Exiles

[prognosticat]

{Closed for DarkEmpress}

Good morning. You may call me Pythia. Your name is Paul. Paul Adams.

Paul. Was that really his name? It didn't sound right. But when he tried to think of what his name was the nausea intensified. The blandly pleasant hologram of a generally feminine human figure continued its synthetic greeting.

You are twenty years old, and you are a hero of humanity!

Could heroes feel their fingers and toes?

Because of your selfless dedication to the future of humanity, you have been selected as a colonist for Kepler IV 29 b.

The tingling in his extremities was starting to fade, but now his brain was tingling. He had a deep sense that while he may have been selected, he hadn't volunteered.

For over four hundred years, you have been traveling toward your new home in cryogenic suspension. The process may induce some memory loss, so a personalized, interactive memory bank has been prepared for your use.

Tattered, faded hints of memory stood just off the stage of his mind, like the after-images of last night's forgotten dreams. Had there been some sort of rally, or protest? Angry voices? Tear gas and shock batons? And maybe a name printed on a hand-held sign. But the more he focused on the images the dimmer they grew. And the deep churning in the pit of his stomach returned until he let his mind drift back to the cheerful drone of the holographic avatar. It wasn't the vicissitudes of cryogenic suspension that had ravaged his memories. It was the brain-altering chemicals and x-ray surgery they'd used to eradicate his identity. He didn't know what he'd find in his “personalized, interactive memory bank,” but he knew it would be a fabrication designed to replace whatever shreds of his former life still persisted in his scrubbed and thawed-out brain, and make him feel good about having left every dimension of the life he was born into in the distant past.

Your new homeworld has already been rapid-terraformed by a robotic mission early last century, in preparation for colonization. It has been stocked with plant and animal life genetically engineered to provide you with a rich, sustaining environment. You have been pre-selected as the first crew member to be awakened, and soon a crewmate will be revived. The two of you will help prepare the ship, manufacture supplies, and ramp up the large-scale life-support systems, as your space ark decelerates during the final four years of your journey to your new home.

He was shivering, and dripping with condensation as well as the protective artificial amnio he had coughed up out of his lungs when he first awoke. He saw the glowing walls of a shower alcove to his right, throbbing subtly. The haze and paralysis of suspension finally clearing, he let the shorts, that had been his only clothing for the last four centuries, fall on the floor in front of the cryo-chamber he had staggered out of a minute before. Once he stepped into the shower, the color and brightness of the walls stabilized. Perfectly warmed water sprayed over him, was nanofiltered, re-heated, and returned to the shower head. The pleasant voice continued all along, at a volume level carefully modulated to account for the change in ambient noise.

Your fellow colonists will remain in suspension until you are in orbit around your new homeworld. Only in the event that you or your partner should expire prematurely, or fail in your mission to ready the ship and provisions for the commencement of colonization will any other colonists be awakened prior to planetary orbit, four years from now. Great care has been taken in establishing the genetic diversity of your colonial cohort, to ensure a thriving human population in just a few generations.

Colonists? They weren't colonists, but exiles! This ship was being controlled by the programming of whom? His political adversaries from an unremembered life? How would the long-dead sons of bitches exert their control after colonization began? Surely their reach wouldn't extend planetside.

As the invigorating water brought Paul's skin to life, he felt a thickness grow between his legs. 400-year 'Morning wood' came to mind – a slang term the brain scrubbing evidently hadn't robbed him of.

You and your pre-orbital mission partner have been sterilized by means of a reversible epigenetic treatment. Gene therapy medications to restore reproductive function can be auto-fabricated in the medical facility. While the preliminary life-support provisions are adequate to comfortably support up to 5 adults, pre-colonization procreation is strongly discouraged by colony policy.

Being fed “colony policy” by avatar rubbed him the wrong way. Made him want to rebel and disobey. But he supposed he had to give them some credit for giving them the option to disobey. The bastards thought they were being magnanimous by shipping them all to another solar system rather than executing or lobotomizing them. He wondered if his family had ever learned what had become of him. Whoever his family were. They were all long gone now.

A comprehensive encyclopedia of all human knowledge and experience – a survey of science, technology, mathematics, history, philosophy, art, culture, and religion – has been prepared for you that should provide any information you may need.

All human knowledge except, Paul knew, for his real name, and the reason he and the other popsicles in this nano-carbon bubble had been taken out of the world forever and shipped across light-years of void to a pop-up Eden on a planet with no name. He would never know how much of this “comprehensive encyclopedia” was true, and how much was a whitewash. However, he had no choice but to accept it, as he had no other source of information but his own senses. Would his fellow exiles remember any more than he did?

Self-guided tutorials for any skill from flint knapping to genetic engineering are just a question away, and self-adapt to your individual cognitive needs.

He gestured on the wall for the water to stop, and warm air began to blow him dry – an everyday technical knowledge unaffected by the butchery of his memories and sense of identity. A wall panel near the door slid open revealing a shallow closet containing a single preserved, synthetic jumpsuit, still sealed in plastic.

One ready-made garment has been packed for your convenience, but you can choose from a wide range of comfortable and custom-fit designs to be fabricated for you in the workshop area.

The jumpsuit looked horribly constraining and stiff – not what he needed after spending an interstellar trip in stasis. He left it in its packaging, wondering if it could survive in there for another forty-some decades. He glanced back at the shorts on the floor, but couldn't quite imagine putting them back on. He was just going to have to find the workshop area.

It occurred to him that he had no idea what he looked like. The conventional gesture put the wall mounted viewscreen in mirror mode. He felt only the slightest sense of recognition at the sight of his face. His eyes were grey-blue and his light brown hair cut short by some institutional barber who'd been centuries in the grave by now. He'd been frozen with a six-o'-clock shadow that gave him a more scruffy look than what one might expect from the first one to wake up on an interstellar mission.

He wasn't particularly tall, it seemed, but he had broad shoulders, and sculpted, articulate fingers. He was no man-hulk, but would probably do well on a submarine or a starship, with a wrench in one hand and a data wand in the other. It looked like he had all the necessary appendages, and now that they had thawed out, they seemed to be in working order. His youthful wake-up erection was subsiding now. It appeared that appendage would do the job.

He had a pretty fair sense of what kind of jobs it could do, though he had no clear memory of ever having done them. For all intents and purposes, he was a virgin now, regardless of what experiences he might have had in the life that he was ripped from so many years ago.

He heard a burst of coughing from down the passageway, then a female voice crying out incoherently.

Your partner is awakening now. Please go help orient her.

The holographic avatar faded out. Then he heard its voice begin again somewhere down the corridor.

Good morning. You may call me Pythia. Your name is...

 

[DarkEmpress]

Good morning. You may call me Pythia. Your name is Amy. Amy Evens

Gasping for air, her eyes were struggling to focus. Amy … somehow that didn’t sit right. Was her name, Amy?

You are eighteen years old, and you are a heroe of humanity!

For some inexplicable reason, that statement made her want to burst into a fit of laughter. But again, she could not quite grasp why.

The hologram was yammering on about her having been selected as a colonist for Kepler IV something and when she mentioned that Amy had been in cryogenic suspension for 400 years, a sudden sense of anguish washed over her.

“400 years!” she whispered, shocked. Her memory was … foggy … no, actually, non-existent. Nothing solid materialised, and yet Amy was filled with a deep sense of loss… as if something precious had been ripped from her memory.

“What have you done?” she asked the hologram, desperately wishing she could punch the damn monotonous thing in the face.

The hologram paused and looked at her with a bland expression. “You seem … distressed,” it said. A red beam appeared from nowhere and scanned Amy, eliciting a puzzled expression from her. “Your vitals are … elevated,” said Pythia.

“You bet they are,” Amy contorted, almost sarcastically. “Why am I here?” she asked.

“Please refer to your personalised interactive memory bank,” the hologram provided a baseless response, before chattering on about colonising Kepler IV 29 b.

Amy gingerly tried to step off the table she was lying on. Her muscle tone was weak and her legs wobbled when she tried to put weight on them. It felt like an outer body experience as her arms and legs didn’t quite feel attached.

It was freezing in there. Amy’s drenched hair was matted to the back of her neck. A soft glowing cubicle lit up and the word ‘shower’ popped into her mind. It was encouraging, to an extent, that they didn’t erase her life knowledge in its entirety, whoever it was that had put her on this godforsaken vessel. Perhaps her memory would come back?

A crewmate has already been revived. The two of you will help prepare the ship, manufacture supplies, and ramp up the large-scale life-support systems, as your space ark decelerates during the final four years of your journey to your new home.

The knowledge that she wasn’t alone was both comforting and alarming. What if he or she was some raging axe murderer? What was she going to do for four years, confined to a floating vessel in a world that was completely alien with a single person as company?

Amy supposed it could have been worse… she could have been alone.

Biting her bottom lip, she stepped into the shower and a door zoomed shut around her before she was drenched in a cocoon of warmth. Stripping out of a scant strappy top and shorts, she closed her eyes and let the heat seep into her veins. Amy instantly knew that she loved to shower, this used to be one of her happy places.

Her eyes fluttered open and she found herself staring at her own reflection in a mirror. Eyes, the colour of the ocean, stared back at her, set in porcelain skin. Her hair looked almost black in colour but Amy knew it was a deep chocolate brown. She wasn’t very tall, perhaps average in height. Amy knew that she used to be very active, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what she used to do.

The hologram was chattering ahead but Amy was zoning it out. She didn’t want to listen to the lies anymore. She wanted time to search her own thoughts in an attempt to make sense of all the madness. It was overwhelming to think that she and some other person on this ship, may very well be the last surviving members of the human race. What did she even know about setting up a civilised community or building a world that she didn’t know a single iota about?

Lifting her hand she pressed it against the wall and the water was replaced by a hurricane of spinning warm air that dried her skin and hair. Once Amy was dry a wall panel slid open, revealing a closet that was inhabited by a dodgy looking space jumpsuit. Freshly out of options, she tore the plastic from the suit and slipped into it. It fit like a glove and was actually surprisingly comfortable although it did make her feel like a crewmember aboard the Starship Enterprise.

For some obscure reason that thought made her grin, sheepishly, lighting up her complexion as she stepped out of the cubicle and straight into someone…

“I’m so sorry,” she said hastily, as she looked up and cast her eyes upon her 'crewmate'.

 

[prognosticat]

"I... No, I'm sorry. I... The computer told me to come find you." Paul heard his own voice for the first time he could remember, still a little rough from the after-effects of suspension.

He thought he must still be in shock from the strangeness and enormity of the situation. Maybe that was why he could do nothing for the span of four full seconds but stand naked in the corridor and gape at the woman he'd just crashed into.

"You're..." In his mind, he said, "beautiful". That was the word that coursed and reverberated through his brain. But was this the time to say it? What does one do or say in a situation without precedent? What is the meaning of beauty to the only breathing man in light years? If he couldn't say what he thought, maybe it was just the residual amnio getting stuck in his throat.

Of course, Paul realized, he didn't really even know if the absurd holographic avatar had been telling the truth. Maybe they weren't on a starship at all. Maybe they were really part of some wacky terrestrial psychology experiment. Maybe the amnesia-inducing drugs would wear off in a few minutes and some grad students would come striding around the corner with tablets under their arms and do a comical about-face when they saw his naked ass. He needed somehow to prove to himself that this was real. But for now he had no choice but to accept his situation at face value.

Now what would this woman think of him? His only companion for the next four years, and his first act was to bump into her nude in the hallway. He couldn't imagine trying to wedge himself into the vacuum-packed jumpsuit in his closet. But it looked like she was making the best of hers. The snug fit of it left only a little to the imagination. And the imagination can voyage great distances, even in the span of four seconds.

Should he feel embarrassed to be standing naked in front of her? Was embarrassment a social construction, or was it intrinsic to the human psyche? Did it need a bigger society than two total strangers in order to emerge? For the moment, he felt no shame -- only shock.

"I'm going to find the workshop area, and fab myself some... clothes," he muttered, gesturing vaguely.

But now he reached out and touched her forearm. He held it for half a second before releasing her. Just a gesture to confirm their mutual humanity.

He looked in her face.

"Are you OK? From the suspension? I'm still coughing up that fluid. The idiot computer said my name is Paul. I... When I try to remember, I feel sick. Do you remember anything?"

 

[DarkEmpress]

"I... No, I'm sorry. I... The computer told me to come find you."

Amy just stared up at him, at a loss for words. His eyes were mesmerising, though marred with confusion, no doubt reflecting the same emotion that was reverberating through her system. But on a whole he was rather attractive. A light touch of colour dusted her cheeks, but she tried her best to keep her poker face in play.

"You're..." he said, but he didn’t complete the sentence, leaving Amy to wonder what he was about to say. Perhaps he wanted her to introduce herself? Feeling a bit silly, she thought, of course he does! “Amy,” she croaked, testing her voice for the first time. “My name’s Amy Evens,” she said again.

"I'm going to find the workshop area, and fab myself some... clothes," he said beneath his breath, making a hand gesture towards some location behind them, almost self-consciously. For the first time Amy let her eyes drift from his face and realised he was completely naked as the day he was born. She couldn’t help the smile that touched her lips at his predicament. It was almost cute to watch him squirm. The blush intensified on her cheeks as she folded her arms in her own self-conscious gesture and diverted her eyes, biting her bottom lip. Clearly she knew what that part of his anatomy did, but she had no recollection of ever experiencing it…

“Yeah, that sounds like a plan,” she said, smiling up at him.

He absentmindedly lifted a hand and touched Amy’s arm and it felt like an electric bolt had just gone through her. She looked at where his hand was resting for a moment and the smile died on her lips before her eyes darted back to him. She copied his gesture, knowing instinctively that he needed to know that she was real, as much as she needed to know that he was flesh and blood. It was comforting to know, that he wasn’t just a figment of her imagination.

Their eyes met for a moment.

"Are you OK? From the suspension? I'm still coughing up that fluid?” he asked
“I am,” she ventured, “Though, I still feel a little wobbly on my feet.”
“The idiot computer said my name is Paul.”
“Nice to meet you, Paul,” Amy smiled up at him.
“I... When I try to remember, I feel sick. Do you remember anything?"
“No, not a single thing,” Amy said as she tried to pull a single memory from her foggy mind. An intense throb of pain shot through her head and Amy placed her hands on her temples, shutting her eyes tightly as she winced. “You’re right, it does hurt,” she confirmed.

She lifted her eyes and looked a little confused, “I don’t understand. Why are we here?”

 

[prognosticat]

Amy lifted her eyes and looked a little confused, “I don’t understand. Why are we here?”

Paul paused for the space of a breath, then leaned in close to Amy.

His voice near a whisper, Paul muttered, “I don't know what's going on either. I had a memory when I first woke up, but I think it's faded now. I don't know if I can get it back. I think we've been exiled, but I don't have any way to prove it. I can't even remember why I think that. I think our memories have been wiped. Pythia says it's a side-effect of the suspension, but I don't believe it. I think they did it to us – whoever put us on this ship.”

“I don't fully trust Pythia. I'm sure most of what she says is true. And I don't think she's going to hurt us physically. It's her job to look out for us, I guess. But she has to have been programmed by the same people who wiped our memories and shot us out into space. She's keeping their secrets. But at the same time, we need her.”

Amy's face was becoming a comforting point of solid reality for him in a swirling mass of confusion. He was finding her expressions charming. He loved the shape of her lips, her nose, the corners of her eyes.

“Amy, I think we need to scout out this ship, or whatever this place is. We need to know where everything is. And I'd like to see if this ship has an observation port. If we're really flying through interstellar space, I'd like to confirm it by seeing some stars. And Amy – for now I think maybe we ought to stick together. If we're the only human beings up and walking around, I think we should face this as a team. What do you think? After I go find the workshop and get some clothes, should we meet back up and learn what we can? Or maybe you want to come with me and help me figure out what to wear.”

Before she could answer, Pythia flickered back into view.

Paul and Amy, I'm glad you've found each other. I will continue to help orient you and answer your questions.

There was a pause, during which Pythia seemed to look at Paul. She blinked twice. An artificial look of recognition flitted across her synthetic face.

Perhaps you want privacy now. I will return after you've had a chance to get dressed. But you can call me back at any time. Speaking my name will activate me.

And she winked out.

“Maybe she can hear us even when she's not around. I guess she has to switch on when we call for her. But I feel more comfortable talking to you when she's gone. If she's programmed to respect our privacy, maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

“Pythia, privacy policy!”

Pythia returned.

Colony policy is carefully balanced to ensure maximum privacy, while enabling programmed control systems to keep colonists safe and informed. 'Colonists' refers to people selected for the Exoplanet Colonization Program and their descendants and heirs in perpetuity...”

“Cut the legalese, Pythia. Give me the short version.”

I have been enabled with RealSense social recognition technology. When I detect that you may want privacy, I will disappear. Intimate moments are not recorded. You may request a ten minute privacy period at any time.

Intimate moments are not recorded. He wondered what degree of intimacy would trigger the privacy policy. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss Amy's lips. Would that shut Pythia off, or would it take more than that? He was sorely tempted to try it out. But maybe that would be a step too far, even in these extreme circumstances.

You may be getting hungry. Cryo-preserved rations are available in each galley on the three residential decks. Also, one cell in greenhouse number 1 has been pre-activated especially for you. Fresh greens, sprouts, and vegetables are already ready to harvest. Synth-meat can be grown using chicken, beef, or shrimp genetics. Other meat profiles can be loaded from secondary storage.

“That's enough, Pythia. Go away,” snapped Paul. But the avatar simply continued.

The ship's artificial gravity is a function of constant deceleration at 1G. A supply of organic and inorganic materials sufficient for many years of pre-colonization activity has been provided in the supply holds. All waste materials are decomposed and returned to the supply...

“Pythia. We need privacy.”

The hologram paused.

Your request for a ten minute privacy period has been approved. And Pythia vanished. Paul was left gazing into Amy's face.

 

[DarkEmpress]

Amy could get lost in those beautiful eyes. Paul had a certain intensity about him that immediately captured her attention and held it there, right there in his gaze.

Clearing her throat, she hastily looked away to break eye contact, finding herself looking down again and straight at Paul’s perfect and naked male form, quickly averting her eyes once more. “I think, you should go and get dressed,” she said as a soft hue of pink dusted her cheeks, “while I go and scope out the food situation,” she ventured, giving him a teasing smile.

“I’ll meet you in the galley… in the closest residential deck,” Amy said, trying to remember Pythia’s exact wording. It all sounded so foreign. They would probably have to choose sleeping quarters as well. “Once you’re there, we can go and explore,” Amy said, almost excitedly.

She vehemently hoped that there was actually a lookout deck of some sort, or even a control centre. There must be one. If what Pythia is saying is true, then the ship has been on some sort of autopilot for the last 400 years, but there must be a way to put the ship on manual control.

“See you just now,” Amy said as she consulted one of the maps that were gleaming along the top of the hallway, and found her way to the galley.

The room was oversized, to say the least. There were at least enough tables, chairs and counters for around 100 people, and this was only one of the three galleys. Amy supposed once everyone was awake, it would be quite a crowded place. She idly wondered where the rest of their shipmates were kept. There were only two cryogenic capsules in the room when they awoke, meaning that the frozen chambers were kept in a different section on the ship.

Amy walked up to a serving counter and quickly figured out the controls. Before she knew it, she was standing with a steaming cup of coffee in her hands.

“Pythia,” Amy voiced their host’s name. “Tell me more about Paul,” she said, as Pythia flickered back into existence opposite Amy.
Paul Adams is a heroe of humanity. He is twenty years old and was chosen to be a colonist for Kepler IV 29 b. His personal information is contained within his personal interactive memory bank.

“May I see them?” Amy asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
It is unfortunately for his eyes only, unless he explicitly instructs me otherwise.

“Okay,” Amy voiced, thinking that Pythia was just spewing the same information all over again. “May I see mine?” she asked.

Pythia morphed into a screen and suddenly Amy could push on folders and browse the pages of her history. There were photos of her as a baby, a toddler, a pre-teen, teenager and later. Occasions and birthdays… but strangely, none of the photos had any other people in it, besides herself.

“Pythia, who are my parents?” Amy asked.
There is no record of your parents on file, you were an orphan.
“Siblings?”
There is no record of any sibling or siblings on file, you were an orphan.

Somehow Amy jarred at the information. She knew, deep down, that it wasn’t true. Amy tried to find any reference to a hometown, friends, acquaintances, family members… anything, but the information provided was purely superficial. The more she tried to think, the more the splitting pain in her head throbbed. It was almost as if there was a mental blocker that was physically lodged in her mind.

It was frustrating. “That is all, Pythia,” Amy ordered her away.

Irritated, Amy meandered across the galley and found the greenhouse. It was an absolute work of art. Lush green plants filled the room and Amy felt like she was Eve, walking in the forbidden garden. An amused smile tugged at her lips. The irony – Paul (Adam)s and Amy (Eve)ns. Were they the creators of this ship’s Adam and Eve? Some fucked up experiment to see if humanity was able to reboot and start over?

 

[prognosticat]

The fabricator head moved back and forth, its micro-extruders leaving behind synthetic fibers along with the single-use nanobots that would expend their tiny energy packets weaving them together, then fall back through the honeycomb mesh into the machine for recycling. Within two minutes the machine had produced, as if from nowhere, the front of a pair of blue jeans, ready for stitching, with belt loops on the side. Pythia had explained (helpfully, but without solicitation) that the ship's systems for producing natural cotton fibers were not yet online. But the cloth the fabricator spit out was a pretty fair counterfeit denim.

Paul stood now in his newly fabricated underwear, feeding the jeans components into the sewing bot, while the fabricator worked on some elasticized fabric for socks. He'd only messed up one pair of briefs while learning how to use the machines. It was mostly automated, so there wasn't a lot to learn. But it was still possible to screw it up.

Twenty minutes before, he'd sat on a fold-out chair and paged through quite a few options on the display screen before settling on the 20th Century casual. He'd stared for a long time at the fashions that must have come from his own era. So much foppery. Had he dressed a la mode in his previous life, or had he bucked the contemporary fashion trends? Whatever he'd worn then, jeans and a t-shirt seemed like simple, practical clothes he could wear now while he got his bearings. He'd stood still with his arms out for a few seconds while the scanner measured him for fit.

Now he could slip the new jeans on and get to work making some shoes. The 3D printer churned out a pair of laser sintered metal-epoxy molds to be filled with synthetic foam rubber for the soles, while the fabricator made some canvas for the tops.

Pythia continued to explain, elaborate, and elucidate about the materials available, and which systems would have to come online in order to generate more sophisticated components and assemble more capable tools. Though the shipboard environment was pretty sterile and had no weather to cause erosion, many materials wouldn't have survived the four hundred year journey, even just sitting with no use, as they would degrade on their own, like old acidic paper. So there was a very limited supply of most finished materials on the ship, which now needed to be synthesized from more basic precursors. Some of their work, as the first settlers to be awakened, would be to build up the stocks, and assemble the machines and tools that would make more and better clothes, tools, and supplies. The information helped him make sense of his situation, but he wished he could reliably get Pythia to give him a break without invoking 'privacy'. When she 'thought' he needed to know something, nothing else would shut her up.

An hour later, Paul was dressed from head to toe in brand new, custom fit clothing. The fabric wasn't quite as nice as he might hope, and the shoes were pretty basic, but he thought they would work fine for starters. Probably better than walking about with his dick flapping around, or donning a four hundred year old plastic jumpsuit. He would come back later and make some extra socks and underwear. But now he really wanted to catch up with Amy again.

He needed some food. He had started feeling it part way through fabbing his jeans. By the time he had laced up his shoes and attached the 3D printed buckle to the imitation leather belt, he was starting to feel weak. Generations had literally lived and died on Earth since his last actual meal, and while he knew food tasted good, he didn't have any real memories of eating.

Trudging down the narrow starship corridors, heading for the galley, Paul was anticipating talking with Amy. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea what he would talk about with her. How do you get to know someone when you don't know any more about yourself than you do about her, and she doesn't either? They had this much in common, at least: they were both in the same predicament, and they were in it together.

He arrived in the galley and experienced a moment of horror. Amy wasn't there. His mind had been so ripped up – had he imagined this woman? Their brief touch was one of the few irrefutable memories he had. Then he saw her used coffee mug and knew that someone must have been in this room recently. When he noticed that the greenhouse adjoined the mess hall, he figured he should look for her there. He'd been long enough getting dressed, she must have gone next door to explore.

Paul found her facing away from him amidst the plants, examining the rows, enthralled by the verdant growth. He wondered if she might have a gift for growing things. Was it something she had loved in her lost life?

“Amy.” He couldn't resist the urge to touch her lightly on the shoulder.

“I'm glad I found you. I saw your coffee mug in the galley. Have you eaten any food yet? I'm seriously about to pass out.”