Me.
I was on the bridge, in a large rectangular box that looked, for all the world, like a coffin. The top of the box was clear; from my vantage point of the bridge cameras, I could look straight down into it and see: my brain.
And the electronic elements that were attached to it, to the surface of the gray matter and, I assumed, inside of it as well. I could see the hard wires snaking out of it, toward a juncture on the side of the box.
I saw the liquid in which my brain was suspended, discolored, slightly pink. I saw tubes connected to my brain, I assume taking in and bringing out blood or something substituting for it. Something that brought in nutrients and oxygen, and took out waste. The tubes also snaked out to a juncture in the box’s interior wall.
A change in camera and in perspective and I saw another box, into which the wires and tubes went. It’s this box I saw two Rraey, who I assume were doctors, come to and open daily, doing diagnostic work. Inside were filtering systems, intake and sampling valves, hardwired computers to monitor my brain’s well-being, and something else that I couldn’t identify at first, until one of the Rraey accidentally jostled it, and the other yelled at it for doing so.
The Chandler’s system has within it a translation library for several hundred known species. It, like most such libraries on trade ships, almost never gets used because we’re mostly dealing with humans. Nevertheless it’s there and on hand for when or if you need to translate anything. It translated what the second Rraey said to the first.
“Keep that up,” it said. “You’ll blow up all three of us.”
“Then at least our remains would get to go back home,” the first Rraey said.
“I would prefer to go back home in a form that would allow me to enjoy it,” the second Rraey said, and then inserted a dongle into one of the hardwired monitors, I assume to check on how my brain was doing and make adjustments.
I imagine the information showed that at that very moment I had a spike of anxious brain activity.
Because of the bomb.
On top of everything else, they had a bomb attached to me.
In case I was at all concerned that they ever had any intention of letting me get out of this alive.
In case I was thinking I was really going to escape this hell.
PART THREE
“You have performed well in simulation,” Control said one day, more than three months after I had first woken up to find myself a disembodied brain.
Thank you, I thought. I have been trying to live up to my end of our deal.
“You have been,” Control said. “You may find it useful to know that you have become one of our best pilots, in terms of hitting training performance goals.”
Well, of course I was. It was because I was very careful to perform simulations exactly to spec, so the software wouldn’t glitch and they would have to root about in the system to fix it. The blue pill system I made was pretty solid, but why tempt fate.
The other reason was that when Control wasn’t paying attention I was watching videos and listening to music that had been in the Chandler’s entertainment library. Which helped to keep me sane instead of dwelling on my complete and utter isolation from the rest of humanity. It’s not exactly surprising that staying sane is useful when trying to hit performance markers.
None of which I expressed, or even thought, while Control was around.
By now I had some understanding of why Control only “heard” what I thought directly to it—the brain-reading software recognized intentional attempts at communication and filtered that away from the constant low-grade babbling and monologuing every brain does all the time, in order to optimize communication. The software kept the thoughts I meant to myself internal—but if you remember how many times in your life you unintentionally said something out loud you meant to keep quiet, and made a mess of your life for a day because of it, then you’ll know why I tried to keep my mind blank when Control was around.
I’m happy to know that, I thought. And then waited, like I always did.
“You have done well enough that we have agreed to your request,” Control said.
My request?
“You asked if you could speak to Secretary Ocampo at some point,” Control said. “We have arranged for you to speak.”
Is he coming to visit me? I asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Control said. “We have arranged for a feed to be ported through to this simulation.”
So, not on the Chandler itself. Well, that was just fine. Will that be today? I asked.
“No. We have work to do today. But soon.”
Thank you, I thought. I am grateful. And that was certainly true, as far as it went.
“You’re welcome,” Control said. “Let’s begin today’s simulations.”
When will you have an actual mission for me?
“Why do you ask?”