Bored in deep space - Novelisation -
Chapter 18 - Intermission (1)
Awareness didn't return with a sudden jolt, but crept in like a slow tide. The first was touch. A deep, luxurious comfort that was so alien it was almost alarming. Three years. For three years, the word bed had been a synonym for a stiff, unforgiving military cot, or the cold, hard deck plating of a nightmare machine funhouse. This was different. I was enveloped in a cloud of softness, a surface that yielded perfectly to my body, covered in linens so fine they felt like liquid silk on my skin. They carried a faint, clean scent, like spring rain and ozone-less air, a smell so pure it couldn't possibly be natural. It was a scent engineered for relaxation. And damn, if it wasn't working.
My eyes fluttered open, not to the familiar and claustrophobic grey walls of the SV-Eclipse I's shoebox-sized quarters, but to a world of diffuse, gentle light. There were no fluorescent strips humming their perpetual, depressing tune. Instead, the light seemed to emanate from the ceiling itself, a perfectly balanced luminosity that was bright without being harsh, as if I were lying on a puff of cloud. I pushed myself up, my movements slow and languid, and stared. I was in a room. A vast room.
A plush, spotlessly white carpet stretched out to the walls that weren't metal ribbing, but a pearlescent smooth end to a space. A spacious, elegant desk of dark wood sat against one wall, and beside it, an entire wall of what looked like a single, seamless sheet of reinforced glass.
And beyond that glass… stars. Not the blurry, distorted smear I was used to from the old Eclipse's grimy porthole, but the breathtaking vista of the cosmos. We were clearly in a high orbit, still around Astellion, which hung below us like a vast, marbled continent of browns, greys, greens, and whites. But surrounding it, for as far as the eye could see, was the ink-black, diamond-dusted velvet of space. Pinpricks of light so numerous they bled together in faint rivers, burned with a clear intensity I'd only ever seen in high-resolution wallpapers or video game loading screens.
As if on cue to punctuate the surreal luxury, I heard a soft, rhythmic clicking. Something approached my bed. I turned my head, expecting to see Tama standing there in her serene, black form. Instead, a creature about the size of a coffee table scuttled towards me on four spindly, multi-jointed legs made of a polished chrome alloy. Its body was a sleek, streamlined ovoid of a pearly white material, and a single, deep red optical sensor swiveled on a flexible mount to fix on me. Clutched in a pair of delicate manipulator arms was a porcelain mug, from which soft tendrils of fragrant steam were lazily curling.
The four-legged spider-drone came to a silent stop at the edge of the bed, extending its arms with perfect, servile precision. The aroma of freshly brewed, impossibly good coffee hit my nose, a smell so potent and perfect it could wake the dead. Or in my case, the deeply sleep-deprived. My hands trembled slightly as I took the mug. It was warm to the touch, the temperature perfect.
"Wow," I breathed. "The future sure is convenient," I said, taking a tentative sip. The flavour was rich, complex, without a hint of bitterness. It was, hands down, the best cup of coffee I had ever tasted. Period. Sorry, Clarissa. I looked at the chrome and white drone, which waited patiently, its red light slowly pulsing softly. "You know," I tilted my head up, a genuine smile forming across my face. "When I was a kid, I always wanted one of those robot dogs. A Sony Aibo… something, but my parents said they were too expensive." I took another long, satisfying sip. "This," I gestured with the mug, "is a pretty close second. You're big enough to use as a side table, which is a definite bonus. Let's call you… 'Grumpy Jr'. A tribute to your grumpy, box-shaped predecessor." I fixed the drone's red optical sensor with a stern look. "But we're establishing some ground rules right now. You are forbidden to stand over my bed and silently watch me sleep. Creepy robot voyeurism is a deal-breaker, you hear me?"
At the word Grumpy Jr, the drone's optical sensor brightened. When I finished my ultimatum, it let out a cheerful series of beeps and chirps, spun in a tight, excited circle on its spidery legs, and then scurried off to the corner of the room where it proceeded to lie down like a real dog. I laughed, a real, unburdened laugh that I hadn't felt in my chest for… well, three years, or however long it's been.
My eyes drifted back to the sheer size of the quarters, the expanse of carpet, the vast faux-window wall. A nipping thought surfaces, a small piece of my old, corporate-cynic brain reasserting itself. The first SV-Eclipse was a cargo hauler, a flying brick, a Toyota Hilux of the stars. The exterior impression was one of functional bulk, not vast internal space. It felt like there was a slight… discrepancy in size.
"You know," I mused out loud to Grumpy Jr. "I don't remember this ship being this… roomy." Not that I spent much time on the second Eclipse.
"Correct," a calm, familiar, and startlingly close voice resonated from directly behind me. "The interior has undergone an extra-geometric non-euclidian mass displacement. The room is bigger on the inside than the outside would suggest."
I shrieked. It was not a dignified, captainly shout. It was a high-pitched yelp of pure, unadulterated surprise. I jumped, sloshing some of the hot coffee all over the pristine white sheets, and whipped my head around.
She was there. Standing not a metre from the bed, completely still, her form an obsidian gargoyle against the light. Tama. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her posture was a study in serene neutrality, and her two molten-orange irises were fixed on me. She wasn't blinking. She was just… there. Like a beautiful, terrifyingly quiet ghost made of light and shadow.
"Tama!" I gasped, my heart jackhammering against my ribs. "What the—? What are you doing in here? Don't you know how to knock? Or at least, you know, make a sound when you enter a room."
Her head tilted, that gesture of gentle, almost clinical curiosity. "I did not enter the room, Captain. My station has always been here."
"Yes, well," I retorted, once I gathered enough breath to form words, trying to regain a semblance of authority in my silk pyjamas. "That was back when you were Calliope. My room was a designated charging station for a little silver Lighthouse, not the private penthouse suite for an ascended mechanical deity. Things change." I waved a hand vaguely, trying to shoo her towards the door. "You have the whole ship. The bridge. Engineering. Other cabins. I don't know, a throne room or something. Go stand… glow… somewhere else. This is my bedroom."
A flash of something unreadable, a flicker of light like a software error, passed through her orange irises. Her serene mask didn't break, but for a fraction of a second, her posture shifted. The faintest downturn of her lips. A subtle protest. The body language of a child being told they can't sleep in their parents' room anymore because they're a big girl now.
"Your objection contains a logical inconsistency, Captain."
"Oh, here we go," I muttered, slumping back against the ridiculously comfortable pillows and taking a defensive gulp of coffee. "Let's hear it."
"My primary consciousness, the core of what Calliope was and which now forms the basis of Tama, is housed within the central processing matrix of the SV-Eclipse II's Fold Drive. My essence, for want of a better, less poetic term, resides in the engine room, deep within the ship's substructure. It is from there that I process, perceive, and command. Therefore," she concluded with the professional finality of a lawyer presenting a closing argument, "I am not technically in the room. This mobile chassis is merely a peripheral, a puppet being remotely operated with zero transmission lag."
She paused, and for a moment, her expression remained placid and logical. "To command me to leave this chamber would be functionally equivalent to demanding that your own eyes cease to look upon you, or ordering your hands to vacate the end of your arms."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I ran her argument through the addled circuits of my brain. It was the most infuriating piece of AI sophistry. "That's… that's the single most annoyingly smartassed thing I've ever heard," I pointed an accusatory finger at her. "You can't just… redefine the entire concept of being here to win an argument."
"It is not a matter of winning," she countered, her phantom snug smirk making a fleeting return. "It is a matter of defining terms with precision. Something you once lamented my old logic lacked the nuance to do." She gave a miniscule shrug. "Now it does."
I let out a long, defeated sigh that seemed to deflate my entire body, sinking me further into the obscenely comfortable mattress. This wasn't a battle I could win. I wasn't arguing with a stubborn friend anymore; I was debating the definition of space with the space itself. The argument was functionally over before it began.
"Fine. Whatever," I conceded, my voice flat with the weary resignation of a man who's been outsmarted by a calculator. "You can stay. The bridge, the engine room, it's all the same to you, I get. But—!" I held up a single, emphatic finger, my stare locking onto her, "we have a condition. One. Absolute. Non-negotiable. A sacred pact of the bedroom." I leaned forward, lowering my voice as if sharing a profound state secret. "You. Are not. To look at me. When I am sleeping."
Her head tilted, a minute, almost invisible shift, her posture and inquiry of pure innocence. "Extrapolating on your phrasing, Captain, you are referencing the event known as the 'Grumpy Nightmare'. You have not experienced another such episode since then. The probability of a rogue reoccurrence is statistically negligible when calculated against the new operational matrix of the ship. My peripheral systems now run on a different architecture, entirely shielded from external data signatures."
"It's not a probability thing, Tama," I insisted. "It's a human thing. A boundary thing. Call it the prime directive of peaceful rest. I can't wake up to your orange moon-eyes burning a hole in my face. It's unsettling. I need the illusion of privacy."
I searched her face, looking for any sign of comprehension, of empathy. For a long silent moment, she was simply still. The processing felt different this time, less of an instantaneous calculation and more of a contemplation. She wasn't parsing logic against an encyclopedia of facts; she was weighing my emotional request against her own nature.
Then, she gave a small, deliberate nod. "I understand." Her response was as calm, as crystalline, and as neutral as ever. There was no promise, no affirmation of my command. No 'I will comply'. Just a simple statement of comprehension.
I sighed. I'd heard that tone countless times before; it was the voice of the IT department when they'd just closed your ticket without actually fixing the problem. It was the phrase a manager used right before they went ahead and did the exact thing they'd agreed not to do. She understood the words, the feelings, the context behind them. She simply filed them away as an anomaly she had no intention of acting upon.
I stared at her, a silent battle of wills playing out in the quiet, opulent chamber. I was a veteran of corporate negotiation; I knew the signs of a polite stonewall when I saw one. She understood, but she hadn't agreed.
I let it go for now.
I finished the last of my coffee in the porcelain mug, the exquisite taste a final, lingering farewell to the absurd comfort of the bed. With a decisive sigh, I swung my legs out from under the soft sheets and placed my feet on the plush, white carpet. The sheer luxury of it was almost comical. I held out the empty mug, Grumpy Jr, who had been patiently waiting, scuttled over immediately with a happy chirp, gently taking the jug with its manipulator arms before backing away like a dog who had just found a stick.
"Alright," I announced, clapping my hands together. "The R&R phase is officially over. It's been grand. But this kind of opulence starts to feel a little… corrosive after a while." I looked from the star-filled faux-window hologram projection to Tama. "Time to get the show on the road. Let's get this cosmic tour started. This isn't a vacation; it's Turn Eight."
As if anticipating my next thought, Tama raised a single, elegant hand. In response, one of the wall panels I'd assumed was decorative slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Floating on an anti-gravity platform, draped with the same casual disdain for physics that everything else on this ship seemed to possess, was a familiar set of clothes.
My uniform. The black suit, sharply cut, with the thin, elegant lines of gold trim running along the collar and cuffs. The matching trousers, simple, functional boots, a grey vest, and most iconically my white tie. It was the attire I had been wearing when I first woken up on the bridge of the original SV-Eclipse, three years ago -- or was it three weeks ago? And most important -- the silver tie clip that had been my anchor for those past three years.
A renewed sense of purpose cut through the lingering fog of sleep and cosmic revelations. I took the clothes, the crisp, familiar fabric serving as a grounding presence in my hands. "Well," I said, a wry, determined grin spreading across my face. "Seems only fitting. Did they use better quality material for these when they upgraded the ship? Feels… much more expensive." I said, feeling at the fabric of my new outfit. I looked back at Tama. "Alright, Tama. The galactic tour. Our turn eight. We're not going to aimlessly wander. Lay it on me; give me some destinations. Some initial points of interest for a man back from the dead."
Tama stood unnervingly still, her orange eyes processing my request. "Designation analysis initiated," her serene voice intoned. "Filtering for high-travel potential, cultural variance, and minimal immediate political instability. Several primary options present themselves for the initial phase of your self-designated tour." She began her list, each destination uttered with the clinical perfection of a seasoned travel agent reading from a pre-approved itinerary. "One, Freeport-7. A fully independent, lawless trade hub located on the Rinior Nebula. A nexus for information, contraband, and freelance work. Its defining feature is its official non-affiliation with any government, imperial, noble, or corporate body. All legal matters are adjudicated by the Guild of Merchants. Ideal for observing unfiltered commerce in its most chaotic and pure form."
"Ooh, a Mos Eisley knock-off. I like it. What's next?"
Her glowing irises flickered, momentarily accessing a database I could only imagine. Though, it was slightly humorous that this cosmic being with access to a library with millions of years of knowledge and history, was only using it as a travellog. "The term is noted, Captain. Option two is Armstrong Station," she continued. "A massive, ring-shaped O'Neill cylinder orbiting a type-F dwarf star. It functions primarily as the central administrative and military headquarters for the Imperial Convocation. While a military installation, it possesses extensive commercial sectors, museums, and educational archives. It offers a stable, heavily policed, and comprehensive view of the dominant galactic power and its official history."
"So, the capital building. A little bit too tourist-friendly for a maiden voyage, but good for a rainy day. Also remind me to learn about these terms, it's all just word salad at this point, but that's for later." I paced a little as she spoke, the familiar feel of the black suit in my hands getting me into the zone. "Next?"
"The Orion Guild Worlds, as a broader designation," Tama supplied. "This is not a single destination but a collection of thirteen middle rim systems under Guild hegemony, from the opulent pleasure-planet of Cygnus X-1 to the industrial forging world for Kraz-4. Each world offers a unique cultural and economic paradigm of Guild-space life, all under the umbrella of a relatively safe and standard galactic currency."
"A buffet trip. A whole theme park of corporate conformity. Good for orientation, maybe." I shrugged, pulling on the crisp, black trousers. They fit perfectly. "And what about the more… adventurous options?"
"Option four are the Fringe Territories," she concluded, her voice holding a subtle note of caution. "This designation applies to any star system located beyond the official charted borders of imperial or guild space and its major corporate competitors. These are vast, sparsely populated, and largely unregulated regions. They are home to fledgling colonies, independent settlers, xenophobic holdouts, and scientific anomalies. Travel here is not recommended without adequate ship preparation and a significantly higher tolerance for risk. However, the potential for discovering the unique and unexpected is, statistically, much higher."
I stopped, mid-buckle, holding the jacket in my hands. The options rattled around in my head. A pirate's haven, the seat of galactic power, a sampler of corporate life, or the uncharted wilderness. Each one was a different flavour of the future, a different story. My turn eight had to start somewhere, but where? I was so used to having my path dictated for me -- by the Fold Jump hijacking, by the crash, by Astellions and the old machines themselves. The sheer, terrifying freedom of being able to choose was suddenly paralysing.
As I stood there, my brow furrowed in concentration, Tama's serene expression remained unchanged. But then, she spoke again, her tone as calm as ever, but the words themselves a sudden, sharp interruption to my deliberation.
"There is one final option I have not yet listed, Captain. It is a designation I have held in pending status until your arrival."
I looked up, confused. "Another place? What is it? Unlisted pirate coves? The galactic equivalent of a speakeasy?"
"The designation does not correspond to a place," Tama clarified, her orange gaze steadily observing me. "But to an unread series of messages. One hundred and twenty-seven messages, to be precise."
I stared at her, my mind drawing a complete blank. "Messages? From who?"
"They have been transmitting continuously on a high-bandwidth, encrypted Guild channel, pinging the IFF transponder signature of the SV-Eclipse for the past three years, four months, and twenty-five days. The sender is listed in my contact databank under a single name." She paused for a beat, delivering the final, earth-shattering piece of information. "It is your uncle, Tiberius Lee."
My blood ran cold. My brain stuttered, a corrupted file trying to load. Tiberius. The name wasn't a jolt of memory; it was a ghost knocking on a door I hadn't even known was there. My mind, still a messy, fractured collage of two lifetimes, scrambled. The Noah from the 21st century had an uncle, a quiet, bookish man who'd always smelled of old paper and pipe tobacco. But that wasn't who she was talking about. Her words didn't trigger a memory from my old life. They triggered something else. A flicker. A stray piece of data from the man whose life I had stepped into. The man who had been the original captain of the SV-Eclipse.
The realisation hit me like a physical blow. Of course. This Noah, the one born and raised in the far future, the interstellar trucker who'd salvaged a beat-up ship, the orphan of a terrorist attack… he had a life. A family. Friends. An uncle. He was a person, with a history, with relationships, with baggage of his own. He wasn't just a blank slate, a convenient avatar for a displaced consciousness. He had roots, and in all the chaos of Astellion and the old machines, I had left that one mystery to simmer.
"Tiberius…" The name felt strange and heavy on my tongue, a key to a door I had no desire to open. It wasn't my family. Not really. It was his. The original Noah's. A ghost I was now forced to acknowledge, a legacy I'd inherited without ever asking for it. For the past three years -- or three weeks -- I had been consumed by a singular, desperate struggle. My world had shrunk to the jagged metal of a crashed ship, the dust-choked plains of an alien world, and the dark, haunting corridors of a dying god's mind. I had forgotten, or perhaps I simply chose to ignore, that this body I wore came with a history. That there were people out there, in this vast, bustling galaxy, for whom this Noah was not a cosmic anomaly, not a puzzle to be solved, but simple… family. A nephew.
I still wasn't sure of the exact nature of my existence. This Noah, the spaceship captain, wore my face and had my name; identical to the Noah of the 21st century. Aside from history and timeline, we were functionally the same person; this body didn't even feel like someone else's. When I first woke up on that screaming bridge, I didn't feel a sense of discomfort or disorientation with my body.
Before I could fully process the weight of it, Tama's hand moved with that same liquid grace. A small, thin data-slate materialised from an unseen compartment, her movements as fluid as if she were pulling it from the fabric of space itself. She held it out, the device a sleek, matte black rectangle with no visible buttons or ports. It felt cool and solid in my hands, but lighter than styrofoam, and as thin as a pane of glass.
"One hundred and twenty-seven missed messages," she repeated, her tone a calm, factual statement that belied the emotional gravity of the contents. "I have taken the liberty of collating the headers into a single, chronological list. I have filtered out all system and automated responses."
My eyes dropped to the slate's surface, which instantly came alive with a soft, blue-white light. The list was simple, clean, and told a story of utter devastation. Each line was a punch to the gut, a chronicle of hope fading into desperation.
[Header 01]: Check-in when you hit the Way-Station. Don't want the guild docking your pay for being late. -Tiberius
[Header 03]: Re: Titan Ore Delivery - Did you get my last message? Your ship's transponder isn't responding. Call me. -Tiberius
[Header 17]: URGENT: The Guild filed a missing vessel report. SV-Eclipse, last known sector Sigma-9. Noah, answer me. -Tiberius
[Header 38]: Call me when you see this message. It's been six months. I've talked to a contract at the registry. They say you just… vanished. No Fold signature, no debris field. What happened? -Tiberius
[Header 61]: Year One - I'm still paying the berthing fees on your scrap licence. The Guild's stopped my pension payout until they officially close the case. Please, just send a single ping. Anything. -Tiberius
[Header 75]: Another anniversary. Your mother, she… I told myself you'd send a message today. I was wrong. -Tiberius
My eyes drifted down the list, skipping lines, watching the date stamps increment. They started formal, became insistent, then pleading. Eventually, they settled into a kind of grim, mournful rhythm.
[Header 95]: Two Years. I sold the compression coil from the old Wanderer to pay the fees. The ship is officially classed as 'lost with all hands'. They say I should accept the survivor's benefits and move on. How am I supposed to do that? -Tiberius
[Header 103]: The neighbours are asking questions again. I tell them you're on a long-haul exploratory contract. It's getting harder to lie. -Tiberius
[Header 110]: Do you have any idea what this is doing to me? To your memory? Do you even care? -Tiberius
Then the last few messages, the ones I found in the dark corners of the screen, dated only months ago. They were stripped of all but a few words, the raw essence of a grief that had been simmering for years.
[Header 119]: It's been three years. What do I tell your mother? My sister. What do I tell her when I see her? -Tiberius
[Header 121]: The Guild is closing the file. Final. Lost. That's it. You're just gone. -Tiberius
[Header 127]: Are you out there? -Tiberus
I opened the last message. I don't know why, I just felt like I had to.
MESSAGE 127 OF 127
FROM: Tiberius Lee
TO: SV-Eclipse (Noah Lee)
SUBJECT: Are you out there?
DATE: [Standard Cycle + 1,254]
[ Three years and a bit. I promised her I'd look after you. I promised her when she handed you to me before she… you know. That I'd keep you safe. I told her ghost, every year on this day, that her son was okay. That he was out there, making his own way, just stubborn as she ever was. I lied, Noah. I think I've been lying to myself, and now the Guild is finalising the loss report. It's done. They're striking you from the active manifest. What do I tell her, kid? What do I tell your mother when I go and put those flowers on her grave? ]
I lowered the slate, my arm suddenly feeling too weak to hold it. The list of headers was worse than a long, rambling letter. Each one was a small, polished stone of grief dropped into the deep, dark well of a man's life. This wasn't just a backlog of messages; it was a funeral, held in installments, every single day for three years. A life that wasn't mine, but which I now unceremoniously ended.
"Tama," I spoke up, my voice sounding a little hoarse. "Tau Ceti Prime, that's where my uncle is, right?"
"Affirmative."
"Set a course."