was forced into the light. It was like a dam collapsing inside you, every detail of you crashing into the open, laid bare.
At first the sensation was thrilling, even exciting, but it was soon replaced with a bitter sick feeling. Robert felt what he saw, his eyes passing from sight to sight. He saw himself…and he was disgusted. His face began expressing sorrow, then soon escalated to misery. More and more truth was dragged into the light, and the images became painful. He could feel the warmth of tears running down his face, and the expanded lump in his throat.
Still more came, and Robert began sobbing. He couldn’t take this. It had to stop.
“I’m done,” he blurted through his weak cries.
“No you’re not,” the mirror replied.
“I change my mind!” Robert shouted desperately. “I don’t want to see this!”
“You already made your decision. Now watch!”
“No!”
Robert pushed off the table, throwing himself to the floor. He buried his face in the thin carpet. What was made clear to him couldn’t be forgotten. He hadn’t seen everything, and didn't plan to look again.
“You’re a coward,” the mirror said distantly. It wasn’t insulting him, or belittling him. This was one of the things Robert had seen. Robert Peters was a coward, and he knew it better than anyone else could.
Robert Peters, coward.
Chapter – 13
Incoming message
Robert Peters:
This level is still far hotter than it should be. We are draining reactor power, and the few people I have refuse to work here for long periods of time. Did you make any headway on the issue?
~Carry Perch
Outgoing message
Carry Perch:
The issue isn’t a systems problem. There must be something wrong with the hardware. I would recommend recruiting Henry Miller, from mechanics, to have a look. It's his field after all. Good luck.