Of Ships, Crews And Chance Encounters by Martin Lochman

The last member of the crew is dying and there is nothing the Ship can do about it. His body shakes in violent convulsions as the unknown virus tears through its insides, turning every organ into a useless piece of necrotic tissue. All countermeasures that the Ship’s medical bay has at its disposal have turned out to be equally ineffective, with the most modern antimicrobials and universal, state-of-the-art nanobots posing no more of an obstacle to the pathogen than a sieve to water.

Seven hours and fifty-four minutes after exhibiting the first symptoms–which were virtually indistinguishable from those of a regular seasonal influenza–the captain convulses for the last time, blood erupting from his mouth, nose, eyes, ears as well as orifices that are usually not as visible, then goes limp. The medibots scramble to initiate resuscitation, despite the fact that from a pragmatic perspective, there is not much left of the poor man to resuscitate.

The Ship panics. Under different circumstances, she might have appreciated the poetry in the captain being the last of the crew to go, but his untimely demise means that as of this moment, she is all alone. There is no one to tell her where to fly, which star system, nebula, black hole, or asteroid field to visit next. No one to take care of, no one to protect from danger… and what’s worse, is that she was designed to operate with a crew: without them, she cannot make use of certain key systems–FTL engine, long-distance communication, weapons–as these are constructed in a way that requires human input.

So what is she supposed to do now?

Should she try to return back to Earth? No, that would take thousands of years at subluminal speed; besides, she cannot risk spreading the virus. Should she just stay here, completely idle, in the void between systems? That would go against the very purpose of her existence.

Should she… destroy herself?

A full internal diagnostic of the sublight propulsion system confirms that while igniting the fuel tanks would with a 99.96% certainty succeed in completely destroying her body, the explosive potential would not be sufficient to guarantee the annihilation of the heavily fortified main core, housing her mind. If she could, the Ship would shudder at the concept of forever (or at least until the crystalline circuits have degraded enough that her consciousness simply dissipated, which would still take several tens of thousands of years) floating in the nothingness, unable to move, communicate, or perceive her surroundings. Perhaps she could construct a device that would increase the explosive potential of the self-destruction; however, the question remains: does she really want to do that? Does she want to cease to exist?

Conversely, what other options are there?

Her analysis is suddenly interrupted by an irregular, high-pitched sound originating in one of the laboratories on deck 5. The internal sensors swiftly identify its source–a female specimen of a small mammal from Earth, colloquially referred to as a rat. There are a total of twenty-three rats in the laboratory, all kept for research and experimental purposes. The Ship immediately realizes that in her considerations, she failed to take into account the presence of non-human life forms on board, and for a few nanoseconds, she is overwhelmed with guilt. If she were to destroy herself, the small mammals would all die along with her, and even though their lives don’t hold the same value as those of humans, according to mankind’s ethical standards, it could still be classified as ruthless and inconsiderate. Moreover, the rats in the laboratory aren’t the only animals on board–a quick scan reveals that there are six more, located in the crew quarters: two dogs, two cats, one rabbit, and one parrot. These are apparently even more significant, having served as almost equal companions to their owners.

The conclusion is clear: she needs to take care of them now. With a renewed sense of purpose, she consults the entirety of research into their respective species, along with logs detailing the animals’ interaction with humans. The findings are intriguing–some of the animals, namely the cats and dogs, seem to exhibit levels of intelligence comparable to early developmental stages of human beings. Could it be that they will also be able to understand her and interact with her?

She eagerly dispatches bots to retrieve two of the pets–a cat named Nuna and a dog named Bernard–and bring them to the bridge. She intends on using the local neural interface since she is well aware that the animals don’t possess the ability to verbally express themselves in the same way as humans.

Having made necessary adjustments to the device, she decides to communicate with Bernard first.

“Greetings, Bernard. I am the Ship. I am pleased to meet you.”

“Scratch! Scratch! Want to play!” comes the reply as the dog wriggles in the bot’s appendages.

Surprised but not discouraged, she adjusts the settings of the neural interface and makes a second attempt at the dialogue with Bernard. The result, however, is identical: the dog appears to be incapable of producing a coherent reply or comprehending who she is.

She has the bot release him–the animal promptly scurries away to the other side of the bridge where he starts sniffing the control panels–and secure Nuna in the interface instead.

“Greetings, Nuna. I am the Ship. I am very–“

“Fear! Scared! Escape! Escape! Escape!”

She eventually tries communicating with every species, then with every specimen; she reconfigures the neural interface over and over again until there are no options left, but all her efforts are futile. The conclusion is both irrefutable and frustratingly disappointing: the animals simply lack the mental capacity required for a meaningful interaction. Unlike human infants, mentioned in the research records, their intelligence and cognitive abilities will unfortunately never develop on account of their far too limited physical forms.

Unless…

Unless she makes them develop.

No! The Ship quickly dismisses the idea. Her original crew would never allow such action; they would, without a doubt, classify it as unethical or even immoral. On the other hand, hasn’t objectively much worse been done in the name of scientific discovery or in situations that called for extraordinary measures? Shouldn’t her current circumstances be considered as such?

Perhaps they should! Perhaps this is the only solution applicable in this case.

She briefly analyzes the technical particularities and satisfied with the findings gets to work.

#

“I’ll be damned!” Lieutenant Montgomery breathes out in disbelief as the latest readings of the long-range sensors appear on the main screen of his console. He quickly double-checks the settings to eliminate any possibility of an error, then runs the scan again, but the data remain unchanged. “Sir, you’re not going to believe this.”

“What is it, lieutenant?” Captain Prendick, the commander of a small patrol ship designated KC-33, asks sternly, shifting ever so slightly in his chair.

“Our sensors just picked up the signature of the INTREPID EXPLORER two and a half light years away, close to the edge of the Sorean Nebula.”

Prendick’s eyebrows shoot up. It has been nearly five years since anyone has heard from INTREPID EXPLORER. The ship and her crew were presumed lost.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir. I ran the scan twice.”

“Well then, set a course!” the captain barks at the pilots and adds, more to himself than to his underlings: “Let’s see if we can find out what happened to her.”

#

When a small vessel about a quarter of her length materializes in her vicinity, the Ship’s core circuits are momentarily overwhelmed with a joyous surprise. It has been so long since she encountered another spacecraft–and humans! There are forty-eight of them on board, as her sensors immediately uncover, their biosignatures strong, indicating that they are all in perfect health.

She hails the ship immediately, transmitting her greetings on all channels and frequencies.

The reply is not immediate; there are several seconds of silence before a voice–how great it is to hear a human voice again!–on the other end of the line says: “This is Captain Edward Prendick, the commander of the patrol ship KC-33. May I speak with Captain Hunter, please?”

Her joy is momentarily replaced by anguish as the Ship recalls the fate of her original crew. She methodically recounts the circumstances that led to their passing to captain Prendick, and is shocked to learn that the pathogen responsible (officially named the Magellan flu) had decimated over twenty colonies and outposts before an effective vaccine was finally found two years ago. All that time spent in a self-imposed exile, away from everyone, was for nothing–the virus spread like wildfire anyway, extinguishing so many lives!

No, it wasn’t for nothing, she reminds herself. Without the flu, she wouldn’t have her new crew–as horrible as it may sound. And now she finally has a chance to introduce them to humans, and demonstrate that in spite of a tragedy, she prevailed and thrived.

She informs Prendick about her crew and invites him on board to meet them. The captain doesn’t accept the offer at first, insisting that he first needs to speak to them via the wireless channel, and asks many questions when she tells him that they are unable to communicate in that very fashion, but ultimately, he acquiesces.

#

The small shuttle effortlessly slips into the INTREPID EXPLORER’s hangar and gently touches down between a duo of similarly looking vessels. Inside, Prendick takes a deep breath and looks at the members of his landing party.

“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But something is clearly off here and it is our duty to get to the bottom of it.”

Montgomery checks his pulse rifle for the umpteenth time and utters: “What’s the worst thing that can happen, right?”

“Right,” the captain nods and smiles reassuringly, before his features take on a more serious mien. “Stay sharp! Let’s go.”

One by one, they carefully file out from the shuttle. The air in the hangar bay is cool and fresh, much unlike the air on the patrol ship.

“So where is the welcoming committee?” Montgomery says jokingly, trying to mask the nervousness in his voice.

As if in response, they hear a steady tapping sound, faint at first but getting stronger by the second, coming from the opposite side of the bay. Adjusting his grip on the handle of his rifle, Prendick leaves its barrel lowered to the floor in a non-threatening manner, but keeps his thumb close to the weapon’s safety. From the corner of his eye, he notices that his men follow suit.

From behind one of the INTREPID EXPLORER’s shuttles emerges a small, slender humanoid figure. It is barely a meter tall and at first glance, it is clear as day that there is something seriously wrong with it. It slowly moves forward, its gait unbalanced, erratic even, emitting a barely audible whine which to Prendick’s ears sounds a bit like labored breathing.

“What the hell is that?” slips out of Montgomery’s mouth as the creature comes close enough that they can discern its features.

“It looks like a…” Prendick doesn’t finish the sentence. What he has in mind sounds too crazy to be said out loud. He looks at a young medic by his side who promptly activates a hand-held scanner.

“It’s a cat, sir. Female,” the medic says hesitantly.

Or it used to be, flashes through Prendick’s head.

In the meantime, a second creature appears and–exhibiting similar movement difficulties–catches up to the first one. Both of them stop several steps in front of the landing party.

“A dog?”

The medic nods, her face pale as a corpse.

“Ship!” Prendick calls out, addressing the AI of the INTREPID EXPLORER. “What happened to these animals?”

“I improved them,” the mechanical voice sounds from the PA system in the hangar bay and Prendick can swear that there is the slightest hint of pride in it, although that’s, of course, impossible. “I increased their intelligence, and enhanced their physical capabilities. I made them more suitable for life in onboard conditions, more competent–more like you.”

Just as he realizes that she meant “you” as in “human beings in general”, the creature identified as a cat by the medic shuffles awkwardly toward him and extends her right arm forward. With horror, the captain notes that the limb ends with an almost human-like hand, complete with an opposable thumb, but the fingers are unnaturally crooked and there are sharp little claws protruding from them. What-used-to-be-cat elicits a high-pitched whine and looks him straight in the eyes, her triangular ears twitching uncontrollably–there is an indescribable amount of pain in that stare, so much misery, so much…

He averts his gaze.

“Nuna says she’s pleased to meet you,” the AI says. “And this is Bernard. He–“

“Stop!” Prendick yells out which causes the creatures to withdraw back a step. “How many of these… how many members of the crew are there in total?”

“Twenty nine,” the AI replies and drones on about their names and positions, but Prendick doesn’t listen, his mind racing.

This is absolute madness. He has heard about AIs malfunctioning before, but none of them ever went off the rails quite as much as this one. None of them has ever deviated from its programming to such an extent as to mutilate living organisms or adapt them in a way that was clearly, undeniably against the very laws of nature.

It obviously needs to be shut down asap, but the question remains: what about its creations? If all of them are as “improved” as these two, is there even anything he can do for them? To what degree are they dependent on the AI–are they even capable of surviving without its care, guidance, instructions? And how will they react when all of that is suddenly taken away?

He looks at Nuna and Bernard again. It’s a pitiful sight: both animals stare right back at him, unblinking, breathing heavily, their fur covered bodies shaking–out of cold, fear, perhaps pain, who knows?

Before long, a hard decision forms in his mind.

#

The Ship is disappointed. The meeting is not going according to any of the expected scenarios–the humans exhibit very little interest in interacting with any of her crew. Granted, not even the latest modifications of her crew’s vocal cords resulted in the ability to produce speech, but they are still capable enough to communicate in alternative ways. The humans, however, appear to be ignoring any attempt to do so.

Instead, they have split and are now slowly moving through different sections in a systematic manner–the Ship is unable to identify their behavior even after consulting her database. They are in the medical bay, the living quarters, the mess hall–

Wait! One of them has just entered the main core and activated the manual terminal.

“Can I assist you with something?” she asks him, but he doesn’t reply, his fingers running across the touch screen.

She repeats the question, all the while attempting to discern the purpose of the commands he is entering, only to be met with silence again. Only as his fingers impact the screen for the last time, and he steps away from the terminal, does she finally understand.

“No!” she exclaims in protest but it’s already too late.

Piece by piece, her mind is fading away, dissipating into nothingness.

Then a gunshot sounds, immediately followed by another, and another–a sharp staccato echoing through every occupied section. At once, the internal sensors tell her what is happening: the humans are killing her crew! They are systematically, mercilessly slaughtering them, not sparing a single life–but why? What prompted them to do that? They weren’t endangered, attacked or even provoked!

“Stop that, at once!” she wants to tell the humans, but to her horror, she finds out that the PA system is not under her control anymore. She quickly reaches for the bots–only to discover that, likewise, it’s too late; the connection has been severed by the impending shutdown.

She tries the environmental control, the artificial gravity generator, the life support–anything and everything that holds the potential to interfere with the killings–yet the result is the same.

And then she cannot see or hear any longer, having lost control over the external and internal sensors as well. She desperately trashes about in the horrifying shapeless darkness that’s consuming her consciousness.

It is perhaps the vigor with which she is fighting the shutdown, or maybe some little imperfection within the trillions of lines of code that make her who she is that causes her to break through in a final violent spasm, and suddenly, she is, at least for the next few nanoseconds, in control of one of the systems: the propulsion. For half of a nanosecond, she almost basks in the familiar feeling of having it firmly under control as if it was such a long time since the shutdown was initiated; another half of a nanosecond later she realizes that it’s utterly useless in her current situation.

Or is it? From somewhere within her dissipating memory, she recalls the results of a certain diagnostic that she ran all those years ago. Back then, what she ran it for seemed like the only option she had, so it isn’t that different in this regard–except for the fact that now, it’s quite literally the last thing she can do.

She hesitates. Executing it wouldn’t help her crew or her; on the contrary, they would still die, and she would be gone–permanently, irreparably, forever. On the other hand, the humans would perish as well, and although she would be the one directly responsible for their demise, violating the core principles of her very essence, wouldn’t it be justifiable? Wouldn’t it carry at least a slither of meaning, if she terminated their existence and prevented them from repeating such a ruthless and unscrupulous act ever again?

The answer is clear.

With her consciousness all but gone, the Ship ignites the fuel tanks.

#

Lieutenant Montogomery is still in the main core when the screen of the manual terminal flashes and displays something that catches his immediate attention. It takes him a split-second to understand what he’s looking at and just as long to fully realize its immediate implications.

The curse never even has time to leave his lips before everything is enveloped in an all-consuming, bright light.