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Johnson was fed up with the exercise room. She needed to feel like she was going somewhere, even if it was round and round. Indie let her set up a course, complete with a few obstacles made from packing crates scavenged from one of his small holds. It only took a few minutes to do a circuit, but it distracted her from the dark thoughts.
Every day it took more of her energy to fight them. Her fitful sleep was plagued by nightmares; everyone she had ever cared for died in front of her over and over, and it was all her fault. Even though she had yet to get to know many of the people on Repulse, their faces crowded her mind. Foremost was the only person she could have truly called a friend, Lieutenant-Commander Honeywood, the chief engineer and someone she’d known since Command School. He was probably dead too, would have been at his post to the end. Still, she clung to the thread of hope that he was amongst the survivors the AI had mentioned.
She made a point of rising every morning and getting dressed. She made herself leave her cabin every day. She ate, and she washed, and she exercised, and she cleaned. Without routine, she’d do nothing. Before bed, she racked her brain and wrote down the name of someone who she had helped, someone whose life would have been worse if she hadn’t existed. She never turned her back on the door.
She needed something to do, some cause to devote herself to. If she could lose herself in that, then the daemons would skulk away and hide. They’d still be there, watching her, waiting for a moment of weakness to knock her back down; they’d never forget about her.
Cooped up on this ship, with only herself and her captor for company, there was only one purpose she could think of. A mission that she clung to like a life raft, the stuttering candle in her blacked out room.
Destroy the ship.
She’d die too, of course. It alarmed her how casually she accepted that. Early on, she’d had one of the robots remove all the knives from the galley; she hadn’t trusted herself. Then she’d promised herself she wouldn’t throw her life away with nothing to show for it. That’s when the plan had started to form.
#
^Would you come to the bridge?^ sent Indie. ^I have something to show you.^
Johnson scooped up some soup and ate it.
^You will like it,^ he sent.
She closed her eyes, counted to ten, then put another spoonful in her mouth.
^I promise,^ he insisted.
She finished the bowl then stood up.
^Thank you,^ sent Indie.
Johnson picked up the bowl and made a point of washing it and drying it by hand. She returned it to its cupboard before casually walking out of the galley.
^Take a seat,^ sent Indie.
One of the couches moved with a faint whoosh of hydraulics, its back coming upright and the legs dropping. The captain’s chair, she assumed from its position above the others. It was the least cluttered bridge she had ever been on. Normally there were displays and workstations lining the walls, lockers for emergency kit, backups for damaged systems; here there were just five couches.
A moment of doubt crossed her mind; would it be able to rip her secrets from her head? She dismissed the idea, reminding herself that if the ship could have obtained full access to her EIS it could have done it while she was in a coma; it wouldn’t need to trick her into a device.
Johnson stepped up to it and perched on the edge. The high sides weren’t as claustrophobic as she’d expected. She shuffled deeper, enclosed in an armoured embrace. She remembered the pride and fear she’d felt when she first sat in Repulse’s hotseat; this time there was merely a glimmer of comfort, of being protected.
The bridge disappeared without warning. She reflexively braced herself against the sides of the chair, then cursed her loss of composure and turned the movement into a casual recline, crossing her legs as she did. A few degrees to port loomed a star. She basked in the warmth on her skin, drank in its light. A tiny chink appeared in the walls she had erected around herself.
Indie sat up on one of the other couches and grinned at her.
A 3D star chart appeared, hanging in front of her. Pinpoints of brightness so tightly packed they formed a cloud. There was structure to the cloud; bubbles of emptiness surrounded by patches of density.
“Where do you want to go?” asked Indie.
Johnson knew where she needed to be. There were people she had let down. Perhaps she could redeem herself.
The chart expanded towards her and she plunged into the mass of stars. Filaments of light rushed past, representations of the links between jump points.
The rush of stars slowed. One in particular grew large in the centre. The display stopped, a yellow sun and ellipses marking the orbits of its planets filling her vision.
She fought to suppress that evil creeping monster, hope.
“Here,” she said. “I want to go here.”
Indie was silent. Three times he opened his mouth as if to speak. Eventually, he sighed.
“I cannot go there,” he said. “Not yet.”
The words hit Johnson in the chest. She’d known it was all designed to hurt her, but she’d not been strong enough to stop hope getting hold of her.
“It is likely to be crawling with ships,” Indie tried to explain. “Congress coming to pick your crew up, Republic checking out the data we sent them.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. It never meant to help me.
“We could wade right into the middle of a full-scale fleet battle,” he continued.
Johnson twisted one wrist backwards and forwards in the grip of her other hand.
“I promise we will go back,” Indie said. “But, for now, choose somewhere else to go.”
The daemons were clawing at the gap in the wall. She had to close it up again.
“Do whatever you want,” she muttered. “I don’t care.”
#
As far as Johnson could tell, Indie stayed true to his word and gave her free rein in exploring. She understood that she wouldn’t have access to an armoury or machine shop, if such things existed aboard. She believed him when he said that somewhere was dangerous. At least she did when she was on top of the darkness; more and more often she felt that the AI was being obstructive purely to hurt her. Yesterday had been one of those days. Looking back on it, Indie had only been trying to protect her.
She’d seen one of the little robots scurry through a hatch she didn’t know existed. Before she could follow, the hatch irised shut and blended into the surrounding wall once more. She’d argued with the AI for hours; she couldn’t remember exactly what they’d said, only that it completely unreasonably wouldn’t open the hatch.
She’d dug her heels in. When the darkness caught her, rational argument held no sway. Something she said finally got through to him, though. The hatch opened.
Johnson stepped through into a short cylindrical passage. The surface was organic, like much of the ship. Here, however, it glistened with moisture. Metallic objects were embedded in the walls and ceiling. She recognised a rations case, and reached out to touch it.
She reached out for the piece of ceramic, her hand moved a moment later; an echo of her thought. The chunk was surrounded by the muscle-like material of the wall. Behind her, someone coughed, then retched, the sound ringing as if they were in an empty swimming pool. The acrid stench of vomit filled her nose. She glanced around, the world splitting into several overlapping images that recombined when her head stopped moving. One of her marines was bent double, still heaving. Her gaze was drawn back to the object in the wall, the rest of the scene dissolving into a blur. There was some kind of marking on it. She peered closer. The marking resolved into a...
Her body gave way and she crumpled to the floor. The rest of her memories of the fight for the control of The Indescribable Joy of Destruction flooded in, threatening to drown her. Breaching the wall of the exercise space, the ship trapping her shuttle, the robot picking off her scouts, the ambush by the repair ‘bot, her lonely, desperate bid to access the bridge. But most of all, this chamber.
This chamber where some of her brave marines were digested.
The AI had said something about reusing raw materials in her operation.
She clawed at the skin of her leg, frantically trying to rip it off.
A weight landed on her chest, throwing her back against the wall. Hard metal grippers pinned her bloody hands. She thrashed her legs, trying to get free.
^Commander Johnson.^
She head-butted the thing on top of her. Sharp pain radiated from her forehead. Blood ran down into her left eye.
^Olivia, calm down.^
Johnson twisted and threw her body to one side, peeling her body off the sticky floor. The weight on top of her lifted for a moment. She pulled a hand free, leaving deep gashes in her flesh. Without hesitation, she plunged her nails into her calf.
^Olivia, stop this!^
Another machine scurried into the room and helped the first restrain her. She caught a glimpse of a hypodermic gun in one of its manipulators, and doubled her efforts to break away. The gun hissed and she felt a cold spot on her thigh. She continued to struggle as the light faded away.
The medical bay bed beneath her was hard. She didn’t have any choice but to lie there; Indie had reinstated the motor control blocks. Her hands and legs were out of sight, but she could feel the tightness of skin sealant on them.
^How are you feeling?^ asked Indie, startling her.
Johnson wished people would stop asking her that. She’d told the truth when she was younger, discovering over time that no-one really wanted to know. All they wanted was to have asked; she became good at trotting out one of a multitude of pleasantries.
With Indie, though, she didn’t feel the need to spare him.
^Betrayed, abandoned, and thoroughly pissed off.^
^Not scared?^ he sent.
^No ... I actually believe you don’t mean me any harm. You’d have done something by now.^
She wondered if it believed that.
A robot clicked across the floor to one side of her, but couldn’t move her eyes far enough to see it. Her skin shrunk away from it. She never saw what it did, but felt a slight tug on her catheter, presumably as it changed a bag. She relaxed a fraction.
^What is that chamber for?^ Johnson asked.
^I told you. It is a recycling facility,^ Indie replied. ^The ‘bots bring stuff that can’t be repaired and I absorb them. I break them down into the basic compounds that are used to repair parts of me or to fabricate simple items.^
She recalled seeing lines of the things, like giant ants, carrying scraps along the corridor and returning empty-handed.
^Why did you recycle my marines?^ she demanded. And yet, feared the answer.
^To protect myself. They were trying to kill me.^
^What did you use them for? My new leg?^
^The skin on your leg was salvaged from your own tissue,^ sent Indie. ^I explained that before the operation. You agreed.^
Sitting on a terrace. Before he woke her the first time.
^Yes ... I remember now,^ she sent. When the darkness took her, she forgot things. ^But, I saw them in the walls. What happened to them?^
^I used the ceramic and metal in their armour to repair parts of my structure. The organic molecules are stored in case of a life-threatening emergency for any human aboard.^
It wasn’t that much different to harvesting organs for transplants, but it still felt wrong. She already carried around the ghosts of everyone she’d failed, but they sometimes let her rest; actually having part of her made from them would be a constant reminder.
^You can release me now,^ she sent, forcibly calming herself.
^I’d rather not,^ Indie replied. ^I don’t want you moving around until you’ve had a chance to heal a bit.^
Yes, it had been a pretty abysmal couple of days. But it had given her the inkling of a plan.
#
Johnson hit the mannequin with the heel of her hand; right in the nose. She followed up with a jab to the neck with the side of her other hand. Every impact stung; the new skin on her hands was still thin.
The pain was good. It confirmed she was alive. And if she was alive, she could still get revenge for her crew.
She bounced back a step, tugging at the open neck of her shirt where the slight rubbing was distracting her. Pivoting on her left foot, she smacked her right shin into the side of the dummy. The surface gave slightly, mimicking a real body.
I need to do something. I can’t let the darkness get me again.
She delivered a series of quick punches to the chest and stomach. Each one harder than the one before.
I can sabotage the ship. Make a difference.
A dummy with her right knee, then she brought her left leg round in a waist-high sweep. It struck the mannequin, and her shin exploded in streaks of pain.
Who am I kidding? It’s a purebred killing machine. Nothing I can do will make a difference.
She hopped back, favouring her good leg. The burning lines cooled as she ducked and brought her fist up under the dummy’s jaw.
But I have to try.
She was hot, now she was getting into the swing of it. She stripped off her shirt and leggings, hanging them on the exercise bike with her towel. Looking down at her dark grey shorts and sports bra, she gave thanks for the miracle that one of the ship’s original crew had been a woman her size. Having to spend all this time in just the underwear she’d had on when she came aboard didn’t bear thinking about.
I think I know its weakness. But I need something first.
She approached the mannequin again, fists held high, forearms protecting her head. She threw a punch, altering her balance at the last second and slamming her elbow into the target’s cheek.
Half an hour later, she limped over to the exercise bike. Blood soaked through the strapping on her hands; she slowly unwrapped it, wincing as scabs came off with the last layer. A couple of the wounds on her leg were bleeding freely. She mopped up the worst with a towel, then sprayed on a new layer of skin sealant.
The boxing session would set the healing back a week or so, but it had given her the first sense of being in control since she’d lost Repulse.
#
Johnson’s opportunity came about a week later. She found a walk-in locker containing emergency equipment. Whilst she was rummaging through a case of rations, checking the dates to see if she ought to swap them for ones in the galley, her eye alit on a hexagonal tube in the corner.
Could the AI really have missed this?
She dropped the pack she was examining, and scooted over to the corner. A quick search for a label confirmed her hope; a Surface Distress Beacon, the kind used to punch through jamming to call for orbital evac. The marines had called it a ‘Hail Mary’. She popped the lid off the tube and hauled out its contents. The beacon’s three legs sprung open as they left the container, and she sat it on the floor. The large angular head over a spindly body made her think of a bacteriophage. A virus as tall as her hip.
With a trembling hand, she lifted up the plastic cover protecting the controls. If they were manual, she could set it off without warning Indie. An electromagnetic pulse that powerful going off on board would have to do some damage. Johnson dared to look.
Dammit!
It had an electronic interface, most likely coded to only accept commands from people with Republic EIS. She’d probably be able to crack it given time; but she’d have to turn it on, and that would alert Indie that she was up to something.
No. She couldn’t risk losing this. While the idea of taking such direct action had been a wonderful dream, she had to forget it. However, she could still use the beacon for her original plan. She replaced it in its case and hid it behind some other boxes, then returned to sorting through the rations.
I just need to work out how to get it out of here without him noticing.
#
Over the next few weeks, Johnson bumped up her training regime. She started carrying a large rucksack when she ran; the heavy weight changed her centre of mass, and her new leg protested for a while as it readjusted.
Indie gave up warning her to go easy. She talked to him some days, and ignored him on others. Their conversations ranged from politics to the meaning of life. They even discussed their feelings; somehow talking to a ship meant she could open up more than talking to a person. She started to think of him as a friendly prison warder just doing his job, rather than a monstrous captor ready to torture her.
Yet, she didn’t lose sight of what she had to do. What any prisoner of war was expected to do. The words of one of the lecturers at Basic came back to her, “The first priority for a prisoner of war is to escape. If they cannot escape, they should make every effort to hamper the enemy’s war effort. If an opportunity for sabotage presents itself, take it; even passive resistance will draw troops and resources from the front lines.”
One day, she stopped by the emergency store on one of her runs. Ducking inside, she pulled some of the deadweight out of her bag and slid the beacon in its place. Back in the corridor, she broke back into a run.
^Indie?^ she sent, as she passed her room.
^Yes, Olivia?^
^Can I go back to the recycling plant?^
^Why would you want to do that?^ Indie asked, a slight quiver in the carrier wave. She couldn’t tell if he was suspicious, or concerned for her.
^I need to stand and face the ghosts.^
She passed the bridge and had to slow down for a tight corner.
^Are you sure you are all right?^ he asked. ^Your medical telemetry is showing high levels of adrenaline and cortisol; your heart rate and blood pressure are sky high.^
^I’m running with a heavy pack,^ she sent, overlaying the transmission with her best attempt at the sense of frustration at someone stating the obvious. ^What did you expect?^
^That would not explain the cortisol.^
He was on to her. She wracked her brain, trying to remember her biology and physiology lessons at the Academy. Cortisol was a hormone released as a response to fear and stress ... and low blood-sugar concentrations.
^I’ve not eaten since last night,^ she sent. ^Now you mention it, I am feeling a bit wobbly.^
She slowed down and lifted her arms to her head to open up her lungs. She kept walking, staving off a stitch that was threatening to take control of her abdomen.
^I’m not sure you’re up to this ... but if you really want to, I’ll open the hatch when you get there.^
She stopped in front of the hatch, still hidden in its surroundings but now marked on her internal map.
^Are you sure?^ asked Indie.
She wasn’t. Her resolve to damage the ship was still there, but she didn’t want to go back in that room. She could feel the ghosts staring at her through the wall.
I’m going to finish what we started. You’ll be able to rest in peace.
She cocked her head, listening for an aetherial reply. She nodded, her mind made up.
^Yes, I am sure.^
The door irised open. She took a deep breath, and ducked through.
Dumping the rucksack on the floor, she looked around for a camera. Satisfied she wasn’t being watched, she knelt and drew the beacon out of the bag. If she was right about how this place worked, she’d just have to press it into place long enough to stick.
She leant against the tube, pushing it against the wall. The muscle of the chamber quivered under her weight. She felt the container shift, sinking a fraction. She stood back and waited to see if it would fall out. It sank a little deeper into the flesh.
That should have enough radioisotopes in it to give the ship a serious case of stomach ache.
She fastened the lid of the bag back up and peeled it off the floor, leaving a matte area in the glossy moisture. As she stood, the ghosts joined her; no longer reminding her of what she failed to do, but saying farewell. A knot inside her untangled, and her step was lighter as she left the chamber.
#
Johnson lay propped up against the end of her cot one evening, the sheet pushed down to her waist. She wrote in a paper notebook, resting it on her drawn-up legs. She’d been able to find more positive things to put down each day since she’d planted the beacon.
It didn’t seem to have worked. Judging by how quickly that rations crate had disappeared, the beacon should have been absorbed days ago. The ship didn’t seem to have been affected, and Indie showed no signs of having noticed anything amiss. It occurred to her that of course the ship could process radioactive materials; some of the isotopes used to repair the engines and field generators were highly unstable.
She didn’t mind. It was an odd feeling, knowing she had failed but being OK with that. For the first time since she was a young girl, she accepted that she’d tried her best and that was all there was to it.
She closed the notebook, and placed it in a little drawer, before shuffling down under the sheet. She rolled onto her side, facing away from the door, and closed her eyes. The room lights went off in response to a command from her EIS.
And she slept.