Subject One

III. Adapt

I wake up in the same room, laying down on a bed. Dr. Arthyr stands at the foot of the bed, talking to someone I recognize. It's Abris, the pale man. They're talking in hushed tones.

"...the worst gravity malfunction we've had, ever." Dr. Arthyr says through his teeth. "How could this be happening?"

"From my guess, when they first slopped this shuttle together decades ago, they did it fast. Too fast. Too many mistakes. There's sloppy wiring everywhere... a generator goes down every other week." Abris sighs, and pushes his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "The Worker's Union are doing their best to keep it running, but..."

"But?"

"The subjects take up so much power. To keep them going, we have to sacrifice energy elsewhere." He shrugs. As soon as "my kind" is mentioned, I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to sleep. I keep them slightly open, seeing through my eyelashes, just enough that I can make out the two men talking in front of me.

"That's fucking ridiculous! They're--" Dr. Arthyr glances in my direction, and growls, "they're not us."

"No, they're not us, but the subjects are the key to how we will survive. They are more important than a few generators."

"We can't just..." he lowers his voice, "get rid of a few?"

"Absolutely not. We barely have enough as it is."

"Are you kidding me? There's a thousand of them!" Dr. Arthyr throws his hands up in the air. "So we're just flying through space on a whim here? In a bucket of bolts with broken generators and fried wiring, praying on a dream of new reality on the backs of these dead things?"

"That's all we can hope to do. It's this or hopelessness."

"Supresin better work." He hisses.

"That's your job, not mine," Abris retorts. "Now, speaking of, I need to get back to my side of the shuttle. The Embassy is going to be chaos with all the complaints of injuries. We're just lucky that no one was killed when the gravity went haywire." Urya nods, and takes his leave. I watch as Dr. Arthyr flips him the middle finger on his way out. Just then, Mafiona waltzes in, bubbly as ever. Her enthusiastic wave is stopped short at the sight of the doctor's upright appendage. Dr. Arthyr releases his finger and scratches the back of his head.

"Sorry, Mafiona," He blushes with embarrassment, "that wasn't meant for you."

She blinks more than she should. "Oh, uh, no problem, Dr. Arthyr."

They both stand there awkwardly. There seems to be a tension there that I hadn't picked up before. Dr. Arthyr stares at the floor, then, with a giant huff, collapses onto the foot of my bed, sitting down with his head in his hands. "That was a major gravity shift, huh, Mafiona?"

"I'd say." Mafiona shifts on her feet. Another moment passes into awkwardness. "So, should I wheel the subject up to it's room? Is it ready?"
"Not quite," He murmurs through his hands, "It's still unconscious. I told it about the shuttle. Seems like the poor thing thought it was an actual hospital back home."

"Eighteen years in the tank must have turned its brain to mush." She flicks her long hair over her shoulder. She's wearing it down today. Seems impractical, but it frames her face nicely.

"Yeah," he says, "too much to handle, I guess."

I open my eyes fully. "I'm quite alright, doctor."

Dr. Arthyr shoots up, his eyes manic. "You're awake."

"Sorry to burst your bubble."

"No bubble to burst, subject." He picks up his digital notepad from the foot of the bed and scans through it. "But, since you asked, thanks to your kind, we're all fucked."