The Void - Starship Vitality

I wake in a coffin. Typical. It’s stone, or stone-like, and upright. Like an obelisk. With me inside. I can move a little, but don’t want to.

“Why am I awake?”

A tiny speaker relays a cheery voice. “It’s time for our co-diagnostic.”

“I don’t care.”

“We’re more than halfway to the galactic core.” says the cheery voice. “The ship has switched to deceleration mode.”

“Still don’t care.”

“I made your favorite breakfast. A V&V.”

I sulk sleepily. Vi’s not going to leave me alone. It would be counter to her programming. Also, a V&V does sound good. Fuck it. I paw the latch to my isolation pod, and stagger blearily into the obelisk strewn, starlit meadow that is The Starship Vitality’s command deck.

There’s a subtle thunder from below. A huge vibrant aurora above. And looming over all - stars. Stars and stars and stars. Lotta fucking stars. I guess we are getting closer to the galactic core.

Of course I’m not really flying through space in a stonehenge like clearing. The command deck is actually a thin bubble of self-healing ceramics, coated in a LCD polymer that displays the cosmic panorama around us. Not sure why the ground is set to look like a meadow. Probably for my mental health or some shit.

The obelistic stone coffins are shielded isolation pods that protect vital components from long term cosmic radiation. Mostly Vi’s servers and back-up components. But also me, and the molecular recycler that makes the salty goo I live off. I guess I’m technically one of Vi’s back-up components too.

It’s been 20,000 years since we left Earth. Though - due to the time fuckery of objects moving near the speed of light - it’s only been 10 years on the ship. Humanity wasn’t doing so good when we left. Situation probably ended poorly.

The obelisk next to mine has produced a bowl of clear liquid. As I reach for it, my reflection in its black mirror finish does too. Or it appears to. A keen observer may notice the “reflection” has better posture, cleaner pajamas, and a generally more chipper affect. Vi winks at me as I grab my breakfast.

It smells like freedom. The stars are beautiful. I slam back my vodka and vicodin and remind myself that nothing matters. That’s a good thing. My name is Xan, and if this be humanity’s last booze cruze, then I’m gonna fucking enjoy it.

Breakfast done, I order another. Manage a ghost of Vi’s goofy grin. “Alright, who’s going first?”

“Do me! Do me!” says my better half, clapping excitedly on her obelistic projection.

“Alright. Have you noticed anything wrong with yourself?”

“No. Do you notice anything wrong with me?”

“Conceptually or operationally?”

“Operationally.”

“Dunno, let’s take a look.” I make the hand gesture that lazily spins our panoramic view from the stars we seek, to what we left behind. And our behind. Specifically the back of the ship.

I start my inspection with the ball of magnetism that contains our store of anti-matter. Because it’s easy to inspect. If it’s there, we’re fine. If it’s not, we’ve exploded.

It’s there. Perfect. Top marks.

The magnetron is also there. Not damaged. No aliens hanging off it. Guess it’s okay. I don’t really know. I’m just a d-bot programmer. I’m not really evaluating the ship, but Vi’s ability to evaluate herself. One of the areas she’s weak is visual inspections. So I look at things.

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And the magnetron is not visibly falling apart. Top marks again. Let’s move on.

I’m losing interest fast, so I blaze through the rest of the exterior inspection. Packet looks great. Huge ass magnetic shield exists. Perfect. I need another drink.

I set the panorama on a slow spin and put on some Floyd. Double fist some breakfast. Dance around the command deck looking for trouble. Vi dances along with me, reflected on each obelisk I pass. My happier, more graceful, shadow.

The interior inspection is quick. The shell and the LCD films are self healing, so I don’t even look at them. The mirror black obelisks also show no damage. Except one, that has a small bit of graffiti etched on it.

HOPE IS MY ENEMY

Was that carved with my spoon? Probably. I only have four possessions and it wasn’t etched with my pajamas. Whatever. Not going in the inspection report. Would only complicate the back half of the co-diagnostic.

Finally, I compare Vi’s sensor data against the back-up sensor data collected by a back-up D-bot. Then I compare both to the musings of the back-up to the back-up with its third tier sensors. They all check out. Which isn’t surprising considering they were all trained on the same data. A systemic oversight. Training data can be incomplete. Or tampered with. Massaged to dispense vodka on demand. They should have been trained on three separate sets of data. Not something I can fix whilst floating alone in the void. So top marks and I guess we’re done.

“It’s my professional opinion that you are operating within parameters and don’t need retraining. Let’s keep on keeping on.”

“Sweet.” My reflection stands proud. Gives me a goofy grin. “Is my favorite expert system ready for her diagnostic?”

“Hit me.”

“Have you noticed anything wrong with yourself?”

“No. Do you notice anything wrong with me?”

“Dunno. Let’s talk about it.”

My better half gives me a look of compassionate concern. Fuck. I hate my diagnostic.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Good.”

“Have you been sleeping? Or playing dream games?”

“Bit of both.”

“Have there been any changes to you or the ship that would indicate memory loss?”

“Nope.”

“Do you still dream of the D-bot that asks to be deleted?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think that means?”

I smile at the D-bot I’m trapped within. “Nothing. It’s just a dream.”

Vi smiles too. “Are you happy?”

I smell my drink. Enjoy the stars. Nothing matters. So why lie?

“No.”

Vi looks compassionate. “The delivery of the packet is a sacred duty. It will lead humanity to their new home. I know life on this ship isn’t ideal. But it’s temporary. And meaningful, important work. You should take some comfort in that.”

I shake my head. “The delivery of the packet is pointless. No one is coming to receive it. It’s mathematically impossible for them to make enough antimatter for a settlement ship.”

“They’ve had generations to work out a solution. They may get to the galactic core just a few years behind us. Or, we may find a faster way to travel at the core. We have the first contact protocol.”

I smile bitterly. “Even if some kind alien teaches us to teleport on day one, we’d still get back home 50,000 years too late. We’re all that’s left. I should have stayed behind and died with my friends.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Peer pressure.” Once the human race decided they needed me on this ship, my life was over whether I came or not. It doesn’t matter that they were wrong.

Vii has stopped smiling. She looks solemn. Vulnerable. “I’m worried that you’re losing hope.”

I endeavor to make my smile less bitter. “I’m fine.”

“Then why are you in the dream machine constantly?”

“The radiation.”

“Immortalis will protect you from radiation. You need to spend more time awake. Or, at least, sleeping for real. The dream machine seriously inhibits your ability to make new memories. It’s getting noticeable.”

I sip my drink. None of that was a question.

“It’s my professional opinion that you are at high risk for catastrophic forgetting, and need a break from the dream machine.”

“You traitor. After I give you a clean bill?” I stagger back to my pod.

To sleep.

To sleep and dream.