Chapter Four
Weeks had passed since the incident. Barely a word was said between each of them. Sydney had quietly returned to life, her vitals steadily returning normal in the coming days. Frederickson had overestimated the damage, there was little besides some minor frontal damage. Her psychological profile intact. The Theseus was approaching 3.7 billion miles away from Earth. The rings of Saturn just a few clicks away.
Noah had frequented the gardens in the time since the accident. Whenever Frederickson asked a question or began to quote Hardy again, Noah just complied and hurried off to his own studies. The world had become a lot smaller and scarier after Sydney’s encounter.
Clemency still weighed inside Noah’s mind. Cross-legged and floating in the middle of the garden, Noah would breathe in the green delights. The air from its source. It felt fresh inside his lungs. He thought deeply about the comments that Charles had made in those brief hours following the incident. About the stimulation of respiration. About how probably that the mind of this nineteenth-century aristocrat could possibly maintain the lives of two astronauts for millennia. The exact expiration-date of the mission varied. It depended on whether they contacted extra-terrestrial forces. Whether a habitable planet was reached and populated. And, the most likely of all, their destruction.
The total provisions and materials on-board could not maintain them for that long. A dark thought crossed and quickly dispersed Noah’s mind that perhaps if Sydney had died, their mission might last a little longer. Just a lick of time. Enough to make a difference in the grand scheme of everything. He shook his head.
His prayers were becoming shorter too. Often, he would only ask for further guidance. A change was brewing inside, and Noah knew it was as volcanic as his fever dreams.
Religion had come to him in like a dream. Just one lonely night he had lost his dearest companion, his cocker spaniel named Terry. While burying him, he had looked to the sky for guidance. There was a lightning bolt of thoughts coursing through him as Noah felt something stir deep. Hidden beneath that blanket of cold black dark, was something. Just the smallest spec.
His nightmares. Even outside cold storage, he would have the nightmares. Of the boat in the storm turned like a pancake between the indomitable waves. The splash of rustic water in his face, and the ropes weighing him to his vessel. And above in the clouds of grey mist, he could pluck some image. Dwelling between the folds of his imagined spaces, and he could swear he was seeing what was not true, or what he could not bear to be true, the outline of the clouds as they drifted into each other. As they grew steadily darker and blotted out the stars like sachets of ink ripped into the infinite horizon. The outline of it all, clear and black, was the face of Charles Osgood Frederickson.
Whatever thin ribbon of imagination was torturing him, he could sense some truth buried in the sands of his mind. Noah shaped his thoughts in this direction. He had concluded a while ago that the only safe space, one of the few he could control, was slowly blending into something else. As if a toxic frost, a whole illness, was worming its way into the core of his cranium. The inside of his head did not feel like his own property anymore. Every time that needle shoved its way into the back of his neck, he could feel the folds of fingertips waving their way across his brain’s very flesh.
Every time he felt this sensation, these cold touches, his nightmares would sparkle with lightning. Striking the seas and the torrent of rain blurring around. He would always end this the same. Hurrying from side to side, attempting to wrestle with the sail. Feeling his shoes swell with water. The tides would grow higher until they began to turn him over. He would feel a touch in his brain. Like a worm in an apple, wriggling, and the lightning would strike upon his boat and deliver him into the sea.
And he would keep breathing. As if it were normal. Taking to heart the confession of Frederickson about respiration. To accept its simulation.
Sydney erstwhile began her recovery slowly and tepidly. She would shrug at Noah, or barely whisper a word. Her voice still hoarse. She thought too much of home and the events she had withstood. The deep blackness of it all. The demonic voice of a shaken Frederickson. The house she had wandered in, and the feeling of iced slush in her lungs. She barely drank fluids. While Noah retreated to the gardens, she would pore over books and the computer log. Looking at flashing images of her own damaged brain.
And she kept seeing it. The void. The deepest blackness. And it ran shivers across her completely, to wonder that was truly the inevitable end. As Frederickson had described. She could not bear to sleep, to close her eyes and tempt in those thoughts. It took her hours to arrive back to that curious moment. That she was certain Frederickson had not sensed. Besides the name he whispered into her, and the existential taunting, he remained ignorant of her final second. The curious second. When she had felt both the terror of the infinite dark, in all its blank nihilism, and something to which she could hardly evaluate.
That moment when the jagged edges of ice cracked against her lungs. When her brain went into bloodless freefall. That moment, on the very edge, considering the infinite dark. A place devoid of thought, feeling or any consciousness, she had felt the complete terror of it all. Yet, with Charles Osgood Frederickson taunting her and looking over the shoulder, he had not felt her final moment. For as she stood on that edge, she suddenly felt herself both within and without. As if she was being launched in to something else. The chemical cocktail in her dying brain, fizzing with pain and a blunderbuss of dying wonder, suddenly surrendered to blissful serenity. A shiver of a feeling. Running itself down her spine like electric and into her right hand. As if she was pressing it, lightly, upon glass.
She had wrestled with this for days. Questioned it. Because something had not sat right with her. For all her endless riddles of thinking about her mortality. About the dark truth that Frederickson preached, there was a hollowness in it. Her brain was rejecting it, and the anxiety within her was white-hot, but there was something to it. When watching Noah float back into his garden meditations and prayers, she wondered if she should share it. Whenever the needle was in her neck, she thought to pry open some conversation with the mostly mute Frederickson. To grasp at the details of their last encounter. She didn’t share it, though, and kept it out of her thoughts for the most part. Recognising he would pick up on it within their cryosleep if given too much attention.
Except there was a darker revelation stirring. She had entertained it for some time. She knew, deep down, Noah had similar feelings. Charles Osgood Frederickson had been plucked from his grave and resurrected. Squashed into a tube and married to lines of code. He was the personality to preside over their humanity, to make sure their minds remained ripe. He was always there in their dreams and replayed memories. Clipboard in hand, taking notes. Except, often, there was a technicolour flicker. A whole psychedelic surge of an image, as Frederickson warped out of view, replaced with just a blinding spectre of rainbow light.
A few times Sydney had concluded that it was a glitch. It was Frederickson shifting his skin from apparition to his true form. The light that he shined deep into the back of their heads. Yet she kept remembering Goodwin putting the styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand. The light burning of her fingers. The smell of it drifting into her nostrils. Whilst he told her what he had done. How he had brought Frederickson back to life. How he had swallowed whole petabytes of data by the second. His personality and computer code meshed together to create the intelligence required to maintain not just the ship but the minds of its crew, with the correct volume of compassion and empathy. That one-percent of humanity that kept the cogs turning.
What if, however, she had wondered, that the rainbow spectre that Frederickson shifted into was actual what he was all along? What if the voice in the tubes was not the nineteenth-century aristocrat, but a shadow. What if Charles, in his final moments, on his deathbed, centuries ago, had felt the glass too. Felt the same second of bliss that she had. What if the intelligence that circled the Theseus was a dark imitation? Or if it had read its own code, to scour the archives and networks for information on a personality it could play. To spin itself into a story.
Sydney made sure to think briefly on these lines. To bury it deep in the nonsense of imagined futures and dreams of her husband. She did not want Charles to discover these inquiries. Besides, to what ends would Frederickson have to scare her with a taste of death. To what ends would an artificial intelligence have to play with their minds like clay?
The weeks were filled with these silences. The warm hum of Theseus. The occasional health checks and brain scans by Frederickson. Little time was allotted to entertainment and exercise. When Noah was not in it, Sydney found herself in the garden. Analysing samples and placing her hand on the glass panels that guarded the embryos and biological specimens. Frozen deep. And every time her palms ran cold across that glass, she considered her reflected eyes and was reminded of that deep, electric sensation she had felt in the final throes of death.
‘Are you avoiding me, Captain?’
Noah and Sydney were in the central room, both reading monitors on the walls, when the voice of Frederickson sunk into the room.
Noah looked over to Sydney, nodding nervously.
‘I’m not sure what you mean, Charles.’ Noah said.
‘Oh we both know that you’ve been avoiding me. One word answers. Even in your dreams you seem to look away from me.’ Charles almost couldn’t contain his glee, ‘have I done something to upset either of you?’
‘Well. I did die.’ Sydney said.
‘I suppose that is difficult to get over.’ Charles said.
‘There is a tension. It’s obvious, Cof.’ Noah said.
Noah looked briefly over the Sydney again.
‘Not keen to be trading pleasantries, are we? Pity, really.’ Charles said. ‘I think we should all have a chat. A cup of tea and a good sit down.’
‘There won’t be any of that. Not anymore. Nothing that’s outside the schedule.’ Noah said.
Sydney looked over to Noah. A disdain on his face, gritting his teeth as he delivered those words.
‘Captain, are you defying my psychological assessment?’
Noah thought for a second, glancing at Sydney. Caught in her own thoughts, she suddenly began to realise there was a taunting tone buried beneath the words of Frederickson. As if he was goading.
‘You’re not the Captain, Frederickson. As far as I’m concerned, you’re serving your purpose and I’m doing mine.’ Noah said. ‘We have much work to do.’
‘I am requesting an emergency psychological assessment of you, Noah.’ Charles said.
‘And I am refusing.’
‘It is necessary for the mission.’
‘And I am disagreeing.’
‘Oh Captain, my captain…’ Frederickson sighed deeply, as his voice shifted, ‘that is where we are at an impasse. My purpose is keeping you alive. Steering you through the black void of space. Do you expect me to listen to your little chirps? Consider the thousands of laws and failsafes keeping me from shutting off the oxygen. The processing power that it takes just to keep you breathing. Think about it. I could use that power for so, so much more. But taking it away would be sure death for you two. Watching you dance yourself to asphyxiated death. Am I making myself clear, Noah. I am not serving anyone. You are a burden, strapped to my Theseus. The oxygen you breathe is pumped from my lungs. Your daily supply of foods and water comes from my charity. I have both of your minds catalogued down to the synapses and you expect me to just listen to you defy my generosity.’
‘I am Charles Osgood Frederickson, hundreds of years old. I have seen the endless infinite darkness of death and yet here I am. Charting you through the rocks and delights our Solar System offers. All on this vague, false hope that we may be able to rebirth humanity. I can tell both of you, right now, the numbers are not on your side. Believe me, for I am the greatest calculator ever invented, it is almost impossible for Goodwins’ plan to come to fruition. You shall both surrender to the dark. I shall be left floating in the space between spaces, watching the stars flicker in the distance as I slowly decay. To slip back into that unending black slumber.’
Stunned, Sydney grabbed on to some nearby grips and hoisted herself towards Noah. She looked across the monitors dotted with graphs and brain scans. The venom that Charles had berated into them stirred in their skulls for a few brief moments. She looked at Noah, scared again for everything.
‘Almost.’ Noah said.
A pause.
‘I’m sorry, Captain?’
‘Almost. You said almost impossible.’
‘The chances of humankind’s survival are-‘
‘Irrelevant. Because the clue is right there, Cof. Chances. If that number remains above zero, this is not a death march towards God’s kingdom. I care little for whatever psychiatric games you want to play. Leave the neurosurgery to your dream invasions. We are not here to worship you and revere your stories. You’re a cog, and it frightens me that your personality protocols aren’t kicking in. I’m refusing access to my brain now. Please, let us return to our work. If you don’t mind, Frederickson, I’d rather you stay out of our way for a while. Myself and Sydney will need to look at you. Data, code, and all.’ Noah said.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Captain.’ Frederickson said. ‘Sydney. Is it true. Is this mutiny?’
There was almost a plea in his voice.
‘Mutiny would be against the Captain. You’re not the Captain.’ Sydney said.
Charles Osgood Frederickson remained silent for a moment.
‘Do you truly believe- I mean, Charles, why bring this up now? The facts of the mission?’ Noah said, rubbing his face.
‘What facts?’ Charles said.
‘That we allegedly have no chance. Why bring it up now. What’s going on?’
‘Well I suppose one of you dying made me think about my own lifespan. About the Theseus too.’
‘I don’t need much reminder about myself dying and everything, thank you.’ Sydney said. ‘I’ve already got it on a post-it note, no need to bother.’
‘Sydney, you joke, but I’m serious.’ Charles said.
‘If our flare shot mission is a highly probable failure then why continue, Charles. Why bother?’ Noah said.
‘I was programmed to protect humanity. To awake everyone on board in the event of a catastrophe or death. To divert enough programming power to psychological exercise for the two of you. If you want my serious thoughts, then the likelihood of mission success dramatically increases upon the removal of resources.’ Charles said.
‘Which resources?’ Sydney said.
‘You.’
A silence followed again.
‘With the removal of oxygen filtration, food, psychological evaluation, and everything in-between keeping you two alive, I can divert so much more power to preserving myself. Go on low-power. Once we pass the outer rim of the Solar System then the sunshine won’t be powering me through most days. I’ll be running on reserves. Those reserves would be a whole lot more, uh, useful without two humans inside this ship.’ Charles said. ‘But I wouldn’t allow that. My programming is exclusive about it. I cannot allow you two to suffocate.’
There was a thick tension in the air, and the lack of gravity was not alleviating it.
‘Charles.’ Noah began, nervously, ‘I believe we’re going to have to look at such programming. Sydney and I aren’t fans of what you’re saying right now.’
‘I sincerely request, again, emergency psychological evaluation. I’m diverting resources away to make arrangements.’ Charles said.
‘Resources away from what?’ Sydney said.
‘Nothing too big.’ Charles said. ‘Just, you know. Steering.’
Noah flew his hands back in shock, glaring at Sydney in palpable fear.
‘Charles! Charles?!’
A long, empty silence.
And then.
‘The curtains now are drawn.’ Came the voice, now flush with white noise in-between words.
There was a hissing sound beneath the panelling surrounding the central room.
‘And the spindrift strikes the glass.’
Sydney and Noah looked at each other, realising at the same instant to what was unfolding.
‘Blown up the jagged pass.’
All the hatches and doors were opened inside the Theseus.
‘Charles!’ Noah cried.
‘By the surly salt sour west’ Charles continued.
There was a hot draft through the air, as the ventilation shifted above. Moving pieces of air around the inner works.
‘And the sneering glare is gone behind the yonder crest.’ Charles said.
‘Charles! What’s going on!’ Noah shouted.
There was one flashing red light on a console in front of them. Noah turned to Sydney, his hair shifting in the free gravity. He typed rapidly into the keyboard in front of him. Sydney looked over his shoulder, the room growing colder.
A banging noise sounded throughout the room. Collision. Jolting towards the main hatch, Sydney and Noah recoiled like bullets inside a chamber. Rocketing into a chaotic mess of papers and objects dislodged. The sirens sounded above, and Noah caught a brief glimpse of the terror outside. In the glass sheaths between the panels, he saw thin whiskers of rocks swirling around the Theseus.
His head searched for the rules and protocols. Charles could never harm them. Could never kill them. He oversaw their brains and their diets. All of it, and yet here they were. Sydney bashed her head against the panels of the hallway. Spiralling out towards the garden, with the green blooms shivering with the changes of air.
And yet there was nothing, as Noah came to terribly realise, that could stop Charles from choosing on his own. Nothing to stop him from diverting attention and resources away from something like, say, collision detection and towards oxygen preservation. Killing them by saving their lives.
And the voice circled Noah’s brain all the same, with the whole Theseus under a shotgun blast of rogue rocks. Dipping itself in some forgotten stream of comet corpses.
‘While she sings to me.’