by Mack Meijers
— Masters At Arms Anonymous
Chapter 9
Mode Record
I don't think I have ever worked this hard. Turns out I made a lot of mistakes yesterday, one of which could have easily resulted in trashing one of the local air supply systems. Check, double check, triple check. Almost the same as handling project proposals in triplicate. A positive side effect however is that in doing so I have found a way to make it generate heat. Apparently that even is part of what it is supposed to do. News to me, but welcome. It does not do much, not enough to thaw anything out with, but it does help.
I managed to decouple three units. Another three are still in their respective places, powered down. I've got spare batteries in place for all, fortunately it appears the military try to keep everything as simple as possible. I'm no longer to comment the way I normally would have on such an observation though. Plug something in one port, green light shows it's good to go. No light means you did it wrong. Fifty fifty chance. Take the other option, even though it's sturdy stuff just don't try to force things. Plug in the next port, activate secondary function, same fifty fifty odds for that one.
My suit is indeed an issue. I managed to figure out how to work its command functions, unfortunately it's systems have degraded quite a bit. As a consequence of that, my next expedition will have to be the MFD, and very carefully so. I can't afford detours, or meeting Murphy somewhere along the way.
One other thing I found out while double checking my efforts of yesterday is that the local air supply systems require water, liquid or frozen doesn't matter. But they need it in order to function. In a way, now that I think about it, makes sense. Good thing I found out in time though. Water to spare, maybe the air will taste better if I use some of that fancy branded bottled water in stasis. Who knows.
Surprising how much my thinking has changed. I would accept dad's word without thinking now, so unlike all those years ago. In a way his efforts to guide me did at least leave me with memories that keep me going. At minimum to remember, to reconsider, and at times to focus myself. Sleep, if you can call it that, has also helped. If mum ever finds out, she'll be relentless I bet. Still, I'm not going to try and look the other way again from my memories.
Another thing I failed to think of yesterday, is that while the ship is getting colder the temperate has not dropped as I expected it would. It ties in with observations when everything began, and things I noticed during my trips back and forth. There still are sources of heat on the ship. And that worries me. Plasma leaks are a source of heat, and they are dangerous. But there were sections that were on fire, for as far as there is such a thing out in space. Plasma fire is something special, and dangerous. While it does not spread easily, it can. It does eventually die out, but well, it all comes down to the structural integrity of the ship's inner armour around the various sections. In several places I saw severe damage to that structure, bulkheads buckled or even torn. I'm going to have to be careful, and very observant.
Another thing for the information topic, as such.
Too many cases of catch22 under these circumstances. For a lot of issues I can only do so much as the least worst thing, in the best of cases I can only do the next best thing. Trying to manage, doing my best. Got to stay sharp.
Yet another thing is the question of the A.I. core, even in the best possible scenario it is going to require power. Which means the trip there is going to be a very heavy one, I'll have to bring battery packs with me. A gamble, think I'm going to at least make it a calculated gamble, as dad would say.
Information. The network is down, exploring and running around is not a good idea without proper preparation. I need to find a way to establish communications, at least internal to the ship. External, well that really depends on what is out there, doesn't it? Yet another case of severe catch22. No matter how I look at it, a trip to the core is not something I'll get to avoid. If I can bring the network online, even part of it, I should be able to find what I need, and maybe more. And there's the matter of the A.I.
I couldn't help thinking about the odds of getting rescued, regardless of that question of the beacon. Without external communications they are slim either way. I know where we were coming from, and where we were going to, but I do not know where we currently are. Since we were attacked, I think it is reasonable to assume that someone will come looking for us, but only well after we fail to arrive and it's been a long trip already. We could be anywhere along a direct route, we could also have deviated from course. Problem is, we're not exactly in civilised space, we're deep in the territories. This is where people live outside of the Polities, any shipping is more likely to evade others than seeking them out. Worse, this is where the rich and powerful of the civilised universe play their power games. Ships get lost here, destroyed without any real public awareness or attention.
No, highly unlikely that we will be found any time soon. Even then, there is the question of who might find us. We've already been attacked, by people we're at peace with. Welcome to the territories. This is where Murphy found refuge after civilisation kicked him out - or so the chef said last week in the ship's lounge. Don't ask me where this cultural phenomenon of Murphy and his law comes from, all anybody really knows is that it is ancient, and he's always been around.
That's for tomorrow though. This has been a long day. I got a lot done, things that needed doing. It also helps to not think too much of the dead. I still don't know what to think about not feeling as I would expect to feel. It will probably hit me at some point, and I better have everything sorted before that time.
Time to sleep now, in a smelly vacuum suit, rolled up in a cocoon of bubble wrap.
End Record
Warfare in space is screwing up.
— Masters At Arms Anonymous
Chapter 10
Mode Record
I was always afraid I would turn out to be alone, running away from my parents, not knowing what I wanted. Just that I did not want what they had, did not want to be what they were. It's hard to explain, it's something everyone that joins one of the Services has. They're different. Not like they aren't human, on the contrary. It's not that they carry their training constantly with them. Just different. I guess you could say that they somehow accept that their life is not theirs to start with. It's wierd, they can be afraid, but nothing threatens them.
You can recognise them just by looking at them, they see others, but only in others they see themselves. It gives them a presence that always freaked me out. Live your life, I'd think, instinctively. It's yours. Guess I could not relate, and was too stubborn to even want to listen. I still don't think it's the best way, goodness no, but it is another way. And right here, I think I can understand at least some of it.
Or at least I can picture a few questions that I have asked myself. What would I do if I did find survivors. I'd be happy, relieved, also concerned. But part of me is wondering. Something to think about.
I find myself angry as well though, probably natural, considering the mess I am in. It's all too human to instinctively lash out at something or someone when we can't control a situation, or just don't like it. I've cracked down on people often enough to admit that. This is a little different though. More like anger at how things work, out there, civilised life. Instead of a quick and quiet trip sorting information on a government contract I'm stuck on this crippled ship, basically because of men with money and guns. To be fair, women are hardly different in their reflexes these days. Or their planning. Somehow we always expect the worst, and thus guarantee the logical outcome of making it true. I don't know whether it's a behavioural loop that springs from our gimped genetics, ancient genetic memory trauma, or simply accumulated weight of history. It's as if we crave pyramid schemes, always moving on to the next one, if only to finally get in one early enough to not be just another resource. And then we try to make our own, to compensate for having been in others, at the bottom.
Here I am, stuck in a mess. Just another typical huma
n, victim to its own species. At least I'm trying to make the most of it without resorting to plans of mayhem and destruction. I suppose though, it doesn't really matter anymore whether someone is an active participant or not. Consequences count, and as they affect everyone, we all carry our responsibility.
Hard to admit, but that's something dad once told me. I've got no idea how that suddenly came to me, but it did. He's right though, we can fool ourselves but everything always comes back to us. We're too connected to each other to dodge responsibility of actions and inactions, of choices. Irony.
Need to get this of my system though. It's disturbing, so not like me. Above all, there is nothing I can do about it. Maybe once I make it back home there is something I can do, but I can only cross that bridge if I make it home. It's probably some kind of natural reaction, but I'm no psychologist.
At least I have spare suits now, using the old one to thaw out water. The ship does appear to be calming down, no more groaning walls or trembling bulkheads. A mostly clear path to the MFD, there were however hotspots along the way. Some walls in a few places are warm, not hot, but still. Wish I knew I could remember whether those spots where hot on my first trip, are whether they are new. Just no idea, but I've begun marking observations in my notes. Information, as dad would tell me, matters. Always.
Tomorrow it's time to make my way towards Medical, for now it is time to sleep.
End Record
Warfare in space is always giving new meaning to the same old ranting – hurry, wait – shut up.
— Masters At Arms Anonymous
Chapter 11
Mode Record
Getting to Medical was another trip of walking among the dead. Too many of them, to be honest I am starting to wonder whether many people got out at all. Getting there was relatively easy, being inside was not. Too many dead people. Far too many, it was a scene of people ready for work, but promptly cut down.
I presume that the staff did not even consider fleeing once that contact alert kicked in, and that when the evacuation order went out they were just about geared up for casualties. I don't know whether anyone there made any such decision, but thinking back to mum I wouldn't discount the possibility.
She once explained to me how being a nurse meant putting others first, knowing that it would mean taking risks. She took an oath to that effect. Do no harm, the patient comes first. Of course there are other aspects of it, triage springs to mind. Something both she and dad understood very well, even if from different directions.
I wonder how they reconciled that, between them. One who takes lives, who even may decide to deny life depending on conditions and objectives. The other who must do no harm. Who is required to put herself between another and any cause of further injury or pain. Hell, she is trained to take on the pain of others, literally. While dad is trained to deny it, and to inflict it.
Maybe it's a case of responsibility and roles, being part of something where through each individual action the whole is bigger than the sum of its parts, accepting not only being a part of that but also that other parts all require different roles to make it work. I don't know. Perhaps they accepted it because they simply knew death from different angles, healing each other when not facing it.
Those people in Medical, I can't help but think they made a decision to stay. Emilia, one of the nurses, such a smart girl always surprising you with questions. She looks as if she's at peace, floating frozen against a wall. One of the specialists, Crosthwaite I believe, in surgical gear at his station. By now it is impossible to interpret any expression on that frozen face, but he looks so ready.
They were alive after the attack, aside of some minor signs of disarray there was no breach, no loss of pressure. No plasma or other types of fire either. I saw signs of efforts to prolong the inevitable, people sticking close, blankets over shoulders and even sterilisation equipment as a source of heat at the centre. More of the same in the rooms adjacent, further down some people in a close embrace.
They could have left, but not gone far. The path I took was one of vacuum, other corridors I explored where obstructed. Beyond their section I don't know, I did not have the time to look any further. But I get it, they held out as long as they could. Others might come to them, or get delivered to Medical. And when the situation became clear, well, I guess they all knew the realities of survival in space. Maybe it's for the best. I'm angry at them though. Stupid, I know. I can't help it.
Mum would never have given up like this.
Alright, I don't know whether they gave up. But they did make decisions, I can only guess at those. Maybe I am just angry because - once again - these people were alive when I was wandering around madly.
I thank them either way. They did have a food processor, which is sitting next to me back here in my little storage bay. Warm food, it's been so long. I may get sick, my stomach may very well get a problem with accepting it again. It's been upset for a long time now. We'll see. At worst I throw up, nobody is going to complain about the smell and contents floating in their way.
Even pretended to have tea. Warm water, pure, thank you. Have some more.
So yeah, I thank them. What they left behind will do no harm, on the contrary, it will aid immensely. And thanks mum, for at least giving me a way to understand, perhaps even accept.
End Record
Warfare in space is accepting that this moment is the only constant in your life.
— Masters At Arms Anonymous
Chapter 12
Mode Record
I really miss shampoo. Conditioner. Some fresh skin lotion. A working toilet would be nice. I'm still mulling over yesterday, at Medical. Dreamt about it as well, at least I just had dreams, instead of waking up between nightmares. An improvement, in spite of everything, and myself.
Putting together an overview of what I currently know of the ship's conditions is not easy. I wasn't that familiar with it to begin with. You'd think that after six months of travel I would know it by heart, but no. I did get to know people, but I pretty much kept to my work and left the ship to those who worked it. I was never that interested in the technological, or the technical, and a ship is rather a big example of man's fascination with both.
Maybe I never really connected with such things because dad tried so hard to get me interested. I don't think that is completely true though, if I have figured out anything here thus far it is that my memories are shaped by more than just events and experiences. Also by decisions. In making the choice to run away, I also decided to mark my experiences back home as something between bad and not wanted. As a result, memories carry a certain taste.
It's only here, confronted with events and conditions of disarray - and at times despair - that memories started to come back, shedding off the veil I had imposed on them. I'm not saying I was wrong to run, or that it was right. It was just my decision. And it is my life. I just realise now that there are certain things that connect us, whether it suits us or not. That no matter how much we fool ourselves in thinking we have it all figured out, we really don't know that we are alone - until that moment where it hits us. That point where the wall comes crashing down.
Still, I have a reasonable idea of where to go and how to avoid passages that would take me too close to the ship's port side, or too near to the level where I do remember the doors warning of fire burning. It's going to be quite the expedition, getting to the core. The name says it all, it's right at the heart of the ship. The centre, the most secure area of the ship. We'll see whether that is still the case. Working my way there will take time, and it's going to be tough as I need to carry battery packs with me.
Armour would be really nice right about now. I can tie several packs to my back, on top of carrying a set with my hands, but that will greatly diminish my ability to move around obstacles freely. It's extra mass, and quite a bit. Those packs are small, but massive, so to speak.
Bit funny. Always thought an A.I. was a pain in the rear end, now I miss hearing one talk back
at everything you say. I couldn't have done my work without one, so used to it. Who knows, maybe I can reactivate it. If it is just a case of requiring power, it's plausible. If not, then so be it. I'm getting used to being alone.
I did make a decision my dad would be proud of though. I went as far as was feasible today in the most practical direction towards the core, marking the route as well. Right at what dad would call the bingo point I dropped off a set of battery packs, now I won't have to break myself tomorrow for all of the way. I'm not sure yet whether I will take another set with me tomorrow, or just make my way back there to continue with those already there. I had trouble with the load, but I could manage. Twice the load might be too much, but just one such set might also mean multiple trips - if of course I manage to get either the A.I. or at least the network active but it turns out it requires more power than what I have with me.
Then again, battery packs don't contain infinite reserves, if the plan works I'm probably going to have to continue regular supply trips. You know, normally I have people for this kind of thinking. I'm adjusting nicely, but it is weird, pulling my own weight. And that observation is actually quite embarrassing.
So much is really, under these circumstances. I have been able to freshen myself up a bit, but I still smell myself. Badly. I don't want to know what my hair looks like, and I really don't think it matters one bit at this point. If I do find another survivor however, I may very well shock him or her to death. First impressions, as they say.
But what gets me is that I have no real distractions, I have plenty to do, constantly even. But nothing that normally would keep my mind away from asking itself questions it doesn't like. And a lot of the answers, not liking them one bit. It's as if I'm undergoing some sort of extremely cruel assessment, or evaluation of the self.