by Isaac Hooke
Jonathan had to smile. The loyalty of his crew was touching. "Then send robots."
Another pause. "Aye sir."
Jonathan terminated the call.
The commander's eyes were distant. "I just received the order from Admiral Knox." He frowned. "What's this? Captain Scott is going to remotely captain the Callaway from the Hurricane?"
"I was never a big fan of remote captaincy myself," Jonathan said. "Especially when the role involves leading a task unit. Though it might prove beneficial to you—the admiral plans to separate the task units. Once the lag from the Hurricane becomes too great, you'll become the de facto captain."
"Wait." Robert's eyes were still defocused. "It also says Scott will arrive in a shuttle once Task Unit Two slows down to delay the enemy."
"Too bad, then," Jonathan said.
Robert shook his head adamantly. He definitely didn't like these orders. He opened his mouth to speak but Jonathan raised an arresting hand before the commander could say something he would regret.
"Remember, the AI," Jonathan told him pointedly.
"But my conscience won't allow me—"
"Your conscience will be clear." Jonathan said. "You're not the one deploying the star killer."
"But I'm protecting it. Indirectly—"
Again Jonathan interrupted him. "No, Robert. You're not responsible, neither directly nor indirectly. The admiral assumes full responsibility for what goes on here. He and his lackeys. Your conscience can rest easy: you're fighting to save the lives of those the admiral foolishly ordered behind. These brave men and women who will be standing against an enemy whose full capabilities remain unknown so far. I'd much rather have you out there acting as first officer than another clueless toady from the Hurricane. When this Captain Scott arrives, advise him, and advise him well. I have a feeling he'll be fairly useless."
"You know him?"
"Not at all. Nor do I want to." Jonathan resisted the urge to pull up the associated personnel file. His access had probably been revoked by then anyway.
Robert took a deep drink of the illegal Scotch. "A hundred million lives."
"Don't give up hope," Jonathan said. "Maybe I can find a way to stop the admiral yet."
"Stop the admiral from the brig?" Robert smiled sadly. "The only thing you'll be able to do from there is vegetate in VR."
"I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet," Jonathan said. Though unfortunately he knew Robert was entirely right. He didn't want the man to lose hope, however. The commander would perform better in the upcoming battle if his morale wasn't too low.
"Honestly, I'm actually looking forward to my time in brig," Jonathan mused. "A welcome break from responsibility and accountability. I always planned to retire into VR, you know. There are a few experiences I've been meaning to try for years but have never gotten around to."
"Unless the admiral takes away your aReal," Robert said.
"He wouldn't dare. It's a basic prisoner right."
The hatch to the office opened. It surprised Jonathan—he was used to hearing the entry whistle first and then manually granting access as he saw fit. He would simply have to get used to no longer being in control.
Two MA robots stood in the entrance: box-shaped heads connected to high-grade polycarbonate torsos; blocky arms and legs with circular connecting joints; the subtle whir of servomotors accompanying every movement.
"I'm sorry, sir," one of the robots said. "We're here to escort you to the brig."
Jonathan saw the two human MAs assigned to the bridge hovering close behind the robots. The two men looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for the former captain to give the order to intervene. Other officers on the bridge gazed apprehensively at the open door as if they, too, were trying to decide their own loyalties; the tension was obvious.
"Stand down, men," Jonathan told the loyal MAs.
One of the robots glanced over its shoulder, apparently realizing the precariousness of its situation only then. The two men lowered their gazes, turning away.
"Well, Commander?" Jonathan told Robert. "Are you going to do your job?"
Robert sighed. "This is the worst day of my life."
"Believe me when I say it's even worse for me."
Robert reluctantly stood. "Maxwell, you have seen the order from Admiral Hartford Knox?"
"I have," the computer intoned emotionlessly.
"Make an entry in the log. As of eighteen thirty, standard time, Commanding Officer Jonathan Dallas has been placed under arrest for attempted mutiny and is no longer the captain of the USS Callaway. I, Commander Robert Cray, formally assume command until relieved by Captain Scott of the Hurricane."
"Command transfer duly noted," Maxwell returned.
Jonathan finished his glass of Scotch and then allowed the MA robots to escort him to the brig without resistance.
sixteen
Jonathan sat cross-legged, meditating. Eight hours had passed since he had been sentenced to the brig, a span of time that had brought the fleet that much closer to battle. Task Unit Two would have separated from the first unit by then, and Captain Scott would be aboard the Callaway. Jonathan pitied Robert.
The palm trees bobbed up and down beside him. In the distance, several hot air balloons of differing shapes and sizes dotted the horizon. He had raced one of them in the Annual Exotic Hot Air Balloon competition earlier—a llama-shaped balloon, actually. He'd lost.
Before that, he had spent an hour piloting a microdrone around a realistic depiction of late twenty-first century Shanghai, reconstructed from aerial lightfield footage of the era. He had dodged a butcher's knife as he flew past outdoor slaughterhouses, avoided a wave of passing cyclists intent on running him down, and weaved between the lithe models of a fashion shoot. He would have preferred to walk the area on foot but the confines of the brig weren't conducive to such a leisurely exploration. That particular VR simulation was based on the popular sport of microdrone racing, wherein people flew drones indistinguishable from small bees or moths around populated areas. Tiny cameras attached to equally small gimbals transmitted first-person-view video to the owners. A whole microdrone subculture had developed on Earth and other colony worlds, and racing was just one of the branches. Exploration was another big one. People loved to tour real life places from the comforts of their homes with microdrones, which were limited only by battery power and signal strength. The fact that their little friends participated in the real world, rather than a virtual one, appealed to many.
He had his choice of over a hundred thousand such simulations, from travel to leisure to sports activities. When he was actually sentenced months from now, the programs he would be allowed to run would be restricted to those of the rehabilitation bent. His immersion time would be limited, too. Probably a good thing—he felt the old addiction cravings already.
Jonathan reached down to touch the white sand underneath him and instead of warm grains he felt cold steel. It ruined his sense of presence. He sighed, glancing at the sun. Looking at that molten light in the sky was the easiest way to remind himself of the lie around him, because in virtual reality, the sun didn't hurt the eyes. That was true of both spectacle and contact lens wearers, but not all Implant users—some of the latter devices could transmit the necessary signals directly to the appropriate pain receptors. Thinking on that Jonathan was reminded again, as he often was, of the irony of VR: the lengths humanity would go to avoid reality, only to simulate it in the end.
Jonathan decided he had been in there long enough and shut down the experience. The opaque glass cleared and he found himself staring at the steel bulkheads of the brig.
How did I get here? he wondered. I can't believe I have come so far, achieved so much, only to end my journey like this.
He remembered all those years ago when he had sat down with his cousin and mentor, Admiral Ahab Davis.
When he told Ahab he was considering entering the academy, the admiral smiled sadly. "Is that really what you want, son?"
"It is," Jonathan answ
ered him. "It's been my dream ever since I was a boy. I want to command a starship."
Ahab nodded to himself. "Funny thing about dreams: you have to commit your heart and soul, your entire being, to them. You gotta live your dream every hour of the day. Eat it, breathe it, sleep it. You have to fully dedicate yourself. Achieving that dream might take ten years. It might take twenty. There's a chance even after thirty years, or forty, that you'll never attain it at all. But if you do, son, if you do. Man. I tell you, there isn't a sweeter pleasure in this life than a dream attained. It's what we as a species live for.
"Every one of us has dreams. Every last one. But some sit on the sidelines and do nothing to achieve their goals, and instead watch complacently as others attain theirs. These are happy people, for the most part. And good people, don't get me wrong.
"Others, meanwhile, work and work and work to accomplish their dreams, and still fail. Such individuals eventually become bitter and full of envy, feeling cheated out of what they feel they deserve in life, and take every opportunity to criticize others, and enjoy watching people fall.
"Then there are the rare few who barrel on through the emotional turmoil and self-doubt, fighting tooth and nail with the latter every waking moment, and eventually, against all odds, achieve their dreams. Their drive is insatiable. Nothing can stand in their way. Not tears. Not sorrow. Not blood.
"Every time you find yourself struggling at the academy, be it from the workload, the physical training, or the stress of exams and qualifications, ask yourself how badly you want it. If the answer is: 'more than anything in the world,' then barrel on, Jonathan. Barrel on. Don't be the dreamer. Be the attainer."
Jonathan had taken that advice to heart. He hadn't wanted to live an ordinary life. He had dedicated himself to the captaincy, though the cost had not been cheap. He had lost friends. Distanced himself from family members. Turned down the woman he loved. All in pursuit of the extraordinary.
He had given up everything to attain his dream. He had become a captain, a man respected and followed by others. He had commanded a starship. Lived life on his own terms.
But that dream was gone now.
He heard voices beyond the barred exit. Leaning to the side, he spotted Bridgette, Robert's wife, talking to the sentry on duty. She was a civilian.
Civilians. It had always been controversial to allow families aboard military spacecraft. But because of the nature of space flight, with crew away from home from spans of two to five years, it was considered a small act of kindness to allow one's spouse aboard. Teledildonics and virtual sex only went so far, and reliving past experiences through VR became old quickly. Married couples needed an emotional, realtime bond with their living and breathing partners if they wanted their marriages to work.
Couples were assigned to sleep pods in special shared berths reserved for families. Children were kept in robot-manned nurseries at all times, and parents visited on rotating schedules.
Several of the officers had wives and husbands aboard, Robert included. Jonathan had never married, of course. He had devoted his life to his ship and his crew. While he had no direct offspring, he was probably the father to several hundred children he didn't know about. He had donated sperm years ago to a non-profit, which had sold it to Blackford Fertility Inc., one of the biggest suppliers in the galaxy. He had donated mostly to help the charity—-the sperm of officers in captaincy positions sold for a hefty price on the market—but it was also his way of preserving his genetic lineage.
The horizontal bars trapping him in the cell abruptly slid to the side. Bridgette stepped into the compartment, her steel-toed shoes echoing on the deck.
She was only tall enough to reach Jonathan's chest when he was standing. Bright blue eyes peered out from a face of flawless skin. A button nose anchored her features between the dark hair that tumbled down her cheeks in ringlets. A delicate gold chain hung from her slender neck.
She always reminded him, eerily, of the woman he had abandoned on the mountain. She had that same nose, those same blue eyes, and skin so pale it was almost porcelain.
"Hello, Jonathan," she said. The bars sealed behind her as she sat beside him on the bunk.
He nodded slowly. "Bridgette."
"You're moving up in the world," she joked. Or tried to: her eyes belied the worry she felt.
"I am," he agreed. "But this is nothing compared to what I'll have eight months from now. Soon, I'll be living in the penthouse suite of a military penitentiary."
She leaned forward and wrapped a hand around his. "Assuming we survive that long."
"We'll survive," Jonathan said, conscious of the warm touch of her palm. "We're in good hands with Robert up there on the bridge. He'll do a fine job. And he'll be the better for it. Combat: a captain's crucible."
"But he's not even in command," Bridgette complained.
"He might as well be. I don't think our new captain is very experienced. Robert will make sure he doesn't mess things up too badly."
She looked away.
"What is it?" Jonathan said.
"I don't want to be alone when the fighting starts," she said softly.
Jonathan squeezed her palm. "Stay as long as you need."
She slid her hand from his. "There's another reason I came." She glanced toward the barred exit, as if worried the sentry on duty might hear.
"You know the AI is eavesdropping, right?" Jonathan asked her.
"Maxwell already knows what I'm about to confide in you, I'm sure," Bridgette said. "He's able to read the vital signs of everyone aboard."
"Are you sick?" Jonathan said, suddenly concerned.
"In a way." She stared past him. For a moment he thought she was accessing her aReal contact lenses, but he realized she was merely unable to meet his eyes.
"Tell me," Jonathan said.
"You must promise me you won't tell Robert."
Jonathan furrowed his brow. "Are you pregnant or something?"
"You were always good at reading people."
"I would have never made captain if I wasn't. Then again, maybe I'm not so good. After that fiasco of a conference..." He shook his head. "But I'm directing attention away from you. You wanted to talk about your pregnancy."
She smiled. "We can talk about the conference if you want."
"There's nothing to talk about," he said. "The admiral laid a well-planned trap and I stepped right into it."
"What happened between you two on that mountaintop?" Bridgette said. "You've never told me."
Jonathan felt his face grow hot and he looked away.
"Sorry." Bridgette touched his shoulder. "I shouldn't have said anything. You almost died up there."
Jonathan shook her fingers away. "Back to you. You're pregnant. Robert doesn't know."
Bridgette frowned. "Yes, I haven't told him. Because... well, I haven't decided whether I'm going to abort the fetus yet."
"Why would you want to abort such a beautiful creation? The life resulting from the union of a man and woman in love?"
Bridgette exhaled audibly. "It's not as simple as that."
"Then what's the problem? Robert doesn't want children?"
"Robert and I aren't the problem. The baby isn't, even. It's the environment."
Jonathan felt his face crumple in confusion. "The environment."
"I always told myself I'd never raise a ship baby. Being a ship baby myself, I've never wanted to inflict such a cruel punishment on anyone else. Growing up in a steel prison called a nursery, with mostly robots for playmates, with the only relief provided by virtual reality, well, let's just say it wasn't the best way to grow up. It's basically an orphanage on a ship."
Jonathan tapped his lips. "It isn't the best arrangement, I agree. But we're lucky children are allowed on starships at all."
"I became a Vaddict," Bridgette said simply.
Jonathan lowered his gaze.
"What is it?" Bridgette said.
Jonathan sighed. "I was a Vaddict, too, in my youth."
Jonathan nodded. "Though I didn't grow up on a ship, I was the shyest, most sheltered person you ever met. VR was the only way I could truly be myself around other people. I tried conquering my anxieties and fears by loading up different therapy programs, but still my brain refused to change. It knew the simulations weren't real. The moment I removed the aReal spectacles and went back to the real world, my anxieties returned. I found myself withdrawing more and more from the real world until I spent almost all my time immersed in VR, disconnecting only to eat, sleep and relieve myself. Eventually I reprogrammed my robot nannies to act as full service units so that I didn't even have to leave VR for the latter purposes."
"You had robot nannies, too?"
"Unfortunately. It's not something I recommend any parent ever do. Letting their children be raised by robot nannies, I mean."
"Exactly," Bridgette said. "See? This is why I don't want to raise my child on a starship. But how did you beat the addiction?"
"I didn't. My mother and father returned home from one of their two year galactic trips and discovered what I had done. They pulled the proverbial plug and sent me off to Vaddict therapy."
Bridgette nodded. "I suffered my fair share of social anxieties growing up shipboard. The worst came when I actually had to step off of a ship for the first time. It was the strangest sensation. Going from such a confined space to a completely open one. What's the opposite of claustrophobia?"
"I'll look it up on my aReal." He started to do just that, but then Bridgette interrupted him.
"Whatever it is," Bridgette said. "It was what I felt in that moment. You'd think all the VR I played would have prepared me for that. Nope. I guess, deep down, my mind knew the virtual environments weren't real. Especially with the chaperone system." That was a VRism that caused the walls of the real world to fade-in whenever someone ventured too close to them while embedded in an immersive virtual environment.
"And yet," Jonathan said. "For all the anxieties and problems caused by your shipboard rearing, you turned out pretty well. If you hadn't had those experiences, you wouldn't have grown into the woman you are today. I say have the child, Bridgette. Let him or her grow up on the ship. Visit daily. Play with the child. Make sure they don't become a Vaddict."