28
Leaving the Orbital Station''s synthesis lab, V47 Pilot received a sudden maintenance alert. He slipped unexpectedly into power-save mode, dropping speed and strength by fifty percent. Scanning his own systems, he reported,
"I require hydration, feed-stock and charge. There is danger of imminent shutdown."
He stood at the windy edge of a vast construction bay, regarding his own projected status-panel with a certain amount of surprise. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. It couldn''t have, as he''d never left his battle-mech. Over their link, V47 replied,
''There are comestibles, fluids and charge ports available at the Station Commissary and lounge, Pilot. Updating vocabulary for common usage. Earlier sentients would announce: "I am hungry"- example statement one. "Let us obtain drinks"- example statement two. "Time to hit the O-Club"- example statement three. End update.''
Oh.
"Acknowledged and filed, V. I am hungry. My available mass is low, and I require a drink."
An immediate route through the station appeared, labeled and rotating inside their shared workspace. If he accessed a ferry, the lounge wasn''t far. Better yet, manna was plentiful, and he could always power down further, aboard the vehicle. Scanning, he saw that the earlier transport hovered nearby, awaiting useful activity.
He signaled it over, then stepped off the edge of the gantry and onto the open deck. The vehicle bobbed slightly as it adjusted to his weight, then corrected. Its friendly AI accepted his directions, pulling smoothly away from the lab, then shooting across that noisy construction bay.
There were no raw materials or hydration tubes present, but it took less than a quarter candle-mark to reach his goal, and the pilot''s discomfort was not yet critical. The distance crossed was 74.271 miles, during which time he listened to the onboard AI''s small hoard of jokes. Researched food and eating, as well, having no previous experience with either. Seemed very simple and casual in the show-vids. An easily managed process… Right?
''Querying passenger: shall this transport unit await V47 Pilot''s return?'' inquired the simple, eager AI, once they''d come to a halt by the Station''s crew liberty deck.
"Replying: yes. Await my return, please. Duration of stay uncertain."
Not that it mattered. The transport had nothing else to do and no one but V47 Pilot to ferry. There were 22,729 other robots and cyborgs on-station, but these kept to their places; attending to the same mindless tasks they''d performed since first powering up. None of them ever traveled or… as Ace would put it, in Rogue Flight… would ever have needed a lift.
He thanked the transport, unlinking himself from its onboard intelligence. Uploaded three jokes he''d learned from the Skelter Mass Show, causing a burst of joy in the transport''s friendly, canine-stock brain. As if… for some reason, the pilot got a sudden image of himself throwing a ball for an eagerly jumping small animal. Strange.
"I''ll be back," he said, patting the vehicle''s hull. "Commanding local transport unit: recharge and access Station Net in the interim."
''Command received and accepted, V47 Pilot.''
Good. It would keep busier, that way, and might learn better humor than: Why did the pilot fly? Because it was too far to walk.
The Station schematics were still open in his fore-mind workspace, displaying the docking tunnel with Cerulean Dream, as well as 256 shops and comestible stations.
''Bars and restaurants, Pilot,'' corrected V47, who''d been doing considerable research. ''Also, the Officers Club and Commissary.'' Both of which V47 outlined for him on that colorful, rotating map.
"Yes. Thank you, V."
It was just… a very different place than shown on his ancient schematic; dark, silent and empty. He began moving forward, passing through a wide portal, into a space marked "Mall". His footfalls echoed and rang on the deck. Glow panels activated, shops lighting up along his projected path. Jaunty music began to play, adapting itself to his processing speed. But fifty feet in, the pilot stopped walking.
"Querying Orbital Station Intelligence: Are you able to project sensory feed of a time when the crew recreation mall was in use?"
The station''s AI responded at once.
''Affirmative, V47 Pilot. I am able to do so. Is it your request that sensory feed be projected? There are 256,018.4 hours of archived material.''
Orbital Station Intelligence seemed delighted by the prospect.
"Affirm. Please commence archived sensory feed from a point in the past with many sentients present and much activity."
A femto-tick later, the pilot found himself in the midst of a bustling, noisy commerce hub. Knots of sentients… elven, dwarven and orc-derived… strolled through the mall, spending credits, talking and laughing. They…
V47 Pilot glanced down at himself. Picked up three-sixty imaging from the mall scanners, as well. Saw shining chrome and pale flesh. For the first time, he perceived himself to be naked; wearing nothing but rank decals, Gold Flight insignia and a safe-load sticker. Everyone else in that ghostly crowd sported clothing. Fortunately, no one could see him, as they weren''t really present to scan.
Once again, V47 came to his aid, highlighting a shop called "The Well-Dressed Elf", on their shared schematic. The walk took a subjective eternity, so he down-clocked his awareness, using the time to observe the crowd, rewatch four seasons of Battle for Arda and research clothing. There was a great deal to learn.
The shop''s AI was eager to help, once he arrived and went in.
"Welcome, Pilot-Sir!" it enthused, manifesting itself as a tall, dark-haired male of tiefling stock. "How may we be of assistance?"
It was already scanning his measurements and credit balance which (after 2000+ years) was considerable. He now commanded a fortune of 158,000,000,063.52 credits, with Gold Flight''s joint account open, as well.
"I require clothing, Shop-Tech. I have researched what was worn in the projected era, and request a similar…"
''Outfit,'' supplied V47, subvocally.
"Outfit," repeated the pilot.
"Very good, Sir," the AI acknowledged, summoning a swarm of drones and two fabrication-bots. In just over 31 ticks, the pilot was dressed in a white shirt, tan breeches, dark boots and "underclothing" (which no one was meant to see, but apparently mattered).
Just before leaving the shop, the pilot purchased a roomy, vath-leather jacket with eight pockets and a local star-map printed inside. He examined himself in the uploaded view provided by seventeen hovering drones. Dressed this way, he did not look at all like a cyborg asset. He looked like a full-stock biological sentient, except for his silvery hands. Very strange and unsettling.
"You are quite attractive, Sir," said the shop''s AI, smiling. "Even by the standards of your origin species. Proper attire adds polish; elegance. Please come again, and inform others of our services, if our humble effort has pleased you."
The pilot stretched his facial muscles in an awkward smile, sending: Request acknowledged.
"I will do so," he promised.
Had to accustom himself to the feel and rub of clothing, as he walked out into the mall and projected crowd. It was easy enough to shunt the sensation into an autonomic sub-routine, along with breathing, blinking and upright posture.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
By this time, his hydration and feed discomfort were becoming acute. Fortunately, the lounge was no more than twelve yards away, set into the heavy docking link between Cerulean Dream and the orbital station. The words "Officers Club" circled the portal repeatedly, posted in glowing white runes.
Despite hunger and thirst, the pilot halted to observe the projected throng passing in and out through the O-Club portal. Did his best to match his facial expression and stance to theirs.
There were scanners and lenses everywhere, so he could see his own face and adjust its muscles accordingly. His posture was overly rigid and tense, he noticed. Most male sentients he saw had adopted a casual slouch.
Took him almost an entire tick to get the right stance and expression, then to code a subroutine to maintain them. Laughter, now… the way that voices rose and fell, pausing for emphasis, matched with gesture and facial movement… Well, that was going to need further work.
He instinctively avoided colliding with archived sentients as he made his way in through the O-Club''s scanning field. They did not react to his presence unless he impeded their progress. Then, the station AI took over, creating interaction and dialogue. Didn''t happen very often.
The lounge was crowded and busy inside. Brightly lit, with a foyer, many tables and booths and a bar at which one might feed. Some of the tables floated. There were holographic displays rather than portholes, each one depicting the surface of a different world. Music tinkled and clanged, mixing with hundreds of conversations and the sounds of metal implements scraping dura-ware. It was all very stimulating. More than the mall had been, even. The pilot muted his sensory feed to a quarter normal Baud rate. That helped.
The club intelligence manifested itself as a smiling, ungendered half-orc in silvery robes.
"Handshake sent, Pilot-Sir! Welcome to Orbital Station 1210 Officers Club! Scans indicate that your feed-mass levels are critically low. Please follow me as I lead you to a place of refreshment, Sir." Then, "Is the esteemed pilot expecting company, this time-unit?"
Company? He looked around. Everyone else was in pairs, at least. Most in Flight-sized groups… but they were all just archived projections. Here and now, there was nobody present but V47 Pilot and his silent, ride-along mech. The promotion meant that he could now order companionship, so…
"I would like to requisition a companion," the pilot responded.
"Very good, Sir. Please glance into the scan unit."
A security drone zipped around to hover in front of his face, projecting a green rectangle into which he focused his gaze. There was a small, dancing spot at its center, giving him something to look at. Meanwhile, the club''s intelligence accessed his open memory, scanning all that he''d seen and experienced outside of battle, noting whatever had caught his interest. Then came a torrent of images, which were subconsciously glimpsed, allowing the Club tech to gauge his responses. At last, the AI pared down the flood to a single image; a lithe, slim female of half-elven stock. She had golden-brown hair and pale eyes, with a sprinkle of tiny melanin-dots crossing her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
Unexplained tension, warmth and emotion rose in the places where flesh united with metal and plastic. He nodded, sending affirmation, as well.
"Yes. That is the companion I seek," he added aloud, causing the half-orc to bow.
"Very good, Sir. A truly superb selection. One moment, as she is produced and imprinted."
Two femtos past half a tick later, the companion materialized out of manna and ready-mass. She stood there before him. Real; not a projection, at all. Her body, like his, was largely cyborg, its torso and limbs partly concealed by a flowery dress and low-heeled boots. She looked around, seeming very newly produced. Very uncertain.
"You will need to take ownership, Sir," said the club intelligence. With a gesture, the half-orc caused her dress to part and a panel to open in the companion''s abdomen. A small compartment appeared, containing a T-shaped handgrip.
Following transmitted instructions, he reached into the compartment and took hold of the handgrip. Data passed in both directions, and then the business was done. The companion was his, and would follow commands as long as he chose to retain her services. Which… was not how he''d visualized the arrangement.
Withdrawing his hand, he watched as the panel slid shut and her dress resealed. Smiling at him, the pretty companion ducked her head.
"Good ship-day, Pilot. I am for you," you said, in a whisper.
"Foryu?" he repeated carefully, wanting to sound like he wasn''t entirely new at this, promoted only that day.
"For you," she corrected. "I am for you, Pilot. I am your companion."
…which somehow compounded the wrongness. He said,
"You are Foryu, a… sentient of Orbital Station. If you experience hunger or thirst, we can correct that status condition here at the club."
Prompted by some glimmering half-thought, he turned slightly, offering Foryu his bent arm. After a moment, she slipped her own limb through his, smiling so that twin, tiny pits formed in her cheeks. This was a thing that only occurred when she smiled, and he soon came to look for it.
Companionship acquired, he next followed the half-orc to a booth in a quieter region of the club. The pilot seated Foryu, then himself, sliding onto a padded synthetic wood bench. Here, his senses were scanned again, this time with food in mind. The menu meant nothing to him, otherwise, except for hints he''d picked up from watching drama videos.
Thousands of flavors and images flashed through his cortex in brief, micro-tick pulses, leaving him wanting to vomit up the ten-thousand meals he hadn''t just eaten.
"Your preference would seem to be mead and hand-meals comprising warmed bread, meat and cheese, with mayne-sauce, Sir," the club-tech informed him. Then, nodding at Foryu, causing her to glow in his viewfield, the tech went on. "And, for the companion, Sir?"
She was newly created, with an imprinted personality and basic data. There were no preferences to scan. On the other hand, in most episodes of Rogue Flight, Boomer was shown to be passionately fond of fried potatoes with katsu.
"The lady will have a large serving of fried potatoes, with katsu on the side, mead and… and after that, barberry cloud cream."
Their orders appeared within the tick, conjured from manna and ready-mass. The newly made food was hot. It emitted vapors, increasing the pilot''s discomfort. There was a moment of trouble, then, because he wanted thirst and hunger to cease, but wasn''t at all sure how to convert that piled feed-stock into consumable mass.
"I think," said Foryu, lifting a fry and dipping it into the katsu, "that the food is placed in the mouth, then converted to paste with the help of internal fluids and chewing. Then it is swallowed."
V47 provided a number of helpful diagrams, too. Meanwhile, Foryu modeled the process. She did not exhibit the same delight that Boomer… Tasha… always did in the show-vid.
"Is the taste unpleasant?" he asked.
Foryu cocked her head to one side.
"I have not been coded to derive pleasure from eating, Pilot. Just from being with you. I neither enjoy nor dislike fried potatoes."
Well, anything that put off dealing with his own food a little bit longer was something to cling to, so he envisaged and wrote a brief code string.
"I have adjusted your program. From this point on, you will taste and respond to the food''s ambient chemistry, Foryu."
The pace of her chewing altered then, as did the muscles in her face. She smiled once again, causing the pits (dimples, according to V47) to reappear on her cheeks.
"You should eat, Pilot. Hydrate, and then try some of your food. It isn''t difficult, after the first bite."
He nodded, resolute as a dwarven Marine. Took a deep breath. Committed to the thing. Drinking he''d already experienced, back at the synthesis lab, and mead was far better than head-hooch. Eating, though…
You had to bite and tear loose a chunk of the food, then crush it with teeth and fluids. Then, when sufficiently softened, you swallowed. To his credit, the pilot only choked twice. Managed the business pretty well, after that.
Was very soon able to speak aloud while dealing with food. Not that they had much to talk about. Foryu was newly created, and the pilot had little experience outside of battle. His companion made it easy to open up about what he was doing here. Why he''d left the cockpit, at all.
"I woke up," he told Foryu, "and I wanted to stay that way. There has to be more than just fighting, and I wanted to find it."
Looking thoughtful, his companion said,
"To serve one''s purpose is the highest good, is it not?"
"That is in my coding also," he admitted. "But, what if our code, our running instructions, have failed to update? What if we are facing a new situation with old files and outdated orders?"
Her fried potatoes were gone, along with her mead. Now, Foryu started on the dura-glass dish of barberry cloud cream.
"What has changed?" she wondered, taking another sip from her refilled mead. "What new situation have you encountered, Pilot, for which altered commands must be given?"
A good question. There was only so fast you could eat, so they''d both clocked back their response time to nearly full biological. Now, the pilot said,
"All that I have are questions, Foryu. Why is the Station empty, except for the cyborg and robot sentients who defend and maintain it? Why are we still fighting a war with the Draugr? What are they? Who are we dying out here, to protect?"
She shook her head, then stole part of his handmeal straight off the plate.
"I do not know, Pilot. After you''ve left this place, I will discorporate until next you return. I am not coded for research."
Discorporate? Literally existing only when he was around to require attention?
"No," he decided aloud. "You will remain, and you''ll access whatever archived files are available at our need-to-know level. This is a new command, superceding all others. Learn. Stay present. Be Foryu first, companion after."
Her blue-grey eyes flashed; expression and posture shifting as Foryu received and processed the pilot''s commands. Then,
"Are you certain that giving me partial autonomy is wise, Pilot? I am meant to be your off-duty companion. To provide pleasure, not to be an individual. There is a risk that I may not wish to serve you, if this command is accepted and run."
He shook his head, which was suddenly filled with conflicting chemistry and wildly firing neurons.
"I do not want your service, Foryu. I want… I want… you to be happy in my company, because that pleases you. Not because your emotions are coded. I want to stop doing things based on commands written so long ago that the authors are dust. I want…"
Something that wasn''t quite clear to the pilot, himself. That he never got time to think through, because all at once the station''s perimeter system alerted. Then came the rumble and shock of a tremendous concussion, as Orbital Station and Cerulean Dream came apart. The entire ring tilted suddenly sideways, hurling Pilot and Foryu out of the booth.
His alert systems went red, flickered, then lost half their gain, as hundreds of drones went offline at once. They were under attack, with V47 half a station away.