Read by Greg Page
The toolbox clattered as Jim flung himself down the hallway. He had to fix the hole in the roof or else he’d run out of oxygen and die. Again.
‘Oxygen levels depleting. Please report to the impact site immediately.’ It was good to hear the computer again, Jim thought. When the debris struck the ship, the whole system had gone quiet.
He placed the sheet of metal over the hole and, gloveless, used the blowtorch to weld the two together. He only had a little training from Daniels, who seemed to have a toolbox permanently attached to the end of his arm. Jim had been a surgeon on Earth, so at least he had a steady hand. The pull of the vacuum wasn’t quite enough to drag him out into space as the ship’s gravity well had increased to keep him on board, but his hair still fluttered in the escaping air.
His concentration lapsed for a moment - he was thinking of the next step, whether to stop the fire himself or let the ship’s suppression system handle it - and he cut through his finger.
Jim jogged through the hall to the Garden, where the fire had started. The debris that hit the ship had short-circuited several systems, setting fire to some of the plants. He could let the fire-suppression system deal with it but the foam would do untold damage to the plants, and he couldn’t have that. Priority number one was oxygen.
The Garden was more of a field, with plants in rows. Only one row was currently on fire; areca palms. It meant the ship’s oxygen would take a hit.
The rest of the crew were already dead. Daniels and McRory had been sucked out of the hull breach before the ship had protected itself - Adams was working on a hydroponic light in the Garden when the debris struck and she fell. Her ladder was still there with her body by the side of it. He had to fix things himself until the others got back.
He dropped the toolbox and pulled the fire extinguisher from a nearby wall, wincing at the pain in his hand. The smoke was beginning to fill the room, choking Jim’s throat. His eyes watered, but through the tears he carefully sprayed the quickly-disintegrating plants with foam.
The fire subdued, Jim sat wheezing on the ladder, his head light from the lack of air. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, smearing his face with grease. He surveyed the destruction - it would take time, he saw, but it could be fixed. Their food was mostly safe, and -
But the thought was cut short, as the broken light fell and smashed Jim’s head with a crack.
*
The whole process is a lot like being hungover - at first, there is darkness, confusion, not quite knowing where or who you are, and then the world expands into a blinding light. As the memory implant kicks in, your head shoots with pain and flickers; vaguely recognised memories dance behind your eyes.
This was not the first time Jim had woken up as a clone. All of the crew of TerraCorps’ debut voyage had been through the process. It was a necessity before you left Earth.
Jim stepped out of the cubicle into the medbay. He looked at himself in the mirror - it was always a good idea to check there weren’t any mistakes.
‘Good morning Dr. Hastings,’ came a voice from above, ‘welcome back. It is currently 8:28 a.m., ship time. Would you like coffee?’
Jim nodded - it was all the computer needed. In a nearby hole in the wall a plastic cup plopped into place and was filled with a viscous brown liquid. Jim picked it up in his newly unburnt hand.
‘Milk and sugar, just as you like it.’ The coffee tasted bitter. They had long since run out of sugar.
‘Computer, where are the rest of the crew?’
‘McRory and Daniels are in the main hallway. Adams is in the Garden. Would you like me to contact them?’
They must already be back, Jim thought. ‘No, thank you.’
He walked through the matte white halls to the same spot the hull had been breached. Where Jim had welded the roof shut was now perfectly smooth, the ship having fixed it properly, and there was no indication that there had ever been a problem. Jim looked up and down the hallway.
‘Computer, where are Daniels and McRory?’
‘Right next to you, Doctor.’
Jim turned around, half-expecting them to be behind him, but he was alone.
‘They’re not here.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ was the ship’s reply. An uneasy feeling sat in Jim’s stomach.
‘Is Adams still in the Garden?’
‘Yes.’
He walked briskly through the corridor, trying to look nonchalant, as if the ship could tell what he was thinking, and stepped into the Garden. The room was warm, as it always was, but clean of smoke, the air having cycled through the air purifiers. But there was no sign of Adams.
‘She’s still in here? Right now?’
The computer paused for a moment, as if in thought. ‘Approximately 30 metres ahead of you.’
Jim looked. There stood the ladder that Adams and Jim himself had died on. He walked to it, picked up the toolbox and carried it back to the medbay, of which the cloning station was a significant part. ‘Well, if you can’t fix it you can always start again!’ Adams had joked, patting the cloning capsule door.
He inspected the screen on the wall which displayed the current status, location and run-time of each of the four-person crew. Apparently they had all been active for several months, apart from Jim whose run-time was less than an hour.
The clone station consisted of four pods the other side of a capsule around the size of a shower cubicle. When a crew member died, his or her clone would be brought into the capsule where their memories would be uploaded through a port built into the back of their head, creating a near-seamless continuation of life. In the meantime a new clone would be grown, to lessen their ‘down-time’. In case of death, break glass! Adams had written on the cubicle in permanent marker.
Using the touch-screen Jim navigated to the crew’s log, which kept tabs on any and all activity. It could be briefly stopped if the crew wanted a ‘private moment’, as the ship put it, but otherwise it constantly monitored heart-rate, bloods and vitals - you name it. He pulled up the file on Adams. There was no record of her death, only that she had been sent to the Garden to fix some lights. It was the same with McRory and Daniels.
Jim realised that all of the crew but himself had died while the ship’s computer was offline, so there was no record of any death other than his own - and the computer wouldn’t bring them back unless it sensed their death, not just their body. He had to convince the computer to revive them.
‘Computer, patch me through to the crew.’
‘Affirmative.’ A pause. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t seem to reach them now. Would you like me to try again?’
‘No. You can’t reach them because they aren’t here. They’re dead. You need to bring them back.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Adams, McRory and Daniels. Bring them back.’
‘I don’t understand. Try rephrasing the question.’
Jim closed his eyes, thought for a moment. He retraced through his memories to their training.
‘Activate 9-lives protocol. Subjects McRory, Adams, Daniels.’
‘Password?’
‘Lazarus.’ A pause again.
‘Denied. Under Law 22-B, no two clones can support the same consciousness.’
His body tense, Jim walked to the cubicle, pressed his face to the glass, cold against his burning head. Through the other side he could see the four clone pods, one empty, three with naked forms within. He would have to restart them manually, and as the ship didn’t understand, he would have to break through to the clones.
Jim reached into the toolbox, picked out a crowbar and smashed through the centre of Adams’ message, sending glass shards across the floor. The lights strobed red in the semi-darkness.
‘Dr. Hastings,’ the computer spoke, ‘your actions are in direct contradiction of ship guidelines 6, 9 and 23. Cease immediately.’
Jim stepped into the cubicle, ducked under the memory implant cable, and smashed through the second glass door.
‘You have been warned. Under ship guideline 32-A, I am authorised to apply a deterrent. Please assume a seated position, as this will prevent injury.’
A dull ache began to spread through Jim’s head from the implant port on the back of his skull, which vibrated like a bass speaker. The shock sent him tumbling into the clone bay, sprawling into the broken glass. Jim picked himself up, teeth gritted, and pushed himself up to one of the occupied cubicles. The name on the top read ‘McRory’ in engraved letters. He searched fruitlessly for a handle or button to open the door, his head throbbing. Instead he brought the crowbar up and against the side of the pod again and again until the glass cracked and then shattered, sending more shards of glass and gallons of liquid across the room. He dragged the body through the fluid and broken glass to the cubicle.
‘Dr. Hastings. You are in direct violation of Earth law. Cease immediately or face termination.’ Jim knew it wouldn’t be permanent as killing clones was illegal, and he wasn’t willing to give up. He pulled the dead weight into the cubicle, his arms burning and sweat beading on his forehead. He pulled the memory cord, hoisted McRory up until he nearly had the cable in the socket -
But the cord disappeared, sucked up into the cubicle roof and the hole sealed behind it. He cried out in anguish.
‘Dr. Hastings. You are to be terminated immediately.’
His cries turned to screams of pain as something squelched behind his eyes and his vision went black.
*
‘Good afternoon Jim. Ship time is 3:52 p.m. Would you like coffee?’ A cup popped into existence in the wall.
‘How long?’
‘Three weeks and two days. I have had the place cleaned for your arrival.’ Jim sipped his coffee, deep in thought. ‘I have some bad news. Adams, McRory and Daniels are missing.’
‘Missing?’ Jim replied, ‘Missing where?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Without a log of their deaths. I am unable to clone their consciousnesses lawfully.’
It’s just me and you then, Jim thought. He checked the screen and sure enough, their names had simply Missing displayed next to them.
‘We have six months until we reach Proxima Centauri, where we can contact Earth once terraforming begins. Until then there is much to do. Let’s get started, shall we?’
*
Finally, the day came. Jim had watched as the dot in the distance became a star, and then he saw the speck of the planet slowly become a distant orb.
‘We will begin our descent in approximately one hour. All crew please make your way to the observation deck.’
Jim headed to the front of the ship, which was all but covered in screens of the exterior view from the bow. He saw the planet, tantalisingly close. The computer would control the descent as it had controlled their journey the whole way from Earth, where the original estimated coordinates had been entered. It was only possible to control the ship in case of emergency.
Jim watched as the distance counter decreased towards zero - but then the planet began to drift on the screen off to the right. ‘Computer, we are going to miss the planet.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘We need to adjust course. Engage manual steering. Password: Argo.’
Two control units sprang out of the wall on either side of the room. ‘Please enter access codes.’
Jim’s blood turned to ice. ‘I can’t enter two codes. There’s only one of us left.’
‘Under ship guideline 47, two crewmembers must authorise any changes in direction. The ship will now continue its course.’ The two control units snapped back into the wall and Jim was left uselessly staring at the screens surrounding him.
After a few minutes the distance counter stopped dropping, halted, and began to increase again. The planet grew smaller and smaller as Jim watched until it became a dot in the distance behind them. He turned and looked ahead into the depths of space. He saw the journey stretch out ahead of him, infinite clones continuing his miserable existence.
He wondered how long it would be before he reached a planet, then considered how improbable it was, a fraction dwindling towards nothing.
Jim could wait. He had to. He had nothing but time.
(c) Oliver Parkes, 2019
This is Oliver’s first successful piece after defeating the twin demons of Procrastination and Having A Job. He has been long-listed for the Lincoln Performing Arts Centre's Script This! and was an honourable mention in NYC Midnight's 2018 Flash Fiction Competition. He also likes long walks on the beach.
A critic once compared Greg Page to the late Sir Alec Guinness. He said Guinness was a much better actor. Undaunted, Greg recently appeared at The National Theatre directed by Sam Mendes. No, really. He'll never forget what Mendes said to him. He said, "Stand there."
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