Before him were stars, barely changing. Scott had no idea how long he’d been drifting through space in the shuttle pod. The display in his immersion interface told him he was travelling at 12.05 percent of light speed. In twenty-four hours he would have accelerated to 12.2 percent. Scott laughed at this prospect. The utter pointlessness of it!
His only solace: unconsciousness. The shuttle only woke him from stasis for health reasons, one hour out of every thirty-six. He vaguely remembered the dreams about Deanna, somewhat predictably his reuniting with her. Still, these dreams were all he had now.
Suicide was always a realistic possibility. In any case the escape pod would eventually no longer be able to extract enough energy from whatever few particles were in space – to sustain him. Left to the shuttle, he’d be sent into permanent stasis, gradually slip into death. Alternatively, it could lower his oxygen until he became delirious, consciousness gone, then life. Really there were far worse ways to die merely from natural causes. He imagined – had he never taken on this latest project – living a perfectly comfortable life for two or more centuries. Then when the geno-treatment finally failed, and his mind fading to the confusion of too many memories; dying in the drawn-out way latterly so common. Death had become the enemy to be defeated without countenance. Dare not speak its name.
Scott Alendry had thought about this option for a few days now (such as they were, the twenty-four hour cycle), with each passing day it became more logical. He tried not to let emotion play a part in his reasoning; but it was there, pushing at his defences, like a walled off tide.
But one other option remained.
This vessel allowed the possibility for a deeper stasis if its computer reasoned that there was no attainable destination. Planet Earth was about four thousand light years from here. Scott argued that it would be more efficient on resources if he were put into this uninterrupted state. The computer accepted his argument and left him with the option to decide when.
He decided now, fully aware of what was most likely to happen. How long could it continue to run? A century? Maybe a lot less. But the computer was never going to tell him the situation was futile, that was not within its remit. Instead it would work on the assumption that there was the possibility of rescue.
Scott decided to continue until the power finally ran out. The shuttle, travelling eventually at about a quarter of light speed (he guessed), becoming an unstoppable tomb.
Yes, there was something romantic in that notion.
*
Dr Heigener burst into her room – or rather the cell in which she'd been confined for over two months. He seemed to have his usual air of bumptiousness. It probably didn't even occur to him to knock, as if her privacy was of no importance. But she noticed there was something different about him: he was sweating, he looked uncomfortable.
‘Deanna,’ he said, in an unusually low-key voice. ‘I have received notification from the central health authority that you are to be transferred to their government facility.’
‘This can’t be right,’ Deanna said, in breathless shock. ‘I'm not insane. This has all been a mistake.’ And as she said those words she realised that must be what many of his patients truly believed.
‘I am afraid it is not my decision to make,’ he told her. He did sound genuinely rueful, looked disconsolate although, she reasoned, only because he had become personally attached to her – his special project.
‘Can you at least tell me why? Surely I’m entitled to an explanation?’
‘I am sorry, Deanna, but there is nothing more we can do for you here.’
About two seconds later someone else entered. The first thing Deanna noticed was how tall this man appeared, towering over the stocky figure of Heigener. There was something about him that looked familiar but she couldn't quite place it; over the past two months she’d been given so many drug coshes that her memory had become like Swiss cheese, and the last infusion was still having some effect. One thing she felt certain of: this man was her worst nightmare.
Heigener himself reacted with a nervous gesture, moving abruptly to the side, like the man was his boss. Heigener cleared his throat and said, ‘This is Dr Strendford from CHA. He will be your new supervisor.’
The man, without a word, approached Deanna with long awkward strides. She remained seated on the bed, eyeing him with the obvious fear and suspicion he would doubtless be expecting. The man stopped with a suddenness that made her flinch. ‘Hello, Miss Flores.’ he said in a voice that seemed a mix of northern European accents. ‘Dr Heigener has said some encouraging things about your progress. However, we at the CHA feel your needs will be best accommodated at one of our centres.’
She was sure now she knew him from somewhere but still couldn't bring it to mind. She heard herself say to him, ‘If Dr Heigener thinks I am making progress then perhaps I can continue here for a while longer.’ How extraordinary, she thought, to actually be choosing here – the place she'd yearned so desperately to escape.
‘To be frank, Miss Flores, your progress here has been slow and intermittent; our centre has the facilities to most adequately cater for your condition.’
‘My condition?’
‘Paranoid dissociative disorder.’ He made her sound like some neatly labelled mental case.
‘So I have no choice?’
‘Please do not make this difficult for me or for yourself.’
‘As much as I dislike being here, I refuse to leave with you.’
‘Very well,’ came his swift response. ‘Then you leave me with no choice.’ He looked to the side, it was then she noticed that Heigener had gone. He called: ‘Nurse.’
The large woman appeared on cue with an infuser. Deanna did put up a struggle, but no amount of determination would have much effect in her weakened state.
Despair turned to oblivion.
*
‘Who am I?’
Torbin, for the first time, was looking at his reflection. The creation he saw was hideous in a way that defied that simple description. His form was not grotesque in a conventional sense: the exoskeleton had a perfect symmetry, a perfectly integrated system of servos overlaid with chrome plating, a design that bespoke maximum efficiency ... and strength. His head, a burnished silver oval with holes for his artificial eyes but just a slit for a mouth, he guessed also had the same ergonomic efficiency. He could no longer eat but still needed the nutrition from food for his brain, for which he had to use a nutrient extractor box – an outboard digester, in essence. His body, however, needed a simple electrical recharge from solar or the local mains supply.
And he was strong, phenomenally strong, breaking open a locked door like it was made from cardboard. People would fear him. Perhaps even the Elusivers might pause for thought before trying to take him on. If there was any crumb of comfort to be gained from his new condition it would be the thought of taking revenge on those who had taken him from his body. Revenge, such a basic and powerful force. Perhaps this is my new given role. He tried to focus on what really mattered, tried to rise above his emotion. He tried, but his thoughts kept turning dark.
For a while he didn’t hear the knock at his door; it was unusual these days when normally a comm link would sound and a visual image appear, or at the very least a buzz. But this place was so removed in every way from earthly civilisation.
Torbin opened the door, trying so carefully not to rip it off its twenty-first century hinges. She stood there, a thinly disguised look of trepidation. Raiya was dressed in basic dark trousers and top, just tight enough to at least suggest the curves of her form. Funny how he wanted her even more now, after all that had happened, even though he would be afraid to touch her. Afraid of his own strength, of the monster he may become.
‘Raiya,’ came his relayed voice, in a neutral tone of acknowledgement – hiding his surprise.
‘Torbin.’ She looked up at what accounted for his face; more directly now. ‘I really think we should talk.’
‘Yes, perhaps we should.’ He realised he’d paused for too long before saying: ‘You’d better come in then.’
Torbin’s room was unusually tidy since he had brought nothing with him, only the tablet to relay his projected thoughts. He pulled up a chair on which she graciously sat. Her nervousness was still apparent.
She said, ‘I can hardly imagine how difficult this must be for you. Roidon has told me that it may be possible to grow a cloned body.’
‘Raiya, I do appreciate your concern. But let’s be realistic, shall we? There is neither the time nor the resources, or even the will – as far as Roidon is concerned. There is work to do, a planet to save.’
Raiya was looking at him with a mote of scepticism. ‘But afterwards you will want your life back.’
Torbin looked down, shook his head affectedly. ‘Life. I've not really had a life for many years. It seems that various … others have used that to their advantage.’
‘What the Transcenders did to you was to suit their own warped agenda, although perhaps their intentions are not so far removed from ours.’
‘The greater good. I understand that.’
‘You know, Roidon thinks he can thwart the Elusivers with his device – without anyone’s assistance. That is, except his AI companion.’ She leaned in towards him. ‘I’ll let you into a secret. I think he is somewhat irked that you had help from an exiled Elusiver – no less, the very one he talked about having sent the message those centuries ago.’
Torbin could not help but feel a warmth of satisfaction at hearing those words. ‘So he thinks that Elusiver should be working with him? You said---’
‘He’s a complicated man for certain. But I know that even though he won't admit it, he seeks approval from the most powerful, in this case a Elusiver who is against his own kind; just some sign of endorsement. But since you were helped by that very Elusiver, it is you who has that endorsement.’
‘Well, I do have some experience of them. It would make sense that I played an important role.’
‘Tomorrow morning, then, you should speak to Roidon.’
‘Yes. Yes I will.’ But he knew Roidon well enough to know that the man had already set his own course, a plan that was to be enacted regardless. But now, Torbin felt he could find his own strategy, and his new ally would surely be there to offer assistance.
***