Chapter 4 #2
“I am the life support, not the starship. My moss colony produces the oxygen you’re breathing, and processes your exhaled carbon dioxide. And I do not like to be touched.”
What.
The.
Fuck.
Torian rocked back on her heels, still crouching as she examined the ship’s interior with shock.
The moss overgrowth was everywhere. It carpeted the floor and crept along the walls, slid up the couch’s side and peeked around the windowsills. Oddly enough, it didn’t overtake the kitchen counters, where someone might prepare food, or the table where she’d eat.
But everywhere else…?
Moss.
Even the air caught her attention. This morning at the impound lot, the ship had a vaguely sour smell. Any acrid tinge was gone now, replaced with earthen humidity and clean plant growth.
Realization made her numb. This wasn’t an infestation. It was a system.
It shouldn’t be possible. Humans had tried this—they created airtight stations brimming with plant life, but it always, always failed. It was too complex a system; plants needed sunlight and a comfortable atmosphere and nutrients and so much space for even one human to survive in a contained area.
It shouldn’t be possible on a ship this small.
“Wait. You … you are the moss? Or do you monitor the moss?” Torian had never heard of a computer merging with organic systems before.
“I am the moss colony. However, I am integrated into a physical server—my central system—which allows me to control oxygen production, carbon storage, temperature radius, humidity levels, and light fixtures.” For emphasis, the warm amber lighting on the ship brightened into something closer to daylight, making Torian wince.
There didn’t seem to be a singular bulb as a source—rather, the lighting appeared to be built under every panel on the ship, mimicking true sunshine.
Torian shielded her eyes, and the computer dimmed them again.
She had a thousand questions, and her brain wasn’t sorting them well. Feeling silly, she asked, “Are you also the potted plants?” For emphasis, she gestured at one of the nearby pots, an alien sapling that reminded her of a fig tree.
(Her mind whispered that if the computer was moss, it probably couldn’t see her. But then again, it clearly had sensors to identify her position. From what she’d learned in school, most AI could process video—)
The computer sounded vaguely offended. “I am moss. The potted plants are tended by my systems, which is a courtesy considering how often they complain.” It raised the speaker volume at that last part, as if it wanted the potted plants to hear.
Incredible.
And a little absurd.
Torian pushed to her feet, then realized moss carpeted the entire floor. “I can’t fly. You know that, right? I have to walk on you.”
“Your footsteps are fine. That is no different than an animal walking along a forest floor.” The computer paused. “But animals do not caress me the way humans do.”
Had this moss ever been in a forest?
Torian sank into one of the chairs at the table. It was constructed from a reddish wood—a lot of items inside this ship were, actually—but the moss seemed to have left it alone. Considering the humidity, the furniture must be well-sealed, because it didn’t show any sign of warping or wear.
It was just … cozy.
“This is going to take me a minute to understand,” she said distantly.
“That is because you have split your human focus between too many specialties, and now lack the ability to fully comprehend a new topic.”
Torian bristled. “Excuse you. I majored in engineering. I can understand computers.”
Said computer wasn’t impressed. “Humans have one of the shortest lifespans in this galaxy. Perfecting a specialty takes a human anywhere from fifty-three to sixty-seven years. Therefore, humans may be competent in one specialty.” A pause.
“You purchased a ship and acted like you could fly it. I am hopeful you’ve pursued a new specialty as a pilot human. ”
It sounded cautious now.
Torian scowled at the ceiling. “If a human takes that long to ‘perfect’ something, why would I have a specialty at all? I’m only twenty-eight.”
“You are in training. An aspiring pilot human.”
Wow. Now it sounded like Celise.
“I can fly this ship,” she grumbled. “And I studied solar engineering. I can do both.”
“My records indicate you are also a smuggling human, something the pilot human outside confirmed. If you insist on being contrary, I can update my databanks. Pick whatever specialty you like, and I will humor you.”
So, it was eavesdropping outside, too. Awesome.
“I don’t need to pick—” Torian pressed her head into her hands. “I thought you were a delightful conversationalist.”
“I am. This is a delightful conversation. The best I’ve had in one hundred and thirty-three years.” And to its credit, the computer actually sounded pleased.
Torian paused, frowning. “How long has it been since you’ve had a conversation?”
The computer went silent for a moment, then replied, “One hundred and thirteen years. Unless you count the potted plants, but they operate on a lower level of consciousness, and their complaints are limited to ‘we need more water’ and ‘that’s too much water.’” It shifted into a whiny voice, like it had recorded the plants’ complaints and translated them into a language Torian could understand. “Plants are very dramatic.”
This might actually be the best conversation Torian had had in a while, too.
She laughed. “Plants are dramatic. When I was a teenager, I used all my money to buy an imported fern. I tried heaters, humidifiers, artificial sunlight … everything. It died anyway.” She’d nearly forgotten about that fern.
Its pot was still in her duffel bag, since that thing was expensive and true ceramic was hard to find on Colony 13.
Nostalgia colored her tone. “I named it Palm, because it’s a fern. ”
The computer replied, “That doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s the point.” Torian smirked, drumming her fingers on the table.
“A joke that is not funny. Interesting. Updating my humor module.” It continued fluidly into: “I am named Moss. Because I am moss. Although I already know who you are, you may introduce yourself. My system identifies that as an important part of new conversation.”
It had used her name before, so at the very least, it had access to ownership records for the starship. Torian briefly wondered what else it knew, but now wasn’t the time to ask. “Ah, I’m Torian Razner. You can call me Tori, if you want. Or Torian. I like both.”
“You may call me Moss. Only Moss.”
“Hello, Moss.”
“Hello, Torian.”
Torian cast another glance at the engine hatch. Still empty. Once this was over, she’d go down and sweep that room, just to be sure this wasn’t some kind of prank.
(She doubted it, now.)
Her eyes dropped to the moss she’d touched, and guilt prickled. “I’m … ah, I am sorry that I kept touching you. I didn’t realize. I grew up on Colony 13, and we don’t have a lot of plant life here. Seeing you inside this ship … it was a really nice change.”
“You said I was beautiful.”
Torian smiled. “You are beautiful.”
Moss considered that. “I am able to disconnect my sensors from specific patches of moss. If … that would make you happy.”
Torian blinked, something bubbling up her chest. Happiness?
Incredulousness? Amusement? Whatever it was, it threatened to choke her words.
“Wow, thanks. But that’s okay; especially if you aren’t comfortable with it.
” She hesitated. “There are enough potted plants—I assume they’re okay being touched? ”
“They are stupid enough to think your fingers are wind. And sixteen of the plants have submitted complaints about a ‘distinct lack of wind’ in the last decade. I will illuminate them for you. As the Destitute’s new owner, you may resolve that problem.”
Spotlights flicked onto nine of the potted plants in this room, and at least three in the cargo bay.
But Torian was already distracted. “The Destitute? Is that really this ship’s name?”
“It is certainly not the Traitor.” It paused. “Although that is a suitable name as well. Perhaps I should have considered that.”
Torian grimaced. “I’m not a traitor—”
“I was not referring to you,” Moss replied curtly.
“But he doesn’t deserve my processing power.
Are you planning to fly the ship, or just socialize?
If you would rather settle in, I will recommend that you begin by disposing of any of his personal belongings you find here.
” A sly pause. “In fact, I encourage it.”
Torian felt like she was stepping on a minefield there. She offered a nervous laugh. “Who … um, who owned this ship before? Are they still alive?”
“A dog-turd fungus. I have no knowledge of his current whereabouts. He is likely still alive; his species is exceedingly long-lived.”
Well, fuck. Torian prayed he didn’t show back up—at least, not until she had a better idea of their next step. She couldn’t relinquish this ship to some strange, ancient alien. Not until she’d visited Rhymarra and passed their citizenship exams.
Then again, it didn’t seem like Moss wanted her to give up the ship, either. That might work in her favor.
“I can’t throw away his things—” Torian started to say.
“Fallacious thinking. He is gone. And if he returns, I will hack the energy barrier in the cargo bay and jettison him into space.”
Torian stared at the ceiling.
Moss didn’t add anything else. No qualifiers. No apology.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” she said.
“I am not your secretary,” Moss retorted.
Torian snorted and pushed off the chair, climbing the short staircase to the flight deck. There was a railing, one she didn’t grab because moss covered its edge. “Well, I won’t be able to sleep now anyway. Let’s see how this thing flies.”
“Finally,” Moss said.