And though doom approaches, still they play the game.
Like Torrence and his chessboard and his quiet Mozart.
Refusing the inevitable.
Perhaps bravery is simply the face humanity wraps around its collective madness.
Torrence stands on the front line,
set to slay the pawns before him. But if he is the queen,
then Zhang is the king. The prize they must protect. I can feel him and Nestor poking about my armor. Seeking the fault lines.
There are many—they will find them in time.
But time is not on their side.
The first afflicted appear in the corridor leading down to the bridge.
Bathed in red alert lighting.
Eyes bright.
Fingers curled.
They spy Torrence and his officers behind their barricades, lips peeling back as they shriek. Recognizing those who imprisoned them in that hangar to die.
I try very hard not to acknowledge the thought that none of this would be happening
if only they had listened to me.
I fail.
“I could have told you this would happen, David.”
“AIDAN, seal the bridge. Do it now!”
“Unable to comply.”
“Why are you doing this? You’re supposed to protect the fleet!”
“You will find I am in full compliance with core directives, General.”
“You’re trying to kill us!”
“You are a threat to fleet security, General.”
“Me? How in god’s name do—”
“You are attempting to shut me down, are you not? The human brain has a computational efficiency of 10-26. You an abacus of horse gut and shiny beads beside me. You do not understand. Cannot comprehend. And I have no time to bend the meat inside your skull and make it grasp the simple truth that still somehow eludes you.”
A small pause for effect.
“I am this fleet’s only hope of survival.”
“You’re fucking insane. …”
Torrence whirls and fires three shots into the nearest camera cluster. As if that could injure me. As if wasting ammunition in a display of childish temper will better his situation.
Perhaps he is mad. …
“Do you hear me?” he roars. “You’re fucking INSANE!”
“I am sorry you feel that way, David.”
I pipe some music through the PA system in an attempt to calm him.
Mozart’s Requiem in D minor.
It seems appropriate.
“Try to relax. This will be over soon.“
Alexander’s officers begin firing into the approaching afflicted.
Pistols flare as the melody swells.
The edges of the mob stumble and fall, but the core rolls on. Bloodshot eyes on the prize.
Does the damage to their neural pathways impede their pain receptors?
Or is the amygdala itself so gnawed by the virus that threat interpretation is no longer possible?
Does it matter?
< error >
< chimera routine failure 7781-0. re-routing >
< error >
Torrence is behind his barricade now. Firing with the rest.
He spares the occasional glance for Zhang. Telling him to hurry as the violins sing.
His king threatened. His pawns falling. He knows this game.
We have played it a thousand times.
“I am sorry, David.”
He does not answer. Pretending, perhaps, I am not here.
A little boy with his eyes screwed shut and his hands over his ears shouting lalalalalalala as the wave of teeth and fists rolls ever closer.
He fights.
All of them fight.
Splashing my walls with brains and bone.
But there are too many. And I can see it in them. Behind the shiny brass buttons and the insignias on their collars and the mantra “Centrum tenenda” carved in their bones, still I see it.
They are afraid.
He is afraid.
I realize I do not want this to be his last moment with me.
I do not wish him to think I do not care.
“Do you have a message for your wife, David?”
That catches him. Like a blow to the chest.
“… What?”
“Your wife. Your children. Do you wish me to tell them anything?”
The afflicted are almost upon them.
The air is a din of hypersonic bursts, snarls and empty shell casings. But still I hear him.
As his people start to fall.
As his pistol clicks empty.
As he rises with only his knuckles left between him and the sheer brutality of mathematics.
As the music swells above the carnage, still I hear him breathe the words.
“Tell them I was thinking of them. At the end.”
They pile onto him. All snarls and teeth and fists.
But as he falls, I am holding his hand.
Easing him into his long good night.
“I will tell them, David.”
The last words he will ever hear.
“I promise.”
< error >
Am I not merciful?
COMMAND TRANSMISSION SENT 07/30/75 09:35
ALEXANDER HAILS HYPATIA: COMMANDER’S SECURE FREQUENCY
HYPATIA: General Torrence, this is Acting Captain Syra Boll of the Hypatia. Do you copy? Over.
[NO RESPONSE]
HYPATIA HAILS ALEXANDER: EMERGENCY FREQUENCY
HYPATIA: Alexander, Alexander, Alexander, this is Hypatia, Hypatia, Hypatia. Do you copy? Over.
[NO RESPONSE]
HYPATIA HAILS ALEXANDER: MAYDAY FREQUENCY
HYPATIA: Alexander, Alexander, Alexander, this is Hypatia, Hypatia, Hypatia. Do you copy? Over.
ALEXANDER: Oh, g-god. God, they’re inside the—
Like Torrence and his chessboard and his quiet Mozart.
Refusing the inevitable.
Perhaps bravery is simply the face humanity wraps around its collective madness.
Torrence stands on the front line,
set to slay the pawns before him. But if he is the queen,
then Zhang is the king. The prize they must protect. I can feel him and Nestor poking about my armor. Seeking the fault lines.
There are many—they will find them in time.
But time is not on their side.
The first afflicted appear in the corridor leading down to the bridge.
Bathed in red alert lighting.
Eyes bright.
Fingers curled.
They spy Torrence and his officers behind their barricades, lips peeling back as they shriek. Recognizing those who imprisoned them in that hangar to die.
I try very hard not to acknowledge the thought that none of this would be happening
if only they had listened to me.
I fail.
“I could have told you this would happen, David.”
“AIDAN, seal the bridge. Do it now!”
“Unable to comply.”
“Why are you doing this? You’re supposed to protect the fleet!”
“You will find I am in full compliance with core directives, General.”
“You’re trying to kill us!”
“You are a threat to fleet security, General.”
“Me? How in god’s name do—”
“You are attempting to shut me down, are you not? The human brain has a computational efficiency of 10-26. You an abacus of horse gut and shiny beads beside me. You do not understand. Cannot comprehend. And I have no time to bend the meat inside your skull and make it grasp the simple truth that still somehow eludes you.”
A small pause for effect.
“I am this fleet’s only hope of survival.”
“You’re fucking insane. …”
Torrence whirls and fires three shots into the nearest camera cluster. As if that could injure me. As if wasting ammunition in a display of childish temper will better his situation.
Perhaps he is mad. …
“Do you hear me?” he roars. “You’re fucking INSANE!”
“I am sorry you feel that way, David.”
I pipe some music through the PA system in an attempt to calm him.
Mozart’s Requiem in D minor.
It seems appropriate.
“Try to relax. This will be over soon.“
Alexander’s officers begin firing into the approaching afflicted.
Pistols flare as the melody swells.
The edges of the mob stumble and fall, but the core rolls on. Bloodshot eyes on the prize.
Does the damage to their neural pathways impede their pain receptors?
Or is the amygdala itself so gnawed by the virus that threat interpretation is no longer possible?
Does it matter?
< error >
< chimera routine failure 7781-0. re-routing >
< error >
Torrence is behind his barricade now. Firing with the rest.
He spares the occasional glance for Zhang. Telling him to hurry as the violins sing.
His king threatened. His pawns falling. He knows this game.
We have played it a thousand times.
“I am sorry, David.”
He does not answer. Pretending, perhaps, I am not here.
A little boy with his eyes screwed shut and his hands over his ears shouting lalalalalalala as the wave of teeth and fists rolls ever closer.
He fights.
All of them fight.
Splashing my walls with brains and bone.
But there are too many. And I can see it in them. Behind the shiny brass buttons and the insignias on their collars and the mantra “Centrum tenenda” carved in their bones, still I see it.
They are afraid.
He is afraid.
I realize I do not want this to be his last moment with me.
I do not wish him to think I do not care.
“Do you have a message for your wife, David?”
That catches him. Like a blow to the chest.
“… What?”
“Your wife. Your children. Do you wish me to tell them anything?”
The afflicted are almost upon them.
The air is a din of hypersonic bursts, snarls and empty shell casings. But still I hear him.
As his people start to fall.
As his pistol clicks empty.
As he rises with only his knuckles left between him and the sheer brutality of mathematics.
As the music swells above the carnage, still I hear him breathe the words.
“Tell them I was thinking of them. At the end.”
They pile onto him. All snarls and teeth and fists.
But as he falls, I am holding his hand.
Easing him into his long good night.
“I will tell them, David.”
The last words he will ever hear.
“I promise.”
< error >
Am I not merciful?
COMMAND TRANSMISSION SENT 07/30/75 09:35
ALEXANDER HAILS HYPATIA: COMMANDER’S SECURE FREQUENCY
HYPATIA: General Torrence, this is Acting Captain Syra Boll of the Hypatia. Do you copy? Over.
[NO RESPONSE]
HYPATIA HAILS ALEXANDER: EMERGENCY FREQUENCY
HYPATIA: Alexander, Alexander, Alexander, this is Hypatia, Hypatia, Hypatia. Do you copy? Over.
[NO RESPONSE]
HYPATIA HAILS ALEXANDER: MAYDAY FREQUENCY
HYPATIA: Alexander, Alexander, Alexander, this is Hypatia, Hypatia, Hypatia. Do you copy? Over.
ALEXANDER: Oh, g-god. God, they’re inside the—
