“Lie low,” I repeated. “Take stock, and don’t get into any fights.”
“The only portion of my memory banks that seems to have survived intact—other than basic personality routines and things like general language usage—is an open database for recording fungoid life forms on this planet. I should very much like to fill the rest of it in.”
“Fungoid?”
“Mushrooms. Would you happen to have any I can categorize?”
“You’re a hyperadvanced stealth fighter that—somehow—has a machine personality built into it . . . and you want me to bring you mushrooms?”
“Yes, please,” M-Bot said. “Take stock. As in categorize local life forms. I’m certain that’s what he meant.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “It sounded like you were supposed to hide from something.” I leaned out the side, looking at his wings. “You have large twin destructor emitters on each wing, along with a lightlance turret underneath. That’s as much firepower as our larger ships. You’re a warship.”
“Clearly not,” M-Bot said. “I’m here to categorize fungi. Didn’t you listen to my last orders? I am not supposed to get into fights.”
“Then why do you have guns?”
“For shooting large and dangerous beasts who might be threatening my fungus specimens,” M-Bot said. “Obviously.”
“That’s stupid.”
“I am a machine, and my conclusions are therefore logical—while yours are biased by organic irrationality.” He made a few lights on his dash blink. “That is a clever way of saying you are the stupid one, in case you—”
“I understood,” I said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome!”
He sounded utterly sincere. But he was . . . what, a “robotic integration”？ Whatever that was. I wasn’t sure how far I could trust his honesty.
Still, he was a machine with a memory—albeit damaged—that stretched back hundreds of years. This could be a solution, maybe, to the questions we’d always asked. Why did the Krell keep attacking us? What were they, really? Our only depictions of them were reconstructions based on the armor they wore, as we’d never been able to take one of them captive.
We’d probably once known the answers to these questions, but if so, we’d lost them eighty years ago. Soon after crashing here—and presuming themselves safe—the majority of the officers, scientists, and elders from our old fleet had gathered in an underground cavern. They’d recovered the old electronic archive from the Defiant. and had been holding an emergency meeting. That was when the first lifebuster had been dropped, destroying our archives—and with them, most anyone with seniority in the fleet.
That was when the remnants of our people had broken into clans based on their duties in the fleet. Engine maintenance workers like Gran-Gran and her family. Hydroponics crew—glorified farmers—like Bim’s ancestors. Foot soldiers like Morningtide’s. They’d learned, through difficult trial and error, that if they kept to small groups of under a hundred people, the Krell sensors couldn’t find them hiding in the caves.
Now, three generations later, here we were. Slowly fighting our way back onto the surface—but with enormous holes in our memories and history. What if I could bring the ultimate secret to the DDF: the solution for defeating the Krell once and for all?
Though . . . it was unlikely M-Bot had that answer. After all, if the old human fleets had known how to defeat the Krell, they wouldn’t have been driven to near extinction. But surely there were some secrets hidden inside this machine’s mind.
“Can you fire your weapons?” I asked.
“I’m commanded to avoid fights.”
“Just answer,” I said. “Can you fire?”
“No,” M-Bot said. “The weapons systems are locked out of my control.”
“Then why would your pilot order you not to get into any fights? You aren’t capable of fighting anyone.”
“Logically, one isn’t required to be able to finish a fight in order to start one. I am allowed minimal basic autonomous movement, and could theoretically stumble into a battle or a conflict. This would be disastrous for me on my own, as I require a pilot for most important functions. I can assist and diagnose, but as I am not alive, I cannot be trusted with destructive systems.”
“So I could fire them,” I said.
“Unfortunately, weapons systems are offline from damage.”
“Great. What else is offline?”
“Other than my memories? Boosters, acclivity ring, cytonic hyperdrive, self-repair functions, the lightlance, and all mobility functions. Also, my wing appears to be bent.”
“Great. So, everything.”
“My communications features and radar are functional,” he noted. “As are cockpit life support and short-range sensors.”
“And that’s it?”
“That . . . appears to be it.” He was silent for a moment. “I can’t help noticing—through the aforementioned short-range sensors—that you are in possession of a few mushrooms. Might you be willing to place those in my cockpit analyzer for cataloguing?”
I sighed, resting back in my seat.
“At your leisure, of course. I, being robotic, have no concept of fragile things like human impatience.”
So what do I do?
“But soon would be nice.”
I doubt I can fix this thing on my own. I thought. Should I just go to the DDF and tell them what I’d found? I’d have to reveal that I’d stolen that power matrix. And, of course, they’d never let me keep this ship for myself. Going to the DDF with it would essentially mean wrapping this vessel up with a bow, then presenting it to the very admiral who was trying her best to ruin my life.
“They do look like nice mushrooms.”
No. I was not going to give this discovery to Ironsides, at least not without more thought. But if I was going to try to repair this ship, I’d at least need help.
“Not that I require affirmation of any sort, as my emotions are mere simulations . . . but you are listening to me, right?”
“I’m listening,” I said. “I’m just thinking.”
“That is good. I should not like to be maintained by one who lacks brain functions.”
It was at that moment that I had my third terrible idea in not so many days. I grinned.
Maybe there was a way to get some help on the repairs. Someone who had way more “brain functions” than I had.
Approximately an hour and a half later—well after curfew—I was hanging upside down by my light-line outside Rig’s window on the third floor of his apartment complex in Igneous. He was snug inside, sleeping in his bunk. He had his own little closet of a room, which I’d always found luxurious. His parents had been deemed exemplary in all six parental metrics, and had been granted housing for multiple children, but—ironically—Rig was the only one they’d ever ended up having.
I knocked on his window, hair dangling below my head as I hung there. Then I knocked again. Then a little louder. Come on; it hadn’t been that long since I’d last done this.