The End of All Things (7 page)

He knew I was a pilot, but he also knew me as a person—probably the only person he knew on the
Chandler
other than Captain Thao and Vera Briggs.

It’s possible he picked me simply because he knew I was a pilot. He knew there were other pilots on the ship—he’d probably seen Bolduc on the bridge—but I was the first that came to mind. Because he’d met me. He knew me. Or thought he did.

So maybe he didn’t
just
pick me because I was a pilot. Maybe he picked me because he knew me as more than a random crew member. Maybe he saved me because there was a personal connection there.

And wasn’t there? Didn’t I feel like I could go to his stateroom and ask him about the orders he’d given the captain? Wasn’t he at least a little impressed that I had figured it out?

So, yes. Maybe he picked me because he knew me. Maybe because he liked me. Maybe he even thought he was
saving
me. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor.

Picking you to have your brain plucked out of your body is not my idea of a favor,
some part of my brain said.

Good point, brain,
I thought, ignoring that I was now speaking to myself. But the point is not what
I
thought of it, it was what Ocampo thought of it, and me. I wasn’t flattering myself that I was important to Ocampo—I thought back to him telling Commander Tvann it was up to him whether or not to tell Vera Briggs to stay out of the lifepods. If Ocampo was like that with his own assistant, who he’d worked with for years, he wasn’t going to care much if I got uppity and troublesome.

But until then, there might be something there to work with.

What? And for what purpose?

I didn’t know yet.

That wasn’t the point. The point was that I was now listing my potential assets. And one of those assets was that Ocampo, for whatever reason, picked me to pilot the
Chandler
—to
become
the
Chandler
.

So that was one thing.

Another possible asset: what Ocampo
didn’t
know about me.

He knew my name. He knew my face. He knew I was a pilot.

And … that was it.

Which meant what?

It could mean nothing. Or it could mean that when they hooked me up to the
Chandler
’s systems, they wouldn’t know how much I already knew about the systems. Or how to use them.

Don’t get too excited,
that other part of my brain said
. You’re a brain in a box now. And they can see everything you do. They’re probably looking at you thinking all this right now
.

You’re depressing,
I said to that other part of my brain.

At least I’m not talking to myself,
it said back.
And anyway you know I’m right
.

It was a fair point. I had to accept that leaving me alone with my thoughts could be part of a test that I was being given, to see how I would respond. If they were able to follow my thoughts right now, I had to accept that they would use that information to decide what to do with me—kill me or torture me or whatever.

But I had a feeling they weren’t. I had a feeling that the day alone with my thoughts was for another purpose entirely. It was to dominate me. To terrify me. To remind me how alone I was and how helpless I was. How utterly dependent I was on them now for my survival.

And you know what? They would be right about that. I
was
alone. I
was
dependent on them for survival. I
was
terrified.

But I wasn’t going to be dominated.

Yes, I was isolated. Yes, I was scared.

But I was also really, really
pissed off
.

And that was the thing I decided I was going to work with.

If they were listening to me when I was thinking this, they could kill me at any time. In which case they could get on with it, because otherwise they were just wasting my time and theirs.

But I didn’t think they were.

I don’t think they thought they
had
to.

Which was another possible asset. They assumed they had the upper hand in dealing with me.

Again, fair enough. I was a brain in a box and they could kill me or torture me any time they wanted. That’s a pretty good definition of having the upper hand.

But the fact was, they needed me.

They needed a pilot for the
Chandler
. They had me.

And they had
only
me. Everyone else in the crew they had killed off, suffocating them in those lifepods. They were so sure they had the upper hand with me that they didn’t bother with a spare.

Which said to me either they had never done this before, and had no idea what they were doing, or they had done this a lot, and the response by their pilot victims was always the same.

I thought about the Rraey saying that their engineers could repair the ship and get it going again because this was something they were used to. I thought of their efficient way of dealing with the crew, to cow them and get what they wanted.

It was clear this wasn’t something they were new to.

They had done this before. And maybe were right now doing it with pilots other than me. They expected the pilots to be desperate and to be willing to do anything to get their bodies back. They were so used to the response they didn’t really think any other response was possible.

So no, I didn’t think they were listening in on me right then. I didn’t think they thought they had to. I could be wrong, but it was an assumption I was willing to go on.

That gave me free time to think. And plan. Another asset that I had. For now, anyway.

Then there was the final asset I had:

I knew I was already dead.

By which I mean I knew that their promise to return me to my body was almost 100 percent certain to be complete bullshit. There was no way that was going to happen.

I knew that because they killed the crew of the
Chandler
. I knew it because of what Ocampo said when I pleaded with him to send the skip drone back to Phoenix Station to save the crew. I knew it because of how they lied to the crew to lead them willingly to their deaths.

They had no intention of putting me back into my body. I was as close to certain as I could be that my body was already gone—incinerated or tossed into space or put into a stew because the Rraey had a reputation for eating humans when they had the chance.

I thought about my body in a very large pot, simmering.

I actually found it blackly amusing.

Whatever was done with it, my body was history. I was sure of it.

I was also sure that whatever it was that Ocampo and the Rraey—or whatever it was they were working for—wanted me to do, when I was done with it they would flip whatever switch they had and simply murder me then.

That is, if whatever mission they were going to have me do wasn’t already a suicide mission. Which I suspected it probably would be. Or at least, they wouldn’t lose a lot of sleep if I didn’t come back.

I was under no illusion that my fate wasn’t the same as that of the rest of the
Chandler
’s crew. It was just a question of when. And the answer of “when” was: when they were done using me for whatever it was they had planned.

Which meant that I had whatever time existed between now and then to, in no particular order, find out who they were (besides Ocampo and a bunch of Rraey soldiers), discover what they had planned, learn how to stop them, and kill the hell out of all of them.

All of them, that is, except Ocampo. If there was some way to bring him back to Colonial Union space, I was going to do it. Because no matter what else, I think they were going to be very interested in whatever it was he was wrapped up in.

And because he didn’t deserve to get off as easy as him dying would let him.

You’re pretty ambitious for a disembodied brain,
that other part of my brain said again.

I’ve got nothing else to do,
I replied. Because it was true. All I had right now were my thoughts, and time. Lots of time.

So I took it.

*   *   *

At some point I think I slept. It’s hard to tell when you have no outside frame of reference to let you know if you’re actually asleep.

I do know I didn’t dream. I was okay with that.

And at some point the voice came back.

“You have had time to think on your situation,” the voice said. “Now it is time to make your decision.”

The voice was right: it was time to make my decision.

Not whether or not I would decide to stay alive. I’d already decided that one early on.

What I was deciding now was how to act in front of the voice.

Should I be cowed and afraid? Should I be defiant and rebellious, but still willing to do what they wanted? Should I just remain silent and do only what the voice told me to?

This was an important decision because how I responded to the voice now would establish what our relationship was and possibly what would be allowed me in the future—and what I might be able to get away with.

If I picked the wrong attitude, that would have negative consequences. If I was too complacent maybe they would simply treat me as the machine they made me into. Too rebellious and I’d spend all my spare time getting zapped. Neither was what I wanted, especially getting zapped. Once was enough.

“What is your decision?” the voice asked.

I have questions,
I thought, suddenly. Which wasn’t how I was expecting to go, but, okay, let’s see what happens next.

“Your questions are not relevant,” the voice said.

Let me rephrase that,
I said
. I’m going to do what you want. I’ve decided that. But it would help me if I knew a few things as well. I understand I can’t force you to answer any questions. But it would help me be helpful to you if you would consider answering them.

There was an actual pause here. “What are your questions?”

I have three,
I said. Which again, was news to me, but I could come up with three questions, right?

And in fact one popped up in my head.
First, do you have a name?

“Why would that matter?”

Because I feel awkward just thinking of you as “that voice in my head,”
I thought
. If we are going to be working together it would be nice to have a name for you
.

“You may call me Control,” the voice said.

Okay, good,
I thought.
Hello, Control.

Control waited, silent. Well, fine.

Second, would it be possible for me to speak to Secretary Ocampo at some point?

“Why would you need to speak to him?”

I don’t
need
to speak to him,
I thought.
I have already agreed to help you. But when I was taken off the
Chandler
he told me that he was doing this, whatever this is, to help humanity. I want to talk to him more about that, to understand what he meant.

“It doesn’t matter if you understand,” Control said.

I know this,
I thought,
and though I know you’re under no obligation to care, I disagree. You have my help. But if you had my understanding I might be even more useful. Secretary Ocampo is an admirable man. I respect him. If he’s doing this, he must have a reason. I think that reason could make sense to me. I would like to know more about it
.

“We will not let you speak to Secretary Ocampo now,” Control said. “But if in your work you do well, we may consider it for the future.”

Fair enough,
I thought.

“Do not ask us about it again.”

Of course not. You’ve already said you’d think about it. That’s enough.

“Your final question.”

Will you give me your word that I will get my body back?

“My word,” Control said.

Yes, your word,
I thought.
Your promise. I already said I would help you. I will. I will do everything you ask me to. You said that if I did I would get my body back. That was the deal. But there are deals, and there are promises. A deal you can make with anyone. A promise is something you make with someone you trust. If you make a promise with me, that means I can trust you. And that means I can stop worrying about whether I can believe you or not. And that means I can do what you ask me to, better.

And once more there was a pause.

I had a point in asking these questions, even if I didn’t know I was doing it when I started.

Information. Trust. Creating intimacy and a relationship.

I’d asked for a name, and while Control wasn’t much of a name, it was something. A personalization. Something that made that royal we into an “I.” Asking to speak to Ocampo further extended our deal, and turned it from something general—something they probably forced on every pilot whose brain they put into a box—into something specific to me.

And asking for Control’s word? More intimacy—making the deal between me and it. Something with reciprocity. Something with trust.

It was also a test.

“You have my word,” Control said.

Now I knew everything I needed to know about Control.

And Control had no idea that I knew.

That’s all I need,
I said.
I’m ready to get started when you are
.

“Then let’s begin,” Control said.

The
Chandler
’s bridge appeared all around me.

Or, more accurately, a computerized visual representation of the
Chandler
’s bridge; cleaner, plainer, and with all extraneous detail stripped from view.

“You recognize this,” Control prompted.

Of course,
I thought.

It was the standard bridge simulation program, used for training purposes, configured for the
Chandler
’s bridge setup, which in itself was pretty standard.

I recognized it because like anyone else who ever did time on a bridge, I’d spent a couple hundred hours using it in addition to actual physical training at the specific bridge station.