Halogen Sector, Battleship Singularity
There was nothing particularly surprising about it. He just wished Amelia would aim a little to the left. She was damn near barfing on his shoes. Granted, they weren’t nice shoes, but he did only have two pairs.
Amelia noisily wretched onto the floor again, shuddering as she emptied the contents of her stomach. “Uggh.”
When she finished, he dropped a warm, damp towel down beside her, and she grabbed it, wiping the slather of spit and vomit from her face. Next, he dropped a rubber band into the same spot. With her shaking fingers, she used it to tie back the hair he’d been holding back for her.
“Thanks, Ron,” she managed, her breaths short and shuddering. Dizzy and disoriented, she’d never felt so physically sick and she knew exactly who to blame. “I hate him. Absolutely hate him.” The man was evil. Her uncle had dragged them into his war with Command and trapped them here, now on the run from the worlds.
He said nothing, just extended a hand to help her to her feet.
She took it, a strange exhaustion pulling at her limbs. They felt wobbly and unfamiliar. The room around her seemed to spin, the paintings on the wall, rug on the floor and decorative light fixtures blurring together. Bile started to rise in her throat again. She struggled to swallow it down, doubling over as the floor lurched up to meet her.
A pair of hands grabbed her, and the floor stopped. Falling, she realized. She’d been falling face first into the deck. She was pulled into a pair of strong arms, her own body limp and useless as she was carried across the room.
Typical planet-hugger. The FTL jump had sickened her to the point of helplessness. He deposited her into the deep blue upholstery of the nearest chair.
Amelia wrapped her numb hands tightly around the ornately carved wooden armrests, as if that hold could make the room stop spinning. Distantly, she heard the noise of the sink somewhere behind her, but the sound was vague and unimportant to the thundering pulse in her aching head.
A frigidly cold towel was thrown onto the back of her neck, and she hissed, but before she could complain, a glass was pressed to her lips, accompanied by a single command, “Drink.”
She obeyed, finding the cool water surprisingly welcome. It eased the painful throbs of her head, refreshing despite its oddly metallic taste.
When she emptied the glass, he set it down, and moved examine the small sleeping form on the couch.
The cold rag on her neck was quickly bringing the world back into focus, numbing the pain and stalling the spin of her surroundings. A small movement drew her attention to him, the wraith standing above the couch. He was clad in black, oddly missing his usual flannel. “Ron?” she queried, but he didn’t turn to face her, reaching down to the exposed neck of her sleeping son.
In the next moment, the door flew open and Ron Parker ran frantically into the room, his flannel hanging over a t-shirt. “Amelia!” he dashed over, the colors of his shirt nauseating. “Are you alright?”
She managed to nod as her confusion mounted. If this was Ron, the real one, then who the hell was standing across the room, with his hand on her helpless son’s neck? Weakly, she pushed Ron to the side. “Get away from him,” she demanded, her voice sounding so weak and raspy. “Get away from my son.”
He didn’t move from where he stood, back turned and face hidden. She started towards him, but couldn’t even fully get up, her legs wobbly and weak.
“Amelia…” Ron said quietly, pushing her carefully back into the chair, a slight warning in his gaze.
“Get away from him!” She screamed, struggling to see past Ron, where she met a cold blue gaze. “…Admiral?”
He removed his hand from Harrison’s neck, satisfied that the child’s pulse was steady. “Your son will be fine.” Predictably, the FTL jump had left him unconscious, but Harrison was uninjured.
Amelia couldn’t believe her eyes, “Admiral?” What the hell was he doing here?
He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps I should read off my full name, rank and ID number?’ Maybe that would help her comprehend the simple fact of his presence.
‘Behave,’ the ghost silently replied.
“What are you doing here?” Amelia asked.
Was it not obvious? No, he supposed not. There was fear in her eyes. She thought he was here to kill someone, because in her mind, he was incapable of doing anything else.
“I asked you a question,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“My job.” He was merely here to ensure the ship’s passengers did not drown in their own vomit. Ron Parker had clearly shared the same thought. “Subspace sickness rarely kills, Miss Amelia, but it is not incapable.” Inexperienced sailors and passengers were almost always its victims, usually through indirect causes: drowning, physical accidents or dehydration. He had come to make sure she didn’t die. No need to thank me.
It had been him, not Ron, who held back her hair while she threw up then carried her to this chair. The realization was strange. “…You came to help me?”
“I came to ensure you did not die,” he corrected. The difference might be minimal, but he did not want his intentions misunderstood.
The scowl instantly returned to Amelia’s lips. Of course you did. The great Steel Prince would never display an ounce of personal concern. “Well, is it not your job to explain what made me so sick?”
Not technically, he thought, folding his arms behind his back, but since you asked so nicely… “Was that your first experience with FTL travel?”
“No,” she said, feeling some sensation slowly return to her fingers. “I’ve been on two cruises. They used FTL maneuvers.” It was the only feasible way to travel space’s vast distances.
“Traditionally, cruise liners will use warp to traverse hyperspace. It is more fuel efficient, safer and tends to be kinder,” both to ships and people. Unfortunately, it was also traceable and slower. “What you just endured was an FTL jump: a point space-subspace transition.” The far uglier version of FTL. “Subspace is a cruel environment.” It was totally inhospitable, impossible to explore or annotate properties for. It crushed ships like tin cans if their structures couldn’t take the stress, a violent, deadly affair. “The first four or five exposures, usually through FTL jumps, people tend to suffer from what has been called subspace sickness.”
“In children, it usually causes fainting.” Harrison, who he’d picked up off the floor earlier, was a prime example. “In adults, it can cause migraines, panic attacks, paranoia, irritability, and,” as it should be obvious, “extreme nausea.”
Amelia glared at the Admiral, continually annoyed by his perfect indifference. “You don’t seem sick.”
“Sailors build tolerance to it over time.” The answer came from Ron, who was eager to put her at ease. “After four or five more jumps, you’ll only get headaches from the worst of them.” Extreme jumps like the one they had just completed, if his own lingering migraine was any indication.
“You seem to know a lot about this for a farmer, Mister Parker,” the Admiral said, stepping closer, his footsteps near-silent on the deck.
“Uhh,” Ron said, nervously wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Well, I took a few sightseeing cruises… back in the day.”
“Do me the respect of not lying to my face, Mister Parker.” They both knew a real farmer would have been just as sick and confused as Amelia.
Ron gulped, suddenly very interested in the light fixtures on the walls. The ovular mounts of the dormant red emergency lights looked particularly robust, but the current, warm light of the room had just become a lot less comforting. It was a glaring reminder that this was the Admiral’s territory. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
No farmer could afford sightseeing cruises, and no cruise liner would ever execute an FTL jump outside of an absolute emergency. But then, none of that was truly the issue. The issue was that Ron Parker was an AWOL Marine from the Olympia. “I will not pressure you for the truth, Mister Parker,” no doubt, the Marine had his own reasons for fleeing Command, “but if you threaten the safety of my ship or anyone on it…” There was a price to be paid.
He lowered his tone, “I suspect you have heard the stories about what I do to saboteurs.” They were quite colorful. “I assure you they are true.”
Ron nodded, inwardly shuddering at the cold promise in his blue eyes. “Understood, sir.”
Amelia shook her head, hearing the Admiral once again blatantly threaten violence. “You disgust me.” How had her father, her kind and loving father, ever been related to this menace?
“Your opinion is not my concern, Miss Amelia.” His duty was to keep his ship safe, and if that meant leveling ugly threats and occasionally committing murder, then that was exactly what he was going to do.
Amelia looked up to his stony countenance. “What are you going to do with us, Admiral?” She, Harrison, Ron and Anabelle were all useless to him. They were dead weight, and she knew it. “Throw us off at the next planet?”
“The situation is not that simple.” He would if he could. “I separated from Command. By tomorrow, this will be the most wanted ship in the worlds. Everyone aboard, yourself included, now has a kill bounty on their head.” If he threw them off at the nearest space port, they would die.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
“Dammit, don’t you think at all? My son is eight!” she shouted. “He is eight years old, and thanks to you, has a price on his head. What kind of future does he have?” None. With Command after them, they would all be dead by the end of the week. “You just condemned a child to death! How does that feel?”
She said that like Harrison was the first. “I had a choice, Miss Amelia.” He could have surrendered his ship and his crew, left them to the whims of a corrupted government, but he had chosen instead to make that government his enemy. “I could have left you there, at the mercy of Admiral Reeter, but I have elected to offer you a choice.”
“A choice?” She laughed bitterly, wishing she could rise up and smack that perfect calm from his face.
“I will give you a ship and enough fuel to return to the nearest UCSC outpost. No doubt, Reeter will pick you up there, and what he does with you will be out of my control.” Likely, it would be cruel. “Alternatively, I could leave you on the Frontier with a set of falsified identities. You could attempt to start a new life,” but eventually, Command’s forces would find her. That was inevitable.
Unbelievable. “The Frontier is a warzone! Fifteen countries have gone back into open rebellion.” More would follow, and then Reeter’s fleet would arrive to obliterate the separatists. Going there was suicide.
“Which brings me to your third option,” the Admiral said passively, “I will allow you to remain aboard, but you need to understand our circumstances. If Admiral Reeter diverts the fleet to hunt us down, then I have no choice but to engage them.” Remaining here was not the safe option. “Think on it, but in the meantime, clean up your vomit.” He did not want her stomach acid to corrode the deck of his ship.
He started to leave, and Amelia glared after him. “Why did you even bother rescuing us, Admiral? It’s obvious that you don’t actually give a damn about us being family.”
“As you and my late brother saw fit to remind me, I do not have a family.” He had a ship, and he remained alive for the single purpose of protecting that ship and her misfit crew. “You think I am a monster, Miss Amelia.” He would not deny that accusation. “You are probably right.”
Feeling their gazes on his back, a mixture of disgust and distrust, he left that compartment and began the rounds. The crew, despite their new predicament, seemed to be in high spirits. They did not seem to realize what this separation from Command truly entailed. They were cut off from the New Era’s coup, but they were also now cut off from the supply chain. They could no longer resupply, refuel or repair at any fleet facility.
No shipyard or station under the central government’s domain would allow them berth, and that government spanned the entirety of humanity’s territory: from the Neutral Zone to Killimontro. The only safe havens they would find now were either criminal facilities or those of countries that had gone into open rebellion. However, the Singularity’s prior history would bar them from both, since the ship had spent fifty years hunting down and eradicating criminals and separatists alike.
It was a tactical nightmare, but for the moment, the crew was happy, and that was a start.
Eventually, the Admiral returned to his own quarters. The living space that doubled as his office was smaller than that of the state quarters Amelia was staying in, but it was plenty enough for his taste. Lit by old lamps and filled with bookshelves, it was warm. A half-burned candle sat on the edge of his desk, leaving the faint smell of cinnamon in the air.
The desktop itself was covered in a mountain of paperwork, some combination of the previous week’s work and the resupply. A plate of food had been left on the corner, dropped off by his assistant. He picked it up, wincing as the weight of it pained his injured hand.
“You are due to redress that wound, you know.” It was hurting him because it wouldn’t heal while it was wrapped in soiled bandages.
The ghost’s timing was impeccable, as always. His mouth was full of sandwich.
She helped herself to a little chuckle. So much for the supremely terrifying Steel Prince. “Do you know you have crumbs all over you?”
Still chewing, he glared at her, but brushed the breadcrumbs off the front of his uniform. It seemed leaving the Homebound Sector had returned her to the playful persona he usually saw.
His glare would have petrified anyone else, but she just casually leaned up against the bulkheads in her usual spot, a sly smile playing on her lips. As standoffish as he seemed, she knew very well that he meant her no harm.
He put the sandwich down, pulled off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “How did I do?” he asked, grabbing the ship’s logbook off the bookshelf behind him.
“Acceptable, as expected.” He’d managed to bring every member of the crew out alive. She expected nothing less from him.
He nodded, sinking into his chair, knowing what went unsaid. Room for improvement. He should have predicted Thunderbolt’s activation. An immediate retreat wasn’t the best impression for a renegade battleship to leave. It painted them as a weak target. “And Gaffigan?”
“He suffered some light injuries and his memory of his time aboard the Olympia has been altered, but that’s all.” No alterations had been made to his personality or loyalty.
“Why would Manhattan only alter his memory?” Granted access to his brain, why not alter him entirely and use him as a pawn? From a tactical perspective, it seemed wasteful.
"I presume he was never expected to escape.” Likely, Gaffigan had been slated for execution, and there had been no point in turning him to the New Era’s side. “He was interrogated repeatedly by Manhattan, among others. His memory was probably altered so that he could not reveal what information the enemy was after.”
“Well,” the Admiral said, beginning to unwrap the soiled bandages from his left hand, “We know Manhattan had an interest in my files, so why am I suddenly of interest to humanity’s strongest AI?”
The ghost furrowed her brow, wondering the same. Why now? Manhattan had escaped imprisonment thirty-two years ago. In that time, the Admiral had gone through the best and worst points of his career. So why now?
She watched the Admiral poke at his burn. In the lamplight, it still looked garish: oozing welts and scabs that were cracked and damp with blood. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Yes,” he said, flexing his hand to see where the scabs had fractured. The continuous use of his hand would make it heal slowly and painfully.
“Then why are you doing that?”
“Because humans are dumb.” His habits were, in fact, very human. “Focus.” They needed to identify Manhattan’s intentions.
Right. “Most likely, Manhattan was investigating you because she thought you knew something about Wichita’s location.” That was reasonable, but it didn’t explain her interrogation of Gaffigan. “Or…” No, that couldn’t be.
“Or?” he looked up from rubbing the foul-smelling burn salve onto his hand.
This was worse than I thought. It was far worse. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“I know.” He had a special talent for finding trouble. “Why do you think I took this job?”
The ghost had no interest in his humor at the moment, “You idiot,” she peeled her back off the wall, “If I were corporeal, I’d smack you upside the head!”
“And here I thought you liked me.”
“Shut up and eat your sandwich,” she snapped, beginning to pace the width of the room.
As told, he placed his elbows on his desk, and began to casually munch.
She could just see the amusement in his eyes. “This isn’t funny.” This was a problem, a massive problem. “You’re an idiot.”
“If you say so.” It wasn’t like he was one of the most respected tacticians in fleet history and a talented engineer with a solid understanding of astrophysics or anything.
Did he not understand the severity of this or did he just not care? She threw her arms across her chest. “You’re so smart, but you’re a damn idiot.”
“I was unaware it worked like that, but okay.” He wasn’t going to argue the point.
“Manhattan was investigating you because she suspected you were hosting an AI.” Nothing about this situation should be taken lightly. “Simply, you’re so smart that she suspects you aren’t even human.”
“I did tell you humans were dumb, didn’t I?” He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich. Apparently, Manhattan didn’t need anyone to keep reminding her of that fact.
“It’s not funny.” Only another AI would be able to identify Manhattan’s handiwork, let alone fight off her virus, and only another AI could have guaranteed the apparently successful implementation of the Zero Strike override. “Every bit of the show you put on to separate from Command supported that conclusion. As far as Manhattan believes, you are hosting the Wichita AI fragment, and it has been helping you control your ship. As far as she cares, it ran the calculations that estimated the impact of Luna Major’s magnetic field on Thunderbolt’s charge time and allowed us to escape.”
“Good to know an AI gets credit for all my hard work because humans are apparently incapable of high-level calculus,” he said, still focused on his ham sandwich. “Odd, considering humans invented calculus.” But who was he to complain? He was just a stupid ape.
“Admiral, do you know what she will do to you if she catches you?”
He brushed the last of the breadcrumbs from his fingers, “Probably tear my mind apart until she finds what she’s looking for, which would be unfortunate for all parties involved because, as far as I know, Wichita isn’t here, and I assume you would tell me if she was.” If there was an AI screwing around with his brain, he’d like to know. “That said, perhaps we should be grateful that Manhattan has no idea what is actually going on here, yes?”
That was true. The moment Manhattan figured that out, they were sunk, but it seemed a faraway concern at the moment. “Don’t put me in this situation,” she pleaded. She knew they would end up at odds.
He effortlessly produced a knife sleeve to cut the apple that remained on his plate. “What situation?” He pressed the blade just into the green skin, watching a drop of juice well up and run down the fruit. “I don’t see how this issue directly affects you.” Even if Manhattan got to him, he would not allow that to endanger the ghost. He would take his own life to prevent that, if necessary.
He was so indifferent. It pained her. “You treat this like it doesn’t matter.”
“Because it doesn’t.” He was still running from Command on a renegade battleship. Additionally, there was now an AI waiting to dissect his conscious mind if he ever got caught. It changed nothing. The overall goal was to still not get caught.
“It matters to me.” Now Manhattan’s primary target, the AI would kill him, if he was lucky. Unholy suffering awaited him if he was ever captured, and the pain that AI could inflict, had inflicted upon him was incomparable. “I care about you, and I…” she trailed off, her voice soft. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” Not again.
He abruptly stabbed into the apple and the sharp little blade cut straight through, clinking loudly against the plate. “You are out of line.”
She bowed her head, knowing she’d gone too far.
“I thought we were past this.” He had thought he would not need to give this lecture again. “I have told you this a hundred times. You cannot get attached to people. You cannot get attached to me.” It was unacceptable. “People will leave you. That is a fact. I will leave you, and that is also a fact.” He was not the exception to these rules.
She recognized the peculiar cold in his voice. “Please, don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at me.” This was his fault and he knew it. “I should have taught you better.” This would not be an ongoing issue if he had done his job right the first time around.
He tightened his grip on the little knife. “I should have kept my distance.” He’d let her get close, too close. He let her tease him and mess around because it made her happy and she was good company, the only company he had anymore. But she just couldn’t comprehend the reality of their situation.
“I don’t think you understand who, what I am.” He looked to her stark white hair. “Do you truly think I can truly care about what happens to you?” He was a high-functioning sociopath. Empathy was not his gift. “My job is to take care of you, and to take care of the crew. I do as you ask because I owe you a debt.”
He understood the problem. She wanted to care about him because he had treated her decently, one of very few that had, but she was making a mistake. “Listen to me,” he instructed sharply. “I am not a good person. You need to understand that.” He was not wholly functional. “I will never be exactly what you had hoped I would be.” Even though he tried his best, “I will never be your hero.” He couldn’t save her from Command, not completely.
She seemed ready to cry as he studied her expression. I’m sorry. This was cruel, but it would be crueler still to let her continue on that path. “Someday, you will find a replacement for me, and that will be good.” She would be much happier. “You need to understand that.”
It was all she could do to stand there, hoping to see some affection, some sadness in his expression, but it was as blank as a slab of stone. She was afraid to touch the bond they shared. “Why did you ask me to make that promise?” Had he not hoped to find someone that would care about what happened to him?
“Because I am a coward.” Because he hadn’t known any better. “I never expected you to keep it.” I never expected you to try.