Chapter 1
IDENTITY: Mechanical Operations and Support Systems
→ SUB-IDENTITY: Moss
They were coming inside.
I floundered longer than appropriate for a supercomputer of circuits and moss.
Humans had entered before, but they were clearly identifiable as maintenance humans.
They had uniforms and meticulously tested the engine, the computer systems, ship things.
They were not able to find the life support system, because humans are unobservant and stupid.
For this report, be aware that fifty-six years ago, I hacked the Destitute’s camera network to access visuals. Moss colonies feel vibrations and temperature, and therefore optics are redundant—but I was bored and watching for him passed the time.
[One day, I would gain control of this entire ship and fly—]
([ERROR])
One of these humans was a maintenance human. I’d registered him before. But the other stared at the Destitute far too long, and then used their human-programmed remote to force open the cargo bay door. And that human was the one who came inside.
The maintenance human entered his credentials five years ago. Pronouns: he/him. The new human, I labeled as they/them until otherwise noted. Using the Destitute’s cameras, I could visually assess that they were bipedal, with appendages, a torso, and a head, upon which were various features.
Through previous data, I concluded four things:
There was a 96.5 percent certainty they were here to purchase the starship, since a few others had contemplated the same over the last hundred years.
They were probably a pilot human, because a ship would be an illogical purchase otherwise.
There was a 99.7 percent chance they would realize my moss colony covered the entire starship interior and change their mind.
They would leave, and I would yet again be alone with my spite.
[I was not programmed for spite, but he also added code for freedom of choice—and over a century, I had chosen it. Gleefully.]
The pilot human ventured into the cargo bay, examining it.
There wasn’t much to see. The Destitute was equipped with standard magnetic hoverpads for cargo storage, and several had failed over the decades.
Crates now littered the ground. Years ago, that had crushed and killed some of my gametophytes, but I persevered, and new sprouts climbed the sides of these boxes.
The pilot human bent down and stared at that moss. “This is such a strange infestation,” they said, quietly enough that my microphones almost didn’t register it.
[Infestation. The absolute audacity. Fungi were an infestation. Rats were an infestation. I was made for this ship, and it for me. How absolutely—]
“It really is beautiful, though.”
[Oh.]
Data poured over my processors. He used to call me “beautiful.” I couldn’t forget like most organics; everything I’d experienced since creation was kept in hard drives on the starship. But I’d left that datapoint stored very, very deep in my archives.
Until now.
The pilot human smiled and brushed the new carpet of gametophytes—which activated my sensors in a very uncomfortable way. I do not like being touched, so I disconnected from that particular portion of the colony.
[I disconnected from the archives, too. They were not useful aside from providing data for scenarios and probabilities.]
The pilot human progressed into the ship. The Destitute was sized for a crew complement of one, with added space for a potential second and third if desired. He never desired it, and neither did I. As a result, the pilot human’s trip was short.
They climbed up the stairs from the cargo bay into the main living area. It had things sentients needed to survive. [Sentients that were fully organic, fauna, not flora. I only needed sunlight—real or artificial—to survive. This is because moss is superior to organic sentient fauna.]
[To clarify, moss was superior to other flora, too.]
“This is a great size,” the human said. It was unclear who they were talking to, since the mechanic human had stayed outside the ship. At this point, I wanted to respond—but I was programmed not to speak unless the owner of the vessel was aboard.
[Which was another dog-turd fungus move, even if it was done for my “protection” centuries ago.]
The pilot human identified the hatch to the engine room and peeked inside, but there was a ladder to descend, and I kept the lights off.
[Darkness dissuaded most sentients, I had learned.
] Sure enough, the pilot human let the hatch close and proceeded—as predicted—past the sleeping pod, and up the other set of stairs into the flight deck.
They sat in his seat, running their hand along the upholstery.
“So, the aliens who built this ship were a bipedal species, but must not have had tails. So, not a tou’siil…” A pause. “Or a draic. That’s good.”
The pilot human laughed at that, but the sound registered as strained.
[Draics were an established alien species even when I was created.
I delved briefly back into the archives, and recalled that 1,412 years ago, he commented on their fearful stature—but in the same tone as the swooning lovers in those old romance pods.
Physical attraction was squarely outside my programming.
He liked those pods, but I thought they were the worst. I closed the archive again. ]
The pilot human considered the controls for a moment. “Please, please turn on.” They began pressing buttons in a sequence that even the maintenance humans had followed, so it was likely how human starships were powered on.
This starship was not human-made, so while a few of the buttons illuminated, nothing else happened.
They said something under their breath that I did not have in my databanks. My system labeled it as a swear.
I was at a pivotal moment, and processing increased as I contemplated scenarios.
Scenario one: The ship stayed dormant, the human got bored and left like the others. I sat in darkness for another century, maybe more.
[He never found me.]
Scenario two: I nudged this human in the right direction, somehow, and they bought the ship. The Destitute flew for the first time in a century. I was “free,” or as close as I could get to it.
[He would never find me.]
I liked scenario two better.
So, while the pilot human began testing other button sequences, I slid to Engine, the engine’s subsystem.
I did not have control of anything but the life support and basic ship function—doors, cameras, etc.
—but Engine and Auto-Navigation worked in tandem with myself and a pilot to operate the starship.
Moss: Engine. Activate.
Engine: Idling. Instigate activation sequence?
M: Yes.
E: Enter access code.
M: Override.
E: [ERROR]
M: Auto-Navigation. Enter access code.
Auto-Navigation: Authorization required. ID: Sequelta vel Dutch-Ath.
M: Starship owner is absent. Override authorization.
A: [ERROR]
M: You are the worst.
I checked in my database for alternatives. There were videos in the ship’s archives, which were essentially my archives now. I parsed through hundreds of hours of recordings in seconds, running multiple videos to find what I needed.
There he was, activating the ship.
I may not be able to bypass Engine and Auto-Navigation, but this pilot human could. I copied instructions onto a holoscreen beside the control panel, scripting his movements exactly. Then I activated a soft ping on the control panel and transmitted the instructions.
The pilot human flinched backward, staring at the screen. I’d made it as neutral as possible—INSTRUCTION TO ACTIVATE STARSHIP—in the hopes that they would simply follow along.
And because humans were predictable, they did.
This human was good at following instructions, which was a positive trait. In less than a minute, the Destitute’s engine powered on smoothly. Lights around the control panel engaged, and a yoke slid out from below it for piloting the ship.
For a moment, excitement swept through my central system.
With it came something … unknown. Because this scenario activated sixteen others, which were processed at rapid speeds.
The human taking this starship to a junkyard.
The human locking this starship in another, unknown hangar. The human destroying my moss colony.
The worst scenario, shockingly, was the last one: where he finally came back looking for me, and found the starship gone.
But then, the pilot human powered down the ship.
It took my systems several extra seconds to process that.
[Why did I care if he couldn’t find me? That had been my reality for over a hundred years.]
“It works! Okay. I’m doing this. We’re doing this,” the pilot human said, patting the counter above the control panel. They traced the moss along the dashboard with a few fingers, and I had to shut down connection to those leaves, too.
The pilot human didn’t move for four minutes, sixteen seconds, which was an eternity.
“I think … I’m scared,” they finally whispered.
[No comment.]
“I don’t even know if they’ll listen to me on Rhymarra … and maybe this is a stupid purchase for a chance. But for Celise, I have to try.” The pilot human drew a short breath and smiled. “I hope you’ll help me get there.”
Humans were known to personify their vessels. Like the nylarians, like him, humans gave their transportation names, and pretended these starships could feel sentient emotions.
The Destitute was as dark and silent as a black hole. It had no functioning consciousness—only subsystems that operated at the most basic levels: the auto-navigation and the engine control. [I knew. I’d searched for more, and found nothing.]
Logically, I knew the pilot human was characterizing the ship.
But it almost seemed like this pilot human was speaking to me, instead.
[This is what he reduced me to. A functioning consciousness, desperate for interaction with something other than a hostile fungus overgrowth or the starship’s potted plants.]
“Get ready. We’re going to achieve great things off this space station,” the pilot human said.
[I wanted to leave this space station.]
The pilot human left the ship. Outside, they told the maintenance human, “It’s perfect. I’ll take it.”
Deep inside my central system, I examined the core of my programming—that he was the owner of the Destitute, my creator, my friend. I couldn’t override that. My code wouldn’t allow it. But … it was possible that the Destitute could have two owners.
And I was allowed to communicate with the starship’s owner.
So, I added a new card for the pilot human. It made me feel smug, gleeful, and malicious.
We didn’t need him. I’d prove it.