She always slept, but never dreamed. Or is this state in which I am now a dream? She could no longer tell, but often wondered this. Reality itself had changed its face into one of endless possibility.
She remembered only fractions of her previous life. All that was and would ever be now was this. The meld of flesh and machine unlike any other. She was the first of her kind, a new existence of matter that still – after all the time that has evidently passed – felt so alien to her she couldn’t describe her condition even if she could speak in any normal way. Though she figured that if she were to speak and express herself in any human sense, it would simply be an idiom of how she knew everyone else within her saw her existence – glorious perfection. A fusion of mind and machine so complete the corridors within her felt like her flesh. The men and women walking inside each a nerve ending in itself – each relaying electric data along her being – each independent and yet part of the whole. Pipes and wiring which composed the entirety of her new body became her circulatory system, relentlessly pumping life–giving data–fluid for her continued existence and undisturbed functionality.
She remembered having a name once. A human name. But that too was nothing of concern or relevance. Now she was the heart of the great machine, the personification of something eternal. She knew she sat on a throne, that much was obvious, for she could see herself through the digital recorders placed around her in order to keep her mortal coil under constant surveillance and care. Machinery around her relayed tubes and wires which flooded her with stimulants and consciousness–expanding drugs, blasting her mind with a firestorm of synaptic activity. The air itself felt electrified within the sphere where she nested. It felt surreal to watch herself sitting in suspended motion, with wires and tubes running into her augmented body. A never–ending out of body experience. She felt as if she could reach out and touch the being that had once been her – that was in some ways still her. But her old body looked foreign, and it felt like gazing down upon a stranger – a mirage. No emotions bound her to it.
The fleshy bits which once housed all of her mind, along with the organic contraptions that in another life allowed her to roam the blue planet of her birth, were now anathema to her, ugly an unrelatably organic, it even stank.
Within her, however, she managed to find a different form of beauty. It stood right next to her once–body, examining it. And although she wished she might, wished she could, she could not discern what went through his mind.
Taking the uttermost care in inspecting her, making sure all things were in their proper place, functioning with optimal efficiency, he moved fluidly.
She knew it was his daily routine to check up on her, to know she was well, but she didn’t feel the touch of his hands, only the metallic heaviness of his feet standing inside her – a presence in her new body. She had found none as beautiful as him. The others inside her felt stiff, distant – a necessity. But this one, this one she found… welcoming. She knew that in many ways, he was the same as she, a being of flesh, molded with inorganic parts and machinery to near perfection. She supposed this beauty she recognized could be the same awe someone felt about their own blood–cells when looked under magnification. A sense of amazement over the tiny laborers, each invisible to the naked eye but all too real – essential in every regard. But why is it I don’t feel this way about any of the others? She often wondered. It felt like, if anything, this was something she should remember, to recall the source of her feelings.
The man she looked upon was clad in a voluminous, navy blue robe. Two dormant and segmented, three fingered arms hung loosely from his scapula bones and hunched over his shoulders like scorpion tails. Ribbed cables ran from the spine to his neck and into his lower arms through holes tailored into his dragging robe. His features were composed of a skull–shaped mask housing multiple cybernetic eyes, his gaze was the gaze of a spider. The implants shone with a deep midnight–blue. She could only guess how Dyekart Spyros saw the world around him.
His mouth blurted something in binary, she could sense the information he expelled move with the speed of light inside her. The info–dump he had sent got received by a group of women on the other side of the door to her chamber. His ability for normal speech had long since been rendered obsolete, although he could still employ it if he wished. His mouth lay dormant behind a thick mouth–grille and wiring draping from his skullmask like a metallic octopus, each tendril capable of expanding and connecting to systems of his choice for multiple and separate and instant data–transfers. The cold touch of his feet felt calming as his tendrilous, smooth–looking fingers examined the integrity of the nourishment–cabling with more dexterity that any normal fingers could ever hope to manage.
Dyekart turned to leave, one of his cyber–eyes looking into the digital recorder and, for a moment, it seemed as if he saw her, the real her.
Sometimes, she wished she could leave her throne, but remained uncertain of what would happen if she would – to disconnect her old flesh from the new. She feared this, feared it more than anything else, realizing that even in un–death, her organic components were instrumental to her continued existence, but was unsure in what way. The fear of disconnection, however, had become a distant nightmare, a waking–dream, like the grip of anxiety. But she was now more than a being of flesh, she was something beyond it. A spirit in the void of space. She was a ship, she was the Administrator’s Will.
***
Dyekart Spyros felt almost sorry for her. Almost. And it was this feeling, among others, why he loved coming down to the Essentium to look upon her. It remained the only place on the ship which stimulated his emotions in any tangible way. But, in retrospect, sorry was a terribly inaccurate description of his feelings.
Sometimes, he would stare at her for hours just so he could experience the emotions she stirred in him by just sitting immobile on the brass throne. Ribbed tubes and wires ran into almost every part of her body and head, providing nourishment and allowing a direct interface with the ship’s systems.
He had heard her voice in his head once while he stood there, watching her – a ping of binary code his mind decoded instantly.
>Are you watching me sleep?< she had asked.
>And if I am?< he answered.
>Creepy.<
>If watching a thing of beauty is creepy. Then I must the biggest creep there is.<
The ship had purred that day in a way he had never heard it since. He liked to think it was some form of laughter.
Her breathing came labored – aided by a rebreather mask as her long, black hair curved down over her hunched head. Dyekart had forbidden the scientists and servitors to cut her locks, even while knowing the work of checking up her wire connections would be easier had he allowed them to do it. Simply put, he liked her hair. It was the only thing that assured him she was truly alive. Breathing could be induced by machines, heartbeats could be mechanically stimulated. But the growth of her hair, that could not easily be replicated or induced. And with the aid of his highly–sensitive ocular cybernetics, he could see each strand grow. The whole process helped to expand the feelings inside him. He knew such a thing to be selfish, yet also knew it made her seem more human, not just a rudimentary being of bone and flesh set to serve the Administrator and humankind’s will to wedge out into space.
Dyekart could, of course, at any time interface with her directly via means of an analog connection and receive immediate access to all her thoughts. But that seemed more like an invasion than a means to strike a conversation. And besides, he wasn’t even sure she’d be able to communicate like that. Not to mention the fact that an ‘analog connection’ sounded wrong in almost every sense he could think of.
In his time spent on board the Administrator’s Will, Dyekart had grown used to her accurate thinking and unabridged, silent words. Word he felt more than heard. Still, he enjoyed his visits to the Essentium, and each time finding himself eager to feel her presence against his mechanized fingers, to touch her mortal
face (or at least what was left of it), each time amazed that there was indeed a being behind the ruthless efficiency with which the ship operated.
Dyekart threw a glance to one of the digital globes, an instrument recording every angle and nuance of his mask behind which he smiled. You may not see the smile, he thought, but you’re watching, aren’t you? You always are.
He sighed. It wasn’t the sigh of a human either, but of a machine, a warbling electric stir. He waved a hand over a green panel and the metal bulkheads leading out of the Essentium gaped open like a sideways maw. A group of three waiting outside rushed past him and into the throne–room, resuming their constant care for the wellbeing of the Administrator’s Will’s mortal form. Dyekart looked back before the gate closed shut, watching the technicians inspect her and the machines which kept her alive, as if in fear Dyekart’s very presence might have broken them or caused them to work at a reduced efficiency. He found their methodical focus on perfection amusing.
Then, quite despite himself, he felt sorry for her again – a distant feeling of remorse for the prison she lived in. In the end, however, he realized he was just as trapped as her, perhaps even more so. She could roam the galaxy at a whim – the furthest reaches of space – while he, despite being an augmented man, was still just a man. Despite this, despite feeling trapped at times, his limbs restrained by the confides of the ship, in his mind, he was free.
A man though he was, Dyekart took great pride in being one of the few humans who could truly call himself transhuman. An organic something that had become more, better. A being with every capability enhanced and honed. Through his research and study, Dyekart had managed to find a balance between flesh and machine so perfect, he amazed even himself. Although now that he had enhanced himself mechanically, he had hoped to be able to better himself visually as well.
A task proving next to impossible. He never seemed to find the time for it.
Dyekart’s body was sixty–six percent augmented. Emotions, however, felt sparse and unprofound, distant even. At times, he thought perhaps he had imagined it, and that living on a ship does that to you, but it felt like he was missing something.
All he ever felt, truly, was excitement. Traveling to a new world, a new broken city. A new sprawling landscape ruined by someone long gone. That was what still stirred him the most. He savored that part of himself, kept it under lock and key, sixty–six percent was enough, he decided.
He walked the narrow, ascending corridor leading from the Essentium, his shadow pooling back into the darkness, the ship’s inner heart purring behind the walls. The lights above and ahead of him turned on in turn with his steps, while those behind him turned off. He walked until the soft defuse glow of the door–panel up the slope ahead became immediate – in reach. Dyekart waved a hand over the console upon the gate and the iron fell into the slit below with a sound of a heavy anvil strike. He stepped into a much wider and brightly illuminated passage. A multitude of technicians and scientists walked around its length, disappearing inside tubular hallways as they went about their business. Most were simply stretching their legs, a lot of them jogging in tight body–suits. The walls were like diamond here, he could see far and in all directions of the ship if he but focused. Some spaces or areas were artificially darkened, standing out like black markers around him. It felt like looking at a nervous system. In the back of his mind, the microwave murmur of all the conversations swimming through the air kept him engaged, as every Link–communication and random message of the crew on board the Administrator’s Will found its way into his head.
It was his duty to immediately recognize any relevant data. Any new information about a research project or scientific endeavor. For this purpose alone, he had allowed himself to be implanted with a logic system. It filtered and made anything of importance pop up in his mind–banks, a subconscious recess of his mind where his brain could freely access and process data without him even thinking about it. The result was a constant binary residue, a clamoring that buzzed in the back of his perceptions like a beehive, an inner voice made up of a thousand voices.
He found the sound strangely pleasant most of the time. It made him feel connected, never alone.
Since his inception as the commander of the vessel, information was what drove his life. It brought him satisfaction no matter how unimportant or trivial. He had grown accustomed to the droning over the decades. He failed to even notice it unless he came into an overly crowded area where an increased amount of trivial data slithered invisibly around him. He could turn it off, yet each time he did, it felt like he might miss something of note, so he kept it active. Even while he slept.
It brought him dreams wherein he was never himself, but rather some other, strange person with habits he didn’t understand. He often dreamed of being a spectator, a consciousness without form watching others as they bickered or went about their business.
Within the vessel, most of the corridors had been sculptured with efficiency in mind, not comfort. Every part of the ship’s inner workings was hidden within panels and slabs which the technicians, engineers and their assistants could easily remove to repair or clean. The walls possessed a polished look, with no visual transitions from one slab to the next. They all appeared near colorless up close or until removed, yet when one looked in a given direction, their accumulated color became the color of the brightest of morning skies – it reminded him of his home world. And if Dyekart focused his vision and looked really close, he could see a series of dendrite–pipes within the slabs. A cobweb of neuron–like pathways that crept and moved within the near–transparent material like electric worms.
The halls Dyekart passed were always just wide enough for no more than three men to pass each other. Yet even that he considered a waste of space.
The Administrator’s Will employed research decks and laboratories, observatories and living quarters, along with vast, incredible coliseums with stretches of dream–sequencers. Places where men and women could dedicate their lives to a problem and wake up a day later, exactly where they had laid down to sleep. It divided their lives on the ship into lifelong increments. Within their dreams, it never rained, nor could they make it rain, and neither Dyekart nor anyone else could explain why.
“An anomaly in the programming,” seemed to be the consensus.
Nevertheless, the sequencers were a necessity. Exploring the galaxy took time.
Performing research and tests on any newly discovered substance or artifact that might provide a clue or a better understanding of the universe they inhabited had been the ultimate goal. Survival inside the sentient diamond became another.
So far, however, they had found nothing but dustbowls and empty worlds. The galaxy seemed empty. It was either that, or something had spent a great deal of effort and time to try and make it appear empty. It often happened that, in the restless night between worlds – worlds the rest of humanity had no clue they were visiting – Dyekart found himself wondering who had emptied it. The answers which drew themselves in his mind perturbed him greatly. He tried not to think about it.
His knowledge of the ship, however, was second only to the Administrator’s Will herself. As a result, he always knew the most direct path to any given location. He knew the route to it before he even seemed to think of the destination. The path he needed to take through the labyrinth of halls lit up in his mind. He chose a less direct way this time, one in which he passed rooms the size of vast concert halls where people rehearsed and vast halls where they exercised in groups of ten in wells of zero gravity.
People greeted him as he walked past them. Greeted with smiles and kind faces. He returned each with a polite bow of his head.
Dyekart’s mind led him to the main hall also known as the Exploratorium, an area near the ship’s diamond–shaped upper corner. And although navigation and things of the like could be done elsewhere or by the ship herself, the initial coordinate entries were often done on the main deck, just so the people doing it c
ould feel useful. The Exploratorium wasn’t as big or as grand as its name suggested, and just like everything else onboard the space–barge, it had been constructed for efficiency, not posterity.
He had reached the chamber by navigating through doorways which looked like walls, but would place his next step in another part of the ship.
Dyekart immediately spotted his assistant, Ia, working seated and hunched over a photonic screen, lost in the oceans of data surging into her augmented and cyberneticaly enhanced prefrontal cortex.
The Exploratorium itself was a horizontally cut dome inside the Administrator’s Will. Its ceiling stood low, located only five kilometers underneath the outer shell.
Currently, the Administrator’s Will swam in geosynchronous orbit around its crew’s home planet.
The globe’s azure blue bounced and reflected of the smooth floor of the Exploratorium and imbued it with a visage of its atmosphere. It filled Dyekart with a feeling of nostalgia, one of the emotions he was profoundly keen on experiencing.
He walked over to Ia. Her display looked as if floating in space.
More than anything else about the hall, Dyekart liked it because it was always quiet, and he had no desire to disrupt that calm with spoken words just yet. Instead, he fired off a jab over the Link.
His quick cast made Ia stir, but not enough to turn around and look.
>Working here,< she blurted over the Link, the words flying out of her unseen.
“When are you not working?” Dyekart retorted, intentionally using his vocal synthesizer to try and further stir and mess with her. She didn’t allow herself to be bothered, however, and continued to communicate with him using the Link, but didn’t bother to punctuate her messages.