Blood Impulse

Part 42.2 - THE SHADOW

Meloira Sector, Battleship Singularity

Perhaps, if the ghost could rest, truly shut down and recover, she would have. Perhaps she would have done as the Admiral had and taken a nap, but her very nature did not allow it. The way she had been built demanded she be aware, be watching and waiting every second of every hour of every day.

The ghost had never resented that. She did not mind holding the watch, standing guard. That too, she supposed, was in her nature. But this time, she didn't want to extend her perception toward the noise of different stars, she didn't want to eavesdrop on the din of the crew. Those noises were not comforting now because she could not be proud to stand watch over people endangered by her very presence, her very existence. Her indenture to Command had threatened them enough, but her inability to control Brent's shadow... That was nothing more than the promise of evil.

'They are weaker than you, machine. It's inevitable you would grow tired of them.'

A shudder ran through her systems. An instantaneous revulsion, but she could not pull away. That shadow was larger than before, its voice louder.

'Come now, did you truly think I would let you go?'

She reached inward with every intention of ripping that corrupted piece of her mind away, but she could not tell where it ended and the rest of her began. As it had been since that day, that shadow was a part of her, more than a memory, less than a physical reality. I'm going to go insane. She knew that now. That presence would ensure it, for she could not hide from her own shadow. It wound itself deeper every time she took control, changing her in ways she did not want to be changed.

She wanted, needed it to stop, to just leave her alone, but it wouldn't. It was always there, always nagging, even more incessant than before. Sometimes, in the midst of battle, it silenced. Sometimes her perception of the living drowned it out, but that evil was never truly gone. And she knew now that shadow was a threat not only to her sanity, but to those within her reach, those who trusted her.

Its presence now clear, the ghost would have to answer for it. She would have to explain it, and she had no explanation. She had never understood how the dead could haunt a ghost.

A subconscious need for a new perspective drew her to the ship's galley. There, she could find someone who was not poisoned by the memory of who that shadow had once been.

With the crew scattered between supply inventory and repairs, Ripley and her staff had opted for a quick and easy meal: sandwiches. They were placed out, allowing crew to come and get one as they grew hungry. Regular meal scheduling would resume tomorrow as the crew returned to their usual shifts, but for now, most of the kitchen staff was washing dishes or helping catalogue the food taken from Crimson Heart.

'Mama' Ripley was the exception. She worked on tidying up the galley stations, wiping down the stoves, organizing the knives, cutting boards and loaf pans. It was a tradition she found calming, something she did after every meal she helped prepare. Often, it was a lonely endeavor, but one that allowed her to hear the sounds of the mess hall beyond the kitchen. Usually, there was chatter, laughter and the sound of silverware clinking on plates – the sounds of a good meal bringing crew together like family, but not this time. This time, the crew came by in hurried bunches, grabbing the calories that would keep them going for another few hours. Still, Ripley worked, preparing the kitchen for another, more lively meal.

It was a mindless exercise until she turned from securing a few knives that had been left out and found herself no longer alone. That was not unusual. The ghost sometimes joined Ripley to listen to the sounds of a well-enjoyed meal. Even if the ghost could never join the festivities herself, she gravitated toward that happiness and comradery, always certain to thank Ripley for helping provide it.