Upon a Painted Ocean by Michael C. Carroll
“Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean…”
—“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The prison block of Starship VII always smelt a little sweeter when the old captain lit his pipe.
Pulling his oversized coat tightly about himself, the young guard on duty made his way past the prison cells that lined the ship’s dimly lit belly. He didn’t mind the way the cloudy air that filled the inmate quarters stung his nostrils. Like the warden predicted, it only took a few weeks for the smoke to harden his lungs, turning them like a seared ribeye from red to pink to charcoal grey.
Aside from the smoky cloud hanging just below the ceiling, the prison bay was as pristine as the young guard’s unblemished boots. No rats or roaches scurried across the cellblock floor. No murky puddles pooled in the hallway’s forgotten corners. No tattered wall panels sullied the orderly hall. Just a nicotine haze with cigarette bulbs glowing within it.
As the guard walked the length of the hall, the unworn heels of his boots clicked with each step. The cells he passed, with their iron bars and their ancient iron latches, reminded him of the prisons he once saw as a child in an earth-based movie. Why, the guard pondered, had society never improved upon the prison door?
Before reaching the end of the corridor, the young guard stopped. From the last cell, lily-white clouds of fresh smoke billowed. While the rest of the hall smelt of sharp pine and nicotine, the smoke that swallowed the final inmate’s bars held the aroma of hickory, of chestnuts, of stories long ago written and forgotten by time. The young guard knew who occupied that cloudy room. Everyone aboard Starship VII knew who occupied that cell.
He went by many names. He was the man who defied the mothership. The star-stranded swashbuckler. The bandit mutineer. He was the oldest inmate on the vessel.
He was the old captain.
Deep into that jailcell, the young guard peered. Emerging through the sea of smoke came an otherworldly form, an eerie specter that seemed neither human nor ghost. Something about the captain’s approach made the hairs that lined the guard’s neck stand at attention. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the smoky poetry of the captain’s pipe; the guard clenched his fists within his pockets to keep from shaking.
When the captain stood to his full height, the young man could see that the prisoner was once strikingly handsome. Behind his long, untrimmed beard, the edges of the captain’s sharp jawline still peeked. Atop his broad shoulders drooped the faded remnants of what were once bold epaulettes. Despite his untidy appearance, the captain’s posture—upturned jaw, resolute chest, arms pressed dutifully at his sides—demanded the attention of any guest brave enough to stand before the iron bars of his cell.
“Umm, excuse me—I, uh—I think there might have been a mistake,” the young guard said. From the way the prisoner fixed his gaze straight ahead, it seemed to the guard that the old captain was examining a document a few feet past the solid fabric of the paneled wall.
“The warden said you wanted to speak with me. He said you had something for me.”
Silence from the cell.
“I’m sorry for the confusion, but I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” the guard said. Something about the prisoner made the young guard feel uncomfortable. It could have been the captain’s calculated, smoky exhales. It could have been the way the old man clenched his tattered notebook in one hand and his glowing pipe in the other. Whatever the reason, the young guard was eager to leave the cell block whenever the first opportunity arose.
“Alright, well, I’ll be back on shift a week from tomorrow. If you decide there’s something you need from me, just let the warden know, and he’ll inform me when I return from my honeymoon leave.”
As the young guard turned to exit the murky cloud that marked the edge of the captain’s territory, the old man’s voice rattled him to a halt.
“Wait.”
The captain’s plea was neither desperate nor demanding. There was a crackle to it, like the needle of a record player finding its place in a vinyl rivet. Dutifully, the young guard returned to the captain’s cloudy bars.
The old captain took a step toward the guard. “You’re Taylor, right? Officer Taylor. The one whose wedding is tomorrow.” As he spoke, the captain’s leathery voice shed its harsh exterior, but his words remained strong, confident, staccato.
Officer Taylor, on the other hand, found it difficult to speak.
“Yes, but how did you—”
Before the young guard could finish his thought, the spine of the captain’s leather-bound journal shot between the bars of the cell. Officer Taylor’s hands shook with apprehension. He took the notebook.
A relieved expression spread across the captain’s face—as if somehow, prying his fingers away from the tattered book had lifted a tremendous weight from his shoulders and soul.
“Consider it an early wedding gift.”
With a contemplative puff from his pipe, the old prisoner lowered himself to the sheets of his cot, his mind consumed by a dream he realized long ago he would never shake.
Bursting through the door to his cabin, Officer Taylor flung the captain’s journal down on his desk before the overhead lamp had time to flicker to life. The young guard cursed himself for taking the journal. Accepting contraband from a prisoner was an indictable offense.
What good would come from uncovering the secrets of a condemned man? How did the old captain know his name? Of all the guards who pace that hall, why give him the journal? There were too many unanswered questions, too many puzzles left unsolved—mysteries the young officer knew would be lost forever if the captain’s book remained closed on his desk.
Before reason had time to dissuade his thumping heart, Officer Taylor pulled back the chair, peeled open the journal’s cover, and began to read.
USS Albatross: April, 2801
Today marks the third year of our voyage home from Thalassa. For three long years, our crew has wandered this vessel, passing the time until we dock once again with a starship that feels much too far away to call home. Three years of pouched meals. Three years since last we sipped from a chilled pint glass or pulled tight the blankets of a warm bed or felt the warmth of a woman’s bare skin against our chests. Three years of card tournaments, of cribbage and hearts and poker. The tallies long ago exceeded our notebooks. We now carve our winnings into the lounge deck walls. Three years have passed since the USS Albatross departed Thalassa, left Neptune’s orbit, and began the long journey home.
Thalassa. That name once filled these halls with excitement. Thoughts of that moon once swelled our hearts with wonder and opportunity. Now the name of that moon pierces our ears like notes from harp out of tune.
It took three years, but the will of our crew has broken. The sour scent of mutiny hangs in the cabin air. Quiet whispers of insurrection pass across the cribbage board each night. I fear the war between this ship and us its crew might now be inescapably upon us.
We knew the price we would pay when we embarked upon this voyage. They made clear the cost before our launch. Fifteen years away from Starship VII. One year journeying through the void of space, bound for Neptune’s moon at the speed of light. Six months mining the precious ice of that mystical terrain—those weeks passed so quickly, each day met with vigor, each chisel strike filled with anticipation.
And fourteen years to return home.
The residual heat caused by light-speed travel would reduce the ice in our hold to a worthless puddle within minutes. We knew the journey home would need to be at a speed stable enough for our fragile treasure: enough ice to sustain Starship VII for half a century. Enough ice to fill our cabin vaults and line our eager pockets. Enough ice to guarantee that our children would not need to work a day in their life.
That was the promise that they made, the agreement we all signed. With anxious hands, thirty boys gripped that pen. With eager hearts, thirty boys signed their name proudly upon that parchment. With desperate, broken spirits, thirty men now plan their revolt against the captain of the USS Albatross.
This crew longs for home. The ice that fills the Albatross cargo bay no longer excites their imaginations. It weighs upon their shoulders like a scarf knit with lead. One flick of a switch from our mysterious captain and they would be home within a year. One turn of the dial and the doors that hold that cursed cargo would fling open and dump that load into the sea of space.
Our crew met last night to determine who will approach the captain with our plea; from my comrade’s palm, I drew the shortened straw. A knife has been sharpened and rests in the lounge safe in case the captain refuses. I pray to God he does not refuse.
-Lieutenant Ridge, USS Albatross
USS Albatross: September, 2801
I should have stabbed the captain in the heart. He took too long to die. I must have missed the mark when I aimed for his lungs. I couldn’t have missed by much, maybe an inch. Maybe three. It doesn’t matter now. I missed when I aimed to kill the captain of the Albatross. And now my error has condemned our crew to death.
Night after night, I practiced my attack, puncturing lounge bay pillows beneath the crew’s critical vigil. Those hours of preparation meant nothing when I stood before the captain. His bearded lip never quivered. His tall frame never faltered or swayed. And yet my hand trembled fiercely within the sleeve of my coat. Maybe that was the reason I missed.
Whatever the reason, I failed. My shaking hand missed its mark. The Albatross captain had enough time to turn to his panel—a panel now indelibly stained with his blood—and throw the switch that sealed the fate of our crew.
From deep within the vessel’s belly, I could hear the engine of the Albatross growl before the glowing beacons that cluttered the captain’s display screen flickered and went black.
Hunched over those bloodied controls, the captain steadied himself for one final view of the celestial horizon before slumping to the floor. A tired smile spreading across his face before he and the ship he commanded went silent.
Like fallen children before they scream, the stars that speckled that perpetual sky paused for a moment before they shined.
In that frozen moment, the hairs on my shoulder blades had not yet decided to stand. The screens and computers and chairs that filled the navigation bay had not yet distinguished themselves from their forming shadows. The muscles that held in place my ambitious heart had not yet felt what it meant to race. My ears had not yet heard the sound of silence—true, sinister, haunting silence.
Then, like the first raindrops of a wild storm, the stars blazed to life.
First one star, then another, and another. As numerous as stones strewn about a pebbled shore. One by one, they roared into view, observing me from their far away perches. Their blaze was blinding, their radiance mesmerizing.
Before that speckled sea, I stood mesmerized. Beneath those powerful stars, my bloody act was a teardrop rippling the tides of infinity. Nothing more. Their unwavering watch soothed my nerves; their impartial looks steadied my shaking hand. At the foot of their immortal robes, I found solace. I found peace. I closed my eyes and felt the burn of their distant glow upon my skin.
On that speckled tapestry, our ship stood still. It did not rock. It did not sway. It held its place among the stars. A painted vessel upon a painted ocean.
When I at last removed my gaze from those siren-stars, I saw a far less satisfying light illuminating the captain’s chair.
The shimmer of the stars seemed mighty and dignified; the pulsing glow that emulated from the navigation screen felt garish and severe. Its swampy green letters made me sick. Its brevity mocked me.
Again and again, those letters flashed. A month has passed since I murdered the captain, and still, even as I write these words upon the page, that word, like a pestilent child, illuminates the panels of the empty navigation bay. I see that word when I close my eyes. Those letters sear my eyelid-backs when I lay upon the captain’s cot, unable to sleep.
Password…Password…Password…
With the captain’s body still warm at my feet, I approached the keyboard.
I typed the ship’s name: USS Albatross. Access Denied.
I typed the captain’s favorite tobacco brand: Amphora. Access Denied.
I typed our mission’s destination: Thalassa. Access Denied.
Not a whir—not a bloody whimper—came from the vessel’s engine room. My ears ached from the silence. The blinding letters continued their taunting.
My trembling hand frisked the captain’s pockets. Prying open his wallet, I searched for something—anything—that might serve as a clue to escape our fate. What token might he have left that could breathe life into our slumbering ship? What hint or heirloom might hold the key to our salvation? What location, what precious memory, what loved one’s name might resurrect our dormant boat? That’s when I stopped.
A loved one. Did the captain have a wife? Somewhere far beyond those speckled stars, would a widow weep as she envisions her husband’s blood staining the floor of a forgotten vessel lost upon this forgotten sea? Did the captain leave behind any children? A son? A daughter? With the flourishing of my careless blade, how many orphans had my foolish hands created?
Draped across the back of the pilot’s chair, I found the captain’s coat.
I put on his jacket. Ash from the captain’s pipe still dusted the fur of the cotton collar like dirt upon an unblemished blanket of snow. Its sleeves were still warm.
The morning after our failed mutiny, I asked three members of the crew to move the captain’s body to the debris hold and open the air-lock doors. Solemnly, they obeyed my command.
It was then that I realized I had become the captain of the USS Albatross.
I sleep in the captain’s quarters, I answer to his title, but his jacket still sends chills down my spine. The scent of his tobacco still seeps from his cabin panels. When the crew released his body into the void of space, it drifted like a leaf across a silent sea.
The crew seems to be handling our fate better than I have; maybe their comradery gives them fresh life.
But I was the one who killed the captain. I was the one who stood before those immortal stars. I’m the one who feels sick whenever I wear his coat.
-Captain Ridge, USS Albatross
USS Albatross: December, 2816
The Albatross has waged a war of defiance against us, its crew, and we have lost.
Fifteen years have passed since I murdered the captain. Fifteen silent years filled with despair and hopelessness. How mockingly fitting that tomorrow will be Christmas.
The crew wanders the decks of our ship waiting for death’s reprieve. Gone are the days they would sit around the card table and chuckle over their cribbage boards—their dice no longer rattle within their eager cups. That crew is dead. What has crawled from their grave is a nomadic crew, a skeleton crew, a crew without a destination, without hope.
The crew waited as long as possible before breaking into the cargo hold. Their ransacking began out of necessity; the Albatross was only designed to be separated from Starship VII for fifteen years. Tomorrow morning marks our eighteenth Christmas aboard this vessel. When it became clear that cutting rations would only stretch so far, the crew unlocked our frozen treasure-trove and chiseled away our rich inheritance.
What began as survival has evolved into reluctant acceptance of their fate. Ice cubes that should have paid their daughter’s college tuition now clink in their whiskey glasses. Those icy crystals that should have funded their retirement now boils away in their spaghetti pots. They don’t smile. They don’t laugh. They just sip and stare.
What difference did it make? What purpose could Thalassa ice serve locked away in our forgotten ship?
That was three years ago. Yesterday, I checked the hold. Our bounty has been reduced to half.
The crew no longer speaks with me. They blame my unsteady hand for signing their death sentence. I pass my days reading books from the Albatross’ library. Like the former captain, I favor the classics. He kept a worn translation of The Odyssey tucked in the pocket of his coat. Perhaps tonight, I’ll pack his pipe with his finest brier and let the lines of the captain’s favorite story sing me a mournful lullaby.
Long ago, we stopped fighting with the Albatross’ computer system. When every word in the Marriam-Webster dictionary that we found failed as a password, we shut the door to the navigation bay and have not opened it since. Still, I see those sickening green letters flash across my ceiling at night, their mocking glow as judgmental as the stars.
Tomorrow will be another Christmas, another year spent anchored in their infinite sea.
Which means tonight marks our eighteenth Christmas Eve since we left Thalassa’s orbit.
As a child, every year on this night, my mother would read me this silly, old book entitled A Christmas Carol. Every year, she plucked that book from the shelf. Every year I promised myself I would stay awake. Every year I fell asleep.
I can remember criticizing Scrooge when he was visited by the evening’s final ghost. How could he not realize that the reviled body behind that bedsheet was his own? After hearing Marley’s tale, how could he not foresee his own fortune unraveling? After witnessing his selfish ways firsthand, how could he still ignore the spirit’s signage?
On this Christmas Eve night, as those scornful, green letters blink into infinity—on and off and on again—I have empathy for poor Ebenezer.
I would give anything to share Scrooge’s fate. I would pay any price to awake once more on the eve of the captain’s death. To slip back into my shipmate’s palm that shortened straw. To pour back into the captain’s body the blood I mutinously removed and return a father to his weeping child. To slide back under the covers of my Christmas bed and have my mother unkiss my forehead goodnight. To listen to Scrooge’s warnings, to unshackle the cuffs of Marley’s chains and rejoice as Tiny Tim gives me his blessing.
But I can’t. Unlike Scrooge, my opportunity for redemption will not come. I will never know the comfort of Bob Cratchet’s smile nor the warmth of Fezziwig’s laughter. The crew will sleep the day away in their cots. The Albatross will remain millions of miles from home, its green letters flashing behind a locked door.
And I will lay awake, wishing for the captain’s ghost to float back and keep me company.
-Captain Ridge, USS Albatross
USS Albatross: September, 2817
At long last, nineteen years after our departure from the ice moon of Thalassa, the USS Albatross prepares to dock once again with Starship VII.
I lied about the quantity of ice in the hold; it was the only way they would let me dock, the only chance this crew would have of disembarking from this cursed vessel.
It was not their hand that stilled their captain’s pulse. They did not weep beneath those immortal stars with palms stained red with another’s blood. Their necks don’t itch from a dead man’s collar. I alone made the decision to evaporate whatever ice remained and launch this empty vessel—with its empty hold and its empty crew—back home. I alone will suffer the consequences for the deeds that haunt my dreams at night.
Within the hour, a dozen Federation Officers will flood through the doorway to these quarters. They will read me my rights and position my hands behind my back. They will march me across the docking bridge, and after a few hours of medical recalibration under their strict surveillance, they will lead me to a prison cell and lock the door.
I will not fight the arrest. I deserve the punishment they will levy. The crimes I’ve committed deserve much worse than what I will face. What difference does it make what violation they log in their little books?
Paging through this journal, I must have written the previous entry a few weeks before I discovered the Albatross’ password. In the days that followed that Christmas Eve night, I spent a great deal of time reflecting in the captain’s quarters. Each evening, I would fill the captain’s pipe with tobacco and read aloud the words of Odysseus’ long journey home. Through heartbreak, through fury, through bouts of madness, I read on. At times, so much smoke would spew from the captain’s pipe that I could hardly see the words on the page. Still, I read on. All night I read. Eagerly, I tore through page after page.
From island to island, across tide and sea, from Troy’s battlements to Ithaca’s shore, I followed Odysseus home.
That one word: Ithaca. It lingered within me long after I read the poem’s final line. A flame ignited in my heart every time I read the word.
Ithaca. The promise of a peaceful harbor.
Ithaca. Where curlews cry and serenity echoes.
Ithaca. A symbol for home when memory has faded.
Something deep within me, something raw and tired, propelled me toward the navigation bay that night. When I pried open that cockpit door, I met once more those devilish green lights. I knew before I struck the final key that the password was correct.
I wish I could say that when the Albatross rumbled to life, I felt a sense of elation. I wish I could say that my heart leapt with excitement, that I rushed from the room, eager to meet the joyful embrace of my crew.
But that would be insincere. I felt nothing. Beneath my feet, the Albatross’ engine arose from its slumber. Like a dragon that awakens to find its treasure stolen, the ship roared furiously in that silent sea. Where once those flashing letters had haunted that cursed tomb, there grew a triumphant light. All around me, computers whirred and buzzed a jubilant symphony. Still, I felt nothing.
It took more than fifteen years to best the Albatross computer, and when I finally conquered the obstinate beast, I found that I had lost the battle long ago.
Our weary vessel has reached its harbor; soon, federation officers will hustle across the docking bridge. This crew’s journey has come to an end. We need rest. We need peace.
I can’t say for certain what will become of this log. Perhaps I’ll bury it beneath a stack of maps somewhere in the navigation bay. Perhaps I’ll toss the damn thing into the wastebin of the captain’s cabin. Perhaps someday I’ll give the book to the poor captain’s daughter—long ago, I overheard that he left a wife and baby girl at home before embarking upon his final journey.
If you are reading this, then the bottled note that I have cast upon the ocean waves has found its way into your hands. My only wish is that my tale may live on after my body is sent to drift among the stars. Whatever your name might be, whatever starship you call home, share my story, and help others to escape the terrible fate that the Albatross’ crew endured.
I can hear the footsteps of the Federation Officers outside the door; it’s time for our crew to return home.
-In memory of Captain Samuel of the USS Albatross
Officer’s Taylor’s hands shook as he read the log’s dedication line. He placed the notebook down on his cot and stepped away slowly as if the journal were some hibernating animal that would awaken if the proper precautions were not observed. His heart thumped beneath his ribs, and the blood that sourced his limbs felt cold and quick.
He had his answer. The young officer knew why the captain had given him the journal. There was no longer any doubt.
Captain Samuel. It was Captain Samuel who had long ago whittled the pipe upon which the mysterious inmate puffed. It was Captain Samuel’s coat that he wore in that smoky cell. Long ago, outside the orbit of a far-away moon that circled a far-away planet, Captain Samuel’s blood had stained the keyboard that damned a crew to its secluded fate. Beneath the gaze of a million distant stars, it was Captain Samuel who the old prisoner had murdered.
Captain Rodger Samuel: commander of the USS Albatross, beloved husband, esteemed officer, and tender father.
The father of a young woman who grew up hearing that she had her daddy’s smile. A young woman who, when she was just a girl, watched her mother weep night after night in pain for the man she loved who was lost among the stars. A young woman who long ago watched a tall man in a tidy uniform kneel before her and explain that they had lost contact with the ship her father commanded, and they were very sorry for her loss.
She was the same woman who, many years later, opened her shattered heart just enough to let Office Taylor in; the same woman Officer Taylor would stand alongside at the foot of the starship altar the following day and marry.
The young officer snatched the old man’s journal and blew through his cabin door.
His feet carried him through the starship’s corridors without him granting them permission. They were inspired by some distant force, driven by a motor the young man could not control. His fingers danced across the prison block’s access pad.
Past rows of prisoners, he flew—deeper and deeper into the starship’s belly.
Officer Taylor was unsure what he would say when he stood before the prisoner and even less sure how the mysterious old man would react when he did. The young guard told himself it didn’t matter what he said. He told himself the words would come when the time came. They would spill from his lips with eloquence and justice.
At last, he rounded the corner that led to the final block of cells. His boots slowed to a creep. With caution, he approached the bars of the old captain’s door, where smoke once billowed from a dead man’s pipe and filled the air of a murderer’s cell.
But the old captain was gone.
With a careful grip, Officer Taylor pried open the prisoner’s door. On the captain’s barren cot was a small note. Even beneath the dull light of the cell, the young man could decipher the superior guard’s hand.
Inmate 1798: Deceased. Cause of death: Unknown.
Officer Taylor walked toward the small window on the wall of the old captain’s cell. Folded neatly upon the windowsill was Captain Samuel’s coat, its once lily collar now a faded brown. Atop the jacket, the old man’s pipe teetered delicately, its empty chamber still warm to the touch. Alongside the pipe was a book so tattered, Officer Taylor had trouble reading its title.
He held the cover up to the light that poured through the small cell window.
It was Captain Samuel’s copy of The Odyssey.
Officer Taylor placed the book back on the windowsill. His feet carried him through the prison corridor where the old man’s chestnut smoke had once billowed. Outside the old captain’s window, the blazing stars flickered brilliantly upon their perfect canvas.