Sir, There's Talk of a Revolution

Far From Guaranteed

The willpower to not shut her eyes was immense. The Assist kept tugging at her collar which seemed to be getting tighter every second. The heat that she once looked forward to, once cherished, was choking her. It made her skin burn and itch like the crawling of millions of ants on her. The constant ringing in her ears made any noise impossible to deal with, blocking all the words that were spoken to her. She was jumpy. She was drained.

She did not remember the last time she had written something down if it wasn't on her walls. She didn't bother with her day to day duties any longer, didn't even attempt what the ship relied on her to do. Her mind was no longer there. It was in its own world. But it was not only the lost sense of responsibility the Assist was now experiencing, she had also lost her ability - or desire - to assess, to question. And everyone suffered.

The Captain, for no reason anyone on the ship could figure, had become extremely erratic and nonsensical. What was once childish - bordering recklessness and stupidity - had become evil. Yes, the behaviours of the members, their animalistic rage and inhuman capabilities was beyond concern, it was frightening. But the Captain, the one who led behind a veil of secrecy from the upper deck, was not the master created of the animals below. At least the Assistant did not believe so. Though, she did not know what to believe anymore.

When he would order her, barking on and on about someone or thing to the absent-minded Assist, it was done. Her brain filtered the sea of dirt that came out of the Captain's mouth, shifting through the soil and rocks to find the gold - what he really wanted. And like a robot, created and programmed to loyally follow every word that dripped from its commander's lips, she would go below, and order. She did not assess, she did not question. She no longer saw a reason to lie, even if she once believed it was for the greater good of the ship's members. But what good is the ship? She would think to herself. And what good were its members? The constant lying to her colleagues, to the members, to her Captain. Not to mention the severe consequences she would potentially face if it had been discovered, no matter who she could have saved by doing what she thought was right. Humans deserved her efforts. Not beasts.

The Captain did not order her to tell the Supply that the Mother Vessel was arriving early. Nor did he hand over a note to be given to someone below. No, no. It was nothing like that.

The first demand of the like the Captain had barked for, on that gloomy, rainy day, was the searching of each room. "I am convinced," he declared, "that there is a movement, by who, I don't know, but I do know that someone on this ship is preparing to get rid of me! I will not allow that!"

Searches had happened before, though not for this particular reason. Ship-wide searches were indeed rare. It was the only place of privacy - or 'secrecy' as the Captain would call it - for a member to have. The only place where they did not have to live as if they were under a microscope; each action, each word, each twitch of the eye meaning something significant, a window into who you really were.

If you had beaten the life out of another, retreated into your room, and cried, no one would know.

Without missing a beat, the Assist, eyes red and dull, made her way to the lower deck. In an authoritative boom, she had relayed what she had been told. A ship-wide room search was to commence.

After the turning of beds, destruction of pillows and sheets, rummaging of the little personal relics that existed on the glorious ship - all in pursuit of the seeds of a revolutionary - the captain remained dissatisfied. He was so sure he was right, but nothing was found. If he couldn't find it, he concluded, he was going to force it out.

The Captain was going to torture the ship until it spat out the guilty.

At first, it was once a day. Quite quickly, it became multiple times a day. The ringing of the bell by the hatch that physically separated the Captain and his members. The thumps of the Assist's shoes as she walked down the small steps. Her loud voice as she announced the next punishment. She would watch, the faces, the whispering, the anger boiling up in the members.

The Assist believed him. How could she not? Who wouldn't rebel against such a Captain? In fact, she would be deeply surprised if there wasn't a sentiment of rebellion among the members. That wasn't what interested her, who it was, that was what intrigued her. Each member, she had to look at twice, trying desperately to imagine them as guilty of something so idiotic. She figured that if she was the one to find them, find the one rebel, she would have the best chances of surviving this ship - under the heavy wing of her Captain. It did not guarantee safety, and she knew not to be caught trying too hard, but knowing what life was like, she knew it was the only way to make it back onto land one day.

A long, long list of demands had rained down on the Assist. Rations were reduced. Lunch had become dinner. Breakfast had become lunch. Eventually, breakfast, lunch and dinner had become one. Those who were questioned about potential involvement who did not implicate themselves or somebody else was shown no mercy. Beds were taken away. If, within three days, the member did not confess, it was destroyed. Acid, fire, or overboard.

Any show, intended or not, of sympathy for another was understood to be a sign of guilt. Why should you feel anything but disgust and hatred for your enemy? For the one whose sole desire was to ruin what you sacrificed so much for? What this meant, for survival, was a general collapse of support. Those who had been together for years, lived and worked side by side in the middle of the ocean for which they had given up the freedom of life, had turned. Turned on one another. Even in the most disturbing moments, when one could not imagine the members of this glorious ship to be human, where life was far from guaranteed - there seemed to be bonds formed from collective cruelty. Brothers and sisters, a family created from forced familiarity, quickly dissolved. Brothers and sisters became strangers. Family was not worth a life.

For the Captain, fear wasn't enough. It was clear, to him at least, that fear in all would lead no where. For there to be progress, he told his Assist, one had to be singled out, separated from their own, and humiliated into submission. And so that was what they did.

Members who did not co-operate had uniforms and clothes had their clothes destroyed. Acid, fire, overboard. It did not matter in which matter to the members, another outlet of personalisation on a ship where, to the Captain, they were no different from the member next to them. For some, the clothes they wore were the only ones they had left. Next came the destruction of shoes. Members had to walk barefoot on a floor decorated with shattered glass, oil spilled oils and discarded nails. The shaving of heads. Waking up to corpses of animals in the room that you slept in. The random and frequent disappearances. The erasure of the history, dedication and existence of those never seen again.

It was tough and it was embarrassing, but it was survivable. What wasn't was the stripping of roles and responsibilities. When a member responsible in helping the Assigner with the organisation of supplies, for example, was stripped from their role, they were rendered useless. There was nothing worse, upon the mighty, famous ship that traveled to all the exotic corners of the world and had seen what many only dreamed off, then being useless. You were no longer a part of the team, the family. You were another, on the other side. You were useless, and the ship had no room for the useless.

The fear, however, that flooded a member was when another returned. Their bed respired, their shoes new, their hair growing back. There was only one way this was possible. To submit was to snitch. To tell on every other, true or not. Name names and you'll live. Those whom lived, had named names. So, when your neighbour, your brother or sister, had come back - dark, soulless eyes with cuts and bruises - there was reason to fear.

You could be next.