Chapter 10
IDENTITY: Mechanical Operations and Support Systems
→ SUB-IDENTITY: Moss
LOCATION: Vaesa [nylarian]
The inconsiderate asshole dog-turd fungus traitor worked on the engine.
I watched in silence.
After twelve minutes of analysis, my conversational awareness subfunction identified it as awkward, which felt like an appropriate label. Sequelta vel Dutch-Ath was rarely silent—either he had changed more in a century than he had in millennia, or he didn’t know where to restart conversation.
If the latter, I could assist.
“Since it appears you are unsure how to proceed, an apology is the primary function of this interaction.”
Dutch laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Incorrect. I have changed immensely. One hundred and thirty-three years necessitated it.”
I kept my speaker isolated to the engine room, and diverted one subsystem to analyzing Torian’s sleep pattern. But she was deep within a human REM cycle, which likely meant we had several hours to talk. Considering I had welcomed Dutch onto the ship, that suddenly felt like a very long time.
[A blink, for him.]
[Agony, for me.]
Dutch examined what Torian had torn apart, and tapped his chin. “The exhaust valve,” he muttered, bending deeper into the engine. I didn’t have a camera angle to watch his progress, but I retrieved the Destitute’s engine schematics and located what he was exploring.
“Torian already determined that,” I said, although I had no way of verifying if that was true.
“Smart girl,” he replied absently.
“She is smart. She is a solar-engineer pilot smuggler human.”
“Smuggler?” Dutch’s words were echoing as he fumbled for a wrench. Nylarians typically used ultra-strong magnet connectors, but Dutch had retrofitted this ship with screws and bolts—simply because we spent most of our time in this solar system, and that was what humans favored.
“Easier to fix later,” he’d said, eight hundred years ago.
[Neither of us had wanted to return to Vaesa for maintenance, after everyone left. Dutch’s reasons were complex and based in emotion. My reasons were based in logic: the logic that Kerracia was annoying.]
“Torian is a former smuggler.” I didn’t want to talk about that. “Why didn’t you come back for me?”
Dutch paused, but stayed below the engine.
My cameras couldn’t see him. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but I’d written a few subscripts to identify sentient micro-expressions, and I didn’t realize how much I’d begun to rely on those.
To counteract, I prepped several analysis functions to dissect tone and nuance.
His response left much to be desired: “I forgot.”
His emotions from least prevalent to most: Regret. Irritation. Apathy.
I did not expect a surge of emotion deep inside my central system. Perhaps I should have; it had been happening more and more lately.
“You forgot?” I repeated.
Dutch sighed. “Moss, I have no excuse. I am exceedingly sorry. I spent the better half of this century searching for you, but blast it, human space stations all look the same. I visited several—but none had records of where I’d docked.”
He had given me copious data with those sentences.
[All of it was insufficient.]
I could not leak liquid like Torian, but raw anguish prodded my central system. I buried it under logic and reasoning, suffocating it, and piled a healthy dose of anger on top of that. “You did not try hard enough.” Another pause. “You were too busy with my replacement.”
“Zenthielutos is hardly your replacement,” Dutch said. “And if you must know, he has dedicated his ship and crew for the better part of thirty years to helping me search. Trust me, Moss. We scoured the galaxy for you.”
“I was not in the galaxy at large. I was in a cold, dark hangar on Colony 13.”
“I know,” Dutch exclaimed, and pushed out from under the engine.
Finally, my cameras caught his expression.
His hair follicles were alight with fury, but his face registered as abject devastation, which was a curious combination.
He glared at my central system. “I know you were alone. And I am so, so sorry. My mind holds everything, all of the time—and sometimes, things slip out.”
[Why was I the thing that slipped out?]
“That is insufficient,” I said.
“Excuses always are.” Dutch scrubbed his face, drawing a shuddering breath. “I missed you. I forgot, and I spent decades trying to fix that mistake. Is there any way to make it up to you?”
I ran the simulations again, faster than any organic mind could process.
There was a simulation—one—where I forgave him here, now.
Dutch was happy, and I was happy. And then that simulation dissolved: a hundred years later, Torian was dead, and Dutch sailed off with his draic companion.
This time, I was left on Vaesa, a space station humanity couldn’t discover, a dead zone beyond a ship graveyard.
That simulation was a failure.
“No,” I said.
Dutch’s expression dissolved. His brows knitted together, his lips downturned, his shoulders sagged.
Seeing it suddenly flagged as an invasion of his privacy—which shouldn’t matter, but did. I said, “I took control of the cameras. You cannot have them back.”
Dutch always liked a challenge. He glanced at one of the cameras, at me, and it made me feel seen and sad all at once. “Fascinating. I didn’t think visual input would benefit you … but I suppose your computer half can process video analysis.”
“Correct.” Might as well try for more. “While you are aboard, I would also like control of the auto-navigation and engine. I want all subsystems reporting to me.”
“You want the ship itself,” Dutch said, and my analysis registered him as impressed, now.
“I will never be abandoned again.” That part was spoken quietly, yet firmly.
Dutch hesitated. “I doubt Torian will be comfortable with that.”
That was 67 percent likely to be true, based on current prediction models.
That statistic fell within acceptable parameters.
I would explain things to Torian, and offer her an override if she requested one.
“Torian and I work as a team. She also does not want me to be alone. And controlling Auto-Navigation would have prevented this detour in the first place.”
Dutch’s expression registered as conflicted, but after a moment, he nodded. “All right. I’ll … I’ll override some things.”
“Good.”
Dutch retrieved a couple mechanical pieces from the crate and slid back underneath the engine.
The clanging of metal on metal echoed, but I could easily lower that audio to amplify his voice.
“I’m glad you found her. Or rather, she found you.
” A pause. “Torian said her sister is going to die. How can Rhymarra help?”
It was a fair question. I hadn’t spent much time researching Celise beyond the videos I’d found of her and Torian together, so I used the data Torian provided instead.
“According to Torian, her sister cannot breathe artificially recycled air. Human life support mechanisms are inefficient for the population on Colony 13. Air density is lower, and oxygen purity is below optimal levels. The result is—”
“Difficulty breathing, heart strain, and potentially death,” Dutch finished.
“For a small percentage of their population, yes. Torian is not included in that sample.”
Dutch snapped something into place, then slid back out from beneath the engine.
He pocketed the wrench, clapped his hands together, and refit the two panels back over the engine’s front.
There was another holopanel beside the engine, and he accessed it, running diagnostics before requesting a test start.
The engine powered on perfectly.
Engine: Emergency failure resolved.
Auto-Navigation: Confirmed. Removing restrictions on flight path.
Dutch sighed. “Okay. One thing at a time. Engine’s fixed. Let’s get you control of the ship.”
Moss: You’ll both be answering to me, soon.