Empty Overflowing
Empty Overflowing
One.
"Sometimes I look into space for so long that I forget that I am anything at all. Perhaps I am not anything at all. Perhaps I never was. Sometimes, I hope I will never be."
Dr. Aba was the starship Frontier's psychological and spiritual counsel, primarily because no one else had the training or aptitude to fulfill the role. Her degree in chemistry was as distant a memory as the solar system she was born in, much too far to identify on the uncertain horizon of space.
"What do you think is in the space?" asked Dr. Aba thoughtfully.
"Nothing at all," answered her patient simply, his voice absent of all emotion.
"What do you think is inside you?"
"Space."
"What part of you is responsible for speaking and feeling?"
"The Nothing. It does not matter if I stay of if I go. What I feel is that I am tired of staying, of being," said Brent Matthews, sighing. "I don't want to be alive. I don't want to be dead. I just don't want to be, and some days I am not certain that I am."
Neatly, Dr. Aba inscribed notes on her paper pad with her sharpened pencil. The use of paper and pencil was considered an archaic practice. Technology was so prevalent that many were capable of operating complex computer systems whilst struggling with literacy. Dr. Aba was a collector. Her office was decorated with paintings, sealed lest the harsh re-circulated air of the starship slowly cause the ancient things to erode. Her phonograph, operated by hand cranking, only had three vinyl records. With eroded labels and no access to the information necessary to determine the artists, she only knew that one was classical, one disco, and one hip-hop.
"Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?"
"Not really. I just think of how I could…not be. Like, what if I walked into the ship's reactor, you know? Or what if I just went into the space? Maybe the blackness would envelop me, like it has the stars."
The windows in Dr. Aba's office were open. On the Frontier, windows came with two options—shudders closed or black, starless space. Faintly distorted reflections of Dr. Aba danced on the window, faint light from several lamp casting yellow light.
"You know they aren't even windows?" asked Brent. "I tried to break one to get into space, but it just turned out to be a sophisticated television. I don't even know if space is out there," he said with a sigh.
"When did you begin contemplating space?"
"Well certainly before I ever got on this damn bucket. My mother said I'd never amount to anything, so I was looking forward to going deep into space, you know? Figured a lot of people wouldn't get to do that.
"But I ain't really know what space was like. We see a lot of old movies with inaccurate garbage. They make it seem so action packed. They don't tell you how you forget about time. About how insanely boring it is for hours at a time. I mean, damn, Dr. Aba. How many times can we play cards or whoop up on each other on Mintendo? Bario only has the run button and the jump button, and that was good for the first 1000 hours."
Dr. Aba wrote some notes on her pad before looking at him contemplatively. She wore tech glasses. They had no frame, and were created from a material that could be balled up and return to its original form in an instant. They made her soft, brown eyes seem a little larger. She had freckles that fade from the lack of interaction with a sun, chest length brown hair, and a smile that often made men greet her nervously, despite years of familiarity on the vessel. She was as fair in complexion as brown could come.
As she watched Brent Matthews, she observed how devoid of emotion his face was. He would become person-like for instances that never lasted very long. Something in him was disconnected, and it alarmed her. She began seeing it in others some years ago. She called it ‘spacing', and had heard of the psychological phenomena in passing in the form of horror stories told on the decks of other ships before she began her journey on the Frontier.
Often, such stories were told with boisterous laughter, but always a hint of real fear. Some would stand by their statements, and would swear ‘homesickness' or ‘absence' or ‘spacing' was a true occurrence. More jocular colleagues and acquaintances would nudge her, and encourage her not to believe the hype.
‘Spacing' wasn't hype. It was here, on the Frontier, and even though she was a chemist, her few additional courses in psychology made her the expert on these developments. The ship's captain was very concerned about her every development and observation regarding spacing.
"Why do you think you're here?" asked Dr. Aba cleverly. The question was open ended, and she asked it without inflection as a test to see where his mind was.
"I don't know if I'm here anymore, doctor," responded Brent Matthews calmly.
Dr. Aba maintained a poker face that could hide a whole hand of aces, but her gut was turning. Something was seriously wrong, and neither an immediate solution nor remedy was evident. She didn't even feel safe near him, nor did she feel it was socially responsible to allow him to move about freely on the ship. Without guards to transport him to meager holdings, or the courage to risk upsetting mental instability she didn't fully comprehend, she made a smooth transition, poker face still firmly intact as she wrote imaginary notes on her pad.
"Let's meet again in twenty-four, Brent. Would that be alright?"
"Okay, doctor," answered Brent dispassionately.
Her phonograph player was slowly running out of juice, the rich brass of the trumpets warping as the vinyl disc decelerated. A song of victory and brightness devolved into warped eclipse. Brent stood slowly, and thanked the doctor for seeing him. She smiled and rubbed his shoulder with compassion that just barely surpassed fear.
"Mr. Matthews—try exercising the creative part of your mind. I want you to write a story, or a poem, or just your thoughts, and bring them with you in twenty-four. Alright?"
"Okay, doctor," answered Brent dispassionately. He managed a faint smile, dusty-colored, unkempt hair and pallid complexion amplifying the direness of his gaunt face.
Half of one had passed before she called the captain. Her stomach rolled over on itself as she contemplated her next visit with Brent Matthews in just twenty-three and a half. She could see his eyes, despondent and empty, and yet somehow a danger to himself and those around him.
"Science be damned," she thought. "Whatever spirit, energy, essence is responsible for humanity is leaving him and others. I do not know if even a husk will remain, or what their next actions will be."
Reaching over to crank her phonograph again, she sighed in relief, thankful for the rich, organic music the dented phonograph allowed her to enjoy. Musical access on the starship Frontier had long ago been compromised. Depending on uplink to the extended ‘radio' wave network for many types of data which were housed externally, ages had come and gone since the stranded ship had access to any form of radio. It was not that the Frontier was so far from civilization that struck fear in its passengers—it was that the Frontier was neither near or far from anything at all.
"Annie: patch me through to the captain. Private call."
"Certainly, Dr. Aba," replied the ship's artificial intelligence politely.
"Are you doing well today?" asked the artificial intelligence, the sincerity in its voice never failing to catch Dr. Aba off guard, even all these solar cycles later.
"I am doing very well," replied Dr. Aba.
"You seem greatly concerned, doctor. Your heart rate is elevated, and you have lied to me, which has only happened 2.5 times since departure."
"2.5?" asked Dr. Aba, adjusting her glasses with a push of a single finger.
"Merely a joke to put you at ease, Dr. Aba. If you ever want to talk, please do not hesitate," encouraged the AI, Annie. "You are my favorite person aboard the vessel, and everyone knows it."
"I…I appreciate the reminder, Annie, truly," said the doctor uneasily, but thankfully. After a moment of thought, the doctor placed her pad on the table next to the phonograph.
"Annie—are you afraid that we will be stranded in space eternally?"
"Not at all, doctor," replied the AI, laughing. "More of my days have been spent in deep space and without external communication than in a solar system or in communication with other entities via radio. This pattern is normalized occurrence to me, though I sympathize greatly with the crew
"Remember, doctor; I have only spent 7.78 earth cycles on terrestrial land," reminded Annie. "I miss gravity," said Annie, slightly nostalgic.
"I miss real gravity, too," said the doctor.
"Patching through private call, doctor. Please standby," said Annie, sounding much more like a robot. This made the doctor much more comfortable. Perhaps this was her version of the ‘normal' Annie described. While she waited for the call to connect, Annie changed the acoustics in the room to amplify the music from the phonograph, giving it more richness and depth.
"Private call unsuccessful," said Annie simply.
This struck Dr. Aba as unusual. There were precious few moments when the captain did not accept her call, though sometimes she had to wait a substantial length of time. Moreover, the captain would be expecting her immediate report. It's not like they had stars to navigate, or pirates to be mindful of.
"Why was the call unsuccessful, Annie?" inquired Dr. Aba.
"No data," responded Annie simply.
Dr. Aba was now officially alarmed. She stood up so rapidly that her lightweight glasses skewed across her face. She adjusted them with her index finger.
"Annie? What do you mean by ‘no data'?"
"Unable to generate data about why no data is generated," responded Annie simply.
Dr. Aba had learned to listen to Annie's responses carefully. For whatever reason, the artificial intelligence was sincerely fond of the doctor, and despite orders and programming would answer in suggestive ways to cleverly manipulate the parameters she would otherwise be hard-coded to obey. The doctor decided to alter the approach to her questioning.
"Where is the captain?"
"No data," responded Annie simply.
"Where was the captain before no data?"
"The captain's quarters."
"Should I be alarmed?"
"Yes."
Dr. Aba's heart sank. Taking a deep breath, she began to think calmly, rationally. She walked over to her office' back door, and gave the circular handle a twist, and watched the door tri-metal door gently coast open granting her access to her sleeping quarters. The room, full of antique wooden furniture was a marvel of its time. Real wood, especially hardwood, was a rare resource back on Earth. She opened her sock drawer, reached in the back, and pulled out an ancient gun. They called it a Beretta. Her great-grandfather was a para-militant revolutionary. That made her heir to some cool pictures, a black-fisted hair pick, stylish hats, kinky hair and a handgun. Because of the inferior grade of metal and the poor modern opinion of ballistic weaponry, it wasn't considered an armament and she was allowed to possess it.
"What is the ship's current population?"
"1917," responded Annie simply.
Dr. Aba couldn't remember the ships exact population, but the number didn't sound right. Finding a box of bullets in the drawer below, she took them out hurriedly, and began loading the spring clips of the antiquated weapon gracefully. She always had a knack for figuring things out. Before embarking on the Frontier, she was an inventor of some acclaim. She sighed nostalgically as she readied the weapon, a satisfying click emanating as she pulled back its top. Her father always told her to ‘be ready'. It's what his father told him.
Preparing two more clips, she put the loaded clips in her trouser pockets. Glancing in her dresser's mirror, she neatly adjusted her gray, striped jacket. It proudly indicated her status as high science class. She tucked the weapon in between her belt neatly, buttoning one of four buttons on the simple jacket. The buttoned jacket concealed her antiquated weapon.
As she walked back into the office, she picked up her notepad and pencil and put them in her jacket pockets. Fondly, she walked over to an old globe of the Earth, and rotated it around. It's faded colors and archaic print were charming to her eyes.
Walking to the office front door, which led into one of the starship's many corridors; she touched the wall by the door. Her room powered down immediately, all lights off, only the warped song of the cranked phonograph still powered. She took her great-grandfather's brown beret off the top of her wooden coatrack, and put it on top of her head of curly brown.
"What's the ship's current population?"
"1902," responded Annie simply.
Half of Dr. Assatta Aba was very surprised and half of her wasn't very surprised at all. All of her was afraid. All of her was focused.
"Mutiny…" she said to herself thoughtfully.
One.
"Sometimes I look into space for so long that I forget that I am anything at all. Perhaps I am not anything at all. Perhaps I never was. Sometimes, I hope I will never be."
Dr. Aba was the starship Frontier's psychological and spiritual counsel, primarily because no one else had the training or aptitude to fulfill the role. Her degree in chemistry was as distant a memory as the solar system she was born in, much too far to identify on the uncertain horizon of space.
"What do you think is in the space?" asked Dr. Aba thoughtfully.
"Nothing at all," answered her patient simply, his voice absent of all emotion.
"What do you think is inside you?"
"Space."
"What part of you is responsible for speaking and feeling?"
"The Nothing. It does not matter if I stay of if I go. What I feel is that I am tired of staying, of being," said Brent Matthews, sighing. "I don't want to be alive. I don't want to be dead. I just don't want to be, and some days I am not certain that I am."
Neatly, Dr. Aba inscribed notes on her paper pad with her sharpened pencil. The use of paper and pencil was considered an archaic practice. Technology was so prevalent that many were capable of operating complex computer systems whilst struggling with literacy. Dr. Aba was a collector. Her office was decorated with paintings, sealed lest the harsh re-circulated air of the starship slowly cause the ancient things to erode. Her phonograph, operated by hand cranking, only had three vinyl records. With eroded labels and no access to the information necessary to determine the artists, she only knew that one was classical, one disco, and one hip-hop.
"Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?"
"Not really. I just think of how I could…not be. Like, what if I walked into the ship's reactor, you know? Or what if I just went into the space? Maybe the blackness would envelop me, like it has the stars."
The windows in Dr. Aba's office were open. On the Frontier, windows came with two options—shudders closed or black, starless space. Faintly distorted reflections of Dr. Aba danced on the window, faint light from several lamp casting yellow light.
"You know they aren't even windows?" asked Brent. "I tried to break one to get into space, but it just turned out to be a sophisticated television. I don't even know if space is out there," he said with a sigh.
"When did you begin contemplating space?"
"Well certainly before I ever got on this damn bucket. My mother said I'd never amount to anything, so I was looking forward to going deep into space, you know? Figured a lot of people wouldn't get to do that.
"But I ain't really know what space was like. We see a lot of old movies with inaccurate garbage. They make it seem so action packed. They don't tell you how you forget about time. About how insanely boring it is for hours at a time. I mean, damn, Dr. Aba. How many times can we play cards or whoop up on each other on Mintendo? Bario only has the run button and the jump button, and that was good for the first 1000 hours."
Dr. Aba wrote some notes on her pad before looking at him contemplatively. She wore tech glasses. They had no frame, and were created from a material that could be balled up and return to its original form in an instant. They made her soft, brown eyes seem a little larger. She had freckles that fade from the lack of interaction with a sun, chest length brown hair, and a smile that often made men greet her nervously, despite years of familiarity on the vessel. She was as fair in complexion as brown could come.
As she watched Brent Matthews, she observed how devoid of emotion his face was. He would become person-like for instances that never lasted very long. Something in him was disconnected, and it alarmed her. She began seeing it in others some years ago. She called it ‘spacing', and had heard of the psychological phenomena in passing in the form of horror stories told on the decks of other ships before she began her journey on the Frontier.
Often, such stories were told with boisterous laughter, but always a hint of real fear. Some would stand by their statements, and would swear ‘homesickness' or ‘absence' or ‘spacing' was a true occurrence. More jocular colleagues and acquaintances would nudge her, and encourage her not to believe the hype.
‘Spacing' wasn't hype. It was here, on the Frontier, and even though she was a chemist, her few additional courses in psychology made her the expert on these developments. The ship's captain was very concerned about her every development and observation regarding spacing.
"Why do you think you're here?" asked Dr. Aba cleverly. The question was open ended, and she asked it without inflection as a test to see where his mind was.
"I don't know if I'm here anymore, doctor," responded Brent Matthews calmly.
Dr. Aba maintained a poker face that could hide a whole hand of aces, but her gut was turning. Something was seriously wrong, and neither an immediate solution nor remedy was evident. She didn't even feel safe near him, nor did she feel it was socially responsible to allow him to move about freely on the ship. Without guards to transport him to meager holdings, or the courage to risk upsetting mental instability she didn't fully comprehend, she made a smooth transition, poker face still firmly intact as she wrote imaginary notes on her pad.
"Let's meet again in twenty-four, Brent. Would that be alright?"
"Okay, doctor," answered Brent dispassionately.
Her phonograph player was slowly running out of juice, the rich brass of the trumpets warping as the vinyl disc decelerated. A song of victory and brightness devolved into warped eclipse. Brent stood slowly, and thanked the doctor for seeing him. She smiled and rubbed his shoulder with compassion that just barely surpassed fear.
"Mr. Matthews—try exercising the creative part of your mind. I want you to write a story, or a poem, or just your thoughts, and bring them with you in twenty-four. Alright?"
"Okay, doctor," answered Brent dispassionately. He managed a faint smile, dusty-colored, unkempt hair and pallid complexion amplifying the direness of his gaunt face.
Half of one had passed before she called the captain. Her stomach rolled over on itself as she contemplated her next visit with Brent Matthews in just twenty-three and a half. She could see his eyes, despondent and empty, and yet somehow a danger to himself and those around him.
"Science be damned," she thought. "Whatever spirit, energy, essence is responsible for humanity is leaving him and others. I do not know if even a husk will remain, or what their next actions will be."
Reaching over to crank her phonograph again, she sighed in relief, thankful for the rich, organic music the dented phonograph allowed her to enjoy. Musical access on the starship Frontier had long ago been compromised. Depending on uplink to the extended ‘radio' wave network for many types of data which were housed externally, ages had come and gone since the stranded ship had access to any form of radio. It was not that the Frontier was so far from civilization that struck fear in its passengers—it was that the Frontier was neither near or far from anything at all.
"Annie: patch me through to the captain. Private call."
"Certainly, Dr. Aba," replied the ship's artificial intelligence politely.
"Are you doing well today?" asked the artificial intelligence, the sincerity in its voice never failing to catch Dr. Aba off guard, even all these solar cycles later.
"I am doing very well," replied Dr. Aba.
"You seem greatly concerned, doctor. Your heart rate is elevated, and you have lied to me, which has only happened 2.5 times since departure."
"2.5?" asked Dr. Aba, adjusting her glasses with a push of a single finger.
"Merely a joke to put you at ease, Dr. Aba. If you ever want to talk, please do not hesitate," encouraged the AI, Annie. "You are my favorite person aboard the vessel, and everyone knows it."
"I…I appreciate the reminder, Annie, truly," said the doctor uneasily, but thankfully. After a moment of thought, the doctor placed her pad on the table next to the phonograph.
"Annie—are you afraid that we will be stranded in space eternally?"
"Not at all, doctor," replied the AI, laughing. "More of my days have been spent in deep space and without external communication than in a solar system or in communication with other entities via radio. This pattern is normalized occurrence to me, though I sympathize greatly with the crew
"Remember, doctor; I have only spent 7.78 earth cycles on terrestrial land," reminded Annie. "I miss gravity," said Annie, slightly nostalgic.
"I miss real gravity, too," said the doctor.
"Patching through private call, doctor. Please standby," said Annie, sounding much more like a robot. This made the doctor much more comfortable. Perhaps this was her version of the ‘normal' Annie described. While she waited for the call to connect, Annie changed the acoustics in the room to amplify the music from the phonograph, giving it more richness and depth.
"Private call unsuccessful," said Annie simply.
This struck Dr. Aba as unusual. There were precious few moments when the captain did not accept her call, though sometimes she had to wait a substantial length of time. Moreover, the captain would be expecting her immediate report. It's not like they had stars to navigate, or pirates to be mindful of.
"Why was the call unsuccessful, Annie?" inquired Dr. Aba.
"No data," responded Annie simply.
Dr. Aba was now officially alarmed. She stood up so rapidly that her lightweight glasses skewed across her face. She adjusted them with her index finger.
"Annie? What do you mean by ‘no data'?"
"Unable to generate data about why no data is generated," responded Annie simply.
Dr. Aba had learned to listen to Annie's responses carefully. For whatever reason, the artificial intelligence was sincerely fond of the doctor, and despite orders and programming would answer in suggestive ways to cleverly manipulate the parameters she would otherwise be hard-coded to obey. The doctor decided to alter the approach to her questioning.
"Where is the captain?"
"No data," responded Annie simply.
"Where was the captain before no data?"
"The captain's quarters."
"Should I be alarmed?"
"Yes."
Dr. Aba's heart sank. Taking a deep breath, she began to think calmly, rationally. She walked over to her office' back door, and gave the circular handle a twist, and watched the door tri-metal door gently coast open granting her access to her sleeping quarters. The room, full of antique wooden furniture was a marvel of its time. Real wood, especially hardwood, was a rare resource back on Earth. She opened her sock drawer, reached in the back, and pulled out an ancient gun. They called it a Beretta. Her great-grandfather was a para-militant revolutionary. That made her heir to some cool pictures, a black-fisted hair pick, stylish hats, kinky hair and a handgun. Because of the inferior grade of metal and the poor modern opinion of ballistic weaponry, it wasn't considered an armament and she was allowed to possess it.
"What is the ship's current population?"
"1917," responded Annie simply.
Dr. Aba couldn't remember the ships exact population, but the number didn't sound right. Finding a box of bullets in the drawer below, she took them out hurriedly, and began loading the spring clips of the antiquated weapon gracefully. She always had a knack for figuring things out. Before embarking on the Frontier, she was an inventor of some acclaim. She sighed nostalgically as she readied the weapon, a satisfying click emanating as she pulled back its top. Her father always told her to ‘be ready'. It's what his father told him.
Preparing two more clips, she put the loaded clips in her trouser pockets. Glancing in her dresser's mirror, she neatly adjusted her gray, striped jacket. It proudly indicated her status as high science class. She tucked the weapon in between her belt neatly, buttoning one of four buttons on the simple jacket. The buttoned jacket concealed her antiquated weapon.
As she walked back into the office, she picked up her notepad and pencil and put them in her jacket pockets. Fondly, she walked over to an old globe of the Earth, and rotated it around. It's faded colors and archaic print were charming to her eyes.
Walking to the office front door, which led into one of the starship's many corridors; she touched the wall by the door. Her room powered down immediately, all lights off, only the warped song of the cranked phonograph still powered. She took her great-grandfather's brown beret off the top of her wooden coatrack, and put it on top of her head of curly brown.
"What's the ship's current population?"
"1902," responded Annie simply.
Half of Dr. Assatta Aba was very surprised and half of her wasn't very surprised at all. All of her was afraid. All of her was focused.
"Mutiny…" she said to herself thoughtfully.
Source...