But Sasha had instructed me to take heart from the fact that no less than three of the ship’s androids were assigned to the farm and would handle the real as well as the intellectual heavy lifting. No, my role was to supervise and provide something the instruction disk called “psycho-reinforcement,” but sounded a lot like petting. So, armed with my newfound knowledge and the very best of intentions, I headed for the farm. It was located about two-thirds of the way down the length of the ship’s hull and consisted of two sections.
The first was reminiscent of the way a revolver works. Nine cylinders rotated around a central axis, but rather than bullets, each chamber contained a thirty-foot-long hydroponics tank. Rather than using soil, which was heavy and therefore expensive, the tanks contained trays full of water mixed with nutrients. Each tank was shielded against radiation, received sunlight via external solar collectors, and had its own internal irrigation system.
Rotating as they did around a central axis, the tanks paused in each of the nine possible positions for two hours at a time. Retractable decking slid into place and allowed my robotic assistants to open the chamber and take care of the more mundane chores like seeding, trimming, and harvesting. And what a harvest it was!
I arrived on the maintenance deck just in time to see the androids remove the last of some basketball-sized tomatoes. One of the robots, a rather functional-looking unit with four legs and three arms, spotted me and minced over. Multi-colored paint drippings covered him from sensors to foot pads. They were the residue of a maintenance assignment, and the source of the nickname: Picasso. Like most higher-order androids, Picasso had the ability to supplement his original programming through on-the-job experience, and his speech reflected that fact. “Hey, dude…what’s happening?”
“I’ve been assigned to run the farm.”
“All right! ‘Bout time the captain sent a bio bod down here. The veggies are fine but the aniforms are antsy as hell. We shoot the breeze with ’em, and shovel their shit, but it ain’t the same. Come on…I’ll take you into section two.”
I followed the robot past the still-open module. Though smaller than Picasso, and built more like spiders, the other androids stood waist-high and were equipped with all sorts of highly specialized sensors, cutters, and grabbers. Picasso handled the introductions. “The one with the stickers all over his torso is known as Decal, and the other one prefers the official designator of Agrobot Model XII.”
Decal was the more friendly of the two and trundled right up. “Could I have the privilege of knowing your name, sir?”
“You can call me Max.”
“Thank you, Mr. Max. Your predecessor programmed me to generate large quantities of alcohol. A surplus has accumulated since his death. Should I make more, or wait for you to consume existing supplies first?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I won’t need as much as my predecessor did. Save what you have but don’t make any more.”
To the extent that a machine can look relieved, this one did, and rolled away. Picasso explained as we walked towards section two. “You made his day. Operating the still ran counter to his main mission and made him less efficient than specs called for. The result was an internal dissonance that had to be resolved. Yeah, nothing bothers a droid more than countervailing objectives, and we get ’em all the time. No offense intended.”
“And none taken,” I assured him. “Humans provide each other with countervailing objectives every day.”
Picasso turned a paint-splotched sensor in my direction. “Really? How strange. Well, it’s like I tell the others: ‘They were smart enough to invent us, so they must know what they’re doing.’“
I wasn’t so sure, but it didn’t seem appropriate to say so. The hatch slid open and we entered section two. The rich, almost sweet smell of animal feces filled the air. I decided to breathe through my mouth. Even though I knew what to expect, the reality of it surprised me. The aniforms saw us and started to moo, bleat, grunt, and cackle. Cubicles lined both sides of the corridor, and each one contained one or more biologically engineered life forms. The cows came first.
Like their distant ancestors many times removed, the cows had heads with ears, eyes, and mouths, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Necks that had been long were shorter now and connected to rectangular bodies that rested within identical stainless-steel boxes. Legs had been deemed unnecessary and eliminated, along with tails and carefully selected bones. They all looked alike, which wasn’t surprising, since they were clones. The aniforms had been designed for one thing and one thing only: meat. The mooing had grown to almost frantic intensity as nineteen pairs of big brown eyes stared into my face and begged me to make contact. It seemed as though something unexpected had occurred during the long process that created them.
Not only had each successive generation of cows become a little bit smarter, they had become more emotionally dependent as well, until ongoing social interaction had evolved from something they tolerated to something they couldn’t do without. And the same was true of the sheep, pigs, and chickens.
And that was my function, to visit them on a regular basis, and keep them happy. Failure to do so resulted in steady weight loss and tougher meat. Which explained why the captain and the cook were so concerned. “Go ahead,” Picasso shouted over the din, “pet them.”
Having never touched a farm animal before, I was scared. I reached out to the nearest cow and its head met my hand. The aniform’s hair felt short and wiry. I ran my hand up towards the top of its head and saw its eyes close in ecstasy. A shiver ran through its black-and-white-spotted body and reminded me of the moment when Sasha had kissed my cheek.
Was the cow feeling the same warmth I had? If so, I could understand the importance of the contact. But there was no way to tell, and I continued to stroke the cow’s head. The thought of killing, much less eating, the aniform made me sick.
Droids aren’t supposed to feel emotions, but I would have sworn that Picasso sounded wistful. “An android can pet them all day long without the slightest sign of pleasure. A human comes along and they go crazy. Why?”
I gave the first cow a final pat and moved to the next one. “Beats me. Some kind of evolutionary linkage or something?”
“Maybe,” Picasso said doubtfully, “but it still seems strange.”
Time passed, and Picasso turned his attention to shoveling shit. I was halfway through the cows and well on my way to the sheep when the captain called. Her voice came from a speaker mounted over my head. There was a vid cam as well but duct tape covered the lens. “Hey, Maxon, you there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. He’s actually doing some work for a change.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, get your ass to the bridge. We got trouble.”
There was a cacophony of disappointed moos, baas, grunts, and cackles as I turned towards the hatch and made my way forward. “What kind of trouble?”
“Bad trouble. It seems that Lester made a move on your skinny-assed friend and she put a dart through what was left of his brain.”
“He deserved it.”
The captain’s voice followed me through the hatch. “Probably…but that’s beside the point. Lester was our engineer and we needed him.”
“Give me a break. This ship has backups for its backups. I assume Lester was no exception.”
There was a long silence followed by the sound of the captain clearing her throat. “Well, Lester was supposed to have a fully qualified assistant, but I couldn’t find anyone to fill the position.”