Peter ignored Ali’s rambling explanation. “And what’s our zero-point?”
“It’s different when you change all the factors. I won’t know ’til I collect more data. Our instruments are just coming online, so it’ll take time to recalibrate and figure out. Those nebula clouds out there are also messin’ big time with the sensor readings. I’m hoping we can correct that soon.”
Henrietta sat down, dejected.
Ali paused a moment and began scratching on his PAD. “Darn it!”
“What?” Peter asked.
“All that time I wasted. I just realized how stupid ….”
Peter looked confused.
“I’m so mad at myself!” Ali continued. “I spent all that time fixing the blue nav panel, then armscomp, and then the hangar. All for nothing! We wasted four days drifting in, when maybe I could have done something about our real problem when it mattered.”
“Ali,” Peter explained, “you didn’t know. Nobody knew.”
“But we were blind. You never fly like that; never.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Peter continued. Ali just stared ahead in silence.
“What will happen to us?” Henrietta asked.
Ali glanced at Peter for guidance. They both knew what was likely to occur, but was it wise to spread the bad news around?
Peter nodded.
Ali shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “Not really sure. One of three things: we either die of radiation poisoning if we keep drifting slowly; we burn up outright as we get closer; or—assuming we survive the heat—we get crushed to death when the ship implodes. I won’t know which will occur first until I take all my measurements.”
“Or, four: get the ship fixed,” Henrietta suggested stubbornly.
“As long as it’s not already too late,” Ali amended. “We gotta beat the zero-point.”
All three stared at the screen like they hoped the star would magically disappear. “Do we tell the others?” Henrietta asked.
It did not take Peter long to think it through. “Yes,” he said. “They’re crew. They have a right to know. You’d want to know if you were in their place, wouldn’t you?”
It took Henrietta far longer than Peter to think through her answer, “I’m not so sure ….”
The tears returned.
* * *
The popping grew louder until it could no longer be ignored. By day five it turned into a creaking … like metal plates shifting and flexing to an invisible force. It grew progressively worse as the noises began echoing across the ship, rippling from one end to the other. After awhile the terrible noises sounded like far-away jungle creatures crying out to each other. Henrietta said it reminded her of whales.
Ali glimpsed Jimmy sitting alone at a side table in the galley but did not want to admit that he was correct earlier about his fears. It turned out there was something wrong with the ship, and it took the children a day to realize the problem was real. We should have listened to Jimmy sooner, Ali realized. His age made us ignore him.
“I told you this would happen,” Stiles claimed.
“You predicted this?” Peter was obviously annoyed at Stiles for trying to take credit for the discovery. “Jimmy should be the one bragging. Where was I when you were so smart?” Peter cried.
“I told you we’d jump into a star. Just before you activated the FTL without any coordinates set.”
“So it’s that old argument again. We aren’t in a star,” Peter shot back.
“Yet. But the ship will buckle around us and crush us like bugs. And then—long after we’re dead—we’ll fall into a star.”
“Stop it, you two,” Henrietta exclaimed. “Just stop it.”
Peter ignored Henrietta’s pleas. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Peter yelled. He poked Stiles’ chest, trying to provoke him.
“Oh, yeah, I would. Just to prove you wrong,” Stiles replied. He planted his feet and squared his shoulders, ratcheting up the tension a notch. “Of course I wouldn’t! You think I’m crazy? I don’t have no death wish.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Henrietta said. “Stop fighting! Ali, what can we do? Suggest something.”
Ali was sitting alone at yet another far table, eating a small lunch and trying—unsuccessfully—to ignore the bickering. “The ship is still okay, but I’m not sure how much more he can take. Nothing structural has happened yet. He has an amazing ability to repair himself, even though he’s still not accepting commands. I think he’s in there, somewhere, monitoring himself; repairing what he needs to. I can’t believe how well the ship is fixing problems before they get serious. He’s just not talking, is all.”
“So do you think he’s listening to us?” Henrietta asked.
“Stupid …,” Ali began, but thought for a moment. He had no idea if anything like consciousness was in there waiting to come out, or if the ship were an empty shell. Could there be something there? Am I the stupid one? “Interesting idea. I wonder ….”
Ali rushed out of the galley and ran to the bridge.
The others followed.
“Hey, wait for me,” Jimmy called out, grabbing his sandwich before he left.
Ali threw himself into the com station. He opened all internal and external frequencies. “Ship, we’re in serious trouble here. If you can hear us, dim the lights.”
There was a momentary flicker of the overhead lights. It was hard to tell if they really dimmed, but it sure looked like it.
“Did you see that?” Ali asked excitedly.
“So he is there,” Henrietta cried triumphantly.
If the ship’s consciousness was truly there, they had a chance of waking him. If they could get the systems working again, they’d have a chance of breaking away. But Ali hated “ifs.”
“He responded! Remember how Lieutenant Wilkins talked about more complex organisms taking longer to mature? Maybe the ship takes longer to come back after a jump.”
“That won’t work, if that’s the case,” Stiles observed dryly. “A ship that is out of commission after each jump? Not very handy, if you ask me.”
Ali and his dad had discussed that very point early on in the design, and what Stiles said made sense. A ship that undependable would never be useful. Tactically, a captain needed to maneuver immediately after jump if enemy ships were nearby, so a sleeping ship would be a sitting duck.
“He’s still young,” Henrietta answered. The lights flickered again. “See? He agrees.”
“Oh come on—” Stiles began.
“No, she’s on to something,” Ali interrupted.
“It still does nothing for us if it can’t accept commands,” Stiles persisted.
Ali held up his hand for silence. Not being able to talk doesn’t mean he still can’t respond, he thought. “Ship, if you can hear us, turn on all engines.”
Nothing happened.
“See?” Stiles said. “We need to leave this hunk o’ junk. Get on the courier. C’mon; can you get that to work, Hamadi?”
“Yeah, I can bypass the command sequences for the unarmed shuttle. That would be a piece of cake now. But where do we go if we leave?”
“Anywhere,” Stiles answered. “Beats waiting to die here.”
“I dunno, Stiles. Leaving may be far worse,” Ali said.
“Why?”
“First off, the courier has much less radiation shielding. It could be lethal out there. In here, we have around twenty rem of extended radiation, which is not good, but not too terribly bad. At least the ship is still protecting us from that massive radiation source outside.”
“What’s a rem?” Jimmy asked.
“I forget what it stands for, but it measures radiation and its effects on the body.”
“W-what’s a lethal dose?” Jimmy asked.
“I can’t remember, exactly,” Ali replied. “See, there’s extended doses and prompt doses. Prompt ones are like a nuclear bomb going off, or something. My dad told me this once, but I think around five or six hundr
ed rems of a prompt dose means fifty percent of the population would die … something like that. With extended doses—that’s like the environment you live in—I think you get a one percent greater chance of developing cancer if the extended doses are fifty or sixty rems.”
“Like all of a sudden?” Jimmy asked.
“What, of cancer developing?”
Jimmy nodded silently.
“No; of it developing in thirty years, or some long time after we become adults.”
Jimmy looked a little more relieved. “So, twenty rems are safe,” Jimmy concluded hopefully.
“Nothing’s safe, Jimmy. You always want background radiation as small as you can.”
“What’s background on a planet?” Henrietta asked.
Ali shrugged. “Sorry, but I can’t remember. Probably not zero, though. Thing is though, the extended rem count has been slowly increasing as we get closer to that supergiant. The strength of the radiation is also important. Solar radiation, thankfully, is not as powerful as cosmic radiation, but it can still mutate your cells. I think what it comes down to is if your cells can replace themselves before the damage occurs, then you’re safe. But if the radiation doses continue to accumulate faster than your cells get replaced, you’re in trouble. Eventually, we may need to revert to the rad room.”
“So,” Henrietta guessed, “it’s more dangerous out there in a smaller ship with less shielding.”
“Yeah,” Ali replied. “But it’s not just the radiation. Also, it’s true the courier can fly, but the engines may not be powerful enough to break free. What happens if we get in the shuttle and it can’t move through the gravity field? We’d be trapped outside the ship and drifting into the star. We may need all the power we can squeeze from the ship’s six fusion plants; might be our only chance left of breaking free.”
“With engines that still aren’t working,” Stiles observed.
Like everything else that doesn’t work on this ship, Ali rationalized. He wished his father was here. He’d have it fixed in a minute. “True,” Ali admitted. “If we use the shuttle, we’re betting at real low odds it’ll be powerful enough to pull away. If we stay here, we’re betting the ship comes back to life in time.”
“If at all,” Stiles huffed. “Sounds like we lose either way.”
“I bet on the ship,” Henrietta suggested.
“Me too,” Jimmy agreed.
“Who asked you’re opinion?” Stiles replied angrily. “I volunteer to try the courier right now.”
“Stiles,” Ali said, “getting in that shuttle now might be like jumping in a river with too strong a current to swim out of. But if you want to try, by all means ….” Ali pointed to the galley hatch.
“Peter, Ali; how do you vote?” Henrietta asked.
Peter considered the options, not liking a single one. Not sure what to say, he looked at Henrietta for guidance. She raised an eyebrow hopefully. “Stay with the ship,” Peter offered meekly.
“Ali?” Henrietta persisted.
“Let’s assume we get him to work. How long will it take? I’m still not sure we’ll have enough power even then. I really don’t know.” Ali never sounded so conflicted in all the time they knew him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Henrietta said. “I also say we stay with the ship. That’s three votes. We win.”
* * *
Internal systems were slowly returning to the ship, but it was a frustrating process. After decades of development he was finally coming of age; that, he remembered. Buried deeply in the recesses of his semi-living memory bank, the ship recalled glimpses of his former life, but they were more akin to random access memory—there for the briefest moments, but erased once no further needed. It was like he knew he had something important to do, but for the life of him could not remember what the task was. And it was not only some arbitrary task he could not recall, but every action of his life.
He was not even sure exactly who he was. He remembered “being.” He remembered three friends: one named Hamadi, one named Campbell, and the other named Wilkins. Interestingly, though, he did not remember his own name. Who were those others? Were they coworkers of mine? Was one a lover … what was a “lover?” Am I a “he” or a “she?” He was so confused. In fact, he wasn’t even sure exactly what he was. And that terrified him even more.
The utter darkness did not help matters.
At first, he had no feeling. He had a tenuous thread of memory, like the spark of a porch light obediently left on for an absent owner, but that was all there was to life. That feeling lasted longer than he could remember. After a time, he recalled counting days. The days turned into weeks; then into months; they then grew into years. Then, he lost count. No, that wasn’t right; he lost the ability to count. It took him years to remember even the name of the first number, and was delighted when he remembered it: one. He cherished the word and the concept it represented.
He remembered having the most thrilling experience of his life, discovering things quicker than he could assimilate, quickly followed by the most intense pain he could imagine. Then everything turned black.
I must be dead, he thought. What else could it be? Was this what they called heaven? It seemed more like what was described as hell.
After a time—twenty lifetimes?—he simply gave up trying to puzzle out the meaning of life. Then out of nowhere he felt a hand reach in to connect one isolated thread to another. Bridges inside him were being built. He felt a piece of him “here” and another piece “there” with nothing yet in between. He still did not know who—or what—he was, but he could finally think of himself as more than just a disconnected thought. It now felt like he actually owned a body as senses started returning.
The euphoric feelings of “self” lasted but a brief moment when the pain returned. It felt like he was locked in a vise, slowly being crushed by an invisible hand. His front—he assumed it was his front—also felt awfully hot. He needed to expend all his efforts resisting those terrible forces rather than surrendering to them, losing progress in his drive toward self-awareness. Who was doing this to him, and why? He had no means of finding out. It became a simple matter of self preservation, reacting subconsciously without knowing why.
Recently—it seemed just a fraction of a second ago—he began hearing voices in his mind. Now I’m going insane, he rationalized. It’s finally happened.
He did not understand the words at first. Like recalling what “one” meant, he needed to map each syllable to a fading memory connected to an abstract object. On his own, he slowly began relearning language, like an infant hearing his mother’s voice for the first time. The voices asked him to do impossible things; things he had no idea how to do. He did not even understand what an “engine” was, let alone turning one on. Then someone asked him to try something simple. Sure, I think I can do that, he told himself. He flexed a muscle for a microsecond, and adjusted the level of lighting, whatever that was. The voices were happy. The feeling of accomplishment made him as proud as he could remember. He wanted to shout out in pure joy, if only he could remember how to talk.
* * *
“MRRRRRRRRRR-RRR ….”
The children covered their ears in unison as if an off-stage puppet-master was pulling their strings.
“What was that?” Jimmy moaned. “Is the ship collapsing?” Without waiting for an answer, Jimmy melted onto the deck and folded under a nearby console.
Peter looked around in confusion.
Ali ran to the engineering station and activated a panel. “No, the ship’s still in one piece,” he shouted. He swept his hands rapidly through the screen, gathering more data. His fingers wrapped around an icon showing conditions near the ship. Ali manipulated it until data appeared. “Nothing has changed outside—”
“ERRR-MRRRRR ….” The wailing filled the bridge again. “AWW … AWW … EEEE ….”
“It’s not the hull; it’s the ship himself,” Peter guessed. “He’s trying to tell us something.”
“You’r
e too loud!” Henrietta shouted. “We can’t understand you.”
The piercing noises stopped, but the ringing in the children’s ears continued.
“What do we do?” Stiles asked. “Is this thing haunted, or what?”
Henrietta scoffed. “No, it’s not haunted. It’s the ship, trying to talk—”
“In what language?” Stiles interrupted her.
“Beats me,” Henrietta replied.
This was monumental, Ali realized. If they could communicate with the ship they might have a chance. Somehow, they had to establish common ground. “Jimmy,” Ali said. “This is your job. What about that translator-thingy you’ve been messing with? You recognize what he’s trying to say?”
Jimmy remained silent, still hiding under the tactical console.
“Jimmy, it’s alright.” Henrietta reached down and calmly coaxed him out of his sanctuary like a scared kitten. “The ship is trying to talk to us. What’s it saying? Was it machine language?”
Jimmy took Henrietta’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. “I never heard anything like that before!” Gaining a little more confidence, he continued, “It sounded more like a baby babbling.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, “it did sort of sound like you.”
“Shut up!” Jimmy cried. “Just shut up!” Jimmy started stomping the deck like a petulant child.
“Make me!” Stiles shouted.
“I can’t,” Jimmy teased. “I’m not sitting on the toilet.”
He’s back now, Ali realized.
“Why you ….” Stiles rose out of his chair.
“Later, Stiles,” Peter cautioned. “We got bigger problems here.”
Stiles relented, but woodenly turned his body away from Jimmy, purposely choosing to ignore him. Another battle was left unsettled.
“Can you run it through that translator of yours?” Ali asked.
The language translator was a pet project of Jimmy’s for several years now. It occupied half his spare time and he carried it with him wherever he went. In appearance, it looked like any other PAD, but was programmed specifically to analyze verbal communication. It did an excellent job already with Colonial English, and a fair job with twenty other languages, as well as the newer Capital Standard.
“It’s not near ready,” Jimmy replied. He held the translator protectively, as though someone was preparing to steal it. “’Sides, there wasn’t enough syntax to correlate with. Without a big database, it has nothing to compare to.”