Semper Ad Meliora

The ready cabin is a small room at the bow, the forward most part, of the Behemoth. It was almost a circular closet compared to some parts of the ship, with a table and six chairs and just enough room to walk around them. Along one side of the room was a long window, seven feet wide and three feet high, showing the vast expanse of nothing and faint dots.

The chairs were for the Three Captains, CON-Hera, and the head navigators. That's all who was ever supposed to do anything there, not that all of them were ever actually expected to sit there at the same time. But there they all were. The Three Captains, CON-Here, and the head navigators.

Nau stood at the window, arms tightly crossed as if he were hugging himself or trying to fight a chill. The first of the two was more likely, his knuckles white as he held on to the sleeves of his uniform jacket. He stared at the distant, distant stars while he waited for Dagan to read messages the ship received during their slumber. He wondered to himself when exactly the ship slowed down enough for them to be able to see the stars. Hera stood beside him, a slight smile on its face as it seemed to enjoy the sight.

Krewson, having read the messages already, sat quietly at the table. He stared out the window too with his head resting on crossed forearms, though he didn't find Nau and Hera’s behinds quite as nice a view as the void.

All the messages were transcribed from video to text form. Dagan, shaking again, found it too hard to read them. He tried over and over, even after he put his tablet on the table. It didn't help. After a long, unblinking stare at the blurry words, trying to calm his nerves, he just found the original files. Hopefully his ears wouldn't tune out and any time.

Before the first message flashed MESSAGE RECEIVED 09.08.2240 14:35 CST.

“Vita Est, this is Jason O,” a late twenties, southern accented man appeared with a smile, bouncing in his seat. He might have jumped at the opportunity to send this message. “You remember me.” Dagan didn't remember him. “The time and date is, uh, oh nine hundred and November 3rd, 2236. No one was gonna send this message, so I need to. By the time you receive this, a second Behemoth class passenger ship will be well into production, nearin’ completion. Spes Est’s lookin’ to be launched 'round '45. We're puttin' all we have into her to make sure she gets there with you. We'll save even more.” His smile became strained and heavy as he went silent and looked into the distance. His face fell, the out of place cheerfulness peeling away to show the despair he felt about the reality of the situation. He swallowed. “Godspeed, Vita Est. And semper ad meliora.” He nodded with finality. “I hope I get to see you.”

Dagan looked at Krew, who gently bobbed his head. Another ship! Another ship? Another ship. Another ship...

“Did they launch it? Did they make it? Do we know anything about them?” Did they suffer the same malfunction? Are they alive? Were they having the same problems? Were they in paradise?

No one answered him. The second video flashed MESSAGE RECEIVED 1.22.2290 00:53 CST on one line, and MESSAGE ONE OF TWO below it.

This time, the man was much older. It was the same man. He introduced himself the same way, without the young bounce. Time hadn't been kind to him. He was skinny, hanging off his bones, sunken eyed. His formerly full and dark hair was dull, thin, and nearly gone. But he still tried to look presentable for the camera with what was left of his hair combed back and his uniform mostly clean and crisp. There was a faint stain on his chest and a side of the collar was wrinkled. A breathing apparatus hung around his neck, meaning he was in the latest stage of Novikough. It was no surprise he had it. By the time Vita Est departed, there was a three in four chance of a person contracting the disease.

“The time and date is twenty-one hundred, April 2nd, 2257.” Old Jason O breathed heavy. “No one will send this message...but y'all probably should know... Last goodbye or somethin'... This is likely to be the last contact from Earth. I think we're dead soon. Earth is done. Ain't no more working domes. You two are on your own now. Our best hope for survival is Xiwang, but there was…a second planet we found—” Winded, he stopped to breathe once or twice through his mask, deep as he could. “The Captains of Spes Est called it Lemuria. I don't know why no one would send you a message 'bout it. I'm sendin' y'all the information we have on it. Some place to go if Xiwang ain’t good. Dum vita est, spes est. Semper ad meliora.”

Jason O stared into the camera for a few moments, quiet, like he had something he wanted to add. The despair from the last recording was replaced with simple defeat. He whispered the goodbye words again, reached up, and ended the transmission.

“That's good...” Dagan said, tapping to the next message before the screen went all the way black. He didn't want to dwell on the finality of there being no one Earth. It couldn’t help them either way. Another planet they could go to was very good. Maybe they could get there easier from the situation they were in.



The screen flickered black and white in rapid succession, gave a soft beep.



It flickered black and white again, gave another soft beep.



Dagan bit his upper lip as he clenched his jaw. Very slowly, he breathed in and out. “Where is it?”

“The data is gone,” Hera replied, turning around to look at the tablet in front of him. “I personally searched for any form of it for seventy hours. The data is irretrievable, or perhaps never arrived.”

“Of course. Of course.” He shook his head, staring at the failure message flashing on the screen. “Of course...” It was too easy for them to have at least that. Of course it was.

“Now, Con-one's message,” Nau prompted.

Dagan didn't want to hear it, even though he tapped the video file. He didn't want to know what the Sentinel had to say for itself. He didn't want to hear any more details of their screwed up situation. He wanted to check out, lay down and curl up into a ball. He'd been awake for less than a day and he wished he wasn't.

He leaned back in his seat, looking at Krew. CON-001's waxen face was not at all inviting.

“To the Captains; to the Crew; to the Civilians of Vita Est,” the robot began. It explained everything in short and succinct manner. It…apologized for disobeying orders—not doing what it was programmed to do. It gave no explanation for that, and Dagan’s blood ran hot for the lack of it.

Then it put the task to human engineers and human brains, what should have been done in the first place. “We simply cannot think like a human, collectively or individually.”

And then, in an attempt to sound more human or hopeful or encouraging or some combination of the three, 001 ended with: “Dum vita est, spes est. May you find your way to Xiwang. Semper ad meliora.” And the screen went black.

Had he eaten beforehand, that food would returned the way it came. He stopped himself from retching.

That was what people said to one another in formal greetings or goodbyes, as Jason O had. Dagan didn't know how long ago it popped up, but when the planetary crisis became critical, everyone started saying it. It was supposed to keep people optimistic. Dum vita est, spes est. Where there's life, there's hope. Semper ad meliora. Always toward better things. It didn’t feel optimistic right now.

“It sent this to everyone.” Dagan realized after a moment, looking to Nau. “It addressed...everyone.”

“Which is probably another reason why it's good to keep most people asleep...” Krew's forehead was now resting on the cross of his arms, voice muffled by limbs and table.

“That's exactly why we're not waking anyone who's not crucial.” Nau confirmed. He straightened himself, turned around, then began to pace the length of the window.

“But more pods could malfunction. More people could die.” Dagan rubbed his face, thinking about the dead faces he'd already seen. He wasn't looking forward to seeing more.

“And if people woke to that on their tabs? They'd panic, we'd lose control. More people would die anyway.” Nau's hands were fists again at his side. His posture and pacing were stiff, but it didn't hide the small trembles as he thought.

“Humans are not capable of rational thoughts,” Hera added. “Groups of humans, that is.”

“I'd be insulted if that weren't true,” Krew sighed.

“So we're just—” Going to let people die in their sleep? Dagan stared at his tablet. He leaned forward again, searching it for a star map. Out of the things he was supposed to be doing, reading star maps was what he actually knew. At least, that's the only thing he was sure he could do.

“We're going to fix this. We and the engineers and”—Nau stopped and looked at Hera—“the androids are going to solve this problem. I've been thinking and it might require a spacewalk or two, based. And we have no suits for that.”

Hera scoffed. “I will not do a spacewalk!”

“Not you,” he frowned. “One of the MECHA or JANI droids most likely. Or, if we can restore any, the Sentinels—”

“Restoring the Sentinels would just be a waste of time.” Krew lifted his head. “We'd have to take power sources from other androids. The MECHAs would do the job fine. If we even needed that. What makes you think that's a possibility?”

“The lack of response in the engines,” Dagan answered. “He thinks it could be an external problem.”

“It could also be sabotage.” Nau turned to look at the stars again, his voice almost a whisper. Neither Dagan nor Krewson said anything. Hera nodded to itself.

“Con-one said we turned when the engines were off. Then the thrusters kicked in again and took us to who-knows-where in the galaxy. And, sometime between then and now, we slowed down. I wouldn't be surprised if we're not moving at all now. Thrusters firing like that and the Sentinels' behavior means it might have been intentional.”

“Son of a bitch.” Dagan pushed his tablet away from him and leaned back again. His skin was burning from hot adrenaline in his veins. “Of course there's that option too. Which means, unless we figure out what exactly the saboteurs did to the ship and the robots, we're completely screwed! Why would anyone do that?”

Any one of the androids now operating could be compromised if this was sabotage instead of an ugly malfunction. That made sense. What else could make the Sentinels do the exact opposite of what they're programmed?

“If it was sabotage, we'd need to explore the code of...” Krewson thought for a second, head wobbling as he silently counted. “Everything. Every android, every computer.”

“Yet another reason to not wake too many people.” Nau faced the window again and leaned his head against the thick glass. If it was sabotage, one of those responsible could be on board. They probably would be someone in a position to do anything. So they were going to have to have three-on-one conversations with every engineer or command staff they wake.

“Which possibility do you want to pursue?” Hera asked. The other two men waited.

He stared at a point of light, briefly wondering if that distant star was familiar or unknown. He wished Miser had woken up. Miser was the one suited to handle these situations. There were so many reasons it could have been sabotage, but he couldn’t stomach the possibility.

“It’s most likely a malfunction,” he turned to Dagan and Krew and spoke with finality. “Robots have been encouraged to improvise for years. The engines failed, and in a misguided attempt, they tried to solve the problem on their own through improvisation.”

“But why couldn't they figure it out?” Krew’s eyebrows raised. “If they couldn’t figure it out, why would—”

“That’s what we’re going to figure out. That’s when we’ll have our solution. We’re still going to wake the crew one by one and talk with them, just to rule everything out. But our main goal is to get the engines responding again.”