Chapter Text
No one is ever truly alone on a ship. Francis has been told this many times on many different ships, but for none was it as true as on Terror. The spacecraft is, structurally speaking, unremarkable: not the biggest ship nor the fastest. Its weaponry is mostly for show since it has been retooled for the Discovery service. Its armour plating is functional, but unfashionable.
However, for all Terror lacks in speed and strength, it far surpasses its peers in computing power. The 'brain' of the ship lies beneath the command centre with its own fusion reactor core separate from the main propulsion engine. The supercomputer was outfitted when Francis was first given command of Terror in 18039 as a turbocharged, but highly experimental, navigational assistant. It had been designed to mostly help with instrument readings and calculations, but its processing power had been underestimated, even by its creators. Within months the AI had restructured the ship's organisational and administrative duties. By the end of the year, Francis began using the machine to analyse command decisions with startling and meteoric success. A lesser captain might dismiss the JOPson as only a gimmicky computer, or worse, think themselves out of a job. Francis sees it as another tool in his arsenal.
Overhead, Francis hears the telltale click of the ship's intercomm system switching itself on.
"Good evening, Sir. How was the command meeting?" JOPson's voice hums through the speaker, evenly mannered as always.
"Three courses and a pudding." He huffs, pulling his arms free of his dress uniform's overcoat. "Just as you predicted."
"And dessert, sir?"
"Sticky date." Francis can't help but imagine the machine is pleased at another correct calculation. Officially, of course, he has never used the most advanced supercomputer in the Galaxy to calculate the most statistically likely items to appear on the Erebus dinner menu. "I still think you cheated on that one."
"I can go over the maths again if you don't believe me."
"No need." Francis mind swims with equations factoring in fruit store levels and Sir John Franklin's particular enthusiasm for butterscotch sauce. "Perhaps next time I can get you to run an analysis on Fitzjames' bloody sniper story. I swear it gets longer each time he tells it."
It's a miracle Francis is still sober. The constant prattling of Erebus' Commander drove him to the point of missing whiskey something fierce.
"Pity SAMson and I can't record command dinners."
SAMson was Erebus' own computer system, far less advanced than JOPson. Speaking to it felt like trying to converse with a lamp, and a particularly dim one at that. It lacked a certain conversational sophistication Francis has gotten used to on Terror. All the Navy's ships are outfitted with an AI computational system, all given human sounding names like WATson and JACKson to appear more personable to their human crew. Francis thought the names made them sound more like butlers than computers. The Astral Navy has no use for the personal valets to wait on their commanding officers like in the days of old. He supposes computer assistants are this century's version of a steward.
"I think for everyone's sake it's best they're not."
"No? I could have them uploaded to the ship's podcast library. The crew would surely get a kick out of them." JOPson jokes. Yes, the computer told jokes, and they even occasionally made Francis laugh (a honour very few humans could say they achieved). There were personality controls somewhere in JOPson's vocabulary settings, in case the computer got too lippy with him, but Francis never cared to mess around with those. He likes his talking computers with a bit of backbone.
"Goodnight, JOPson." Francis tells him pointedly, continuing to discard his dress uniform as he shuffles his way towards his cabin bed. "I expect the latest navigational reports to be prepared at 0800."
"Goodnight, sir. At least fold your trousers." JOPson responds and then there's the click of the comm line being shot off.
Francis sighs but does as he's told. The lights in his cabin dim to help simulate a circadian rhythm and Francis lies back on his bed and waits to fall asleep.
"It doesn't bother you at all. Seriously?"
Manson and Young roll their eyes. Not this again.
"You'll get used to it." Hartnell tells him.
"That's the point," Cornelius Hickey stabs his finger down on the table. "We shouldn't have to get used to it. It's inhumane, this level of surveillance."
"Relax, man. It's not like he's listening all the time."
"He." Hickey scoffs. "First of all, it's a computer, not a 'he'. Second, that's what they want you to think! Of course it's listening to us all the time!"
"It can't though," Young finally steps in before Hickey can really begin his tirade. "All the engineers say so. If you ask JOPson to leave you alone he has to. It's one of those robot laws they have built in. Right, JOPson?"
Hickey hisses, hunching over the table as the speaker clicks to life above their heads.
"Mr Young, how may I be of service?" The reedy twat of a computer speaks.
"Can you explain Terror's privacy policy to Cornelius?" Young asks and Hartnell bites back a smile. It had been a fad a few weeks back whenever there was an awkward silence in the room to request JOPson read aloud instructional manuals until someone finally cracked and switched the computer off.
"Certainly. Terror's Privacy Policy can be found in the Security and Safety Module, which states the following: According to the Astral Navy's Articles of Space Travel, as further outlined in the Crewmember Collective Bargaining Agreement, all members of the Discovery Service are entitled to-"
"Oh, fuck off, JOPson." Hickey barks.
"Very well, Mr Hickey." The computer's speaker clicks off as laughter peels across the dining hall.
0800 the next morning, if any time in space can truly be considered morning, brings Francis to the command centre where his Lieutenants are already waiting with their (and JOPson's) reports. It's the standard headlines. Irving updates their supply lists, Hodgson goes over the latest deep space communications packets, and Little recalls what maintenance is still to be done around the ship. Blanky saunters in half an hour late with the latest instrument readings and an update to JOPson's navigational models. Francis frowns at the data package displayed on his tablet screen.
"Has Erebus seen the latest orbital projections?" Francis asks.
"I spoke with Mr Reid." Blanky shrugs. "They're not concerned."
"Of course not." Francis mutters.
"We won't have a clearer picture until we're closer to the anomaly."
The anomaly. The entire point of their exploratory voyage. The admirals back on earth were certain this sector of deep space harboured the holy grail of celestial bodies: A White Hole. A theoretical mass capable of producing and expelling matter in the opposite of a Black Hole. To observe such an event would change the science of space travel as they knew it. For now, it was only a pipe dream Francis wasn't particularly keen on following, but Sir John was insistent. The mission directive was the get close to the anomaly, take some measurements, then use an orbit assisted launch to slingshot themselves back towards earth. Such a launch relies heavily on the positioning and rotation of several nearby solar systems and a lot of very precise calculations. If they make one mistake, they could be stuck in the gravity field of the anomaly for years until the positioning is right for another attempt.
"What's say you, JOPson?"
"Current protocols dictate caution, however there is no reason the projections may become more favourable with more data, Sir."
"Very well." Francis tables that particular worry for now. "Hodgson, Command's latest message came with a software update?"
"Afraid so, Sir. Something about tightening biosecurity. It'll likely be our last communication for a while. The nearest satellite outpost is three quadrants away and the deep space transmitters won't be pointed our way again for another eight weeks."
The lieutenants look nervous at the news. Francis forgets it's their first foray into deep space, cut off from the web of satellites and telecomm transmitters scattered across the known star maps. Francis feels only relief at the thought of Navy Command no longer breathing down their necks for the foreseeable future.
"Very well," Francis nods. "Distribute the remaining comms packages and we'll get started on these updates. Let Erebus know we'll be in and out of service until they're done. Dismissed."
The Lieutenants (and Blanky) all leave, but Francis doesn't hear JOPson's speaker system click off.
"Not excited for more software, JOPson?"
"Should I be, Sir?"
Because JOPson's is less a single computer and the amalgam of multiple separate computing bodies, he will have to be shut off in parts to install the update, meaning it will take at least three times as long as it normally would on a ship like Erebus. Despite JOPson's insistence his mechanical brain leaves him with no feelings on the matter, Francis dislikes the piecemeal way the machine is brought in and out of consciousness. Last time JOPson had been in good humour about it, singing "Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do," in the command room, although Francis had been the only one to appreciate the reference.
At Francis's lack of a reply, JOPson continues. "You have a comms package, Sir. I've filed it away in your personal folder."
Francis raises his eyebrows. Personal communications were limited on discovery voyages. Every few months or so messages from family members would be bundled together and sent over the long-range telecomm frequencies to ships. Honestly, Francis hadn't expected any messages for himself. His social circle on earth had always been small and had only shrunk further after Sophia's most recent and final rejection.
"Thank you, JOPson, that will be all." He says stiffly, making a beeline for the privacy of his office.
Once inside, he pulls out his tablet and opens up the long unused Personal folder. JOPson appears to have kept it well organised in his absence. Technically not the best use of the Galaxy's most powerful supercomputer, but JOPson insisted he has the CPU to spare for more menial tasks. Perhaps the computer just enjoys good organisation.
The message is from James Clark Ross. There's a letter with several photos embedded within from his honeymoon on a lovely little Exoplanet with the most remarkable pure quartz beaches. He scrolls through the photos, watching the man's skin become increasingly pinker and pinker from the Red Dwarf sun blazing across the sky. Francis shakes his head. Gingers weren't supposed to be on beach planets, but the man seems happy enough. And of course, Ann looks resplendent by his side. He wonders of how long until there’s another announcement from the happy couple.
Francis swallows thickly. He knows it's unfair, but he can't help it. It still stings. James should be here. He drops the tablet onto his desk and swivels around in his chair to face the empty corner of his office where a bar fridge once was. His throat is parched.
First James got married, then Sophia refused to marry him. Now, Francis is alone on his ship.