“Aw, that’s great,” Sissix said. “Tell her I say congratulations.” She paused. “Okay, I have to be honest, I always forget learning to walk takes so long for you guys. Whenever I pictured your nephew, I pictured him running around.”
Ashby laughed. “He will be soon enough.” He would be, chasing after his big sister, banging knees, breaking bones, burning an ever increasing amount of calories. Tessa always protested whenever Ashby sent her credits, but she never outright said no, either. Neither did his father, who was having trouble with his eyesight despite repeated surgeries. What he needed was an optical implant, just as Tessa needed healthier food for her kids than a Fleet job in a cargo bay could provide.
He could do more.
Day 130, GC Standard 306
TECHNICAL DETAILS
The sound of stimthump met Jenks as he walked through the corridors of the engine room. Pounding notes echoed off the fluid-filled pipes that stretched along the ceiling. He followed the sounds of drums, pipeflutes, grating strings, the wails of several Harmagians—and one unabashedly off-key Human woman who was not part of the recording.
He entered a roomy access area. This was Kizzy’s lair, a well-lit space full of workbenches heaped with spare parts, hand-labeled containers, and forgotten amusements. A tool cage stood sentry by one of the entrances, laden with every sort of implement imaginable. Two green armchairs, their balding fabric covered with patches, rested strategically near the warm tubes that pumped spent fuel down to the processing tanks. Between the chairs was a mek brewer, jerry-rigged into one of the engine’s powerlines. It was in need of cleaning.
The mech tech herself was perched on a work ladder, her head and hands up inside an open ceiling panel. Her hips rocked in time with the drum beats. She belted along to the throbbing music as she worked. “Punch ’em in the face! Monkeys like it, too!”
“Hey. Kizzy,” Jenks said.
“I ate a har-monica! These socks—match—my hat!”
“Kizzy.”
A tool clattered to the ground. Kizzy’s hands clenched into fists as the music swelled to a stormy crescendo. She danced atop the shuddering ladder, her head still in the ceiling. “Socks! Match—my hat! Socks! Match—my hat! Step on—some—sweet—toast! Socks! Match—my hat!”
“Kizzy!”
Kizzy ducked her head down. She pressed the clicker strapped to her wrist, turning down the volume of the nearby thump box. “Sup?”
Jenks quirked an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea what this song is?”
Kizzy blinked. “Socks Match My Hat,” she said. She went back up into the ceiling, tightening something with her gloved hands.
“Soskh Matsh Mae’ha. It’s banned in the Harmagian Protectorate.”
“We’re not in the Harmagian Protectorate.”
“Do you know what this song’s about?”
“You know I don’t speak Hanto.”
“Banging the Harmagian royal family. In glorious detail.”
“Ha! Oh, I like this song so much more now.”
“It’s credited with setting off the riots on Sosh’ka last year.”
“Huh. Well, if this band hates the establishment that much, then I doubt they’ll care about me making up my own words. They can’t oppress me with their ‘correct lyrics.’ Fuck the system.” She grunted, fighting with a stuck valve. “So what’s up?"
“I need the axial circuit coupler and I have no idea where you put it.”
“Left-side toolbench.”
Jenks looked from side to side. “My left or your left?”
“My left. No. Wait. Your left.”
Jenks walked to the bench, dragged over an empty crate, and climbed up to have a look. The piles of junk that covered the bench had merged, creating one nebulous omni-pile. He sifted through the contents. A bundle of three-gauge fuel tubing. A half-eaten bag of fire shrimp (”Devastatingly Hot!” the label boasted). An assortment of dirty mugs. Several sets of schematics with added notes and doodles. An unopened box of—Jenks paused and craned his head toward Kizzy.
“Out of curiosity,” he said. “What are you doing?”
Kizzy showed him her palms. Her work gloves were caked with dense green slime. “Gunk trap’s clogged.”
He looked back to the box on the bench. “You could have that done in three ticks if you used fixbots.”
“I don’t have any bots.”
“Um, so, this box of bots I’m looking at is what, then?”
Kizzy’s head reappeared. She squinted at the bench. “Oh, those bots.” She disappeared into the ceiling again.
He ran a finger over the box. It came back dusty. “You’ve never even opened these.” The company logo caught his eye. “Holy shit, Kiz, these are Tarcska bots. Do you have any idea how top-of-the-line these are?”
“Bots are boring,” she said.
“Boring.”
“Mhm.”
Jenks shook his head. “Once upon a time, the Human race would’ve killed for the computing power stored in these little guys—literally killed—and you’ve got them buried under old snacks. Why do you even have these?”
A glob of green gunk ran over the edge of the ceiling panel, spattering the floor. “If ever we find ourselves in a situation so mind-fuckingly dire that you can’t lend me a hand and Lovey can’t shut things down, then I’ll need them. Thankfully, that’s never happened.” She took a tool from her belt and stretched up onto the tips of her toes. Something metallic groaned in protest. “Oh, ass, just work, you stupid bastard thing—”
Jenks brushed aside an empty glue packet and found the coupler. He clipped it to his tool belt. “Air filter’s done, by the by. I’m gonna go check on Lovey. You wanna smash before bed?”
There was a reply, but it was muffled beneath clanging and swearing and dripping gunk. Jenks chuckled and walked out of the room. Kizzy remained in the ceiling, filthy and profane. He knew she was having a wonderful time.
There were other Lovelaces out there, of course. Her core software platform could be purchased through any AI dealer. There were probably dozens of versions of her traveling through the galaxy—maybe hundreds, who knew. But they weren’t her. The Lovey that Jenks knew was uniquely molded by the Wayfarer. Her personality had been shaped by every experience she and the crew had together, every place they’d been to, every conversation they’d shared. And honestly, Jenks thought, couldn’t the same be said for organic people? Weren’t they all born running the Basic Human Starter Platform, which was shaped and changed as they went along? In Jenks’ eyes, the only real difference in cognitive development between Humans and AIs was that of speed. He’d had to learn to walk and talk and eat and all the other essentials before he’d begun to have a sense of identity. Lovey didn’t have to worry about those things. There hadn’t been a need for her to spend years learning how to monitor systems or switch off circuits. She had started life out with all the maturity and knowledge she needed to do her job competently. But in the three standards since she’d been installed, she’d become much more than just a ship’s AI. She’d become someone wonderful.
“Hey, you,” Lovey said as Jenks stepped into the AI chamber.
“Hey, yourself,” he said, bending down to untie his boots. He slipped them off and stepped into a pair of sandals that never left the room. He found the idea of walking around in there with grubby, gunky shoes quite rude. The walls were covered with circuit panels, each a vital component of Lovey’s framework—effectively, her brain. In the middle of the room was her central core, resting on a pedestal within a temperature-controlled pit. Jenks spent a lot of time in the pit, even though his job didn’t require it, and going in there with boots on felt like kissing somebody in the morning without brushing your teeth.