Free Future Lovecraft by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Anthony Boulanger, Paula R. Stiles

make with the bread-and-fishes routine? Isn’t that the function of captains?
    Killing Vance was easy. He was bending over a circuit tracer, building a simple radio. He thought the folks back home should know that the valiant Fulton was lost. I drove a microsolder into the nape of his neck and out through his Adam’s apple.
    Captain Oe discovered the body. His mineral calm hid any reaction. I think Doc suggested we cook him. Doc and I did the honours, producing a very serviceable sweet-and-sour Vance.
    No one wanted to begin. The Captain ordered us to it. It was difficult to keep the meat down. We had diced the flesh well, so no part would be recognizable. No one mentioned that Vance had obviously been killed. Thus, we became murderers all.
    Doc and I had removed Vance’s liver and lungs. She feared they might be poisonous—contaminated by Vance’s addiction to tobacco.
    By our fourth meal, I had overcome my nausea. I viewed everyone else as items for future menus. They were too affected by disgust to notice my change. I left the meal still hungry, still empty, and tried to sleep on my bunk.
    I kept thinking of the liver and lungs. Doc had refrigerated them, since we lacked means of recycling our wastes. The refrigerator could only hold so much. The Fulton stank like a sewer. If I ate the inner organs, I would either die or be sated. Either would end the gnawing pain of my stomach.
    I crept to the medical room to remove the meat. I let it thaw on the surgical table. I collected some of Doc’s tools—they might be useful later. I watched the dim light of Aldebaran through the port, wishing the scene would magically change to the grey of hyperspace.
    When the liver was fairly well-thawed—juicy on the outside and crunchy ice crystals in the middle—I bit into it. Unfortunately Doc entered the lab at this moment.She viewed the blood streaming down my cheeks with something less than affection. I put the liver down. I pleaded, “Help me.” She moved forward and I turned on a scalpel. Laser scalpels only cut a few centimeters, but this is adequate when the heart is your target.
    I quartered her and hauled the bits to the in-system probe. I sealed us off. I activated all the sensors.
    I felt no need to refrigerate the corpse and, in fact, enjoyed it more as it began to ripen.
    They began pounding on the bulkhead hours later. First, they demanded that I surrender. A day later, they demanded their share of the meat. I watched my telemetry, ate, and slept. I did not dream. Dreaming was the first facet of humanity I lost.
    Two days later, as I sliced some of Doc’s hams—I still used instruments in those days—a green light blinked out. I would need to act fast or I would lose out on the kill. Had Oe honorably committed seppuku? Or had his martial training removed Roxanne as Executive Officer? Or had Roxanne, herself, mastered the murderous act?
    The Fulton smelled very bad. A hint of sesame oil overlaid the stench—Oe preparing a delicate Oriental dish. Moo-Shu Roxanne? I went deep into engineering. I activated one of our dumbest robots and told it to walk into the kitchen. I called Oe up, told him I would surrender to him.
    I followed the robot. The kitchen portal dilated and Oe fired. He must have been crazed. No one would use a ranged weapon within a spaceship. Fortunately, the robot’s body absorbed most of the blast and no exterior bulkheads were breached.
    The energy weapon triggered internal security. Poor Oe. If he’d only reasoned. Microsolders and scalpels are not weapons. Scores of idiot robots came to restrain him. In the brig, he decided to join his honourable ancestors.
    Weeks later, when my meat supply was exhausted, I completed Vance’s radio and put myself in Cold Sleep. Fifty-six years passed in the twinkling of an eye. The rescue team was very, very understanding. There had been cases of survival cannibalism in the past. Of course, I would have to undergo therapy to expunge the terrible guilt I must