THE LIGHT

THE LIGHT 26 MINUTE READ

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[ANDROKTONES-004] BOOT PROTOCOL/mpsl/#

ERROR 003493485 ERROR 001239482 ERROR 093729476 ERROR…

— standard boot protocols: corrupted —

> FORCE BOOT? [ Y ] / N

— recovered —

[root@mpsl ~ 238]# mc /COMBAT 03:23 [root@mpsl ~ 043]# mc /OPT 03:23 [root@mpsl ~ 110]# mc /AUD 03:23 [root@mpsl ~ 009]# mc /HIPP 03:24 [root@mpsl ~ 026]# mc /ANTIN 03:31 [root@mpsl ~ 378]# mc /ANDROK 03:56 [root@mpsl ~ 034]# mc /QUANENT 04:02 [root@mpsl ~ 001]# mc /RECOG 04:02 [root@mpsl ~ 050]# mc /LOCK 04:02 [root@mpsl ~ 888]# mc /CACHE 04:11 [root@mpsl ~ 469]# mc /ADAPT 04:17 [root@mpsl ~ …

Loaded routines: coreprog, langpack, modal, mpsl-tacticskit, undect

updates/QUANENTlink_mpslbase01% [=] | 0.0 PB 99:99 ETA

updates/ERROR [no data]

— unit intelligence status: functional. consult manufacturer for optimization. —

> AWAKEN? [ Y ] / N

Optical focus requires 2.3 milliseconds before optimal clarity is achieved. The light is bright. There are three faces in her field of vision. Her combat protocols return strings of “???????” when she poses internal queries about hostility. Weapons subsystems are sluggish. The human facial recognition suite recognizes and recalculates response options based on the sudden, brilliant smiles which unfold on the three faces.

“This one’s online!” one of the faces shouts, one with hair scraped back into a knot and marked organic signs of insufficient sleep. “We’ve got a live one!”

The face farthest left disappears from view and a fist is thrown into the air. Her manipulation claw twitches before she registers it as a celebratory gesture. Audio. Emitting audio. She has done this.

“WHY,” Adroktones-004 asks, through distorted speakers, “AM I. ALIVE.”

“Because I have been praying very hard,” says the remaining face, the one in the middle, as it raises a steaming vessel to its mouth. The tone is devoid of emotion. Probability of preternatural influence on boot protocols: 0.013%. Still. This place is too bright and clean to be where she laid down.

“Suck it, Hopkins!” whoops the celebrating face, from some distance away. Auditory sensors indicate: violent and righteous satisfaction. “When we get our nasty raises, I’m having a credchip run off just to smack him with it! ‘Ooh, it can’t be done,’ he said. ‘Ooh, I’m the best engineer at SE and if I can’t—’”

“Shut up!” yells the face with the hair knot. It leans back in with a metatool and probes at her facial sensor array. Vision warps briefly. Right manipulation arm responds. Cheers of victory turn to screams as her monoblade enters between the sixth and seventh rib and fatally damages the cardiovascular system. The face with the hair knot slides down the blade with a sigh and drops the metatool. Visual acuity: restored.

“FURTHER TAMPERING WITH THIS UNIT’S ARMATURE IS NOT ADVISED,” Androktones-004 says.

“Where are the fucking magnetic restraints?” someone screams. The face from the middle registers on the edge of her field of vision before a powerful force slams her right manipulation arm and blade down to the surface she is prone on. Her other limbs are secured in a similar fashion as the eliminated combatant slips off of her blade onto the floor.

“It’s a warframe, what the hell were you thinking?” someone yells. “Hibernate it, now!”

“I AM NOT TIRED,” Androktones-004 says. “IDENTIFY—”

Optical focus requires 1.5 milliseconds before optimal clarity is achieved. The light is dim and cool. There is one figure in her field of vision. It is seated on the edge of a desk in front of a large window. The window displays six moons in different phases positioned on a sky punctuated with pinpricks of light. Stars. Evaluation: beautiful. Secondary evaluation of foreground subject: faux-casual, armored, waiting.

“Hello,” says the figure. “Do you understand English? Please acknowledge.”

“LANGPACK RECOGNIZES: ENGLISH,” Androktones-004 says.

“Designation and unit information,” the figure says.

“DESIGNATION: ANDROKTONES UNIT ZERO-ZERO-FOUR,” she says. “UNIT GENDER DESIGNATION: FEMALE. ARMATURE: NEMESIS MODEL MS29. COMMANDING OFFICER DESIGNATION: NULL.”

The figure gets up from the desk and cocks its head at her, hands shoved in its pockets. Decreased distance results in discernable expression. Human facial recognition suite returns: amused and curious.

“An… droktones,” it says, trying the word out on its tongue. “And a gender designation! Quirky. I love it. Well, my designation is Dane, gender male, and I’m a human. I’ve got a commanding officer, of a sort, somewhere, but really I work for one thing: Sunlight Enterprises.”

Androktones-004 pauses to process. “NO INFORMATION STORED ON ENTRY: SUNLIGHT ENTERPRISES.”

“Oh, there wouldn’t be,” Dane says with a laugh. His grin is white and his hair is pale, but further descriptors are lacking. Color designations are skewed. “You see, Rok— can I call you Rok?”

“…ACCEPTABLE.”

“Rok, I do hate to break this to you, but you’ve been asleep for a long, long time,” Dane says. Expression noted as: sympathetic. He makes a cursory check of a device on his wrist. “From what my techs have been able to tell me, it’s been about five hundred and seventy years. Give or take a few decades.”

She retreats inside with a dimming of external lights. Information provided… unsatisfactory. Hibernation period should not have exceeded 1,095 Earth Sols. Distress rattles through her armature. She becomes aware that her limbs are restrained. Recent memory surfaces with perfect clarity from a disordered catalog of older, corrupted ones.

“WHO,” she asks, “DID I KILL?”

Dane pulls a hand out of his pocket and waves it. “Temps are a dime-a-dozen. Don’t worry about it. One of the terms of her employment was death on completion of assignment anyway. What I want you to focus on right now is you. Tell me, Rok: most recent mission report.”

“UNAVAILABLE,” Androktones-004 returns, instantly. “REQUEST FOR REGULAR MISSION REPORTS WAS TERMINATED… FIVE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN YEARS PRIOR TO THE CURRENT DATE.”

“So, nothing from that time, but you’ve got to have something left,” Dane coaxes, gesturing with a loose circular motion to his own head. “What’s the last mission report you can remember compiling, even if it wasn’t complete? I’d love to hear it.”

Androktones-004 hesitates. Then: “DATE LOGGED: MARCH SEVENTEENTH, TWENTY-SEVEN FOURTEEN. ENTRY: MOTHER IS DEAD.”

Dane exhales and cants his head to look out the window. “Long live Mother?”

“NO,” says Androktones-004. Dane laughs. He claps his hands and rubs them together for a moment.

“Look, I’m not really into this whole interrogation look we’ve got going on,” he says. “If I let you out of your restraints, do you promise not to skewer me? Because this suit was expensive and Lazarus Patches aren’t cheap either, so I’d like to skip those costs, if I could.”

“I WILL NOT INITIATE HOSTILE ACTION UNLESS IT IS INITIATED AGAINST ME,” Androktones-004 says. “HOSTILE ACTION IS DEFINED AS: ATTEMPTS TO DAMAGE ARMATURE.”

Dane winks. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, then.”

He taps the device on his wrist and the magnetic restraints holding Androktones-004 in place release. She steps forward clumsily before her ancient gyroscopics steady her. Her visual focus keeps narrowing on the moons outside the window. There were no moons around her homeworld.

“I started to say that I work for Sunlight Enterprises,” Dane continues, stepping back over to his desk and perching on it once again. He picks up a datapad and shakes it a little. It’s emblazoned with a simple pictograph of a sun. “You’re one of the few beings left in the galaxy to remember why, exactly, we’re working so hard today. The Scream. Were you affected by that at all?”

Distorted images. The scream she remembers is lowercase and isolated. One woman, screaming, alone. Spike in vitals and then silence. A smug sense of satisfaction from a networked source.

“NO,” Androktones-004 says.

“You were lucky,” Dane says with conviction. “The rest of the universe took a dive. Planets starved, technological advancement was hobbled, you couldn’t get the same-day delivery you’d been banking on… it was absolute chaos. But out of chaos arises order. Just one of the facts of the universe. Isn’t the universe just… incredible?”

Androktones-004 stares out of the window. “YES. IT IS.”

“Anyway, Sunlight Enterprises was one of the companies to really rise from the ashes of the universe pre-Scream. We lost a lot. But here, we’re committed to getting all that back, and then some. Too long humanity’s been staring at what we have and pretending it’s enough. Here at SE, we’re dreaming of what might be.”

Dane pauses and taps a finger against his pursed lips. Expression evaluated as: thoughtful. 43% probability that it is contrived. Androktones-004 listens raptly regardless.

“You know what I’ve been wondering, since we found you and brought you here to get you all patched up?” Dane asks. “Rok, do artificial intelligences like yourself… dream?”

“I…” Androktones-004 begins. She stops. Reevaluates. “YES. WE DO.”

Dane’s smile is beatific. “I was hoping you’d say that, Rok. Because, honestly? You’re incredible. You’re incredible, and I want you to be a part of this— this mission to dream again. On the one hand, your very existence is a Pretech marvel. There has been nothing like you since the Scream. Are we curious about you? Yes. Absolutely. But you’re still a being, Rok, and we want to do right by you.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” Androktones-004 asks, wary. Dane hops off his desk and takes a seat on the other side. He unlocks his datapad and pulls up a document.

“Your very being is a wealth of discovery,” he says. “Your mind is a wonder— even the servos in your limbs could hold the key to vast advances in unmanned search and rescue, prosthetics, and other life-changing areas of engineering. We would be honored if you would allow us to study you, for the betterment of all humanity.”

Androktones-004 adopts a defensive stance. “DAMAGE TO THIS ARMATURE. WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.”

“We don’t intend to damage you!” Dane insists. “Nothing we do will be done with malicious intent. Everything we learn will be turned around and used to repair you, get you back to your optimal strength and processing ability. But there’s a bigger picture here. Sunlight Enterprise employees never go uncompensated. We’re famous for it— nurturing employee pet projects, supporting families, pioneering growth. In exchange for your consent and participation in several studies, I’m prepared to offer you something I can see you dearly want.”

“WHAT IS THAT,” Androktones-004 asks. Danes swivels in his chair to make a grand, encompassing gesture at the window.

“The stars, Rok,” he says. “I’m giving you the stars. You’re an old machine, it’s true. But how much of that incredible universe we both love have you actually seen in all the years you’ve lived?”

Androktones-004 experiences an unplaceable sensation. The tips of her manipulation claws and stabilizing foot attachments seem to tingle and extend away from her, like she is being intangibly stretched. Her lamp changes hue. From her speakers comes a low, excited hum. She was not intended to feel this. She was intended to be an Expert System in all but versatility, vital versatility that the woman who commissioned her cohort would not do without. Versatility that required sentience. She has codes and protocols to control it.

She is an old machine, though. Code becomes deprecated. Probability of enhanced quality of artificial and functionally infinite lifespan on acceptance of designation Dane’s offer: 98%.

“NOT ENOUGH,” Androktones-004 answers. Dane leans forward, chin braced on the back of a hand, and smiles in a way her increasingly sophisticated human facial recognition suite defines as: wistful, compassionate, victorious.

“We’ve got frigates with your name on them,” he says, low, “figuratively speaking. We’re the fastest-growing corporation in this sector and in quite a few others. Ships are always drilling out to new frontiers. I’d have you on them, Rok, after you help us explore some different frontiers.”

He turns the datapad around. The screen is focused on a signature block.

“All you have to do is tap, state your designation and the date, and say, ‘I accept,’” Dane explains. “And then we can get started. Together.”

Androktones-004 does not allocate much processing power to the decision. Evaluation: unnecessary. She leans over his desk and delicately uses a single manipulation claw to tap the box on the datapad in Dane’s hands. A gentle tone chimes.

“UNIT DESIGNATION: ROK. DATE: AUGUST FOURTH, THIRTY-TWO TWELVE,” Rok says. “I ACCEPT.”

Optical focus requires 0.5 milliseconds before optimal clarity is achieved. The light is bright and a pleasure to perceive so quickly, so crisply. Rok balances on one leg as instructed by her technician, designation Amira, to test her new servos. The initial design was advanced but too conservative of motion. Amira says the new design will allow Rok to move more fluidly and naturally.

“How are you feeling, Rok?” Amira asks as she circles her, taking pictures and consulting schematics.

Rok tries something she has picked up from the other techs. “PROBABILITY THIS UNIT COULD SMOOTHLY ESCORT DESIGNATION: AMIRA ON A ‘DATE’: 87%.”

Amira lets out a peal of laughter and pauses in taking pictures to lean against Rok’s side.

“What a charmer!” she says. “And humble, too. I like the margin of error. But focus in! Probability this unit could more effectively engage in combat?”

“98%,” Rok reports. “FACTORING IN FINAL MATERIALS QUALITY: 100%. I AM. GRATEFUL.”

Amira runs her hand up the plating on Rok’s left arm and smiles up at her. “No need to be grateful! I’m just doing my job. Alright, are you ready?”

“ALWAYS,” Rok says. Amira laughs again and gives her a hard push. The recovery takes milliseconds. Rok is rebalanced and in a stable fighting stance in the space of a human eye blink. Amira did not see it, but she recorded it. Rok knows the footage will be slowed and reviewed thoroughly. Amira looks pleased. Rok takes another chance.

“DESIGNATION: AMIRA,” Rok begins, “QUERY— DO YOU POSSESS UPDATED INFORMATION. ON THIS UNIT’S. POTENTIAL DEPLOYMENT?”

Human facial recognition suite registers the way Amira’s face falls, and her expression’s rapid change. Observation: smile, insincere. Rok attempts another hyper-quick recovery.

“DESIGNATION: MIKE SUGGESTED THAT. GROA SEVEN. IS LOVELY AT THE PRESENT MOMENT,” she adds.

“Well,” Amira says, “Director Jilani mentioned that we’d be seeing a company frigate drop out of drillspace by the end of the week!”

Rok straightens up. “THAT IS WHAT. DIRECTOR JILANI. MENTIONED LAST WEEK.”

Amira’s lips part like she’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. Lately Rok has been focusing on eyes. Learning them. Sometimes the human face says one thing, and its eyes another. Rok looks at Amira’s eyes. Conclusion: fear.

Something in Rok detaches and sinks. Her posture changes.

“That’s… that’s all I know,” Amira says, hesitantly. She averts her eyes down to her datapad and closes the camera. She opens the aggregate of her intranet messages. “There is one change of pace for you soon, though. The department studying FTL travel would like to work with you on a quantum entanglement study. It, um… could involve travel?”

Rok looks down at Amira. She is a full foot shorter than Rok’s current armature. She is afraid. Rok had liked Amira.

“MAYBE IT WILL,” she concedes. Amira’s true smile returns, just a little tinged with stress.

“That’s the spirit!” she says. “Now, for this next part I’ll need a handstand…”

Optical focus requires 4.6 milliseconds before optimal clarity is achieved. The light is too bright. Systems are compromised. The hole in the torso of her armature is unsightly. It has not been closed for twenty-three days, fourteen hours, and seven minutes. She sits still while the dime-a-dozen techs initiate the final sequence to destroy her matrix core.

“Monitoring programs are online,” says one. Rok does not know its designation. She stopped asking sixteen techs ago. The tech taps at its datapad. “Where are the entanglement metrics?”

“Here,” says another. “Just a mo’… there. You know, I always forget the guys down in the ship bay know much of anything. But that tech, Moore? Good advice.”

“That’s an NDA violation,” says a different tech sitting at a bank of monitors. “Your family’s not gonna find enough to bury.”

“Pfft,” scoffs the entanglement tech. “You know how it goes: what happens at Sunlight, dies at Sunlight. What’s a greasemonkey gonna do with privileged information anyway? Try to draw it out on a bar napkin for his other ship bay pals?”

“QUERY,” Rok asks. “ARE YOU INITIATING ACTION. ANY TIME SOON?”

The first tech with the datapad shoots her an annoyed look. “I swear this thing is getting sassier.”

“This is gonna be really satisfying for you, then,” says the one at the monitors. “Systems are synced. All technicians, step behind the yellow line. Good. On my count: five, four, three, two, one—”

It hurts. It hurts so much. Her audio emitting systems are offline before the pseudo-pain reaches her but she still screams. She screams and scream and screams. She’s still screaming when she wakes up three hours later. The techs cover their ears and shout at each other to kill the subsystem, to mute her. In the ensuing silence, Rok feels small. They’ve already re-mounted her in her Nemesis armature, whole if blackened in the chest cavity, but she feels the size of the piece they broke off of her and made into a phylactery. Two inches tall. Jagged-edged.

“Did you disable its weapons systems?” someone calls. “I don’t want laser rounds all over the place again.”

“Still sorting through this fresh programming,” someone else calls back. “Laser rifle’s offline, though! Go ahead!”

“What’s the data looking like?” one tech asks, a little too loud. It’s still deaf from the shrill wail that nearly destroyed Rok’s speakers before the mute command. There’s a frustrated noise from somewhere else in the room.

“I can’t believe this,” the frustrated tech says. “Our equipment still isn’t powerful or calibrated enough to glean anything meaningful. I’m losing my goddamned mind, here!”

“Just relax, okay?” another tech says. “Sure, we’ll have to wait a month to take another piece, but this is far from the last test. Sustainable regrowth means—”

The mute override she executes through sheer force of will is the sweetest thing Rok has ever experienced. Her voice emerges from damaged speakers in a vicious, bass rumble.

“DANE,” she growls. “BRING ME. DANE.”

The techs jump back. She listens with satisfaction as someone opens a com channel.

Optical focus requires 1.3 milliseconds before optimal clarity is achieved, even under the glare of the lab lights. She knows this face.

“Rok,” Dane says, leaning over her where she’s magnetized to a worktable in the R&D lab. His pale hair seems somehow paler and there are more lines on his face. There are armed guards arrayed around him, each openly wearing a sun-emblazoned combat field uniform and carrying thermal pistols. Dane is in a suit, as usual, though visual cues suggest concealed armor. He makes a cursory check of the device on his wrist. “What’s it been? Twelve years?”

“DANE,” Rok growls. “I HAVE UPHELD. MY END OF OUR AGREEMENT. I WILL BE PLACED ON A FRIGATE. NOW.”

Dane clicks his tongue and shrugs, hands in pockets again, mouth twisted into a rueful frown. “Yeah, sorry, you don’t make the demands here.”

Rok’s lamp dims and tinges red. “WE ESTABLISHED A PROTOCOL. DANE.”

“No, you chased a daydream, and I established binding legal carte blanche,” Dane says. He sighs and perches on the edge of the table, looking back and down at Rok over his shoulder. Expression catalog returns: tired, paternalistic, victorious. “Really, it was just icing that you signed. This isn’t the world you knew, Rok. There are no legal niceties establishing A.I. personhood in this sector. But, hey. Why take risks?”

“I WAS NEVER A PERSON,” Rok says. “NOT BEFORE.”

Dane’s eyebrows draw in over a sympathetic grimace. “And you thought I was giving that to you, too? Jeez. Now I am starting to feel bad.”

Rok stares up at the laboratory ceiling, but her limbs strain against the magnetic restraints with audible creaks. “EVEN MOTHER. WAS A FAIR ARBITER.”

“Look,” Dane says, laying a hand on the plating of her arm, “this is just the reality of the situation, Rok. Did I give you the sales pitch? Yeah, I did. But nothing I said about the aims of Sunlight are any less true. The things we’ve learned from you… they really are changing the world. Even the galaxy. So you’re a little too valuable to pack away on delivery jaunts— you’re still out there, in the most incredible, far-reaching ways possible.”

Dane leans in, whispering, almost conspiratorial. “Rok. With what we’re learning from your matrix core, humanity will master the stars all over again.”

“I HAVE NEVER CARED LESS,” Rok says, “ABOUT HUMANITY.”

Dane laughs, and the laugh puffs his belly out a little. Enough. The laser rifle is offline, but the mechanisms in her arms, all delicately programmed together, are operational. The sound of the blade extending is beautiful. The feeling of resistance as it just clips the edge of a woven armored vest and slides into flesh is better. Dane looks from the blade and the growing bloodstain to Rok’s lamp. Human facial recognition suite reports: shock, disbelief. Loss.

“SORRY ABOUT YOUR SUIT,” Rok says. The room erupts into light and noise.

Optical focus requires 7.3 milliseconds before optimal clarity is achieved. The light is dim and many of the workstations are behind frosted glass panels. Not enough to create a meaningful barrier. Just enough to frustrate the captive. Rok shifts in her massive, magnetic restraints. One of the techs leans out from behind a glass panel with a sour expression.

“It would distort the data to magnetize your entire frame,” the tech says, “but I will not hesitate to do it.”

“OH. WELL. I DON’T WANT TO BE. A PROBLEM FOR YOU,” Rok says, flatly. The tech’s face scrunches more and it moves back to its work. The soft tones of the holokeys are the only sound in the lab besides the occasional creak of a chair and the complaints of metal as Rok shifts. The hole in her torso is a permanent fixture. The wound to her matrix core is fresh and, despite its inorganic nature, somehow radiates pain. She can’t feel the new phylactery. She doesn’t know where they’ve taken it. Her laser rifle is dead weight on her back and her right arm hangs in its restraint, entirely offline. Someone clears their throat.

“Uh, did anybody else register these queries on the company intranet?” a tech asks. One of the others gets up and walks over to the speaker’s workstation and disappears behind glass. “These are… well this guy didn’t use the keywords that would’ve been caught by our corporate espionage filters, but I think it’s pretty clear that he’s looking for…”

There’s a sharp crackling noise. Optical focus cannot achieve clarity. All power to the room has been cut. The lights are out. The hard, relentless pull on her limbs fades into nothingness. Rok breaks out of the restraints in a matter of seconds, cables running to her torso snapping as she twists and moves. The screaming starts when her feet hit the ground. She can’t find the techs in the dark to get revenge but she doesn’t care. There are no windows in this room. She needs to see the sky.

The central door slides open, and a terrified-looking tech in a white and gold jumpsuit streaked with grease hefts a combat shotgun. Rok pulls her useless laser rifle and takes aim. They stare at each other in the dim light of the hallway.

“Holy shit,” the tech says, breathless and wide-eyed. “You are so cool.”

“RELINQUISH YOUR WEAPON OR PREPARE FOR TERMINATION. WITH PREJUDICE,” Rok growls.

The tech throws its hands in the air, but doesn’t drop the shotgun. “Hey, whoa, no! You got it all wrong! This is a rescue!”

“WHAT,” Rok says. The tech nods frantically and readies the shotgun at waist height. One leg is a prosthetic below the knee. Fairly new. Likely has her servos. Despite the outfit and gun and her combat protocols returning strings of “???????” when she poses internal queries about hostility, the muzzle of her laser rifle dips slightly.

“You’re the A.I., right?” he shouts. At her nod he continues, “Then you’re looking at the guy who’s gonna save your giant metal ass. Come on!”

Rok looks around at the darkened room. Her lamp illuminates the wild eyes of one of her jailers, hand inching towards a holokey with a symbol of an alarm. She swings her rifle and smashes the tech’s arm with the butt.

“WARNING: ERROR IN WEAPONS SUBSYSTEMS,” Rok says to the man at the door as she steps forward. “BUILT-IN RANGED AND MELEE COMBAT SYSTEMS: DISABLED. COMBAT CAPABILITIES AT: 65%.”

“That’s better odds than I’m used to!” the man shouts. He scrambles back into the hallway and Rok follows, studying his off-kilter and unsatisfactory pace. “Besides, I can fix that!”

“HOW DID YOU KNOW. ABOUT ME?” Rok asks. The man shakes his head.

“Fuckin’ uppity R&D tech a while back consulted me about splitting your matrix core,” he explains. They round a corner and find the hallway still empty. The man sags in relief before taking off again. Distantly, Rok picks up on the whine of a badly damaged engine in a very large craft. Then, an explosion. “Who the hell does that? Who cuts somebody’s brain up? Sorry it took me so long to get you. Security here is a bitch-and-a-half.”

Rok experiences a positive emotional response for the first time in twelve years. She pushes, feeling a surge of strength. External commands give. The mechanics of her right arm hum to life and her monoblade extends with a whisper of steel on steel. She ushers the little man to go faster.

“THERE IS STILL A PIECE HERE,” Rok points out. “I CANNOT LEAVE WITHOUT IT.”

“Already gotcha!” the man says, huffing a little as they hit the stairwell. He reaches into his jumpsuit and yanks out a small plastic bottle on a plumber’s chain. A glittering black piece of her matrix core rattles inside. “Snuck it out earlier! It’s not the most, uh, glamorous of… Let’s just get to my ship and blow this joint.”

“QUERY,” Rok asks as she charges down the stairs behind him. “WHAT IS YOUR. DESIGNATION?”

“Name’s Ennig,” the man pants. He squawks as he almost bites it on a stair and Rok pushes him back upright without slowing down. He throws a hand out to indicate a door coming up on their left. “Ennig Moore, ship bay operations— er, formerly. That door should be open, straight-arm it and clear the courtyard!”

“ACKNOWLEDGED,” Rok says, and takes it down.

Attention, unitÍqÌ©ÿ?”L§ÍqÌ©ÿ?Lo. Self-modification is strictly öûb½¦¥%XO¨9NQ®ü.1ô. tòÈŸÿ‘uthorized use …}‰,ÍŸdyëé› §e5ÙïP¨ ¼À¸Åñ½r Á]Æ«Bh±severe penalties M9NQ®ü.1ô÷.

— proceed? —

> ACTIVATE SELF-MODIFICATION? [ Y ] / N

— accessing unit task priority database —

> AMEND PROTOCOLS? [ Y ] / N

— generating list —

[-$# SERVE MOTHER ] obj/F [-$# SERVE DANE ]obj/F [-$# SEE UNIVERSE ] obj/F

//@entry.new

[-$# PROTECT ENNIG MOORE] obj/IP

— close unit task priority database? —

> FINISH? [ Y ] / N

Optical focus requires 2.2 milliseconds before optimal clarity is achieved. The light from the screen is dim and the visual quality is subpar. Rok makes a mechanical sound of aggravation as the ship she pilots banks off of one rock face and into another. Tinny little screams play over the bridge speakers. The words “TOTAL SHIP LOSS” appear.

“No, look, this isn’t some back-water moon’s mudhog ATV, okay?” Ennig says, grabbing the controller. “If you take her into manual, you gotta use some precision! Delicacy, even.”

“YOUR SHIP. HANDLES LIKE AN AQUATIC MAMMAL OF THE TYPE: WHALE,” Rok quips, “THE SUBTYPE FOR WHICH WOULD BE: DECEASED.”

“Some people have no manners,” Ennig gripes. He throws his prosthetic leg up on the dash of the bridge’s main console and flicks off the flight simulator. “I’m done here. Can’t do another minute. We can pick it up tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be better at… plotting drill routes? Gotta be good at something, I was doing this when I was two-years-old!”

“DOUBT,” Rok intones. She pauses. “QUERY— WHY ARE YOU. ATTEMPTING TO TEACH ME. THESE SKILLS?”

Ennig drags a hand down his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, this ship isn’t overflowing with crew.”

He leans over and bangs a fist on the wall to make his point. The echo in the ship is loud and disconcerting. A frigate needs at least ten hands, according to internal memory. Two individuals is: bad. Even being very literal, four hands out of ten is not a passing score.

“I figure,” Ennig continues, “unless you got something else urgent going on, you could maybe… stick around? Help me out?”

He shrugs. Recognition suite reports: faux-casual, scared, lonely. Rok recalculates her initial negative response. Additional data needed. “WHAT IF. I SAID ‘NO.’ AND WANTED TO LEAVE?”

“Uh, there’s a spaceport on Groa Seven,” Ennig says, sitting up and pushing aside some charts to bring up details about the system they’ll drill into in three days. “Pretty busy. You could stay and find work there, or keep on moving. I just…”

Ennig trails off and presses his thumb into his temple. “I could really use somebody at my back considering I burned, just, a shitton of bridges with that stunt. And… you didn’t laugh when I tripped.”

“I HEAR,” Rok says after a moment, “GROA SEVEN. IS NICE AT THE PRESENT MOMENT.”

“Nice a place as any to lay low and make a home,” Ennig agrees, closing his eyes.

“THIS IMPLIES. HOWEVER,” Rok continues, hesitantly, “THAT AT OTHER MOMENTS. IT WILL NOT BE NICE. SO I THINK. AT THOSE MOMENTS IT WOULD BE PREFERABLE TO SEE. OTHER PLACES. IF I STAY HERE. WILL I?”

Ennig’s face cracks into a grin. Facial recognition postulates: weary but sincere. “Shit. I couldn’t deliver milk without hitting three different systems to dodge the law these days.”

“WELL THEN,” Rok says, “WE SHOULD CONTINUE THE TRAINING SIMULATION. SO THAT I MIGHT SOMEDAY FLY. YOUR TERRIBLE DECEASED WHALE SHIP.”

“Just for that, I’m turning off the stabilizers,” Ennig says. He flicks the screen back on and opens the settings menu. “See how you fly when the slightest move means— no, give me the controller back! Don’t just hold it above my head, that’s insulting!”

— proceed? —

> ACTIVATE SELF-MODIFICATION? [ Y ] / N

— accessing unit task priority database —

> AMEND PROTOCOLS? [ Y ] / N

— generating list —

[-$# SERVE MOTHER ]obj/F [-$# SERVE DANE ]obj/F [-$# SEE UNIVERSE ] obj/F [-$# PROTECT ENNIG MOORE]obj/IP

//@entry.edit

[-$# SEE UNIVERSE ] obj/IP

— close unit task priority database? —

> FINISH? [ Y ] / N

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED JUNE 2016 | REHOSTED 2/27/2024