delayed, and how much pain you can feel between now and then. And I assure you that you will care.”
Who are you? I thought.
“We are the only voice you will hear for the rest of your life, unless you do what we tell you.”
Is that the royal we? I thought, not to the voice but to myself. I don’t know why the hell I thought that. I think being made to feel like I had a power station’s worth of electricity run through my nonexistent body might have made me a little loopy.
The voice didn’t respond.
Which was the second time that happened, when I didn’t think directly to the voice.
Which was interesting.
What happens if I do what you tell me? I asked, to the voice.
“Then at the end of it you will get your body back. It’s a simple exchange. Do what you’re told, and you will be you again. Refuse and you will die, in pain.”
What is it you want me to do?
“Pilot and operate this ship. We have already told you this.”
Where and for what purpose?
“That comes later,” the voice said.
What do I do now? I asked.
“Now, you think,” the voice said. “You will think about what your choices are, and what the consequences of those choices will be. I will give you a day to think about it, here in the dark. It will be a long day. Good-bye.”
Wait, I thought, but the voice was already gone.
* * *
So for the next day I thought.
First thought: Definitely not dead. No need for a religious crisis. One small thing off the list of things to worry about. It was the only one, but anything would do at this point.
Second thought: Whoever it was who had me had captured my ship, killed my crew, taken my brain out of my body, and now expected me to run the ship entirely on my own, for their own purposes, and would kill me if I didn’t.
Third thought: To Hell with these people. There was no way I was going to do anything for them.
In which case they would be more than happy to torture me just for the fun of it. As I knew from experience. Which was an actual consideration I had to take into account.
Fourth thought: Why me?
As in, why did they take me and not someone else? I was third pilot of the Chandler . I was literally the newest crew member. They could have picked anyone else from that ship and they would have made a better choice, in terms of knowing the ship, how it works, and what its capabilities were. I was not the obvious choice.
Identify your pilots.
The sentence barreled out of my subconscious and stood in front of me, daring me to give it some sort of context. My memory was still spotty; I knew it had been spoken, but not by whom, or when. I would need to rack my brain to figure it out.
The thing was, I had time.
And in time an image popped into my head: a creature dressed in black, knees going the wrong way, giving the order to Captain Thao and shooting Lee Han when she questioned the order.
A Rraey. The Rraey had taken me. That answered the question of who these people were. But it didn’t answer the question of why me. The captain hadn’t identified me as a pilot. She hadn’t identified anyone as anything. Someone else did that.
Secretary Ocampo .
Suddenly the image of that bastard pointing me out blazed into my consciousness, clear as if I were reliving the moment.
And then all the rest of it came back too—every blank spot in the memory suddenly filled with hard force, almost painfully jammed in.
I had to stop.
I had to stop to grieve for the crew of the Chandler . To grieve for the few friends I had made there, and for everyone else who I did not know but who did not deserve to die, just as I did not deserve to live instead of them.
It took some time. But as I said before, I had the time.
I took it.
And then when I was done I started fiddling with the problem again.
Why was I taken? Because Secretary Ocampo knew me. He’d been introduced to me even before we’d gotten to the Chandler, we took the shuttle ride over, and I came to him when I had questions about
Who are you? I thought.
“We are the only voice you will hear for the rest of your life, unless you do what we tell you.”
Is that the royal we? I thought, not to the voice but to myself. I don’t know why the hell I thought that. I think being made to feel like I had a power station’s worth of electricity run through my nonexistent body might have made me a little loopy.
The voice didn’t respond.
Which was the second time that happened, when I didn’t think directly to the voice.
Which was interesting.
What happens if I do what you tell me? I asked, to the voice.
“Then at the end of it you will get your body back. It’s a simple exchange. Do what you’re told, and you will be you again. Refuse and you will die, in pain.”
What is it you want me to do?
“Pilot and operate this ship. We have already told you this.”
Where and for what purpose?
“That comes later,” the voice said.
What do I do now? I asked.
“Now, you think,” the voice said. “You will think about what your choices are, and what the consequences of those choices will be. I will give you a day to think about it, here in the dark. It will be a long day. Good-bye.”
Wait, I thought, but the voice was already gone.
* * *
So for the next day I thought.
First thought: Definitely not dead. No need for a religious crisis. One small thing off the list of things to worry about. It was the only one, but anything would do at this point.
Second thought: Whoever it was who had me had captured my ship, killed my crew, taken my brain out of my body, and now expected me to run the ship entirely on my own, for their own purposes, and would kill me if I didn’t.
Third thought: To Hell with these people. There was no way I was going to do anything for them.
In which case they would be more than happy to torture me just for the fun of it. As I knew from experience. Which was an actual consideration I had to take into account.
Fourth thought: Why me?
As in, why did they take me and not someone else? I was third pilot of the Chandler . I was literally the newest crew member. They could have picked anyone else from that ship and they would have made a better choice, in terms of knowing the ship, how it works, and what its capabilities were. I was not the obvious choice.
Identify your pilots.
The sentence barreled out of my subconscious and stood in front of me, daring me to give it some sort of context. My memory was still spotty; I knew it had been spoken, but not by whom, or when. I would need to rack my brain to figure it out.
The thing was, I had time.
And in time an image popped into my head: a creature dressed in black, knees going the wrong way, giving the order to Captain Thao and shooting Lee Han when she questioned the order.
A Rraey. The Rraey had taken me. That answered the question of who these people were. But it didn’t answer the question of why me. The captain hadn’t identified me as a pilot. She hadn’t identified anyone as anything. Someone else did that.
Secretary Ocampo .
Suddenly the image of that bastard pointing me out blazed into my consciousness, clear as if I were reliving the moment.
And then all the rest of it came back too—every blank spot in the memory suddenly filled with hard force, almost painfully jammed in.
I had to stop.
I had to stop to grieve for the crew of the Chandler . To grieve for the few friends I had made there, and for everyone else who I did not know but who did not deserve to die, just as I did not deserve to live instead of them.
It took some time. But as I said before, I had the time.
I took it.
And then when I was done I started fiddling with the problem again.
Why was I taken? Because Secretary Ocampo knew me. He’d been introduced to me even before we’d gotten to the Chandler, we took the shuttle ride over, and I came to him when I had questions about
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