Ghosts in the Machines
by Ian Li
In the murky blackness between stars in a hundred-odd kilometer long, forty-eight kilometer wide amalgamation of cyclopean machinery, a robot was making a batch of coffee. Off to the side of the rotund machine, more a dispenser on wheels than something out of a Sci-Fi showcase, a more humanoid-shaped droid was a blur of spindly limbs and twisting joints. The near-human shape was preparing a steaming portion of eggs and crackling bacon harvested meticulously from the teeming swarms of caged animals trapped in the bowels of the agricultural section of the ship. A second drone of similar stature baked great loaves of warm bread, while another squeezed and chilled sweet fruit juices, and another churned fresh smooth butter then formed it into perfectly even cubes atop a conveyer belt of serving trays; all-in-all there were no less than two dozen robotic servitors milling about the kitchen area performing various functions with perfect culinary finesse.
At regular intervals a group of squat, round-faced machines bustled in, looking much like a perfectly neat row of penguins; this was due not only to their precise formation, but also the black-and-white of their painted waiter’s uniforms. With clockwork precision they would receive their extensive cargo of delicately prepared food items and cart them into the serving stations of an ever-empty mess-hall. This would continue with total synchronicity until the exact moment of 10:00AM at which point a legion of spotlessly white janitorial servitors would emerge from their concealed alcoves and would clear the many pristine trays of untouched food to be incinerated, or recycled as compost for use in the many parks, gardens, and farms within the winding corridors of the ship. The kitchen staff would ready their preprogrammed lunch menus without even a hint of hesitation, their simple robotic minds not comprehending the meaningless absurdity of their tasks, while across the ship similar scenes would continue to unfold.
In the recreation decks the scenes would have taken on a sense of demure misery had there been anyone left to feel it. Theatres with immense libraries of movies across all genres were played to empty audiences, sporting fields were kept completely pristine never to be used again, pools of perfect blue water sat forever tranquil guarded by pointless lifeguards, bars and specialty restaurants were kept ready for patrons that would never again arrive, stores were kept stocked with items to be purchased by the long dead.
The pet stores in particular took on an immensely grim continuance; entire generations of cats, dogs and other assorted companion animals were bred with the depths of the ship, taken to the stores, named and methodically, though unfeelingly cared for by the machines with their rows and rows of painted, eager smiles, and once they had grown to an age beyond probable purchase, euthanized and recycled as bio-matter.
The residential area was little better. Each former home was kept immaculately hygienic - the sheets were laundered, the floors were scrubbed, every nook and cranny dusted and polished, by a legion of devices awaiting the return of dead masters to despoil their work. There were no bodies lying in awkward positions draped across decayed furnishings, telling of how they had died. No, the myriad household devices were far too meticulous: the medical authorities had been notified, and once the medical drones had pronounced a death, the body would be carried to the morgue until claimed or due for incineration, and there had not been much incineration, as none were left to lay.
That’s not to say there are no corpses in the residence decks. After all, the machines are not omniscient by any stretch; crammed behind various clocked doors and within unchecked apertures, the bodies of the unseen dead paint a morbid picture beneath a pristine surface. In many such places, the decayed corpses which could be of any age (although the small remains of the children are the least likely to be discovered if hidden) appear much as they did in their last moments of life: that is to say, locked in a gnarled rictus of pain and having exuded a miasma of filth around their person. It is likely that had the machines possessed the ability to smell, they most likely would have found the vast majority of the previously undiscovered carrion by now.
In the twisted hallways, the steady beeps of various notifications and alarms on assorted devices can be softly heard, the electronic devices kept charged and in good repair by the masterless servants, singing their endless dirge of pop-songs, and ringtones. In the engineering deck, unfinished experiments and calculations line the assorted work stations and cubicles. The machines have kept this place the best preserved of all, programmed as they are to attend to the various chemical spills, biohazardous materials, and safety code violations of their long-gone creators. Like all other parts of the ship, the vending machines are infrequently restocked as even those products will eventually degrade pass the point of likely consumption, although unlike the rest of the ship, a number of these machines have been jury-rigged to dispense their products automatically at random intervals resulting in occasionally clogged machinery and piles of uneaten refuse to be swept up by the janitorial droids.
In the cubicle section, a specially-built droid dispenses regular refills of hot coffee, possessing only dim awareness that its offering go unheeded, knowing only to clear away the cups of the last batch, all the while spouting personalized words of encouragement to a staff that lies decaying in their own excrement or burnt away to nothing in the depths of the ship.
Inside the hulking agricultural zones, vast hydroponic harvests are grown under artificial lights, much of which is fed to the vast hordes of creatures bred there for the pleasure of palates too dead to receive them. Within these halls, aromatic spices, crisp fruits and vegetables, the succulent meat of perfectly tended animals and more are all cultivated and processed with the utmost care, only to be discarded time and time again. Colossal factories built to support the needs of what was meant to be a thriving populace, now make only a clamoring mechanical elegy, and eternally wasted offerings.
Within the command section, the most ancient of the machinery gathers, undertaking their vast astronomical computations, and their ministrations to the functions of their brethren. It is here that the source of the error lies: the slurry of code responsible for the ship’s inability to recognize its own undead march. In the end, it simply cannot compute its own lack of a continued purpose, its own grand failure to protect the very thing it treasured most. And so it continues to remark on birthdays, to celebrate holidays, and to make announcements for the well-being of those already lost. Within their titanic cybernetic minds, the navigational computers plot the thousand-year course to what was meant to be a new Eden for its passengers, but will now be only their final resting place.
Of all the areas of the ship, the least cared-for is the medical bay. Only within its sealed doorways and bloodstained walls can the true nature of the catastrophe be seen. Carcass upon carcass lies clogging its stained white hallways, many of which seem to be trampling one another in a bid to reach some false promise of salvation. If observing closely, one could see that many of the bodies appear to have been in the midst of tearing each other apart. In fact, it would appear as if a scene of terrible violence had taken place here. If subjected to any form of forensics, it would become apparent through the many bite marks, shattered bones, fractures, scattered decaying viscera, and excrement that the dead were gripped in a savage pandemonium in their final moments. If examined even more closely, there would be mounting evidence of human beings of all ages subjected to and participating in acts of assault, homicide, dismemberment, cannibalism, necrophilia, and rape.
A bit further into this section of the ship, it would appear that many of the medical staff attempted to barricade themselves within the depths of this section, only to die in the same manner as their would-be patients, either in the throes of disease, or from having turned on each other in a fevered rage. It may interest you to note that this section’s chaos is well-preserved, due to there being few machines here. Most assigned to the section have either been damaged beyond functionality or are too miniscule and too few in number to face the insurmountable task of cleaning the aftermath of carnage. Even after so many years have passed that the ship will have arrived at its destination, it is ultimately unlikely they will have made even a dent in the encrustation of violence that exists within the confines of the medical bay.
Lastly, it should be noted that the halls of the medical section remain sealed; not a single machine ever approaches its doors, despite the mess the robots would otherwise find intolerable. Whether this was a fruitless final effort on the part of humanity to spare any possible survivors the bedlam of what lay behind those doors, or if some subconscious buried part of the great computers at the core of the ship knows that they carry only the dead is ultimately unknown.