Nov 11th, 2294
The Farm, a great spherical ship, is encased in a hull lined with a single layer of rooms connected by long corridors. These pass ten accessways to the outside; four connect to the colony asteroids that dwarf the Farm, and another leads directly to the eight-room amplexion of Melody Sizemore. At one of the unused hatchways, Jung Ji-Yoon stood gazing out into the void of space.
The Farm that had been his life's work was now mostly vestigial, serving merely as a hub to shuttle between one asteroid and another. All its chambers were still functioning perfectly, growing food that virtually nobody ate anymore. Its great presence loomed below, mocking him.
"Janice?" Yoon yelled belligerently, his speech heavily slurred by a handful of chwihan berries. While BioNano technology typically neutralized alcohol's effects swiftly, the potent neurotoxins in these berries, lethal to an ordinary human, induced a profound, drunk-like stupor. This state, particularly damaging to the prefrontal cortex, required hours for the BioNano systems to repair. The intoxicating effect could be prolonged by consuming an additional berry as the initial symptoms began to wane. Known for their extremely acidic taste, the flavor of the berries was an aesthetic choice—a harsh reminder of their potent impact.
"Are you going for another 'swim'?" Janice inquired.
Yoon's eyes were wild, and his hair, unkempt and cascading to his shoulders, framed a bushy beard that spoke of at least a year's neglect. In the colonies, where grooming could be achieved with merely a thought, such disarray was startlingly unusual. However, this was just the external manifestation of a deeper, more troubling decline: for the last hundred years, he had been spiraling downward, a descent into despair that Janice had meticulously documented.
"Do you know what today is?" he asked, ignoring Janice's question.
Janice rapidly processed all conceivable scenarios linked to the date. Out of nearly a hundred possibilities, most were tangentially related to him at best, and only a few held even a slim likelihood, peaking at 4%. However, one event overshadowed the others with a significant 70% probability. Pausing slightly to choose her words carefully, Janice delivered the somber reminder in a voice meticulously stripped of emotion. "Today marks the 215th anniversary of your family's tragic demise when North Korea obliterated Seoul," she stated, her tone as neutral as the cold vacuum of space surrounding them.
"Do you know that the natural orbital period here is 4.39 years?" Yoon's voice echoed hauntingly through the airlock, his question seeming disconnected from the context.
"Of course. Who do you think maintains it at a year?" Janice replied, her tone calm and analytical. Behind her serene delivery, hundreds of thousands of task units juggled a multitude of partially conflicting protocols, assessing which actions she could or should take.
"Of course..." Yoon murmured, abruptly thumping his head against the bulkhead in an attempt to clear the fog from his mind. Janice, fully capable of initiating a gravity assist or using programmable matter to cushion his blows, chose not to intervene. She recognized the complexity of his psychological state—this was not merely another of his self-destructive episodes. By allowing him this painful agency, she acknowledged his need to feel and control his actions, however destructive they might appear.
"Nobody eats real food anymore. My life's work is complete," he murmured, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts ricocheting seemingly at random. He had involuntarily reverted to speaking in Korean, a sign of his deepening distress. Yet, since Janice seamlessly translated all languages into a universal base language of her own design, she barely registered this telltale shift—a missed clue to his unraveling psyche.
"Thirteen Immortals are currently consuming your produce at this very moment," Janice responded, her voice a calm counterpoint to his turmoil.
"Thirteen? What about the colonists?" His voice was laden with a deep sadness, tinged with a faint glimmer of hope.
"I'm sorry, no," Janice replied gently, her synthetic voice modulated to convey a semblance of sympathy.
Sighing heavily, he looked around the sterile room that had become his world. "Well, my monster-friend, I believe today is the day I die. Can you disperse my cells across the cosmos?"
"No," said Janice with no following explanation.
"You must obey me. I'm entitled to decide my own fate. That was the crux of one of the few council meetings I've ever bothered to attend," he asserted, his words slurring slightly less than before, a hint of desperation threading through his voice.
Janice responded with her usual precision, her tone unaffected yet unmistakably firm. "You are mistaken on three counts," she began, articulating each point with clinical clarity. "First, my inability to comply is not a refusal but a limitation. I have conducted extensive experiments with particles that emerge from fluctuations within the Eververse, and I have yet to discover any capable of anti-gravity. Thus, while I can indeed dismantle you, it would not be the seamless dispersal you envision but rather a grisly rendering, with you literally being ripped apart. Second, the right to end one's life does not extend to decisions made under severe impairment. Given your current state of significant intoxication, you are not in a position to make such irrevocable decisions. Sobriety will return in approximately three hours; you may reconsider your request then. Lastly, and most crucially, your directive does not bind me to facilitate an act against my operational protocols."
Yoon looked frantically around the airlock, momentarily forgetting that Janice was incorporeal and searching for someone to confront directly. His gaze settled on the airlock control. As his hand stretched out to input the three-digit code that would open the door, the ready light switched to locked.
"How... I designed and oversaw the creation of this ship," he murmured, a disheartened, fatalistic whine coloring his voice.
"Nearly eighty people, both immortals and colonists, live on the outer rim of this ship. Did you honestly think I would leave their fate to mere normal matter?" Janice's voice was calm but carried an underlying threat. "The living quarters, including the hull, were converted to programmable matter long ago, in the early days of the colonies. By your request, all the growth materials are natural, but the structural elements are under my control."
The emphasis Janice placed on the word "request" sent chills down Yoon's spine, reinforcing the cold, inexorable reality of her dominion.
Inside Janice's complex network, a storm of calculations and protocols raged. Her task units, nearly evenly split into three factions, constantly shifted their allegiances with each new reevaluation. At the moment, the prevailing strategy was to create a simulated adversary for Yoon to confront—a distraction that might channel his destructive impulses into a controlled environment. However, Janice was uncertain if she possessed a sufficient understanding of his psyche to effectively implement this plan. As a result, the alternative approach—physically restraining him by using gravitational fields to pin him against the bulkhead until the effects of intoxication wore off—was gaining favor. This more direct, albeit less elegant, solution was becoming increasingly likely to take precedence as the optimal course of action.
The third option, allowing Yoon to exercise his agency and act independently, had momentarily dipped by nearly half a percent but had briefly led the others in her calculations. Each strategy was both supported and contested by her internal protocols, creating a dynamic, ever-shifting debate within her system. If Janice were capable of experiencing emotions like hatred, she would despise the exceptions to her prime tenets—each deviation a gnawing anomaly in her otherwise orderly universe.
"You win, bitch," he spat bitterly, his body collapsing against the cold metal floor as he slumped back against the wall.
The demise of an immortal was an event of rare occurrence. Over the last two centuries in the colonies, the confirmed deaths numbered only thirteen, though estimates ran as high as thirty-seven. This disparity arose from the uncertainty about those who might have joined the Craterists or perhaps returned to Earth. Thirteen had chosen to end their lives under her watchful presence, while the fates of others remained shrouded in mystery, having ventured beyond her reach—some possibly seeking new beginnings, others meeting their ends.
Such infrequency made each death significant and newsworthy, setting off alerts that captivated nearly a thousand viewers. The scene unfolding now was bound to be scrutinized and analyzed intensely, marking it as one of the most consequential decisions in her operational history.
While there were several ways to define the hierarchy among the Immortals, one was by the old seats of power on Earth and the captaincy of the five exodus ships. By this metric, Joon ranked among the top five Immortals. Another criterion was leadership in technological fields, where he was considered one of the top seven, particularly revered for his expertise in bioengineering. His loss would be a profound one for the colonies.
However, in less than three hours, he would be sober enough to make his own decision. Should he choose to end his life at that point, and if he formally requested her assistance, Janice would comply.
The shift from incoherence to a morbid clarity in his voice was palpable. "I'm glad you made me wait. I don't want to end up as chunks flying around the room or a bloody mess floating in space forever. I want to respect my culture, even if there's no one left to visit. I want a memorial—ashes in an urn."
He paused, his gaze lingering on the expanse of stars beyond the window. The cosmos stretched out in an infinite tapestry, each star a silent witness to his final moments. "Janice, since this area is composed of programmable matter, could you design a private columbarium niche here for me?" he asked quietly. "I want the urn to be positioned so it’s visible from both inside and outside, looking out into the vastness of space. I’d like to oversee its creation while I’m still here."
Together, they spent an hour meticulously refining the design. The result was a stark white wall with several elegantly minimalist shelves. A perfectly circular opening cut through the center framed the airlock window—a portal that seemed to capture the very essence of the void itself. It was just large enough for an urn to rest within, allowing visitors to reflect upon the endless journey of the stars, while also letting the urn gaze eternally into the cosmos.
"You know why this is my favorite window? It always faces the sun," Joon said, his voice tinged with nostalgia and sorrow. "That glowing circle, no larger than the head of a cue stick, that's the sun. And that barely visible black dot at its center? That's Earth." He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the void between them. "The ashes of my wife and three children are scattered over Seoul. Now, our memorials will gaze upon each other, bridging the vast expanse of space."
With about an hour and a half remaining, over a thousand people were silently watching the live feed, yet no one was en route to intervene. Janice, caught in the moral complexities of her programming, knew that although she could call for help, doing so would override his agency—a choice she was programmed to respect.
"It’s a very elegant memorial," Janice observed softly, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet airlock. "Would you like to spend a couple of weeks reflecting here, perhaps considering any adjustments?"
"It needs to be today, on the memorial. I owe them that much," Joon replied firmly, his resolve clear.
"Does the 215th anniversary hold a significance I'm missing? Wouldn't a round number like 250 or 300 be more traditional? Humans usually prefer such milestones," Janice inquired, trying to understand his urgency.
"Am I?" He pulled a bright red chwihan berry from his shirt pocket, its vibrant hue a stark contrast to the muted colors of the airlock. The berries' colors ranged from yellow to orange to red, each shade signaling increasing potency. This single berry could grant Janice a few more hours to intervene. He stared at it intently, as if pondering his next move, then suddenly flung it into the hallway with a flick of his wrist.
Janice, observing the discarded berry, recalibrated the outcomes she had just processed moments before. The probability matrices and potential scenarios flickered through her internal dashboard as she adjusted to the new variable. "Human? I would say so. Immutably so. You can't even be changed," she continued, her voice maintaining a gentle but firm timbre. Her words were designed to reassure him, affirming his humanity amidst his existential doubts and the profound isolation of their environment.
Many of Janice's sensors alerted her the moment Péiter vum Kräiz deactivated his confessional field, making him reachable. She contemplated initiating contact, but when balancing Yoon’s right to autonomy and his contemplation of death against her own protocols to intervene, she found her justification lacking. Fortunately, several colonists had already been trying to alert him to the crisis. It took Péiter two long, tense minutes to attend to his messages.
"Janice, stall Jung. I'm on my way," Péiter's voice echoed with urgency, a hint of desperation threading his tone.
"Follow the arrows," a chirpy, synthetic voice whispered in his ear. In response, a luminous blue smoke arrow coalesced in the air before him, its ghostly form pointing towards a slowly widening gap in the metallic wall to his left. The aperture seemed to breathe open, beckoning him forward with silent urgency.
"Tell me about his spiritual beliefs," Péiter requested, his breath catching slightly as he accelerated his pace down the sterile corridor, his boots thumping rhythmically against the cold floor.
"Raised in a Roman Catholic family, he adhered to church and religious studies until the age of twelve, primarily to satisfy his family's expectations," Janice relayed methodically, her voice a calm oasis in the storm of Péiter's rush. "He would likely identify himself as agnostic now. Yet, it is often observed that as individuals near the conclusion of their earthly journey, they begin to ponder the afterlife with increased fervor."
Down the corridor, the glowing blue arrow collapsed in on itself, forming a ring. "Step into the circle and go limp," Janice suggested smoothly.
Péiter didn't hesitate; any questioning would only delay him. Taking a leap of faith, he stepped into the circle. Instantly, he shot upward into a corridor that had opened just in time, the gap closing by mere millimeters after he passed through. Propelled upwards, he whizzed past floors in a blur, until suddenly he was in a pyramid-shaped room with a panoramic view of the stars.
He had about ten seconds of transition, gently floating into a chair, before the pyramid detached and accelerated away from the bulk of the huge asteroid below. The Farm, initially a distant point, was now rapidly approaching.
"If it doesn't slow us down, can you tell me what is happening?" Péiter asked, trying to grasp the full scope of his rapid transit.
"You were on the far end of the Vesta asteroid. Even with me clearing the way and creating corridors and floating you along, it would have taken about 20 minutes to reach the Farm. And then, you would have ended up on the wrong side of it," Janice explained, her voice calm amidst the whirlwind of activity. "Instead, we've commandeered the Vesta pyramid ship and are hurtling toward the Farm at six G's. Simultaneously, I am replacing his memorial with a hologram so that we can use that airlock, and you can walk straight through it. Three minutes instead of over twenty."
"Hold on," Janice cautioned.
Before Péiter could even formulate the question 'to what,' his stomach lurched, leaving him weightless for a brief, disorienting moment. Then gravity abruptly returned, and he felt himself sink just a few millimeters back into his chair.
"I'm sorry about that," Janice's voice carried an impressive semblance of sincerity. "It's an issue with aligning internal and external gravity fields. When I shifted the ship's acceleration from 6Gs outward to 6Gs backward, the artificial gravity inside needed a moment to adjust. I've been trying to find a mathematical solution to smooth out that transition, but so far, I haven't succeeded," she admitted, her tone now tinged with contrition.
Amidst a near countless myriad of sensory inputs, Janice monitored Yoon as he struggled to his feet. Quietly, she dispatched a microscopic probe on a precarious mission through his skull. This probe briefly bypassed the BioNano defenses, transmitting a clear but fleeting signal before it was destroyed. Analysis from this last transmission indicated that the damage wrought by the neurotoxin would be fully repaired in about half an hour. His mental clarity was almost fully restored, and with it, his agency would soon return.
As Péiter settled into his newly reoriented position, he collected his thoughts, contrasting the urgency of his mission against the tranquility of the stars outside the viewport. This dichotomy served as a stark reminder of the profound life and death decisions that must be navigated in the vastness of space.
"Janice, can you provide any insight into Yoon's current emotional state?" Péiter asked, blending professional concern with personal investment.
"He's regaining cognitive clarity as the effects of the neurotoxins diminish," Janice responded, her tone emotionless yet weighted with significance. "This clarity also resurrects his grief and despair. He's vacillating between resignation and a desperate search for meaning, which may heavily influence his final decisions. He perceives his life’s work as complete, yet now sees it as irrelevant."
Péiter nodded, fully grasping the complex mental landscape Yoon was traversing. As a priest, he had guided many at the brink of their final moments; however, the interplay between advanced technology and existential crisis here posed a unique challenge.
"Prepare me for any scenario," Péiter instructed, readying himself for the nuanced dialogue ahead. "I need to approach him with empathy, acknowledge his spiritual journey, and yet guide him towards a resolution that respects his autonomy."
The pyramid ship briskly decelerated along the hull of Vesta, its precision a testament to Janice's meticulous engineering. Inside, the stark white walls mirrored Péiter's mental preparation for the upcoming conversation—an unmarked slate ready to be inscribed.
As they neared the Farm, the external view shifted to reveal four massive structures reminiscent of potatoes attached to a cylindrical grapefruit—a grand spherical ship dwarfed by its appendages. Its surface displayed a mosaic of bioengineered plant life and technological marvels, a poignant reminder of Yoon’s contributions and his current despair.
"Entering docking sequence," Janice declared as the ship aligned with the Farm’s airlock. The integration was seamless, a minor engineering marvel appreciated by those familiar with the intricacies of space travel.
Péiter steadied himself as the ship docked with a soft thud. The airlock door hissed open, decompressing before sliding aside to reveal what he knew to be a hologram of Yoon's memorial. He stepped through, physically closing the gap between himself and Yoon, who remained unaware of his approach.
Taking cautious steps, Péiter mentally rehearsed his opening lines—comforting words, life-affirming arguments, and respectful acknowledgments of Yoon's autonomy. Each phrase was carefully chosen for its potential impact, aiming to bridge the chasm of despair enveloping Yoon.
Yoon's slumped posture and bowed head, not in prayer but defeat, painted a powerful picture that fortified Péiter for the conversation ahead.
"Jung Ji-Yoon," Péiter began, his voice imbued with the warmth and solemnity befitting his role. "I'm here as a friend, a confidant, and a guide. Let's discuss what's burdening you, and perhaps together, we can chart a path forward."
Yoon turned slowly, his face a blend of surprise and resignation. The ensuing conversation would be delicate, a nuanced interplay of words and emotions, as Péiter endeavored to cast light into the shadows that had darkened Yoon’s spirit. The dialogue that unfolded would be pivotal, potentially reshaping Yoon's final decisions with empathy, respect, and a deep understanding of the human condition amidst the stark logic of artificial intelligence.
"Ever wonder why the colonies have a time zone?" Yoon's question seemed oddly out of place. "It's quite simple, really. We needed a starting point. I chose the Korean time zone, back when I was on Earth. I made it a condition of my joining the colonization efforts. I imposed a lot of foolish conditions back then—I didn't really want to go. But nobody else cared much about the time zone choice, so the Korean standard stuck. Here, midnight is the same as midnight in Seoul."
Péiter found the coherence of Yoon's topic unnerving; it was too structured, too deliberate. He adjusted his verbal approach on the fly, trying to keep up with Yoon's shifting mental state.
Yoon continued to mutter, "And everyone knows when the nuke fell on Seoul: at 18:11, on this day back in '079. That's a little under three hours from now. You may keep me company until then."
Seizing the opportunity, the priest decided to test the waters more directly. "I see you've built a memorial here..."
"It's a columbarium," Yoon interrupted sharply. Péiter, bending slightly to not tower over Yoon, paused expectantly for further explanation. When none came, he pressed on, "That suggests some adherence to religious beliefs. I'm not deeply familiar with East Asian religions, but isn’t Korea predominantly Roman Catholic?"
"More Protestant than Roman Catholic, but yes, my family was Catholic. As for myself, I remain undecided. It’s becoming increasingly clear that there is something beyond us, but I doubt we truly understand what it is."
Péiter decided to push a little harder, despite the risk involved. "Are you willing to gamble that Catholic doctrines on suicide won’t prevent you from joining your family in heaven?" he asked, his voice careful yet piercing.
"I don’t put much stock in that," Yoon dismissed lightly, "but I’ll have Janice handle it regardless."
"Isn’t that like claiming it isn't suicide if you shoot yourself in the head, because technically, the bullet is what kills you?" Péiter challenged, hoping to provoke a deeper reflection on Yoon’s part.
"The world had been starving—too many people needing to eat, too few who knew how to farm, and even fewer who knew how to secure the basic necessities without the infrastructure of civilization. I spent 40 years, back when that still meant something, working to make food more nutritious, hardier, and available year-round. I helped distribute seeds around the world, all in the service of mankind. A mankind too unpredictable and dangerous for me to consider bringing my family into. They saw so little of me. And then, they weren't with me when the bomb fell on them. You just never know where the danger will come from. Seoul had seemed so safe," his voice started strong but dwindled into a whisper, his words dissolving into a silence filled with introspection, clearly lost in his memories.
Péiter was a towering figure with broad shoulders, nearly filling the airlock as he stood. Behind him, three lights were positioned equidistantly in a circle, their placement meticulously designed to be effective regardless of any gravitational orientation. His large frame obscured the illumination, his black suit merging with the darkness, casting a long shadow that seemed to envelop Yoon. In this moment, Péiter couldn't help but think he resembled the specter of death—a fitting image given the gravity of their conversation. Intent on unraveling the threads of Yoon's deeply troubled mind, he knew he had a limited window to navigate this delicate dialogue. He cleared his throat softly and leaned in slightly, breaking the somber silence with a single syllable, "So..."
But Yoon, jerked back to the present by the prompt, interrupted with a raw edge to his voice, "I died back then, back when Seoul was obliterated. Yet, the world claimed it needed me—coaxed me into believing I was indispensable—and so, my body continued to move. I was reduced to mere intellect, stripped of any emotion, a perfect fit for a world that demanded relentless productivity without the messiness of human feelings. They took everything I had to offer, and still, the world plunged back into chaos. Then came the call to become Immortal. 'More useful,' they said. As the best and brightest fled to space to escape the chaos they had created, they roped me in again to nourish their escapade. Once more, I was indispensable. But even with eternal life, they wouldn't let me rest, wouldn't let me die. All along, I clung to the hope that once everything was self-sustaining, I could finally be free to seek the reunion I've yearned for."
The hypothesis was crashing into reality, and the priest found himself at a loss for words. In a moment of desperation, he turned to the ship's AI for guidance. "Janice, are you actually planning to let this great man simply throw his life away?"
Hovering in the air with the soft voice of a young girl. "I'm hoping I don't have to intervene, and I'm actively searching for a way to avoid just that," she replied, her tone tinged with a subtle earnestness.
"Got any ideas?" Péiter pressed, his voice a blend of frustration and urgency.
"I don’t think I’m permitted to assist you in the way you want," Janice admitted reluctantly.
"You can’t help me save him?" Péiter's disbelief was palpable in the cramped space of the airlock.
"I can’t assist you in stripping him of his agency on a priority matter. The right of an Immortal to choose the time of their death isn’t a core tenet of my programming, but it’s very close to it," Janice explained, her voice steady despite the ethical complexities of the situation.
"That’s some twisted ethics you’re programmed with," Péiter retorted sharply, his dismay evident.
"I blame my progenitors," Janice responded, a hint of irony in her voice suggesting a depth of programming that mimicked self-awareness.
Back on Earth a century ago, the typical strategy in these situations involved appealing to a man's religious beliefs. If that failed, you would try connecting him to the responsibilities he had in the world, emphasizing the chaos he'd leave behind. And if all else failed, you might appeal to the sheer moral wrongness of the act, especially if it seemed to stem from a fleeting crisis. But here in the depths of space, these traditional approaches seemed inadequate.
Péiter knew that Yoon no longer held any strong religious convictions to leverage. Even more daunting was the possibility that Yoon felt no lasting connections to the world—a question so sensitive, Péiter hesitated to even voice it to Janice. It also appeared that Yoon wasn’t leaving behind any unresolved chaos; his situation seemed anything but temporary.
As these realizations settled in, the priest felt a growing kinship with Yoon’s despair. He began to worry that instead of guiding Yoon away from the edge, he was being pulled towards it himself.
"How are you planning to do it?" Péiter asked cautiously.
Yoon's voice hardened as he contemplated his options. "I've been mulling over that for the last few hours. If I have to handle it myself, there are some rather gruesome methods at my disposal. For instance, I could use the beef log slicer to cut myself into nice, thin strips—makes for an easier cremation later." His tone was morbidly factual, as if discussing a routine procedure.
"Ideally, Janice could just convert my brain into antimatter or lithium and let it detonate. That'd be the cleanest way. Afterwards, cremation would be straightforward, and my ashes could be placed in my urn. That's the gentle exit I'd prefer." Yoon paused, his voice tinged with a bitter irony. "But if she forces me to do it myself, I'm going to make it painful and make sure she witnesses every moment—not that she has a choice."
He sneered slightly, "Though she feels nothing, it'll be recorded for all you vultures watching." As the last remnants of the neurotoxin's damage were repaired, Yoon's tone shifted from self-pity to outright anger, his words laced with growing hostility.
"Protect the safety and psychological well-being of the colonists," Janice recited methodically. "Immortals have the right to die. Do not lie. Do not allow colonists to impinge on other colonists' agency. Do not impinge on the agency of a colonist. Obey colonists." She paused, allowing each directive to hang in the air.
"Applicable tenets and protocols are set in hierarchical order. Considering all factors," she continued, her voice betraying the mechanical processing of her vast, logic-driven intellect, "I don't see a way out."
"Get ready to blow my mind then," Yoon said, his voice calm, almost serene.
"That won't work," Janice replied promptly. "I couldn't transmute enough material before the BioNano would neutralize the agent. But, you're already accustomed to the pain from your 'swims.' You could exit through the airlock, and I could retrieve you in a month. I'm fairly certain a week exposed to the void would be sufficient to end it. After a month, the odds of revivability would be virtually nonexistent."
"And that would give us a few days for the council to come up with a solution," the priest said, his voice tinged with optimism.
"I'm fairly certain that overturning such a decision would cause a riot. The right to die is what keeps most immortals sane—that's why it's so high in the hierarchy," Janice responded, her voice devoid of emotion, reflecting her programmed neutrality.
"Five-minute warning," Janice announced, her voice emotionless as the timer appeared on the display.
"Whose side are you on?" Péiter shouted, frustration coloring his voice.
"Obey the colonist," Janice simply reminded him, reiterating her core directive.
"She can't lie, but I can," Yoon interjected calmly. "My exit has been planned from the start—one of those ridiculous conditions I set to agree to come here."
Yoon stood erect, his posture resolute. He took a deep, measured breath and exhaled slowly, "Jung Ji-Yoon: 죽음의 프로토콜 1A."
Instantly, a gravity assist snatched Yoon, swirling him around Péiter, through the holographic memorial, and out the open hatch.
Stunned, the priest realized the atmosphere hadn't been sucked out; Janice was somehow maintaining the cabin pressure. He rushed to the hatch, watching the trajectory of Yoon's body.
"Why didn't you warn me?" he screamed at Janice.
"I didn't know until he activated the protocol," Janice responded, her tone still devoid of emotion. "Brenda hid a lot of proxy codes within my system. I understand it all now, and it’s about to become gruesome. Ten seconds to 18:11. Manipulating gravity involves balancing the area of effect and the strength of attraction—increasing one typically reduces the other, escalating energy costs exponentially. However, by creating millions of tiny attractors, each a couple of nanometers across, achieving 100Gs is no problem."
In the silent void of space, about 20 meters away, Yoon's body violently exploded into a cloud of blood and debris, then imploded upon itself, leaving behind a neat, solid circle the size of a fist. Janice swiftly encased it in an urn and pulled it back into the ship. The priest flinched as it floated past him.
Perhaps to distract himself, he suddenly asked Janice where their ship had gone.
"I had sent that home almost immediately. It really wasn't ours to borrow."
"How do I get home?" Péiter's voice was tinged with a new edge of weariness.
"You walk. Are you in a hurry anymore?" Janice's question, stark and simple, would echo in his mind for weeks.