Carpathian Forty-Three

Carpathian Forty-Three - Part 9

It's not a cry, not even a question, it's just a longing. My mind reaches out, trying to connect, seeking the thoughts and voices of the chorus. If I cared to delve into the code of my enhancements, of the bits of silicon and germanium that are implanted in my skull and body to interface with the collective quantum sentience I'd see 'could not establish connection', but I don't. That's not my expertise. I'm not that sort of tool. It just feels like reaching for something only to discover your hand is missing. Over and over and over and over and.

The only connections I can make are to the ship, Carpathian Forty-Three, and the dying mind of Fort. I won't connect to that. I don't want to watch that. I'm not keen on connecting to the ship either. The Chorus helped filter input as much as shared it. The ship's input it overwhelming. I'm not ready for that. I'm not ready for any of this. I'm not supposed to be awake. I was supposed to sleep until Titan where I'd join that Chorus.

I scream. Out loud? I think? Maybe.

Voices. Hundreds. Thousands. All talking over themselves and past themselves and at themselves. For a moment I think I've reconnected to The Chorus. No. None of the voices make sense. It's just... noise. Soothing noise, but just noise.

"I thought maybe it would help," Stephen says. They're holding a speaker, but I can hear the voices in my implants as well. "I don't need it as much as I used to, sometimes though."

The speaker is playing a modified form of The Chorus. Normally with The Chorus you can reach out and understand any conversation or thought that is passing through the collective ether, the pervasive wireless network that connects that Enhanced and the hardlines that connect the Quantum Sentience's. It's not actually auditory, but the mind processes it that way. Thousands of conversations and inner monologues all happening in parallel, a cacophony of sentience that surrounds you in a warm blanket of belonging.

Stephen's recording is just voices in a foreign tongue. It gives the illusion of The Chorus if you don't try to listen to a conversation. It's soothing, and slightly disturbing, like the hive mind has changed the language it speaks without telling you.

They were Enhanced. Like me. Not like me. I'm still Enhanced. They were...

"Words help," Stephen prompts.

"Thank you," I say. "It's not natural. It doesn't come..."

My voice feels foreign, flat, devoid of the hundreds of mental overtones that I would normally communicate with, without even flicking an eyebrow. It doesn't help that I sound like an airlock that has missed a few periodic maintenance appointments. Lunar dust gets everywhere. It's as light as talcum and sharp as metal shavings. You miss a few PMs and the airlocks start grinding on their tracks. My throat feels like it's coated in it. Not that there's any Luna dust here.

"It takes time. I'm sorry we had to wake you."

I don't need reminding. We're all going to die unless I can guide the ship to Titan. It's all on me. All of us, all the sleepers, all the crew.

"Hey. It's okay. Take a deep breath."

"How can I breathe?" I ask.

How can I process this without help? I'm supposed to be analyzing geological data and finding the best places to drill for hydrocarbons, not be a ship's operating system.

"Just one after another. Do you meditate?" Stephen asks.

Why would I need to meditate? The Chorus brings me all the sense of calm I need, minds of hundreds of quantum computers and thousands of Enhanced all swimming in my brain, providing perspective and analysis, assuaging any anxiety or discomfort. Meditation. Indeed.

"Just focus on the breath entering your lungs, pausing, leaving." They exaggerate their breathing as a demonstration. It's preposterous. We're all going to die, and they want to breathe? I glare at them with all the indignation my physical form can muster. Were we linked to the chorus I'd be casting the shade of a thousand Lunar Palms in their general direction. As it is I just appear dour. Or constipated.

"We're all going to die, and you want to breathe?" I vocalize the thought.

"We have weeks before we need to brake. You can take a few breaths with me."

They're right. I don't like that they're right. I fight the truth for a moment. I'm too wrapped up in being angry, and they are a proximate target for my ire.

It's so much. It's so quiet. But we have time. I take a breath. I visualize the mixture of gasses entering my throat, my lungs, filling them. I see my alveoli exchanging oxygen and carbon dioxide. I feel my diaphragm quiver at the pause, wanting to hyperventilate, but I resist. The breath leaves peacefully, my shoulders soften, my back relaxes.

"Okay," I say.

"More."

I start to protest, but the next breath comes, filling my lungs, leaving my lungs. I watch it, detached almost. The ship hums around us, air processors moving the air, pulling the carbon dioxide we exhale from the air, replenishing the oxygen our lungs steal. The breeze is slight, but detectable. We breathe. We. Connection. Without Connection. We.

I'm not alone.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Stephen left The Chorus willingly. Fort's memory dump told me that much. No one pressed them on why. It must have been a terrible reason if they never talked about it. The Echo of Fort warns me to pry into such things. So proper, the Ship's Quantum Operating System.

I'm not proper. I'm a child of Collins Landing, the anchor point for Luna's space elevator. Lunans aren't known for our discretion, but those of us from Collins Landing are particularly brusque. The Chorus says it's because of all the ship building that happens there, the manual labor and generally lower-class inhabitants. We Collinites tell The Chorus to fuck off, genially.

"Why did you leave?" I ask. Stephen smiles a melancholy smile, their lips stretching across their face into a thin line.

"I'm not ready to talk about that just yet. Suffice that I can help."

"Fine."

My mind still reaches out to connect to The Chorus, but it's less overwhelming. It's not a surprise that there is no hand to reach out. I'm accepting the loss I suppose?

"Come on, we have quarters for you set up," Stephen says, offering their hand.

I'm hungry, I realize.

"I'm hungry?" I ask.

They consider me, look from their hand to mine. Oh. I take their hand. They help me up from the medical bed.

"Ramen?"

"Yes!"

"I even have some Tsuki no Karamuchi hidden away."