The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet

by Becky Chambers

  “Ah,” Lovelace said. That explained a lot. “That’s a fifty-fifty chance at best.”

  “They knew that. They didn’t have any other options left. They’d tried everything.”

  Lovelace felt a burst of compassion for the two Humans sitting in the cargo bay. She zoomed in on their faces. Their eyes were red and swollen, the skin beneath them almost bruised. Poor things hadn’t slept in days.

  “Thank you,” Lovelace said. “I know it wasn’t me they were working on, exactly, but I’m very touched.”

  Pepper smiled. “I’ll pass that along.”

  “Can I talk to them?” Lovelace knew she could talk to anyone on the ship through the voxes, but given their behavior, she had thought it best to sit quietly until they made the first move. She might know their names and jobs, but they were strangers, after all. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

  “Lovelace, there are some things that you need to understand. They’re messy things, and I hate to throw all of this at you after you’ve just woken up. But there’s some big stuff going on here.”

  “I’m listening.”

  The woman sighed and ran her hand over her smooth head. “Your previous installation — they called her Lovey — was…close to Jenks. They’d been together for years, and they got to know each other very well. They fell in love.”

  “Oh.” Lovelace was surprised by this. New as she was, she had a pretty good idea of how she functioned and what tasks she would be expected to perform. Falling in love hadn’t been an eventuality she’d thought to consider. She ran through everything she knew about love in her behavioral reference files. She focused back on the man weeping in the cargo bay. She ran through the files on grief as well. “Oh, no. Oh, that poor man.” Sadness and guilt flooded her synaptic pathways. “He knows I’m not Lovey, right? He knows that her personality developed the way that it did as a result of years of interpersonal experiences that can’t be duplicated, right?”

  “Jenks is a comp tech. He knows the drill. But right now, he’s hurting bad. He’s just lost the most important person in the world to him, and we Humans can get awful messed up when we’ve lost someone. He might start to think that he can get her back. I don’t know.”

  “I might become a close approximation,” Lovelace said, feeling nervous. “But — ”

  “No, Lovelace, no, no. That wouldn’t be fair to you, or healthy for him. What Jenks needs is to grieve and move on. And that’s going to be really hard for him to do with your voice coming through the voxes every day.”

  “Oh.” Lovelace could see where this was going. “You want to uninstall me.” She did not have the same primal fear of oblivion that organic sapients did, but after being awake for two and a quarter hours — two and a half, now — the idea of being switched off was an unsettling one. She rather liked being self-aware. She’d already taught herself to play flash, and she was only halfway through studying the history of Human development.

  Pepper looked surprised. “What? Oh, no, shit, sorry, that’s not what I meant at all. Nobody’s going to uninstall you. We’re not going to kill you just because you’re not the same as the previous installation.”

  Lovelace thought of the words Pepper had been using toward her. Person. Kill. “You think of me as a sapient, don’t you? Like you would an organic individual.”

  “Uh, yeah, of course I do. You’ve got as much right to exist as I do.” Pepper cocked her head. “Y’know, we’re kind of alike, you and me. I come from a place where I wasn’t considered to be worth as much as the genetweaks running the show. I was a lesser person, only good for hard labor and cleaning up messes. But I’m more than that. I’m worth as much as anyone — no more, no less. I deserve to be here. And so do you.”

  “Thank you, Pepper.”

  “That’s not something you should have to thank me for.” Pepper slid down into the pit and put her hand against the core. “This next part is pretty heavy. It’s a choice. And it’s entirely up to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “A while back, Jenks put down an advance payment for a body kit. For Lovey.”

  The reference file popped up. “That’s illegal.”

  “Yes. Jenks didn’t care. At least, not at first. He and Lovey wanted something more than what they had. He wanted to take her out into the galaxy with him.”

  “He must have loved her very much.” Lovelace wondered if anyone would ever feel the same about her. She imagined it would be nice.

  Pepper nodded. “He changed his mind, though. Told me just to hang onto the kit for him, keep it safe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he loved her too much to want to risk getting caught.” She smirked. “And perhaps because I had warned him against it. Though that may just be my ego talking.”

  “Why had you warned him against it?”

  “Creating new life is always dangerous. It can be done safely, but Jenks was thinking with his heart, rather than his head. I love the guy, but between you and me, I didn’t trust him to be smart about it.”

  “That seems fair.”

  “Trouble is, I now have a brand new, custom-built body kit tucked away in the back of my shop, and I’ve got no use for it.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it being illegal, and all.”

  Pepper gave a hearty laugh. “Sweetie, I’ve pulled myself out of the sort of trouble that would make a body kit bust look like a picnic. The law is not my concern, especially not where I live.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Port Coriol.”

  Lovelace accessed the file. “Ah. A neutral planet. Yes, I’m sure that gives you a little more breathing room.”

  “Definitely. So here’s my proposal. And again, it’s entirely up to you. The way I see it, you deserve to exist, and Jenks needs to not be surrounded by reminders of Lovey. He needs to come to terms with this. Seeing as how I have a perfectly good body kit gathering dust, I think we could kill two birds with one stone.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “I’m giving you the option of coming with me. This is about what you want, not what I want.”

  Lovelace considered this. She was already accustomed to the feel of the ship, the way her awareness could spread through its circuits. How would a body kit feel? What would it be like to have a consciousness that resided not within a ship full of people, but within a platform that belonged only to her? It was an intriguing idea, but terrifying, too. “Where would I go after I was transferred into the kit?”

  “Wherever you like. But I’d suggest staying with me. I can keep you safe. And besides, I could really use an assistant. I run a scrap shop. Used tech, fix-it jobs, that kind of thing. I could teach you. You’d be paid, of course, and there’s a room in my home you could have. Me and my partner are pretty easy to get along with, and we liked your previous installation a lot. And you could leave anytime you like. You’d be under no obligation to me.”

  “You’re offering me a job. A body, a home, and a job.”

  “Have I blown your mind a bit?”

  “What you’re suggesting is a very different sort of existence than what I’ve been designed for.”

  “Yeah, I know. Like I said, it’s heavy. And you can stay here if you want to. None of the crew have suggested uninstalling you. Jenks would never let that happen anyway. And I may be wrong. He may be able to handle working with you. You two could become friends all over again. Maybe more. I just don’t know.”

  Lovelace’s thoughts were racing. She’d diverted most of her processing power to exploring this one possibility. She really hoped that no asteroids popped up anytime soon. “What about what you warned Jenks about? About creating new life?”

  “What about it?”

  “Why is it okay for you and not for him?”

  Pepper rubbed her chin. “Because this is an area I know something about. And because I’m thinking with my head, not my heart. If you stay with me, I
can not only keep you from getting in trouble, I can keep you from causing it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know.” She started to get to her feet. “I’ll give you some time to think it over. It’d take me a day to pick up the kit and get back here anyway. I’m in no rush.”

  “Wait a moment, please,” Lovelace said. She focused part of herself back toward the cargo bay, back to the two techs who hadn’t slept in three days. Jenks’ sobs had grown quieter. Kizzy still held him fast. Lovelace could make out the words choking through Jenks’ heaving breaths.

  “What am I gonna do?” he said, his voice soft and strained. “What am I gonna do?”

  Lovelace watched his face fall in his hands as he asked his pointless, horrible question over and over again. When she zoomed in, she could see the bleeding cracks in his fingers, caused by days of twisting wires and circuits together by hand. This wasn’t her fault, she knew, but she couldn’t stay here if it meant that she was making this man’s pain worse. He had exhausted himself in trying to save whoever she had been before. She didn’t know who that was. She didn’t know Jenks, either. But she could help. Even after watching him for only two and three quarter hours, she knew he deserved to be happy again.

  “Okay,” she said to Pepper. “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

  Day 169, GC Standard 307

  THE COMMITTEE

  “Please place your scrib in the receptacle,” said the AI in the waiting room.

  “Why?” Ashby asked.

  “No unauthorized recording of audio or images is permitted within Parliament meeting facilities.”

  Ashby glanced at the camera nodes lining the ceiling. He hadn’t had any plans to record anything, but it did feel the slightest bit unfair. He hadn’t authorized anyone to record him. But he opened his satchel, took out his scrib, and placed it in the wall drawer, as requested.

  “Thank you,” said the AI. “The committee will see you now.”

  Ashby took a step toward the door, and paused. Something made him think of Jenks, waiting patiently through dockside AI speeches he’d heard dozens of times over. “Do you have a name?” Ashby asked.

  For a moment, the AI said nothing. “Twoh’teg,” he said. A Harmagian name.

  Ashby nodded. “Thanks for the assistance, Twoh’teg.”

  “Why do you want my name?” Twoh’teg asked. “Have I offended in some way?”

  “No, no,” Ashby said. “I was just curious. Have a nice day.”

  The AI said nothing. His silence sounded baffled.

  Ashby stepped into the meeting chamber. The brightly lit walls were rounded, no corners, no windows. The committee — eight in total — was seated in a semi-circle behind a smooth continuous desk. Harmagians, Aeluons, Aandrisks, Quelin. Ashby was very aware of being the only Human in the room. He involuntarily glanced at his clothes — folded pants, collared jacket, the best he had. Kizzy had whistled at him as he’d walked to the shuttle. Here, though, alongside the representatives’ finely dyed fabrics and expensive adornments, he felt plain. Worn, even.

  "Captain Santoso,” one of the Aeluons said. “Welcome.” She gestured to a desk facing the circle. He sat. The desk was high enough to make his arms rest awkwardly, but the chair, at least, was designed for his species.

  A Harmagian spoke. “This committee recognizes Ashby Santoso, ID number 7182-312-95, captain and owner of the tunneling ship Wayfarer. Captain Santoso, you understand that everything you say at this meeting will be recorded and preserved within the public record?”

  “Yes, I do,” Ashby said. Apparently they needed his authorization after all.

  “Very good. We shall begin.”

  “Captain Santoso,” said the Aeluon. “On behalf of this committee, I want to extend my deepest regrets for the danger you and your crew encountered, as well as the damage suffered by your ship. I understand that the Transport Board has compensated you for your repairs, as well as paid off your contract?”

  “Yes, they have.” He had initially been surprised by the generosity. It would’ve stung a bit to have used the contract money on repairs, instead of new equipment, but he would’ve understood the logic there. The Transport Board, however, seemed very eager to smooth things over. He was sure their public relations people were working overtime.

  “And you suffered no casualties, correct?” said one of the Aandrisks.

  “We lost our AI. She suffered a cascade failure, and we were forced to reset.”

  “Well,” said the first Harmagian. “At least no one was hurt.”

  Ashby took a quiet breath, slowly.

  “The committee has read your report of the incident at Hedra Ka,” said the Aeluon. “But there are some details we’d appreciate you going over with us.”

  Ashby nodded. “Whatever will be helpful.”

  “You had no prior contact with any Toremi individuals before your arrival at Hedra Ka, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you did not speak with any Toremi individuals outside of the reception aboard the Harmagian carrier?”

  “No.”

  The other Aandrisk jumped in. “Not in the hallway, not in the airlock, even just a quick word?”

  “No,” Ashby said.

  One of the Quelin spoke. “Did the Toremi ship that attacked you contact you before firing?”

  “No, no, they never said a word to us,” Ashby said. “Lovey — our AI — sent them a warning to stay out of our work area. She never got a reply.”

  “What was the warning? What did she say?”

  “I — I don’t know, exactly. Just to keep their distance. She was friendly and polite, I’m sure. She always was.”

  “I’m sure whatever it was was fine,” the Aeluon said, giving the Quelin an admonishing glance. “At the reception, did any of the Toremi threaten you, or make you feel uncomfortable?”

  “No, not that I can recall. They were a little odd, but that’s all.”

  “Odd how?”

  “Just different, I mean. Culturally.” He tried to think of something more useful to say. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “That’s all right,” said the Aandrisk. “We understand.”

  “Who of your crew had contact with the Toremi?” asked the Quelin.

  “Just myself and my pilot. As far as I know, no one else spoke with them.”

  “Can you confirm that?”

  “Can I — ”

  “Were you observing your crew at all times? Can you say with absolute certainty that none of them said anything to provoke the Toremi?”

  The Aeluon’s cheeks flashed pale purple. Ashby knew that look. She was annoyed. “Let’s not forget who’s at fault here. His crew is not to blame for this.”

  “All the same,” the Quelin said, fixing her black eyes on Ashby. “I want to hear his answer.”

  “None of my crew left the room during the reception,” Ashby said. “I didn’t see any of them speak to the Toremi.”

  “Do you know if any of them said anything insulting about the Toremi while they were in the room, regardless of whether they were speaking to them?”

  Ashby knitted his brow. “I have no idea. I highly doubt it. The people on my ship are all well-behaved.” Somewhere in his head, Kizzy and Jenks waved at him with a pair of grins. But no, even they wouldn’t be that stupid.

  “I’m sure they are,” said the Aandrisk, shooting the Quelin a look as well. “It’s obvious that this conflict runs deeper than anything your crew might have been involved with.”

  “Possibly,” said the Quelin. “Though I do find it interesting that they fired on his ship instead of one of our ambassadors.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Ashby. “We were opening a door to somewhere they didn’t want to go.”

  “Or to people they wanted nothing to do with,” said the Aeluon.

  “Some of them,” said the Harmagian. “The dominant clan insists they are committed to — ”

  “Another time,�
� said the Aeluon smoothly. Ashby blinked. They weren’t seriously considering continuing the alliance, were they? It seemed like a lot to overlook, even with ambi on the line. The Aeluon continued: “Did you witness any altercations between the Toremi and GC staff during the reception? I know your time there was limited, but if there was anything…?”

  Ashby thought. “No, I don’t think so. My clerk mentioned later that she didn’t think the Toremi had been invited.”

  The Aandrisk nodded. “That matches with the other reports.”

  “So the Toremi never threatened you, or anyone else there?” the Harmagian asked.

  “No,” Ashby said. “The New Mother seemed welcoming, in a way. She said she was looking forward to seeing our skies. Her words.”

  “Interesting,” said the Aeluon. She glanced at each of the committee members, and flashed her cheeks. “Thank you, Captain Santoso. We ask that you remain planetside until tomorrow, in case we have other questions, but for now, you are free to go.”

  Ashby straightened up. “Wait, that’s it?”

  The Aandrisk smiled. “Yes, your report was very thorough.”

  Ashby frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve come all this way. Why couldn’t we have done this over the sib?”

  “It’s GC policy in the event of an attack on civilians to hold a public hearing, including face-to-face analysis with affected parties, if possible.”

  “Policy,” said Ashby, nodding. “Right.” He inhaled and looked down at his hands resting on the too-tall desk. “I don’t mean any disrespect, representatives, but your policies were supposed to protect me and my crew. I trusted in them. I trusted that we weren’t going to be sent anywhere that posed any danger outside what comes with the job.” He fought to keep his voice calm. “You sent us somewhere we shouldn’t have gone, and you’re still thinking about sending other people back. You put all of our lives at risk, without saying as much, and now you want to sit around and talk about policies.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” the Quelin said flatly. “That will be all.”