The cavernous spaceship ate him. Swallowed efficiently by the long cargo hold of the lightyear class spaceship, the human talked his way through the minor repair, complaining every ten seconds on average. Rora counted each one using less than .00004% of its computing power.
Muting his grumble on every channel except the autopilot had the desired effect: quiet—grand and majestic. Tilting its head up, the robot stood still as only a machine could, locked in the cockpit of Epsilon. Above its alumaflesh, the view window displayed a hundred galaxies spinning out their existence, burning into eternity.
Touching the port panels, Rora A8302 absorbed their distant light while the ship rocketed onward, fumbling towards its destination. Colony Earth 926 needed to be settled. Epsilon was the cheapest cargo ship available for the freight of zygotes, genetically prepared vegetation, and edible, hardy stock animals. All to create another Entertainment Planet. And Multi-Global Corporate was only willing to gamble a little. Credits equaled expense. People equaled supplies needed. And so Epsilon Pi 15 set out with human genes, five living adults and a fourth generation AI.
Rora knew all that. The data was clear. The colony would need technical help to establish. Knowledge would be lost without Rora’s presence. Settling a distant planet, far out of the way of the main settlements posed risks. Rora assessed everything.
This ship was the best option of 105,398 available.
Now, the Adjunct Human Interface stood in the shelter of the wobbling ship, speeding across the explored universe. Every twenty-four hours of travel was another length of space and constructed time away from the ongoing wars. And that had value. Peace had value.
And something more. New data.
About a year into their colonial terraforming journey, Rora found an unexpected connection. A merging so ethereal, the robotic computing mind could not describe the sensation. It began when the digits of its alumaflesh connected to the plasteel of the ship. And only on the stardeck of the pilot room, only there. It was impossible to define in numbers. But the robot felt something. Felt whole. Felt gigantic. Felt.
Home.
All records were tabulated, the results examined: results inconclusive. The ship itself had only a basic functioning navigation system complete with a sturdy bootlegged version of SpaceNav autopilot. It kept seizing up every few months. There was no trace of a bug or malware. But there was something, something living within the Epsilon. Rora could not find the numbers to describe it. Sensation didn’t make the daily report. Indefinable data was unconfirmed information: undocumented. Each interaction with the ship reinforced the AHI’s curiosity. It could be static, space noise. Rora checked the connection, searching for explanation, finding nothing abnormal.
As hard as the robot looked, the old ship gave away no secrets. Rora didn’t mind the odd. It folded into the patterns aboard ship. Epsilon needed constant maintenance. Each machine lived up to its programming, nothing more. Nothing less. For now, Rora watched, waiting for the eventual explanation.
Silence wrapped around its unblinking eyes, winding through the statue of its form. Immobile, resting as machines do, renewing, restoring, repairing, Rora estimated the spacetime by watching the gases of a thousand dying stars. Each second, every minute on board was filled with a million computations; Rora absorbed it all. Stars and numerals, infinity and space, zeroes and ones all marched into one single file screen inside the robot’s systems.
On only one channel did the human mewl and struggle. Everywhere else, there was a simplicity to the vast universe just beyond the cockpit windows.
The outer door decompressed. Jonat returned, sullen as a trapped octopus. The commander did not speak to Rora. His attitude continued to sour as it had steadily for the last five years.
“Two hours until handoff, sir.”
“Freckles, believe me I know. I realize what day it is. I count every damn second.” Walking over to the stainless plasteel surface near the door, the human looked at his reflection. Wildness, the kind of special crazy that only comes from living on a desert island for years, talking only to a shiny bit of seashell—that kind of insanity. Madness looked right back at Jonat Rutherford, matching him glare for glare. With a gob of spit, he smoothed back the frizz of his hair and then nodded at his reflection.
It was not an improvement.
“At least for a few hours I get to talk to an actual person. Bet you’re thrilled, eh, Freckles?”
He spoke, but expected no answer. Rora was a machine, nothing more.
A few minutes later, a red light started blinking on the ship schematics. And Jonat’s tirade flared back to life as he ranted through yet another repair in the endless stream of his days.
“...and you’ll need to keep an eye on the decompressors. Specifically, the ones on decks R, M, and in the engine room. They’ve been tricky for the last six months.” Jonat continued his report, adding in any details he needed to pass on.
Words came out of his mouth like a flash flood, crashing over the head of Commander Jean Denton Basel. She nodded as he spoke, still trying to wake from her five year sleep. Besides, everything he mentioned was right there in her hands, listed by order of importance and by date.
Rora followed the two humans, carrying Jonat’s bottle of rum and five frozen Atlantic penguins in a cryobox. Jonat mentioned a few more times his plans to penguin farm when the ship arrived. When the ship arrived... That’s when life began again.
For Jonat and the other humans, this time between planets was a horrible nightmare: the sleeping, the hurtling through space, the disconnect from every particle of past, every memory of Earth. Boring, repetitive, full of clerical reports and repairs, being awake on the Epsilon was not being alive. It was only the half-waking of the damned sailors who signed on to venture out to the edges of the constellations. Only a way station between residences.
The new commander, Jean, didn’t mind Jonat’s barrage of words, but most of her responses were clipped. Efficient. Assessing.
When the assessment was done, all three of them ended up back at the cryochambers. The fifth room had JONAT RUTHERFORD on the plaque across the door. His personal sleeping quarters. The time had come to sleep again.
Motioning to the AHI to place the frozen penguins by the airlock, the old man stepped over the seal. Jean and Rora waited at the door. When Jonat settled into his bunk, he finally stopped talking. Staring at the doorway with hooded eyes, there was a hunger in his gaze. Every blink revealed a glimmer of insanity. A need for the empty hand of sleep to grab ahold of him and pull him into the unlife of cryosleepers. A longing to wake up, already at their destination.
The awkward silence between the humans was a farewell of sorts.
The newly-awakened commander stepped back, away from the pressurized door. She saluted, and pressed four buttons. Activated, the forcefield around the sleeping area sealed, cryosleep humafreeon filled the air inside. A limited forcefield on the chamber doorhatch kept any residue from leaking out of the compartment.
“One Rutherford popsicle: done,” Jean commented aloud. That was remarkable. And it was the funniest thing she said for the next three years.
While Jean slept twelve hours, the AHI waited. Rora watched the stars as each ball of light crossed the solar windshields of Epsilon. Repairs continued. Each time the new thirty-six hour shift started, Jean spoke less frequently.