This seemed like the most reasonable explanation on the surface, but two questions arose that I didn’t have answers for. One, how I got into this predicament in the first place. I was conscious and knew who I was, but otherwise my memory of recent events was shaky. I remembered falling out of my bunk and then going to the bridge, but anything after that was a blur.
This suggested to me that I had some sort of event; I knew people’s memories of accidents or injury were sometimes wiped out by the trauma of the event itself. That seemed likely here. Whatever it was, I was in a bad way.
Well, that wasn’t news. I was a consciousness floating around in nothing. I had gotten the “you’re not doing so well” memo.
But that was the second thing: Even if I were in terrible shape, which I assumed I was, I should be able to feel something, or to sense something other than my own thoughts. I couldn’t.
Hell, I didn’t even have a headache anymore.
“You’re awake.”
A voice, perfectly audible, indeterminate in terms of any identifying quality, coming from everywhere. I was shocked into immobility, or would have been, if I had any way to be mobile.
“Hello?” I said, or would have, if I had been able to speak, which I wasn’t, so nothing happened. I started to go into panic mode, because I was reminded so clearly that there was something wrong with me, and because I was desperate that the voice, whoever it was, would not leave me alone again in the nothing.
“You’re trying to talk,” the voice said, again from everywhere. “Your brain is trying to send signals to your mouth and tongue. It’s not going to work. Think the words instead.”
Like this, I thought.
“Yes,” the voice said, and I would have cried with relief, if I could cry. A jumble of thoughts and emotions rose up in a panicky need to be expressed. I had to take a minute to calm down and focus on a single coherent thought.
What happened to me? I asked. Why can’t I speak?
“You can’t speak because you don’t have a mouth or tongue,” the voice said.
Why?
“Because we took them from you.”
I don’t understand, I thought, after a long minute.
“We took them from you,” the voice repeated.
Did something happen to them? Was I in an accident?
“No, they were perfectly fine, and no, you weren’t.”
I don’t understand, I thought again.
“We removed your brain from your body.”
It’s hard, looking back, to accurately convey the amount of utter incomprehension I was experiencing at this moment. I tried very hard to express my level of confusion and incredulity at the statement I just heard. What came out was:
What
“We removed your brain from your body,” the voice repeated.
Why would you do that?
“You don’t need them for what we need you to do.”
I was still not comprehending well, and absent anything else was numbly carrying on with the conversation, waiting for the whole thing to make the slightest bit of sense to me.
What do you need me to do? I thought.
“Pilot your ship.”
I need my mouth for that.
“No you don’t.”
How will I talk to the rest of the crew?
“There is no other crew.”
At this, something surged in my brain—something like a memory, but not an actual memory. A thought that I used to know what had happened to the crew of the Chandler, but now I didn’t, and that whatever had happened wasn’t good.
Where is the rest of the crew, I thought.
“They are dead. All of them.”
How?
“We killed them.”
My sense of panic was back. I knew this was right, that the voice was telling me the truth. But I couldn’t picture how it had happened. I knew I used to know. I desperately wanted to know. But there was nothing in my mind that could tell me, nothing but an approaching wall of dread.
Why did you kill them? I thought.
“Because they weren’t needed.”
You need a crew to run a ship.
“No we don’t.”
Why not?
“Because we have you.”
I can’t operate an entire ship by myself.
“You will or you’ll die.”
I can’t even fucking move, I thought, exasperated.
“This will not be a problem.”
How do you expect me to pilot and operate an entire ship when I can’t even move?
“You are the ship now.”
And then suddenly the complete incomprehension was back.
Excuse me? I finally thought.
“You are the ship now,” the voice repeated.
I am the ship.
“Yes.”
I am the Chandler.
“Yes.”
What the fuck does that even mean?
“We have removed your brain from your body,” the voice said. “We’ve integrated your brain with the Chandler. The ship is now your body. You will learn how to control your body.”
I tried to process what I was being told and failed miserably. I could not imagine a single element of what I was being hit with. I could not imagine being a ship. I couldn’t imagine trying to control such a complex machine all on my own.
And if I don’t? I thought. What happens if I can’t learn how to control it?
“Then you will die,” the voice said.
I don’t understand, I thought, again, and I imagined that the complete helplessness I felt was entirely obvious. Maybe that was the point.