What Are You Really?

“Thank you for making it to the interview,” the captain said. They’re a prim and proper person, with their hair in a tight ponytail. Their face is hairless, not an inch of makeup aside from the slight grease-shine that comes with using chapstick. They wear a military jacket without a single wrinkle in the fabric, a flight suit that fits tightly against the skin but appears modest, and they tuck their cargo pants neatly into their shiny black boots. “I am aware that we asked you to do this with little notice, and I wish to apologise.”

“It’s alright, Captain.” The man pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. His eyes darted around with a sort of practiced precision, like he was trying to find every single exit.

The spaceship was just as pristine as the captain. Gunmetal grey walls, smooth and almost matte. There was the gentle hum of the ship, feeling it breathing beneath the man’s feet. They sat in what the man believed was a conference room, with a metal table and chairs bolted to the floor. This room was almost a mask of everything else. While walking through the rest of the ship, there was that sense of color to it. Exposed wires were poking out of the ceiling and dangling helplessly like licorice, equipment sequestered away in hallways. This room had the illusion of grandeur: a large window showing the illuminated stars and turning them into blackened silhouettes.

While the man leaned back, languidly and easily, the Captain sat there, pin-straight with their hands crossed in front of them. In an otherwise flawless room, the captain stood like a statue.

The captain was a dancer with their otherwise perfect posture and polished shoes, and they were offering a hand before trying to pull the man onto the dance floor. The man didn’t dance well. He preferred daggers and tongues, and teeth over anything else.

“The files you sent over say that your name is Brandon Casey, though the military database doesn’t seem to have you in there. I was having Ares look at it for me, and we couldn’t find anything. Are you known by a different name? I couldn’t seem to find your ID number either.”

“That’s very odd,” Casey interrupted. The captain was trying to lead, trying to pull his body around as if he were dragging a deadweight across the ballroom. He reached into the inside of his jacket pocket until he found a lanyard with a hole-punched ID at the end, and he slid it across the metal conference table until it came to a stuttering halt at the captain’s hands. The captain takes it, the plastic catching the LED light, but in a muted way that made it look like a star, and they quickly scan both sides of it with blue, unblinking eyes.

The captain frowns a little. Placed the ID off to the side. They roll their shoulders, scan the man up and down. Reevaluating.

Casey knew what the Captain would have seen; they would have seen a worn-out man with salt-and-pepper facial hair covering his chin and crawling up the side of his face like vines. They would have seen brown eyes that caught the light and almost looked red. They would have seen the dirty shirt, and the beer belly, and the pants that had holes in them that were threatening to expand and crack. People often told him that it looked like he had too many teeth.

Casey could also see that the captain was well trained. They had a poker face that probably suited them well, if they gambled, but the captain, with their straight-laced boots, was probably too straight-laced to do such a thing. If they had any issues with his appearance of him, it didn’t show. If they had any issues with talking with him, it didn’t show.

“Let’s get started with the interview, then.” The captain says. “How long have you been going by the name Brandon Casey?”

“My whole life, Captain.” The words come out sardonic and dry. It’s like sandpaper on the tongue, in the corners of the mouth.

There is no response in the Captain’s face. “Your ID says you are a lieutenant.”Casey couldn’t tell if it was more of a statement or a question. “What made you leave your previous position?” 

“Administrative difficulties; a lot of the people who were above me ended up getting killed in a battle. I was hoping for something a little more peaceful.”

“While I am sorry to hear that, you are aware that this is a battlecarrier, yes? And that there is currently a war happening? There is a high likelihood that we are going to get involved in more conflict.” The Captain’s voice has a certain edge to it. Their voice slows down, as though they are speaking to a particularly idiotic child.

Casey scratches at the underside of his chin. There’s a little patch of skin there that always seems to itch no matter what he does. “I’m aware of that.”

“Then explain to me why you applied.”

“Because you were hiring, and I wanted a job. Look at me,” Casey throws his arms out theatrically. “I need the money!”

The captain breaks the facade of someone impartial, and they pinch the bridge of their nose between two fingers. “This is a military vessel.”

“I know that. Listen, it’s not like I’m here to fuckin’ retire! Your beds aren’t comfortable enough for that.”

“But you’re looking for something more peaceful?” Casey could have sworn that the captain’s hair was starting to come slightly undone, that they were about to run their fingers through it and start to misplace the strands. They sighed and then asked: “Tell me about what you did in your previous position… and maybe something that you did to improve it?”

“I was responsible for scheduling personnel rotations. We based the schedule on the human sleep cycle, which runs in ninety-minute intervals, yeah? So once we got everyone rotating around that schedule, morale and all that shit improved considerably.”

The Captain hums slightly. “That makes sense. Tell me more about how your scheduling system works.”

Casey scratches at his chin again. “Well, the main thing is making sure everyone got enough sleep. You know how it is, people get tired, then they get irritable, then they start making basic mistakes…”

The Captain is studying the metal of the table. It’s like a mirror, but foggy. They’re staring at themselves and then tap the metal a few times, the sound echoing throughout the room. “How did you account for individual differences in sleep schedules?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some personnel require more sleep than others. Some have difficulty falling asleep. Some wake frequently throughout the night due to… Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. How did your system account for that?”

“It didn’t. We just had everyone sleep in the ninety-minute intervals. It was a very effective system.”

The captain tilts their head to the side slightly, like a dog. “You said that morale improved considerably; how did you measure that? Did you send out a survey? This would mean you have experience in other administrative skills, yes? ”

“I mean, fewer people were bitching at me, so I have to assume that meant they were happier.”

“So you did not conduct any formal assessments?”

“Didn’t feel the need to.”

“And they just slept for ninety minutes?”

“It’s one full sleep cycle.”

The Captain glances at a cluster of cameras in the corner of the room, watching the red light blink. It’s as red as an ornament hung from a Christmas tree, and is like the pupil of an eye. “Do you have experience working with Artificial Intelligence units, of any kind?”

Casey blinks, bites down on his tongue a little, almost startled by the question: “I don’t see how that’s important.”

“Ah, uh-” The captain lets out an uncharacteristic stammer, and then puts a fist over his mouth, clearing their throat to try and hide the noise. Even that sounds elegant. Faked. Rehearsed. He wondered if the captain stood in the mirror and pretended to cough until the noise stopped sounding like someone hacking up a lung. Resolution has an Artificial Intelligence, named Ares. We ask that new recruits have some basic knowledge in Artificial Intelligence systems and the operation of them…”

“I see, then of course I do.”

“Of course,” the Captain repeats. “Which models have you worked with previously?”

“I wouldn’t know, probably a military one.”

“Your paperwork says that you were stationed in The Helios Fleet for a while, and to my knowledge, that fleet has several Artificial Intelligence Units. Tell me how you worked with them.”

Casey’s eye focuses on the door. It’s a pristine thing. Everything about this ship is so pristine. It wouldn’t hurt to rearrange a little, make things less organized. The door itself was straight and had a simple plaque on it labeled “CA-138-5.” There was a keypad beside the door, and he caught a series of dead pixels, splintered across the screen. The slight discoloration in the screen.

Like someone had hit it.

He wondered who had done it.

“Lieutenant Casey.”

“I mostly dealt with logistics, like I said.” Casey rubbed his thumb along the side of the index finger. There’s encrusted dirt underneath his nails, rusty red like something off of Mars.

“That was not the inquiry.”

“No, it wasn’t. Has anyone ever told you that you’re very patient?”

“You have to be patient.” The captain’s response is fast, like a bullet being fired from a gun. “I’ve been told this before; please answer my question.”

The ship hums from underneath them. There’s something mechanical clicking beyond the walls. Casey can feel the rumbling of the ship underneath his feet.

“I’ve worked with AI’s,” Casey repeats.

“Yes, in what way?” Straight to the point, the captain is. No undercurrent of kindness, just a piercing knife of calm. The captain folds their hands again. Their fingers are perfectly aligned, the knuckles pale from how tightly they are pressing them together. “What did you do with them?”

“I talked with them.” Casey notices how his voice comes out so casual, so done. ‘Obviously I talked with them, what are you, some dumb fucking machine?’

“I want elaboration.”

“I used them for logistics, because I did logistics. Inventory and shit.”

The Captain gives a wary look, swallows. They almost look like they are about to clear their throat again, but they don’t. Eventually, they look up, focusing their eyes on the cluster of cameras in the corner of the room, bright blue eyes narrowing in on the red one.

“Ares, friend, could you please pull up the official paperwork for the Helios Fleet census? Their Captain put it on record about a month ago; could you search again for a Brandon Casey?”

“Of course, Captain.” A voice comes from the speakers ahead, a soft crackle. Casey was worried that the sound was going to pop and then become riddled with static. He wondered if Ares was going to close its hands around the ship’s neck and squeeze. Other than that, it almost reminded Casey of an umbrella. Ares’s voice was going to roll off the top like water and drop down to the concrete below. It was smooth like water.

“You call the fucking thing your friend?” Casey asks, scoffing.

The captain leans forward, lacing their two hands together and resting their elbows on the table. They let out a long sigh. “Yes. Ares is my friend. I always call them my friend. They haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“Brandon Casey does not exist.” Ares’s voice echoes around them.

Casey wanted to wrap his hands around Ares’s throat and squeeze. Was Ares one of those AIs that had an android body? Could Casey cut off the function to the brain, make Ares overheat, pop like a too ripe grape? What is the point of giving an android a body? Don’t they cause enough problems with just their brain?

“It’s lying,” Casey says. “I was ON the Helios Fleet. Sure, they have a lot of nondisclosure agreements, and it’s… cosi cosi, a very so/so thing. It’s not always in the systems. People fall by the wayside-”

The captain holds up a hand to stop him from speaking. Like he was a teacher trying to cease the speaking of a room of toddlers. And while Casey’s mouth slammed shut, his mind did not. It was rushing a mile a minute, bees that were hitting every single wall and screaming. The protests were springing to his lips, leaving a tingling sensation.

“A logistics lieutenant would be working with the higher-ups of the fleet directly, and therefore you would be working in operation with the Artificial Intelligence units aboard since, under protocol, they have to take heed to the higher-ups, which would include you. Someone with such a high ranking and with such an important role would fully realize that Resolution would not be a comfortable place to go to ‘relax’ given, well, everything. Core responsibilities include things like supply chain management, finances, and inventory control, with some hospitality, but they do not manage the sleep schedules of crew members, and even if they did, an improved sleep schedule, it would acknowledge that some people sleep at different times, and that nine hours should be allotted for full sleep, not just ninety minutes. And furthermore, someone who worked in logistics would have better administration skills and would be able to articulate what those are and would be able to send out a survey. So what are you really, Brandon Casey?”

Casey laughs. It comes out like a dog’s bark. “Just so perceptive, aren’t you? Little shit.”

“If you are going to lie, at least get the story straight. I work in logistics.”

The captain crosses their arms. Casey crosses his.

“Allow me to escort you out.”

The Captain rises, one hand lingering for a moment on the metal table. They look outside for a moment, beyond the city-like shelter that wore steel for its skin. Stared out into the dark black abyss.

He wondered if they would be sad to see it go.

He laughed again, tucked his hands in his pockets, and slowly rose up from the seat.

It was just a moment.

It was just a moment.

Casey felt himself come undone.

It was a good run, and he always liked to toy with his food. But no, no, this food was far too smart. There was a brain up there.

The world was starting to fade into a soft black, a film over his eyes.

Casey felt the relish of a split, like faceplates on an android machine, where his skin starts to peel away from his face. Ideally, there would be no blood-- that always ruins his clothes-- but there is blood. It starts to drip down, stringy and viscous. He clears his throat, feels something in his voice go deeper. Can feel the bone push past the knuckle. The downside of never being able to see yourself is that you cannot see how beautiful you are. You cannot see the symmetrical face, the sharp and defined jawline that had been split in half like a coconut, the taller body, the muscular physique. The pearly white teeth that had not been dulled yet.

He felt something in the back of his throat click, the imitation of human bones clicking together, and everything flashed green and white, afterimages flickering underneath his eyes and starting to slowly bleed into color.

“Just too smart, aren’t you?”

The captain lets out a startled noise, a mix between a shout and a gasp, but coming out high-pitched and strangled. His vision becomes awash with white again, and in still images, like cels on an old movie, the captain slowly backs up. In one cel they are moving around the table, in another they are at the corner, in another they have looped their way to the door.

Casey smashes the pad embedded into the wall, the glass making a sharp noise that split across his mind like lightning, and the glass falling to the ground.

He wondered if it glittered like stars.

“You asked me what I was, didn’t you?” Casey’s voice came out deep and guttural.

He liked the name Brandon Casey, but that couldn’t be his name anymore; he gave up this disguise.

The Captain lets out a slight whimper of a noise, reaching for their sidearm. They fumble with it for a moment, nearly drop it, and they fire a shot. Another quick burst of lightning, and pangs like rain landing as the bullet hits the wall and echoes. Ripples in the vision show the captain finally losing composure.

Casey reached forward, gripping their jacket and pulling them in. But instead, he lifted them up, the sidearm clattering down to the floor. The squeals almost sounded like a rat being strangled, something pinned down and desperate to escape. He could see them so clearly, the way that his bones were like hands, pierced past the skin, and holding the captain up by their throat. They were clawing at him, blood starting to run down their knuckles. He could feel his face open again, a pleased trill coming from the back of his throat, and he opened his mouth wide. The captain started to kick and scream.

“What’s your name, Captain?”

__________________________________________

The Captain walked out of the conference room covered in blood, with an empty sidearm at their side.

“Ares?”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Now isn’t the time, Ares. There’s a thing in that room, and we need to dispose of the body. I’m going to go get cleaned up. Please alert someone to take care of that. Oh, and delete the last hour from your memory.”

“Yes, of course, and I will let the General know.”