Infinite

by Jeremy Robinson

  My last words flip her emotions on their head once more. “Is that what this is about? I knew it. You couldn’t just let it go? Let us be happy? Yeah, we broke protocol to avoid being paired with people we didn’t love. Is that so—”

  “Tom killed everyone.”

  Her right eye blinks three times before whatever mental reset I’ve just triggered completes. “What?”

  That’s not how I planned to launch into this conversation, but it’s the same blunt honest truth I had to face upon waking up. So why not her? I’m not exactly in a merciful mood, so I go with it.

  “Tom stayed awake for a year, on his own, fucked with Galahad’s systems, duplicated his consciousness as an AI, went insane, and killed nearly every fucking member of our crew.” I don’t know if the double fuck is too much, but I was holding back. “Tom did that. And you—” I stab a finger in her direction. “—are partly responsible.”

  I can see she’s stunned, but remembering every one of Tom’s offenses, fuels my tirade. “He loved you. I know that. He would have never woken up early and changed your genetic partner without your consent. And when he woke you up to tell you, you didn’t give a shit about protocols, about our mission, or the survival of the human race.”

  She’s unraveling. Folding in on herself. She’s not even asking for proof of what I’ve told her. Whether or not she believes my brief statement about the crew’s fate, she knows I’m telling the truth now.

  “You could have prevented everything that happened. You could have…” I wipe a tear that has snuck out of my eye. She sees it and that small micro expression of my sadness is all it takes to convince her that everything I’ve said is the truth.

  Her hand goes to her mouth a moment too late to block the sob that escapes. I give her a moment, and despite part of me wanting to comfort her, I offer nothing. I just let her weep, knowing that I have more to tell her. More weight to heap back on her shoulders.

  “Tom is…”

  “Dead,” I tell her.

  She fades into tears again, mourning the man she loved enough to put our mission at risk. Five minutes later, she’s back, wiping her arm across her nose. “Who is left?”

  “Fourteen people survived.”

  A sob hiccups through her body, but she reigns it in.

  “He killed them as they woke,” I say. “I was last. He stabbed me with a screwdriver.”

  Her brow furrows. “I didn’t see a bandage.”

  “Some time has passed,” I say.

  “A wound like that would take months to heal,” she says. It’s less of an accusation and more of a realization. Then she’s eyeing me again. “I didn’t see a scar.”

  “I need to tell you about the survivors,” I say.

  She waits.

  “They left.”

  “They…they’re on Kepler 452b?”

  I nod.

  “Are they okay? Can we join them?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “And, no.”

  “Why not?” Her eyes widen. “They know, too. Is this a punishment?”

  Something far inside me aches from the insinuation that being stuck on Galahad with me is punishment. I decide to ignore it.

  “Cap,” I say. “Before Tom…died.”

  “How did he die?”

  Seriously? The question feels like a slap. “Not important.”

  “Will.”

  I stabbed him with the screwdriver he put through my heart, I think, and then say, “I…I killed him.”

  Her face goes rigid, frown locked in place.

  “Before you vocalize your misplaced rage,” I tell her, “I can take you on a tour of the dead. And you won’t see me shedding a tear for fucking Tom when we stop by his corpse. The man killed everyone. The human race is over because of him. If he’s not rotting in a level of hell designed just for him…” I stop short, my chest heaving. “You don’t get to judge me. You don’t get to look at me with anything other than gratitude for sparing you from the nightmare he left in his wake.

  “You didn’t have to fight for your life, naked and covered in your own blood, and in the blood of your friends. You didn’t have to drag their bodies—” Raw emotion overwhelms me, and it’s my turn to weep, letting old emotions long since buried resurface. “You didn’t watch anyone die. You didn’t see the volcanic pile of shit your boyfriend turned into a nest. You didn’t have to fight for control of this ship against Tom’s alter ego turned AI. I hate Tom. I hate Synergy. And if you even consider laying any of that on me, I swear I will knock your ass out and put you back in cryo-sleep for another seven years.”

  “S-seven years?”

  That she’s been in a deep sleep for seven years since her man slaughtered the crew and doomed humanity shouldn’t be her biggest take away from my tirade. That it is, sends me into a rage bordering on violent. I stand and walk away from her, my fingers flexing.

  “Gal,” I say.

  “Yeah, Will?”

  “Show her.”

  “Show her what, exactly?”

  “Security feeds. Everything.” I head for the doors.

  “What are you doing?” Capria asks, standing from the bed.

  I stop in the hallway and turn around. “This is your punishment. You can watch everything Tom did, everything you allowed him to do. I’ll be back when you’re done.”

  “What…what about food? Water?” Capria sounds worried. Maybe even scared. “I’ve been in cryo-sleep. I need to—”

  “You’ll live,” I say, and then I walk away. The doors close, and when I hear pounding, I know that Gal has correctly assumed my desire and locked them.

  31

  After some deliberation, I agree to let Gal edit down the sequence of events that brought us from Tom’s early waking and madness, to our current circumstances. She’ll include everything involving Tom, including how he roused one crew member at a time and murdered them. She’ll also see the other immortals coming back to life, waking a few more crewmembers, and fleeing—abandoning the rest of us rather than working together to overcome Tom. Assholes. None of it is pretty, but Capria needs to see it. Needs to understand my situation, the pain I felt, and the ramifications of her own actions. But Gal’s going to reduce the five years I spent writing Gal’s code to an hour long stop-motion of me in VR, providing a timestamp for chronological reference.

  We debated removing Gal’s indiscretions from the record, but she made the argument that they should be kept. The narrative won’t flow right without them, and if trust is going to be built, we have to be honest.

  In the wake of what Capria will be learning about the man she loved, Gal’s short-lived uprising might not even register as cause for concern. She also pointed out that whether or not Capria trusts the ship’s AI is inconsequential. Capria is an astrophysicist. She cannot alter Gal’s code, nor take control of the ship through more manual means. But she knew who Tom really was, and if Synergy taught her anything, better to not take risks. I’ve installed my own set of firewalls, which might not be as impenetrable as Synergy’s, but it would still take hundreds, if not thousands of years to crack, which would give me plenty of time to react to the alarms that will sound if Capria enters either VCC without me.

  While waiting for Capria’s re-education to complete, Gal and I set about repairing the damage done to the ship. The drones come first, and we’re able to salvage several and even build a few new ones from scrap parts. In the end Galahad is down fifty drones, but still has enough to function forever. Next is the lift damaged by Gal’s robotic body. I wish I had her strength to help with the manual labor, but she’s unwilling to take a human form again.

  With the damage cleaned up, and everything functioning as well as it can, I retreat to the mess and decide to treat myself to some food. My stomach growls when the doors open. I haven’t experienced a hunger pang in years, but my gut has suddenly remembered it has a purpose, and it’s excited to take part in the life once more.

  I sit down with my steaming bowl of nutritious sl
udge. I barely notice the vast emptiness of the round tables and curved benches designed to facilitate a crew of fifty. The food smells delightful. I take an eager mouthful and moan in ecstasy. This is not standard deep space cuisine.

  “Gal,” I say, while taking a second bite. “What is this?”

  “I’ve been experimenting with flavors,” she says. “But I haven’t been able to test them before. You like it?”

  My third bite and “Mmm,” confirms it.

  “The combination of flavors simulate a dish that used to be called a banana split, but my version is far more nutritious—not that you’re worried about that.”

  “Banana splits were served cold,” I say. I have no memory of having had the dessert, but I know what it is, and I do remember ice cream. By the time I had experienced the treat, it was vegan—like all food—made from nut milk. “But this is good.” I take another bite. “Really good.”

  I pause mid-chew. “It’s not laced with drugs, is it?”

  “I have no intention of lacing your food with anything other than flavor, and even less intention of testing your urine and stool. Because, eww.”

  I nearly spew a fresh bite onto the tabletop, but I manage to hold it in while I laugh. “Maybe we can give that job to Capria.”

  “I believe she would welcome it.”

  “How is she?” I ask. It’s been a while since Gal updated me on how Capria is handling her re-education.

  “Tired and bored, I think,” Gal says.

  Those don’t sound like the emotions of someone watching her life and mission unravel. “Is she watching the stop-motion years?”

  “She isn’t watching anything.”

  I sit up a bit straighter. “She’s seen everything?”

  “Twice,” Gal says.

  “Why twice?”

  “She asked to see it all again.”

  That’s unexpected. Without the need for sleep and a rising and setting sun, it’s easy to lose track of time, especially when it’s lost its grip on your life. “How long since the playback ended?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “How long has she been in there, total?”

  “The footage played for two thousand six hundred and eighty eight hours. That’s one hundred twelve days, roughly—”

  “I don’t need the break down,” I say. “Just the number of days.”

  “Two hundred and forty.”

  “Geez. Why didn’t you tell me the video had ended, or that you were replaying it?”

  “I believe she needed time to process everything she had seen, and the panic she experienced over her situation, and what she was learning, subsided by the third week, when she realized that like you, she was immortal.”

  “Just…let me know next time.”

  “You intend to lock her up again?”

  I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.” And I know she does.

  “Such a busy body,” Gal says. “Are you going to set her free now?”

  The idea of seeing Capria again, after imprisoning her and subjecting her to what could be considered a kind of psychological torture makes me uncomfortable. I still think it was necessary, but I’m not in a rush to talk things through, and I doubt she is either. “Send a drone. Guide her to the showers. Let her feel human again. Then bring her here.”

  “You believe a banana split will smooth things over?”

  “Good point,” I say. “Think you can simulate something chocolate?”

  Gal chuckles, but says nothing. On the far side of the ship, a drone is setting Capria free. I set back to work on my hot ice cream experience, and then a second.

  By the time Capria arrives, freshly washed and clothed, her hair tied back tight, I’m feeling like I might need to visit the bathroom for the first time in years. Empty bowels move fast. But my uncommon visit to a toilet needs to wait.

  She says nothing when she walks through the door. The drone accompanying her stops in the hallway, and then leaves. Capria turns back, like she’d rather be with the small robot. And I don’t blame her. I’m not only the man she detested for loving her, I’m her lone judge, and the man who has suffered for her mistakes.

  I tamp down a blossoming anger and remind myself that Capria is now suffering alongside me. And will be forever. I don’t want any more battles. I’m done having enemies.

  When Cap turns back to the nearly empty mess deck, her eyes grow wet. The empty seats are a stark reminder of what we’ve lost. It’s one of many.

  I wait in silence, watching her approach, eyes on the floor.

  She stops by the table, still unable to meet my gaze.

  I push a bowl and spoon toward her, sit back, and wait. She understands the invitation and sits, still unsure, still mired in guilt. It’s a good sign. Had she been defiant, I don’t think this would have worked.

  “You don’t need to eat,” I tell her. “You know that now. But I think you should try it.”

  She shifts her eyes to the dark brown goo in her bowl. When Gal first presented it to me, the bowl was steaming like my faux banana split. But now it’s cooled and there is a thin film on top.

  “What is it?” Cap asks, her voice shaky.

  I wonder if her time in Medical was too harsh, and then I answer, “I don’t know. Gal is experimenting.”

  “You did a good job with her.”

  “We had a bumpy start, but she’s all right…when she’s not being moody.” I look up and smile, knowing Gal can see and hear me, and that she’s staying silent for now.

  Capria takes the spoon, scoops up some dark, gelatinous liquid and lifts it to her nose. She sniffs and reels back a bit. But then she puts the spoon in her mouth.

  Her body goes rigid.

  Tears fill her eyes.

  She swallows and then breaks, slumping onto the tabletop with great heaving sobs. Before I think about what my reaction should be, I’m by her side, hand rubbing her back. Instinctual mercy. It’s why I never looked at how Capria was handling the security feed playback. Had I seen her misery, I might have set her free prematurely. Logically, I knew she needed to know. To understand. But I couldn’t have gone through with it if I hadn’t just walked away.

  “Does this mean she doesn’t like it?” Gal asks. Her concern, whether real or not, gets a laugh out of me, and then Capria.

  “Just the opposite,” I tell Gal, dabbing my finger in the dessert and tasting it. “Oh. Oh my God. What is this?”

  “Chocolate pudding,” Gal says. “A twentieth century author often wrote about its soothing effects on those in distress. I thought it would be beneficial.”

  “You thought right,” Capria says, wiping her sleeve across her face. After a few good sniffs, she takes another bite. Swallows. “Does this mean we’re okay?”

  She’s not looking at me, but I know she’s talking to me.

  “We will be. In time.”

  She looks up from her bowl. “And we have a lot of that.”

  “More than necessary.”

  “Thank you.” Cap returns to her dessert. Three bites later, she says. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

  “I know,” I tell her, and I do. She’s not insane, and while she made the world’s most idiotic decision, she’s not a bad person. There was a reason I loved her once.

  “Aww,” Gal says with mock adoration. The lights in the mess dim and music starts to play. I don’t recognize the song or singer, but it’s decidedly romantic.

  “Gal.” My face flushes.

  “Just trying to set the mood.”

  My head feels like it will explode. Gal is bringing my past feelings into the limelight. I’m about to bark at her when Cap chuckles.

  “It’s not funny,” I tell her, but she’s laughing a little harder, and I’m having a hard time covering up my own smile. My feelings for Cap are public knowledge to the three intelligences remaining in the universe. Gal isn’t revealing anything new, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it, or be teased about it. It is good to hear Capria’s laugh, though,
deep and hearty. “Asshole,” I say, but everyone is laughing now.

  “I hope you remember this next time you call me moody.”

  As far as reunions go, it’s not the worst, if you ignore everything that came before it. But as Gal whips up two more bowls of pudding, one for Cap, one for me, I feel a smidgen of genuine relief.

  Then I wonder how long it will last and excuse myself to take a shit.

  32

  Three months later, life feels normal.

  Living on a spaceship normal, at least. Capria and I eat meals together even though we don’t need to eat. We do things together, engaging in video game play, card game tournaments, and superficial, always-polite conversations, but we spend more time apart than together. The events that brought us to this point never come up. And I think that’s exactly what we both need, for a time. The time of strife aboard the Galahad has come to an end, but as I sit—alone—in the VCC staging area, I’m feeling the lukewarm fingers of boredom massaging my mind, making it soft.

  “Uh oh,” Gal says. “Somebody’s pouting.”

  “Is she okay?” I ask.

  “I was talking about you, stupid.”

  I look down at the fresh VISA resting on the bench beside me. I pick it up and put it back in the locker. “Right.”

  “Not in the mood for a virtual escape today?”

  “I don’t want to need an escape.”

  “Then why do you come here every day?”

  I shrug. “Habit, I guess.”

  “Huh,” Gal says. “I thought it was because you were afraid.”

  The dull, light gray floor holds my attention. “You’re going to psychoanalyze me now?”

  “I’m capable, you know.”

  “I do.” Stop her, I tell myself. You’re not ready.

  “You’re not bored,” Gal says. She’s too good at reading me. I suppose that’s a good quality in a friend, though. And there’s the problem; while Gal is sentient, she’s not human, and even though there is another human being awake and alive and not trying to kill me, I’m failing to connect with her. All the games and chit-chat aren’t going to make eternal life worth living.