The Pilot snorted. “Sir, do you realize how many parameters she has? Sure, some are straightforward, like ship’s mass.
But others are odd tidbits like the length of the fusion drive shaft, hydroponics chamber capacities, airlock pump rates... My God, we couldn’t check all of them.”
“She stores all that?”
“And operates from them. Every time we recycle a glass of water, grow a tomato, track energy fluctuations, we rely on Darla’s parameters. If we inadvertently alter them... “
He left the sentence unfinished. The dangers were obvious, and chilling.
It was my decision, and I needed to sleep on it.
That night the nightmare struck with terrifying force. At the point where I usually woke trembling, I came struggling out of it, as always. Weakly I crawled out of bed to fall in the easy chair. It was there the icy hand of Mr. Rogoff found me, toppling me onto the deck screeching in terror.
I woke in my bed, gasping and shaking, realizing I had still been asleep. I looked up. Mr. Tuak opened the hatch and staggered in, rotting eyes boring into mine, his cuffed feet shambling toward my bed. I woke again, paralyzed with fear.
It was a long time before I was sure I was truly awake. I threw on my pants, pulled my jacket over my undershirt and hurried to the infirmary, dreading to meet Mr. Tuak on the way. Pride was no longer an issue; I woke Dr. Uburu and demanded a sleeping pill. In response to her questions I told her I’d been having nightmares.
She gave me a pill, warning me not to take it until I was actually in bed, and to sleep as long as I wanted. About my nightmares, she mercifully said nothing.
When I reached my cabin I couldn’t stop the chills from stabbing at my back; I opened the hatch with caution and entered, knowing nothing was waiting but still, like a child, unable to trust in knowledge to dispel my demons.
I swallowed the sedative. A few minutes later the cabin disappeared.
Someone was attacking my hatch with a sledgehammer.
Annoyed, I tried to open my eyes, but they were glued shut.
I lurched out of bed and felt my way toward the hatch.
Somebody had moved the bulkhead about two steps closer; I caromed off the cold metal and flung open the hatch, ready to break the sledgehammer into tiny pieces.
I forced open my eyes, a snarl and a scream battling in my throat for priority. The ship’s boy stood patiently in the corridor.
“Ricky! Why in God’s name are you here in the middle of the night? And stop that banging!” I propped myself carefully against the bulkhead.
“It’s morning, Captain, sir. Same time I always come.”
The ship’s boy held his breakfast tray with both hands, waiting expectantly.
“Uhng. Come in.” I staggered back to sit on the bed.
“You didn’t see a man with a piece of rope around his neck, did you?”
Ricky put the tray on my table. “No, sir. If I do, should I tell him anything?”
I focused on my bedside table, trying to hold it still. “Tell him I’m sorry.” The table slowed, but didn’t stop rotating.
“On second thought, don’t tell him anything, just try not to see him.” I lay down in my bunk. Now only the ceiling was spinning. “Never mind, I’m not sure this is real either. That’s all, Ricky.”
“Aye aye, sir. Oh, by the way, sir, I’ve decided I want to be a midshipman.”
“Very good, Ricky, come back after you grow up; I’ll ask the Captain. I’m tired now.”
“Aye aye, sir,” he said, his voice uncertain. He left.
I woke some hours later, relaxed and refreshed, recalling a peculiar dream involving the ship’s boy. I stood, slowly.
Cautious tests indicated my motor systems were functional.
After visiting the head and the shower I returned to my cabin. Two congealed eggs stared reproachfully. I decided I’d work today on distinguishing reality from fantasy. A morning chore for the Captain.
On the way to the bridge I stopped at the infirmary. “Doc, what did you give me?” My tone was plaintive.
“Were there side effects?” Dr. Uburu asked coolly.
“I think there may be one next to my nose. I couldn’t wake for breakfast. Someone else woke instead.”
“You shouldn’t have tried that.” The Doctor was reproving. “I told you to stay down until you woke naturally.” She studied my face. “I think you survived, Captain. You needed the rest.” I had to admit that was true.
Later in the day I called Chief McAndrews and Pilot Haynes to a conference in the officers’ mess. “I’ve thought it over,” I said, sipping coffee. “We’ll strip Darla for reprogramming. I don’t trust my own Fusion calculations and I’ve got to be able to rely on her. While we’re at it we can recheck her other parameters.”
“There are hundreds,” the Pilot reminded me.
“We’ve months ‘til we reach Miningcamp. There’s time to check them.”
A silence. The Pilot said carefully, “Captain, I protest your order, for the ship’s safety. I request that my protest be entered in the Log.”
“Very well.” It was his right. I didn’t remind him that if he was correct there was a chance no one would ever read the Log.
Chief McAndrews cleared his throat. “Sir, I request you to enter my protest in the Log as well. Meaning no disrespect.” He had the courage to meet my eye.
“You feel that strongly about it, Chief?”
“Yes, sir. I do. I’m sorry.” He looked sorry, too.
“Very well.” My tone was sharp; I tried to dispel a sense of betrayal. “I’ll enter your protests. Bring the puter manuals to the bridge. We’ll start this afternoon.” I left the mess, knowing my evening sessions with the Chief could never be the same. I pushed aside my loneliness; if I dwelt on it I would march back to the mess and cancel my orders.
We met on the bridge. “Mr. Holser, you’re relieved from watch. Leave us.” My nerves were strung tight. I slapped shut the hatch, leaving the Chief, Pilot Haynes, and myself alone with Darla. I switched off the ship’s caller. I tapped a command on my console, saying it aloud at the same time.
“Keyboard entry only, Darla.” At this juncture we couldn’t risk stray sounds confusing the puter; in deep programming mode, who knew what glitch could be set up by a misinterpreted cough? “Got it, Captain,” Darla said. “Something special you want to tell me?”
I typed, “Alphanumeric response only, Darla, displayed on screen.”
A sentence flashed onto my screen. “KEYBOARD ONLY, CAPTAIN. WHAT’S UP?”
I tapped, “Disconnect conversational overlays.”
“VERIFY CONVERSATIONAL OVERLAYS DISCONNECTED.”
Darla’s answer was dull and machinelike, stripped of her usual banter.
I indicated the manual open in the Pilot’s lap. “What’s first?”
Three hours later we were ready; we’d bypassed the warnings and safeties, entered my access codes, stripped away the interconnected layers of tamperproofing the Dosmen had built into her. Darla lay unconscious on our operating table, her brain pulsing and exposed.
I typed, “List fixed input parameters, consecutive order, pause for enter after each.”
“COMMENCING INPUT PARAMETER LIST, PAUSE AFTER EACH DISPLAY.” The first parameter appeared on the screen.
“SPEED OF LIGHT: 299792.518 KILOMETERS PER SECOND.”
I glanced at the Pilot. “Any problem with that one, Mr.
Haynes?”
“No, sir.”
Keying through the long list of parameters, I realized that checking them as we went wasn’t possible. As I tapped, Darla flashed one parameter after another on the screen. After a while I merely glanced at each one, waiting for “SHIP’S MASS” to appear. I tapped for a full hour and a half, my wrist beginning to ache, before the figure finally showed on the screen.
“SHIP’S BASE MASS: 215.6 STANDARD UNITS.”
“There,” I said with relief. I typed, “Display parameter number and location.”
“PARAMETER 2613, SECTOR 71198, GRANULE 1614.”