Snake Eyes

It took ten years for the crew to die, as the virus circled and re-circled. Each time there was a respite the survivors would celebrate and call it a victory over disease. After the fifth epidemic, those remaining knew better than to celebrate. They realised at that point that they were dying of refinement. Each genetic line had been scoured of weaknesses and aberrations until every pod ship was filled with elite seed crews of perfect humans.

Where the virus actually came from, no one knew. But it became clear that no one was immune. It was only at the very end that Johnson realised his own DNA was not quite perfect and that this imperfection had saved him. It had also cursed him to a life of solitude.

“Show me the escape to the elevator again.”

He watched himself running down the corridor with the river of baby spiders behind him. The look on his face was a mix of terror and determination. He smiled to see it. Somewhere in him was the man who had those feelings, the man who could handle that kind of challenge. He thought about the many weeks it had taken to construct the final scene of the fourth tier, the detail that went into every limb of every spider.

After seven hours of viewing he was tired but he had still not reviewed all the parts of the fourth tier that interested him.

“That’s enough for today, Weaver. I’m going to sleep.”

“May I remind you that you have not eaten since your return?”

“I haven’t?”

“Perhaps I could prepare you something.”

“Soup. Just a little soup.”

“No bread, Captain? The wheat field had just been harvested.”

“No.”

On his way back to his quarters, Johnson wondered about himself. Why had he not eaten? It was almost four days since he’d exited the tank. Lack of appetite for food was not good; it suggested lack of appetite for life. He didn’t feel he had reached that stage yet.

As he lay on his cot a plan came to him.

“Weaver, I’ve decided to create my own cabal follicle in my own personal recreation area. I don’t know why I still use the communal one after all these years.”

“It is a strange request.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have already constructed the follicle of which you speak.”

“We have? When?”

“Three cabals ago. You announced your plan, much as you have this time. I exuded the new chamber and follicle over the next eight days.”

“Why don’t I ever use it?”

“I have suggested it each time you prepare for the next cabal but you always tell me that you are saving it for something special.”

“I said that?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“Forgive me. It is merely a habit.”

“So it’s functional?”

“Absolutely. We designed it together and I must say, it far surpasses the other units on board.”

“I’d like to take a look tomorrow.”

“Of course. Here is your soup.”

Johnson looked at the steaming bowl that appeared in a cell beside his cot. It did smell good.

“Thanks, Weaver. I’d almost—”

“Forgotten?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Weaver.”

Chapter 27

When he stood in the smooth-walled hall that Weaver said they had designed together, Johnson had to admit that it did seem familiar. Not only that, he liked the feel of the place more than any other area of the Angelina. He considered the idea that it might simply be because it was new to him, but there seemed more to it than that. The place felt right to him. It felt ordained; a prerequisite and the logical next step in his existence.

“When you die, Weaver, I have two options. I can die aboard the Angelina or you can jettison me in a new pod that is uninfected with vacuum spiders. You could grow the pod around this chamber, add enough of the Angelina’s germinal cells to it that it could continue to grow and then excrete it before you are compromised.”

“I will, of course, do anything you require of me.”

“Good.”

Johnson ran his hand across the veined surface of the pod-shaped follicle.

“There’s one other thing. I’ve come up with an idea that will enable me to stay engaged for an indefinite period. I’m going to program a random loop into my next cabal. I will then stay within the construct of the experience until we are found or I die. Either way, I will be able to avoid indefinitely the numbness of this hopeless drifting.”

“Captain Johnson, I fear for your coherence.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Every time I show you this chamber, you come up with the same suggestion, yet you have not introduced the loop of which you speak at any subsequent stage. It is an old idea now.”

“And I am an old man, a forgetful man. I’m sorry, Weaver. I’m going to have to ask you to help me. I want you not to let me forget my plan and I want you to begin growing a seed-shell around this chamber. Have I asked you to do that before?”

“No, I confess you have not.”

“Good. Keep reminding me of my plan and let’s get to work.”

“Captain Johnson?”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“I will miss you when you leave.”

Johnson didn’t reply. He had seated himself at the programming bud next to the follicle and was writing his random loop into the next plot.