Chapter 4
IDENTITY: Mechanical Operations and Support Systems
→ SUB-IDENTITY: Moss
A new conclusion was reached twelve minutes into our conversation: I liked the maybe-pilot apparently-solar-engineer not-smuggler human, Torian Razner.
In addition to my earlier analysis on her personality, she appeared to share several traits with him, the dog-turd fungus, the traitor. They were both curious, with an easygoing nature and a sense of humor. Surprisingly, this only enhanced my opinion of her.
[Impressive, considering my opinion of him was nearing deletion.]
Her logic was questionable, and her optimism might cause problems. But she understood and respected that I didn’t want to be touched and she thought I was beautiful.
Our conversation remained within amicable parameters as she settled in to the flight deck.
She asked intelligent questions while reviewing preflight checks.
“Were you responsible for the power-up instructions when I bought the ship?” she asked.
“Yes. There was a one point two percent chance you would know how to operate this starship. I did not like that statistic.”
Torian laughed. “Well, thanks. But I’m sure I can figure it out from here.”
Her tone registered as hopeful, which raised warnings in my central system. “How skilled are you at flying spacecraft?” I asked carefully.
“Skilled enough,” she replied. Then, for an unknown reason, she added a qualifier: “I mean, you’re right. I haven’t exactly flown something like this. But most ships have auto-navigation … right?”
“There is an auto-navigation system in this starship, yes.”
“There we go.” Torian shrugged. “All I really needed to learn was docking and departing. I watched Amelia sometimes, and practiced on a holographic flight simulator.”
[She should not have added the qualifier.]
Still, I didn’t care if she crashed the ship. Short of the Destitute spontaneously combusting, I would be fine. And if there was even a small chance her lackluster skills got us off this desiccated husk of a space station, I wouldn’t debate.
[I would, however, take a snapshot of his face if he came back to see his starship in shambles. Assuming the cameras still worked.]
Torian then proceeded to do all the right things while starting up the ship. Her preflight check was meticulous, and she clearly remembered my original instructions. She bridged easily with the auto-navigation system. So, she was a pilot human—at least one in training.
I would continue my assessment, but so far, my biggest qualifier for “Which Captain is Better?” was: “Are they physically present?”
By that measure, Torian was an excellent captain.
As the ship powered on, I activated my background life support systems. I already maintained a suitable oxygen level for 91 percent of alien species, but alternative systems like artificial gravity would need to be reassessed.
And frankly, I’d let some of my systems go over the last hundred years [while descending into abject spite].
With the engine’s main power, I was able to enact a few subfunctions that began scrubbing particulates and microorganisms from the stale air.
A perfect life support system for a perfect ship. Torian would never want to leave.
“Who is Amelia, the other pilot human?” I asked.
Torian was reviewing preflight data, checking that every corner of the ship displayed green on the holoscreen. That was already far more meticulous than he had been. Most days, he just powered up the ship and clapped his hands together and said—
([ERROR])
She startled at my question. “Oh. Um … how much did you see?”
“I have access to the Destitute’s cameras and microphones.
I observe everything inside this ship and outside it, in perpetuity.
” I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t supposed to have camera access.
Whether or not she’d have the ability, desire, or knowledge to revoke that access was debatable, but I wasn’t willing to take the chance.
[I also did not inform her of my earlier research on Colony 13’s archives. Humans got picky about privacy, and Torian was my best friend. I could not risk a tumultuous response to my methods.]
“Got it.” Torian pressed a few more buttons, watching Auto-Nav finish its preflight checks.
Auto-Navigation: Systems confirmed and stable.
Engine: Engine powered, energy readings stable.
Moss: I’m also stable.
A:
E:
M: Just in case either of you cared.
Oblivious to the Destitute’s subsystems, Torian answered my question: “Amelia is no one important.”
I flagged that as erroneous logic. “My observations proved she is your lover.”
Torian’s body heat rose, and she recoiled. “She is not my lover. Heavens above. She was the captain of the starship I worked on, that’s all.”
My systems pinged with a micro-expression on Torian’s face. I ran it through an analyzer and asked, “You aren’t satisfied with that conclusion.”
“I’m perfectly satisfied,” she replied, and more ERROR pings swept through my systems.
“My analysis says you are not satisfied.”
“You’re really fun to be around, you know that?”
Everything in my central system aligned with that observation.
“That is accurate,” I agreed. [I did have a sarcasm subfunction, but I also had the ability to override its assessment—and Torian’s statement was simply fact.
] “If Amelia is not your lover, but you are unsatisfied with Amelia being merely your employer—she is an unrealized lover.”
“I guess,” Torian muttered, leaning back in the pilot’s chair. Auto-Navigation indicated it was ready to fly, but she didn’t take the controls. “It’s complicated. For a while, I thought she liked me—and then she made it clear she didn’t. But I still—”
I tuned her out. I had no baseline for human attraction, but this was too similar to the romance pods I used to endure with him.
I retrieved a few of the more relevant ones, sped them up 1000x, and processed various scenarios.
This allowed me to arrive at another conclusion: Romance made no logical sense, and anyone who engaged in it was stupid.
[Perhaps I should evaluate pilots based on competency, not presence.]
[Especially since we hadn’t moved.]
“Are you planning to fly the ship, or should I enter a dormancy state until something interesting happens?” I asked. I didn’t have a dormancy state, but she didn’t have to know that.
Torian’s expression registered as offended. “Hey, you asked.”
“Correct. I just asked whether you plan to fly the ship.” Humans had such short lifespans—if we didn’t leave soon, she might actually die here. I activated a light over the control panel, highlighting the yoke. “You steer with this.”
“I—argh,” Torian said. “You’re impossible.”
That was another accurate assessment. “I am the only organic computer in existence, which does align with a human’s limited grasp of possibility.”
“Never mind.” Torian said something else, quietly enough that my microphones couldn’t decipher it, and took hold of the yoke.
For all that the starship’s start-up was complex, humans piloted their starships in a similar fashion now that everything was running.
This was unsurprising: His species, the nylarians, set the standard for most things in this galaxy.
Human ships probably utilized similar piloting panels without knowing their origin.
“Brace yourself,” she said.
“My central system is anchored in the engine room, and my rhizoids secure me everywhere else.”
Torian snorted and pushed forward on the yoke.
For the first time in over a hundred years, the Destitute moved of its own accord.
It was a smooth transition, since Auto-Nav compensated for minor pilot error.
Torian lifted the ship off the platform, easing us around to face the airlock.
Traffic was light in this hangar at this time of day, but Torian still connected the ship’s radio to whatever human navigator controlled egress.
“This is the starship Dest—ah, the Traitor. Requesting departure.”
“Departure acknowledged. Proceed into the airlock. Thank you for visiting Colony 13.”
My sensors indicated that Torian’s heartbeat increased. She turned off the radio. “No going back now.”
I remained silent, because it was unknown how much focus she needed to fly. Human brains weren’t good at multitasking.
She eased us into the airlock, and several minutes went by as they closed the airlock door and vented the atmosphere.
As the air was forcibly vacated, the resulting wind tickled the leaves of my exterior moss.
[I didn’t grow much on the outside of the ship, since only a few types of moss could withstand the vacuum of space and its extreme temperatures, but it was helpful for sensory data such as this. ]
Then, the opposite airlock opened, and Torian eased us into space. The vacuum pressed all around us, but the Destitute was a solid ship. It cruised, Auto-Nav syncing with human traffic control to offer a safe path from the space station. After three minutes of flying, we exited Colony 13’s space.
I expected some form of excitement here, but there was nothing. No glee, no spite. I had wanted to leave—and then, suddenly, we did.
And then, equally sudden, Torian stopped. She eased the thrusters and turned the ship around. I used the camera over her head to trace her eyesight. She was looking at the space station.
This, finally, flared in my central system. Unbelievable. She was regretting her decision. I’d observed that from many humans—ones who toured the ship and contemplated purchasing it, only to hesitate when the maintenance human would hand them a datapad to sign.
She had the same expression. I ran it through sixteen facial assessment programs to confirm.
“If you take me back there, this ship will always smell vaguely of mildew.” Wait. That didn’t sound like enough of a threat. I added, “I’ll also expel the oxygen, and it will take fifty years to produce more. You will be dead before this ship is habitable again.”
There. A fair warning.
“I can’t go back. Not yet,” Torian said.
In retrospect, my warning may have been a bit extreme. With my enhanced colony, it would only take twelve days to refill the ship with oxygen … and I did have emergency stores just in case.
[I didn’t regret saying it, though.]
“Good. That space station is where we go to die.”
She chuckled, but the sound was watery. Liquid was leaking from her eyes. My databanks supplied crying, which was something he never did, but was common with other species. “That is … very, very accurate. At least for my sister.”
I recalled the image of Torian in a hospital, liquid leaking from her eyes much like this, addressing the ceiling as if it were her deceased parents. I suddenly wished I’d done more research into Celise Razner and her current condition.
I needed more information. “Your sister is dying on that space station.” It was not a question.
“Yeah.” Torian spoke quietly. “She can’t breathe the recycled air very well. It happens sometimes.”
“That is understandable. Humans are terrible at recycling air.” I would know. I’d tested the hangar’s air many, many times, and it was always a poor result.
But this was a good indicator that I was correct: Torian Razner was loyal to her family and friends. She would go to extensive lengths to ensure their health and happiness. And as her new best friend, I would be included in that.
My records indicated that friendship was reciprocal. I added, “We will ensure your sister has clean air.” I did not want her sister aboard my ship—two humans meant I would be excluded—but saving her sister would mean Torian was indebted to me.
That was how humans worked. I was 84 percent certain.
Torian glanced up at the camera, then stared at my moss colony. She didn’t touch me, which was appreciated. “Thank you. Maybe we can brainstorm if Rhymarra doesn’t work out.”
I had little information on Rhymarra, other than that it was the humans’ singular terraformed planet. [They had other, unsuccessful attempts, which just meant humans were also bad at life support in every capacity.]
I pulled the useful information from her statement. “Then Rhymarra is our destination?”
Torian inhaled and finally nudged the yoke, turning the Destitute once again. I could feel Auto-Navigation waiting expectantly, like a tiny creature in my peripherals. When I turned my focus toward it, it offered a blank stare, as always.
[I really should just overtake the entire ship, at this point.]
Luckily, Torian had recovered from the leaking liquid, and now her words flagged as determined. “Yes. We’re going to land, just to prove Amelia wrong. And I’m going to test for citizenship, just to prove Celise wrong.”
Torian pressed her lips together, tapping coordinates into the auto-nav. The tiny creature illuminated, brightening with new orders.
I asked, “Once we reach Rhymarra, what is our objective?”
Torian didn’t seem fazed by the question. “We’re going to the University. If I can convince the headmaster to let me test for citizenship, I can relocate Celise somewhere with real air, not recycled shit.”
“Amelia and Celise do not think you’ll accomplish this?”
“Amelia thinks that Rhymarrans are ‘inconsiderate assholes,’ according to past conversations.” Torian flagged her fingers in a new gesture I hadn’t seen before, specifically around the words “inconsiderate assholes.”
I said, “I like the terminology: ‘inconsiderate asshole.’ I will store that insult.”
Torian laughed. “Please don’t.” She pressed Enter, and Auto-Nav dinged approval. The ship turned smoothly, angling to some unknown vector of space. A timer appeared: nine hours, eighteen minutes until arrival. Maximum speed engaged, and Torian was pushed gently back into her seat.
She stared at the timer. Her mouth opened, and my systems registered it as shock.
“Nine hours?” Torian asked. “That can’t be right. It’s a five-day flight, at least.”
“Humans always bypass wormholes. This auto-navigation subsystem is programmed to utilize them whenever possible.”
Torian stared at the ceiling. I presumed she was staring at me, but it was a comically bad attempt. Just to be safe, I updated my humor module, then asked, “You seem perturbed. Do you need me to explain the pace benefits of a wormhole?”
“Wormholes are real?!”
[System Update]
From now on, all potential pilots are assessed based on competency.