Carpathian Forty-Three

Carpathian Forty-Three - Part 23

Ward gathers instruments and minutiae in Medical, stowing them in bags or cases secured to the floor. We've been on the float over three hundred days, we've relaxed into a routine where we didn't need to secure our equipment, clothes, toothbrushes, food wrappers. Everything needs to be put away for the brake. The Ring will spin down and lock, leaving it on the float. The brake itself will give us deceleration gravity for a few hours. Ward's more fastidious than the rest of us. They're used to a medical environment where instruments are policed. Brake prep is easy for them.

"Beta, where did you put that welder?" Rhianu asks in Engineering.

Rhi and the Twins aren't as organized as Ward, odd for an engineer and two semi-sentient repair drones. There's mischief in Beta's programing, left over from a prior engineer. Rhi is tracking down their gear from a list I provided. Wrenches, welders, spools of wiring, pipefittings, everything needs to be secured. Mostly that gear is tacked to walls in the zero gravity of engineering. It needs to be secured so it doesn't become dangerous under deceleration gravity. Alpha, the more studious of the drone pair is flitting around the space, grabbing equipment, securing it in the proper receptacles. Beta is lackadaisical and disinterested.

"We ready Stephen?" Voclain asks from the Command module.

They're busy getting that space in order. Once upon a time that's where Carpathian Forth-Three's pilot would execute maneuvers, steer the ship. Now it's there for emergency, a place where Voclain can direct the crew without distraction during operations that require a formality we don't experience in day-to-day routine. There's not much to secure. Voclain is almost as fastidious as Ward. It's a wonder they're in a relationship with Rhianu. They're opposites in so many ways. The only two Spacers on the ship, maybe it's just shared upbringing that thrust them together.

"Looking good Captain. We'll be ready to spin down The Ring in an hour or so, given current pace," I say.

I secured my own cabin and operations last night while the rest of the crew slept. I don't sleep much now that my cybernetic implants are reactivated. Now I'm part of the ship, part of whatever Miki and I are together. Enhanced humans don't need as much sleep as non-enhanced, that's what we tell ourselves. It's mostly true.

I don't want to dream. I'm afraid of remembering my time in The Lunar Chorus, how that time ended. Maybe I'm afraid of the dreams my mind will create from those experiences. With the implants active there's more processing power in my skull to fill my dreams with horrors.

"Anyone I need to yell at?" Voclain asks.

"Not yet," I say. There's no malice in the exchange. Sometimes the captain needs to motivate people. It works out best when the XO knows they're motivating.

Miki helps Thak secure their cabin. Thak among all of us is the most disheveled, or perhaps calculatedly disorganized. I haven't decided yet. The chaos of Thak's cabin/office projects a demeanor of disorder and forgetfulness. But Thak isn't any of those things, not in matters of business. I suspect they use it to give a false impression to suppliers and customers.

"You have books?" Miki asks in awe.

Physical books are almost unique on ships like Carpathian Forty-Three. Books are mass that don't have a customer to pay for. They take up precious fuel to move across the solar system. They're a decadence that relays an aesthetic, mostly 'rich', but also 'inner solar system.'

"Here," Thak reaches out. "I put those in here." They open a hard case attached to the wall, revealing foam cut outs that have space for half a dozen books. One hole is void, waiting for Miki to hand the book over.

"You have six books!" Miki asks, astonished.

"I have several props that make for good set dressing. This one," Thak takes the book and turns it over in their thick, dark Martian hands. "This one I read for pleasure." I can't make out the title on the spine through the cameras in Thak's cabin. Their hand obscures it as they gently dock the book in its protective case, latching it shut.

Miki seems to be doing better emotionally. It's a lot to run the ship, all the checks to be made day-to-day, making sure systems are working properly, addressing when they aren't, as well as preparing to run a maneuver that our lives depend on. There are little bumps and twitches Carpathian Forty-Three will take under burn, things that push us this way and that, deviate us from our intended course. Correcting those lead to other correction, spiraling out into a chaos of decisions and interactions. I can't do it, there's too much, too many calculations to make. Miki needs to foresee our course as dozens of thrusters fire and the ship shifts to and froe. Fort was good at it. Their quantum computer could make those calculations with ease. Miki's cybernetic enhancements allow them to do it. Barely.

"You're ruminating again, Stephen," Miki thinks at me as they bundle up stray clothing from behind Thak's ostentatious chair. I can feel the thick, soft sweatshirt at the center of it, smell the patchouli and sweat in it, smell the identifiable 'Thak' scent.

"It's what I'm good at," I think in response.

With Miki's help we'll be ready to spin down The Ring in plenty of time.

"Stephen, do you have a few moments?" Ward asks, shutting the last case in Medical with a snap.

"Of course," I say.

"Could you stop down?"

Unusual. Ward is from Earth. They're less accustomed to virtual interaction than the rest of us.

"Be right there," I say.

I pull myself up from my perch in Operations, let my link with the ship drop away as I focus on my own personal space, navigating the short walk from Operations to Medical. It's odd seeing the ship like this, everything stowed away. It feels baren.

"What's going on?" I ask Ward as I enter Medical.

"I'm worried about Miki."

"Isn't that your job?"

Ward's expression flashes indignant for a moment, then back to their disinterested, almost blank normal.

"Here," they say, tapping their desk. The beige surface is replaced with graphs and figures. I recognize one as an electroencephalogram, a measure of brain activity. I don't know how to interpret it. It would be simple enough to ask my implants for help, but I can tell Ward wants to explain this.

"Miki's brain activity is high, increasing." They trace out the EEG line with their finger.

"Is it dangerous? For someone with Miki's implants?" I ask. In another life I might have been impatient at Ward's explanation. They need to explain it though, it's obvious it's been weight on them. They need to perform this theater to feel good about their prognosis.

"I don't know. Yes? Can you look at it with whatever you implants provide?"

Hmm. That is concerning. I thought Ward needed to demonstrate their own medical expertise. Asking for help isn't normal for them. I engage my implants, connect to the datasets Fort had available in classical storage, send inquiries off-ship to corporate. But. Yes. Ward's right. The overall trend on Miki's EEG does suggest stress and overwork, even for someone with their gifts and enhancements.

"This should get better post brake, no more simulations, no more running implants at capacity," I say.

"The thing is Stephen, this trend only started when you reactivated your implants."

I look at the charts again, corelate the spikes in Miki's neurology with activities of the ship, of the crew.

"These spike when I'm asleep," I say. I'd have expected the spikes to coincide with simulation runs when Miki's implants are running at maximum to react to the course alterations they need to make.

"What?" Ward asks. "How did I miss that?"

Miki's implants aren't working overtime when they're simulating the braking maneuver. They're spiking when I dream.