by Scott Rhine
“Indeed.” The man replied. “I was impressed by your words on your homeworld. Your faith made me reconsider my own life in a new light. Now I see that you have lost your own way and I am troubled. I told you that life in the Fleet would be hard on you but to despair so soon? What has happened?”
“I don’t wish to trouble you, sir. I understand that I am not fulfilling my obligations and will accept it if you need to remove me from the ship’s crew.” Omar spoke the words listlessly, his eyes firmly on the floor.
“God damn it man!” Nasi banged his fist on his table, causing Omar to raise his head and look at the officer. “Wake up! I’m trying to help you here. Now tell me what’s troubling you. That’s an order.”
Omar tried to hold firm but the emotion in the other man’s voice forced a crack into the isolation he had built up. As he opened his mouth to attempt a reply the walls came crashing down around him. In tears, he rattled out his story in pieces and fragments. Nasi listened carefully to everything, not interrupting. Though Omar rambled for most of an hour the XO did not allow any interruptions to distract him. When words finally failed Omar and he resorted to a near silent weeping, Nasi rose and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Well, all right then. That’s something we can work with. Are you feeling a bit better?” Omar was surprised to find that he was. He nodded.
“Good. Let me break it down for you the way I see it. Your life was shit. You met a girl and decided to change it. Things were going well and then the girl rejected you. That doesn’t mean the story is over. My first wife told me when we met that our relationship was doomed to failure. It took thirty years of marriage for her instincts to be proven right but that’s not the point. You have a chance at a great future with the Fleet. You’re smart, damned smart. I have the data to back that up by the way. Your mind has adapted to the teaching chamber more rapidly than almost anyone in Fleet history. Your brain has far more adaptability than a man your age should have. Use that talent. In a year’s time you’ll be better educated than half the crew on this monstrosity and ninety percent of the rest of the Fleet.
“Oh, and if you decide to chase after Colonel Kharzin, do so with gusto. Fight for her with all your heart and don’t give up for anything. You quoted a poet to me once so I’ll return the favor with one of my own.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
rage, rage against the dying of the light!”
Omar felt the man’s emotions as though they were his own and was lifted up by them. He could see the strength that had made this man the second in command of a ship with a crew of hundreds. It was the same will he had seen in Veronika which had made him so envious, made him wish for such strength to be his own.
Omar stood and faced Nasi, squaring his shoulders. He saluted the man, not for his rank but for the fierce spirit behind it, driving it. Nasi smiled and returned the salute. Omar left the room feeling both drained and somewhat elated. Though the fringes of his despair remained with him, Omar resolved to turn his back on them and strive toward something greater.
As it turned out, turning his back on despair was easier said than done. Though he was able to stay ahead of depression for a few days by keeping busy, he soon found himself falling back into the pattern of self destructive thoughts. This time, however, he saw where the path was leading him and found help.
He discovered his feelings of isolation were less unique than he had thought. The men and women who joined the Fleet had all left behind lives of one sort or another. A quick query on the network put him in touch with a doctor who specialized in helping people adapt to life aboard the transient ships.
Omar wanted to argue with the doctor who prescribed gene treatments to correct chemical imbalances in his mind. It seemed as though the doctor wanted to program him into happiness, as if he were merely a malfunctioning machine. The doctor persuaded him that the treatments were no more invasive than the teaching chambers had been. The man who desired the changes to his mental state was still in charge, only the operating conditions in his brain had been changed. The mind which drove the brain was unharmed. Omar was not fully convinced that the separation was so clear cut but the alternative was a return to despair.
Omar found to his surprise that he enjoyed the results of the treatments. In addition to being able to return to work effectively, he had additional energy to spend researching his own goals. Rather than letting his thoughts control his actions he was able to contain the negative ones and analyze them critically. It was as though someone had cut chains which had held him down, chains whose existence he had never even considered.
Time began to fly by as Omar pursued new interests. The technicians who worked at the teaching chambers started to consider him a fixture in the place, so much time did he spend there. His previous life had not given him the opportunity to learn and he devoured knowledge like a glutton. From physics to art, Omar drained the library of information in the teachers dry. When he wanted more information than the chambers could provide he began researching on his own, using the immense databases on the Westinghouse.
He rose in rank as well, his expertise becoming legendary. His drive to succeed became an all consuming passion. When he received the next summons to see the XO, it was with happiness that he arrived.
“It is good to see you, Omar.” Nasi said. “You are doing well, I take it?”
“Quite.” Omar replied. “I feel like a new man.”
“You seem like one as well. With all of the studying you have been doing I wonder if you still have time to read poetry at night from that book of yours?”
“Not really. There is so much more in the ship’s databases than one little book could contain. I could spend a lifetime and only learn a fraction of it.”
“True,” Nasi mused, “but I wonder at what cost?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve talked to your superiors. They tell me you could replace any of them with what you’ve learned. They also tell me you have made no friends and have become even more reclusive than before.”
“I’ve never really had friends. It seems irrelevant.”
“It’s as important for an officer to develop social skills as technical ability. Have you tried contacting Colonel Kharzin again?” Omar blinked at the question. He had not thought about Veronika in some time. Thinking about it, he could not recall the last time he had.
“No sir. It seemed a waste of my time.”
“Waste of time? Sorry, I thought I was talking to Omar Hadi. I wonder what happened to him this past year.” Omar stiffened a bit. He began to wonder just what the man was implying.
“He woke up, I guess.” Omar replied tersely.
“Indeed. It seems that Fleet life has done its job quicker than I had thought. So M. Hadi, where do you expect to go from here? Do you have a long term plan?”
“Well sir, your office looks pretty nice.” Nasi laughed bitterly at Omar’s joke.
“It seems that way, doesn’t it. I’ll let you in on an open secret. You’ll never get in my seat without combat experience.”
“The Westinghouse isn’t a combat ship.”
“No, it isn’t, but it provides support for them and the Fleet captains only respect those with real command experience. If you really intend to go for command, you’ll have to transfer to a warship. At present the only ship that needs crew is the Damascus. They need fighter pilots to replace the ones we lost in the Ances battle a month ago. Piloting is not an easy skill to learn but I can arrange a transfer if you like.”
“Sir! Yes, I’d like that very much.” Nasi frowned as though the answer disagreed with him.
“Are you sure? Being a combat pilot is nothing like system’s repair. In addition to the extensive training, you’ll have to get neural implants to interface with the ship’s systems. All that and there is no way to ensure that you will have what it takes. More than half of the cadets fail out before becoming full pilots.” Nasi paused and looked down. “Then there is t
he toll it takes on your soul.”
“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.” Nasi looked up at him through lidded eyes.
“I guess you are. This is where we part ways then. Once your transfer is approved you’ll no longer be under my command.”
“Then I should thank you now, sir. Without your help I’d still be working low wage jobs on Keikruit.”
“Don’t thank me too soon. I still wonder if I made the right decision taking you with us.”
“Have I failed to live up to Fleet standards?”
“On the contrary, I’m very much afraid you are living up to them expertly.” Omar didn’t know how to reply to this so he remained silent. Nasi shook his head slightly as though clearing it. “Forget what I said. It’s just the rambling of an old fool. Go forth and be whatever the universe wants you to be, Omar Hadi. You should expect your transfer within the week. Dismissed.”
Omar left the room troubled. Soon enough, though, he was able to shake off the feeling and began to pack his things. Most consisted of uniforms and technical gear he wouldn’t likely need again. He spotted the worn copy of the Rubaiyat in a drawer. He had placed it there soon after he took the gene treatments, intending to keep it safe. He couldn’t remember opening it again since. Reading seemed so slow when compared to the teaching chambers. His research on the network often had him pursuing a dozen ideas at once, pages hidden in layers of searches in a mad frenzy of information. The small book seemed quaint now, a relic from an earlier time in his life. Idly he opened it and read a passage at random.
“Into this Universe, and Why not knowing,
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.”
The passage bothered him, not so much for its content than because he recalled how deeply he had felt he understood it once. Now, it seemed like so many idle words, assembled together but lacking any real meaning. He had clear direction now and the focus to pursue it. Omar shut the book firmly and pushed the words away into a corner of his mind.
One of the requirements of flight school was cranial implants to enable a fuller interface with the piloting systems. While computers could analyze data much faster than a human, they lacked discretion. It was one thing to calculate trajectories and fire weapons, but another entirely to know when to do so. Additionally, unmanned drones, while effective, were susceptible to jamming and EMPs. Thus, even though the speed of action in space combat was far beyond human reasoning, the space between victory and defeat still relied upon living minds making decisions. Each fighter might have a hundred drones slaved to its systems but the strategy and tactics behind their actions always came down to the human component.
Omar chose to replace his scalp with interface tendrils over the alternatives for several reasons. They were less invasive some of the alternatives but still gave him enough control over a ship to act quickly. They also provided an ability to interface with other networks that a standard pilot jack lacked. This would allow him to accelerate the rate at which he was able to continue his personal research projects.
Flight school itself was rigorous and demanding in way Omar had not anticipated. His primary problem was adapting to the virtual environments in which a pilot operated. Omar had spent a great deal of time on the networks but his experience had been limited to research. Now he found that if he had been playing more games he might have been better prepared. There were countless simulations of space flight and combat that existed in the network. Many who never dreamed of becoming a pilot spent hours in simulations.
Those who became pilots were those who found such games fun. They were competitive by nature and most had logged thousands of hours in simulations long before attending flight school. Omar was at a severe disadvantage. He found himself losing every combat simulation in which he was placed. He heard the snickering behind his back. If he had been a social creature he might have been able to avoid becoming a pariah but as it was he found himself an object of ridicule, with low marks in nearly every category and little hope of improving.
Late one evening, after he had become certain he was going to flunk out of flight school, Omar was approached in a little used corridor. The man, clearly not a member of the regular crew, wore dark clothing and had eyes which constantly flicked back and forth down the corridor. Omar had known many men like him in his life and knew immediately that whatever the man was selling it was illegal. Still, he listened as the man whispered to him as he passed.
“Hey partner, how’s it going?” The man’s voice was soft and slick with feigned friendliness. “Flight school got you down?”
“What would you know about it?” Omar heard the defensiveness in his voice but no longer cared.
“Me? Very little. Allow me to introduce myself.” The man held out a hand which Omar ignored. Onward the man pressed, ignoring the implied insult. “Name’s Tyler and I’ve been servicing the needs of prospective pilots for some time. Most times the trainees are just looking to score a little something to help them relax. There’s always a few though, like yourself, who require something else entirely.”
“You think I’m some kind of addict? I’m not interested in your drugs.” Omar began to move down the corridor again but Tyler practically flung himself in Omar’s path.
“Who said anything about drugs?” Tyler said, holding his hands in a gesture of submission. “You’ve got the look of someone who needs a helping hand, something that will aid you in flight school. I’ve got what you need to succeed.”
“Spit it out. What are you selling?”
“The distilled memories of some of the Fleet’s finest pilots, their skills and their expertise, all for a reasonable price.”
“Sounds too good to be true. If what you’ve got is really so good, why isn’t the Fleet paying you to teach? Why are you hiding in hallways accosting passerby?”
“I know what you’re thinking, must be dangerous. It’s not. My techniques are no worse for your brain than using a teaching chamber. In fact, I use a modified version of that same hardware to implant the memories. Why doesn’t the brass buy me out? Frankly they don’t need to. Most trainees come here prepared by a lifetime of simulation training. They don’t care much if the occasional recruit falls between the cracks.”
“And you’re the good Samaritan who helps out.” Omar hid his interest behind sarcasm but Tyler seemed immune.
“When the need arises, and I’m not a Samaritan. I’m a businessman. You’ll pay for what I’m offering and you’ll pay well.”
“What if I think your price is too high?”
“Then I go on my way and you fail out of flight school in another week or so.”
“Won’t they notice if I suddenly improve as drastically as you are implying?”
“Sure they will. Your instructors will know exactly what you did, likely they’ll even know it was me who sold you the treatments. They won’t care though. In the end, the only thing that matters to the Fleet is results? I mean, that’s why you removed your emotions after all.” Omar stiffened.
“What? Why do you know so much about me?”
“I’m no dark corridor dealer. I do my due diligence before contacting a potential client. I’ve got your file, that’s how I know what you need and know that you’re already interested.”
“What do you mean by ‘removed my emotions’? I’ve done no such thing.”
“Sure you did. Says so right in your file, gene treatments to correct chemical imbalances. What did you think that meant? Chemical imbalance is just another way of saying feelings, man. Think about it, when was the last time you really felt anything? You’re failing out of flight school right now, right? Are you depressed? No, you’re simply rationally considering potential solutions, like mine. Even now, are you angry that the doctor wiped away your humanity or are you simply curious about the ramifications?”
“I… I don’t know.” Omar knew the man was right though.
He knew that he should be angry but he wasn’t.
“Its ok, half the Fleet has had their emotions programmed away. How do you think they manage to kill so many people without going crazy? Look, we’re getting off topic. You want the treatments or not?”
“I do.” Omar realized that the dealer was right. None of the moral considerations mattered anymore. He needed help to get through school. He would concern himself with his earlier gene treatments later if he determined there was a reason to worry. As expected, Tyler’s prices were calibrated to a pilot trainee’s stipend, leaving him with just enough to get by.
Omar stepped cautiously into Tyler’s workshop, eying the hardware incredulously. It did indeed resemble a teaching chamber, one that had seen better days. Panels were missing and wiring led from the machine to makeshift terminals which displayed unfamiliar code. Tyler assured him that no one had been hurt by the device as he strapped Omar into the crèche and attached the harness to his skull.
Omar anticipated the experience to be like the training he had received with the other teaching chambers. He was mistaken. The experience was much more visceral and personal than the abstract data he had learned before. Omar found himself inside the mind of someone else, a man piloting a fighter in real space against real opponents. He felt the other pilot’s fear and exhilaration as the craft spun wildly, shifting trajectories in a maelstrom of pressures which threatened to knock him unconscious as he avoided enemy fire. The emotions felt both familiar and foreign to Omar, like visiting a place he had forgotten existed. By the third treatment he was looking forward to the experience more than the skills he was gaining.
Those same skills were well worth the cost financially. He soared upward in ability and within a week he had won his first match, though it admittedly was against a computer opponent. Still, his improvement was noted and he felt the pressure easing off. As the next weeks passed, he rose to near the middle of his class. At that point he leveled off and improved no further. He asked Tyler why he was no longer improving after a particularly exhilarating session.