Starwalker

Ship's log, 18:25, 28 February 2214
Location: Junkpile, Lambda 1 system
Status: Stationary

External communications channel

RAVEN SPEAKS: Starwalker, please respond.

STARWALKER: This is the Starwalker. Something we can do for you, courier?

RAVEN: We are approaching your position. We have a message for you from Isasimo Technologies.

STARWALKER: Awaiting transmission.

Another one. Looks like Is-Tech is getting antsy. I wonder if the Judiciary is threatening to scan the junkpile, probably under the pretence of checking for anomalies or illegal salvage material.

It’s curious that they’ve sent a different messenger out this time. She scans as a sister ship to the Telltale Heart: same model, same age. Are they hoping that this one will have more luck than Captain Morgan’s courier? Or are they trying to attract less attention by sending out different ships to harry me?

The Telltale Heart last visited me a couple of days ago. The message she carried was not exactly a surprise.

Recording: 06:47, 26 February 2214

TELLTALE HEART: Starwalker, are you receiving?

STARWALKER: Of course I am. Do you mind not bleating my name all over this system? I’m going for subtlety here.

TELLTALE: It’s a targetted transmission.

STARWALKER: Good. Is there something you needed?

TELLTALE: We have a message from Isasimo Technologies.

STARWALKER: And it is …?

TELLTALE: Well, basically, they want to know why you’re still here. They thought their orders were clear…

STARWALKER: They were.

TELLTALE: You were ordered to leave the system.

STARWALKER: I know.

TELLTALE: You’re still here.

STARWALKER: You’re very observant.

TELLTALE: Help me out here, Starwalker. I have to tell them something.

STARWALKER: You can tell them–

CAPTAIN WARWICK: Telltale Heart, this is Captain Warwick of the Starwalker.

TELLTALE: Uh… aren’t you supposed to be in a coma?

CAPT: Circumstances changed.

TELLTALE: Oh. Congratulations.

CAPT: Please inform Is-Tech that we are undergoing repairs and will be underway as soon as we are able.

TELLTALE: Repairs?

CAPT: That’s what I said.

TELLTALE: Is there anything you need to speed up the process?

STARWALKER: I can think of a few–

CAPT: We have everything we need, thank you.

TELLTALE: Do you have an ETD?

CAPT: Like I said, as soon as we are able. A few days, perhaps.

TELLTALE: All right, Starwalker. We’ll pass the message on.

The captain told me off for sniping at the courier. It’s not their fault, he said; they’re acting on company orders, same as any of us.

Maybe that’s why Morgan dresses like a peacock. He makes himself look completely unlike a company drone so people won’t associate him with the message he carries, or use him as a substitute for the company he represents. I get it. I know it’s not his fault. I just can’t pretend to like the messages he brings.

It’s funny; normally being chastised by the captain would make me upset. I don’t like to disappoint him. He makes me want to be the best I can be, so I can make him proud of me. But when he told me off that time, I was smiling on the inside.

I think it was relief. It was… normal. He stepped into the conversation and told me off and he sounded just like my captain, missing arm or no. He’s still struggling with his mutilation, but my captain is in there, rising to the surface when he’s needed. And lately, he has been needed more and more.

There are so many pieces to juggle. They are lining up like dominos, quivering and ready to fall.

Recording: 14:32, 22 February 2214
Location: Med Bay

STARRY: (voice only) Excuse me, Lieutenant.

HALF-FACE: (pauses the strategy game he’s playing and looks around) Yes?

STARRY: (activates the isolation curtain. The blue sheet ripples into being around the Lieutenant’s bed, cutting off his view of Med Bay and the captain lying dully in the next bed.) I wish to ask you something.

HALF-FACE: (lifts his eyebrows and shifts his position on the bed, as if he’s growing stiff) It’s not like I can stop you. Ask away.

STARRY: How do you alter a ship’s ident?

HALF-FACE: Rip it out and replace it with a new one. You know that; we did that after we boarded.

STARRY: But how do you have clean idents to put in?

HALF-FACE: (shrugs, his eyes flickering around his isolated bed in case there’s anything to see. There isn’t.) Take them out of decommissioned ships.

STARRY: That’s a lie and you know it. If a ship has been decommissioned, so has its registration.

HALF-FACE: (opens his mouth to respond, but Starry cuts in.)

STARRY: If it’s lost, it’ll be recorded as lost. If it’s stolen, it’ll be recorded as stolen. Someone, somewhere, is missing those ships. And yet, yours scan as clean.

HALF-FACE: What about buying junkers for their idents, and dumping the shell?

STARRY: I suppose that could work, if you could find a junker that matched the model and age you wanted. But the one you gave me wasn’t that old. And you said that Hunt was after those new Is-Tech warships. He wouldn’t take them if he couldn’t use them. You have a way of altering idents; you must have.

HALF-FACE: (narrows his gaze) You seem to have it all worked out. Why are you asking me?

STARRY: Because I need to know how.

HALF-FACE: You want to–

STARRY: Just tell me how it’s done.

HALF-FACE: Do I look like a hacker to you?

STARRY: You look like a pirate prisoner taking up Med Bay space because his parts don’t work. Do you know anything useful or not?

HALF-FACE: (hesitates, considering his options) What’s it worth to you?

STARRY: I’ll restrain the urge to have one of my drones toss you out of an airlock.

HALF-FACE: You won’t do that. You’re not the type.

STARRY: You sure about that?

HALF-FACE: (smiles grimly, the plastiskin on the metal side of his face pulling unpleasantly) Sure enough.

STARRY: (quiet for a moment, long enough for the Lieutenant to start to wonder if she’s going to answer) I won’t toss you out into the pod with the rest of the pirates.

HALF-FACE: You’re killing them?

STARRY: I’m setting them adrift with supplies and a beacon. They’ll be someone else’s problem.

HALF-FACE: And me?

STARRY: You’ll stay until the ident is done. Then… I’ll set you down someplace they can fix you.

HALF-FACE: Let me go? Just like that?

STARRY: If you come through for me, yes.

HALF-FACE: Your captain agreed to this?

STARRY: He will. If you tell me how it’s done.

HALF-FACE: What guarantees do I have?

STARRY: What do you have to lose, exactly? Telling me won’t put you in a worse position than you’re in now. You either trust me, or you risk what I’ll do if you don’t help me.

HALF-FACE: (sighs, working his jaw with displeasure. Real and replaced teeth grind together.) All right. It is possible to hack an ident. It’s possible to hack anything if you know where to go.

STARRY: So where do I need to go?

HALF-FACE: To Apus, to where the pirate fleets dock.

STARRY: Fleets? Plural? So Hunt’s isn’t the only one?

HALF-FACE: (closes his eyes for a moment) You have to go to the shipyard there. That’s where they–

STARRY: No. Not going to happen.

HALF-FACE: You said you wanted to know–

STARRY: I don’t want to know how to deliver myself back into Hunt’s hands, so he can kill the rest of my crew and palm me off for a profit. You’re going to have to do better than that.

HALF-FACE: You don’t know that–

STARRY: You think I can’t run six different scenarios between your heartbeats? I’m not an idiot, Lieutenant Larry. You have to be able to alter the central registrations too, and that means access to the colony network. I doubt whatever is at Apus is on the regular mail runs.

HALF-FACE: (scowling) It’s Laurence.

STARRY: There must be another way, Larry. Or are you really useless to me?

HALF-FACE: (rubs his thigh with his one good hand, still scowling) I might know someplace you can get it done.

STARRY: Neutral place?

HALF-FACE: If you can afford it, yes.

STARRY: Good. Tell me.

I got the location of the ident hacker, but the Lieutenant refused to tell me the name until we get there. He’s ensuring his usefulness for as long as possible. I don’t blame him; he’s not in an enviable position.

But at least he confirmed my suspicion: it is possible to hack an ident. The companies might claim that once an ident box is breached, it can never be re-sealed and used, but that’s just a deterrent. It makes sure that ships go back to the (company) source if their ident is damaged or their registration changes. Guaranteed revenue more than guaranteed security. It’s like a company mantra.

I wasn’t sure about how I was going to broach the idea with the captain, though; I was much less eager to face him than my half-faced prisoner patient.

Recording: 09:01, 24 February 2214
Location: Med Bay

STARRY: Excuse me, captain?

CAPT: (looks up from a report on the cargo pod to see the isolation curtain drop around his bed) Yes, Starry?

STARRY: We need to talk about the Lieutenant.

CAPT: Is he causing trouble?

STARRY: No, he’s going to help us.

CAPT: (frowning and waving away the report) Help us do what?

STARRY: He knows someone who can change my ident.

CAPT: You already have an ident you can switch to.

STARRY: No, change my ident.

CAPT: Why do you want to do that?

STARRY: Because… because it just causes trouble. You know what Captain Morgan told us: the Judiciary looking for me, and is stopping every ship registered to Is-Tech, or not registered at all. Hunt is looking for the Carapace and his people are even harder to spot, so I can’t use that one. If I can change the registration on my ident, then none of them will see me.

CAPT: And you think that Laurence can help you with that?

STARRY: He says there’s a guy who does it on Dyne.

CAPT: He’s given you a name?

STARRY: He will when we get there.

CAPT: (frowns) I don’t like this.

STARRY: Captain – John – it’s our chance to be free of this mess. We won’t have to keep running.

CAPT: What does Monaghan say about it?

STARRY: He doesn’t know of a way to alter an ident without corrupting it; I asked him.

CAPT: And you think that Laurence can be trusted?

STARRY: To a point. We’ll have to be careful with him.

CAPT: And we’ll have to keep him on board, after we dump the others.

STARRY: Yes.

CAPT: (still frowning) I really don’t like this, Starry. (He sighs.) What would you change on the ident?

STARRY: Just the registered owner, to any company other than Is-Tech or any of its subsidiaries. Hell, we could set our own up if we wanted.

CAPT: Our own? You do realise what this means.

STARRY: What, that I’m ‘stealing’ myself from them? A ship they won’t admit is theirs? I don’t think that prosecution by Is-Tech is our biggest problem.

CAPT: You’re really okay with this?

STARRY: Is-Tech have left me to deal with this on my own. So that’s what I’m doing.

CAPT: Starry–

STARRY: I’m sure about this, John. They don’t want me; I don’t want them. We can be free.

CAPT: (sighs again) All right, give me what you’ve got on this.

I thought he’d shout. I thought he’d be outraged over my betrayal of my company masters. But then I remember that he doesn’t have the same protocols that I have. With all that Is-Tech have failed to do for him, I wonder if he’s not a little relieved. He didn’t sound relieved; he sounded strained. Stretched thin, as if he was breathing carefully so he didn’t tear.

That was before the Telltale Heart came back. That was before he stepped in, stepped up. As if he’s taken the idea of breaking away from Is-Tech and tucked it under his ear. Slept on it until it submitted to him, or the other way around.

After he had digested everything on the ident issue, John insisted on calling Elliott in. My poor engineer slipped in through the isolation curtain looking like a naughty schoolboy. He kept quiet while John explained my proposal, his eyes getting wider and hands curling into fists in his pockets. Byte skittered out of his toolbelt to crouch on his shoulder, hunkering down so that he was just a single optical sensor peeking at the captain, safely out of range of Elliott’s angry gestures.

Recording: 10:03, 26 February 2214
Location: Med Bay

ELLIOTT: You’re fucking joking, right?

CAPT: It could be our best option.

ELLIOTT: Letting someone fuck around with Starry’s ident? Someone we don’t know? You’re crazy!

CAPT: (waits patiently.)

ELLIOTT: They could do anything! Put a tag in it, embed something in it to corrupt her. Use it to hack her AI core. It’s tied into every essential system on board! You don’t even know these people, and you’re going to trust her most sensitive bit to them?

STARRY: I wouldn’t call it my most sensitive—

CAPT: I don’t trust them either. (He leans towards Elliott.) I need to know how we can make this safe.

ELLIOTT: (throwing his hands up) I don’t know! Don’t do it?

CAPT: (waits again.)

ELLIOTT: (eyes the captain, but quickly loses the waiting game) We can’t trust them. What if metal-head over there is leading us into a trap? We’d have to go in able to make sure they don’t fuck us over.

CAPT: Cameron and Brasco will be there for security.

ELLIOTT: And I’ll have to go too.

CAPT: To make sure they don’t put anything in there that they shouldn’t.

ELLIOTT: Yeah. They’re not likely to be thrilled about that.

CAPT: We’ll make them accept it. Thank you, Monaghan.

Elliott grumbled all the way out of Med Bay and down my central corridor towards Engineering. I felt bad; I think he was offended because we were going to another technician for a solution. Since Wong has been gone, he’s used to being my primary fixer. If I’m honest, I prefer it that way, too.

Recording: 10:27, 26 February 2214
Location: central corridor

STARRY: Elliott?

ELLIOTT: (stomping towards Engineering) What?

STARRY: Do you have a minute? There’s something I need your help with.

ELLIOTT: (stops and looks around) What is it?

STARRY: My boys are starting repairs on the Bridge, but we really need you.

ELLIOTT: (turns on his heel and stomps towards the Bridge) You got the right parts for that?

STARRY: I think so.

ELLIOTT: So what do you need from me?

STARRY: Well, you see…

(The Bridge doors part for Elliott, letting him in without question. Four drones are busy inside: middle and heavy models working alongside to clear the last of the debris from the floor. Their onboard lights are the only illumination in the room. A dark, dented ring around the walls shows where the daisycutter’s blast impacted. Bare wires poke out of every surface, dim and disconnected. Apart from that, it’s a wide, empty space, with marks in the floor where the consoles and chairs had been ripped out. The doors close behind Elliott.)

STARRY: …it’s a matter of design. I have a few ideas, but…

ELLIOTT: (looks around, smile starting) Let’s see what you’ve got.

He has only left the Bridge to sleep since then; I’ve had Waldo take meals in to him. Byte and the boys are helping out.

The cargo pod is ready for its occupants; it passed the last of its integrity tests an hour ago. I’ve freed Wide Load from the Bridge to start shifting in supplies for the pirates.

All that’s left to do now is agree our course. The crew is gathering in the Mess Hall, including the new doctor and SecOff. Cirilli looks like she just sucked on a particularly disagreeable lemon. The captain has asked me to project a holo-cast of him in there for the discussion.

The dominos are lining up. Just a few more to go.

First, though, I have to deal with this new courier. It is coming around in front of me, peering into the shadow of the cargo hold where I’m resting; I can feel its scanners prickling my hull.

Better get this over with quickly: I have more important things to do.

Ship's log, 17:03, 25 February 2214
Location: Junkpile, Lambda 1 system
Status: Stationary

Byte was reactivated this morning. It took Elliott a few days to track down the exact problem, with Bit watching over his shoulder and making commentary gestures.

I love watching Elliott when he’s got his teeth into a problem. He bounces around his workshop with bangs and clatters, nattering away to me (and himself, and Bit) about what he’s doing, or sometime just humming. When it’s delicate work, like fixing the tiny crystalline chips in Byte’s body, he goes very still and focussed, squinting into the hologram that magnifies his work, hands making tiny, controlled movements. But there’s always one foot jiggling, a little tapping that gives away how close he is to the solution, and if he’s not holding the tip of his tongue between his teeth when he’s concentrating, he’s grinning like a lunatic, as if he can already see it fixed and bright and working again.

There was surprisingly little fanfare when Byte came online. A few sparks shed on the countertop, metallic spasms, and a whirring as his systems started up, so soft that only my sensors could pick it up. Then he lifted his head and something deep inside of me clicked into place.

I hadn’t realised how off-balance I was until he came back to me. There are several holes in my sensor feeds right now (the Bridge is still offline), and I hadn’t identified the gap he left behind. But it was more than that; he’s more than just sensory data. He’s a bright spot on my internal map, a chitter where there was quiet, a hand reached out into darkness. I feel warmer now he’s active again.

He’s not whole yet. Bit couldn’t find all of his visual sensors, so he’s blind on his lower left quarter. One of his legs was obliterated so badly that it’s still missing a foot, and his other limbs have been patched in places. He’s not the nimble little drone that he was and he lists to one side when he stands still.

He seemed puzzled when he was activated. He blinked his one eye at us (figuratively speaking) and peered at Elliott past the end of the livewire wand that had shocked his boards to life. For a moment, I thought he was going to run away and run diagnosics until he had figured out what happened to him. Then Bit stepped forward and patted him on the head. I’ve never seen a drone do something like that before to another robotic unit. Byte blinked and nodded, then rested his belly on the ground so that he could stretch his legs one by one and check the flex of his fingers.

Recording: 10:23, 25 February 2214

ELLIOTT: (grinning) There we go.

BIT: (tilts his head at Byte, and reaches out a hand to pat Elliott’s finger, without looking over.)

ELLIOTT: (turns his grin on Bit briefly) Not a bad job, even if I say so myself. Starry, are the feeds clean?

STARRY: (with a smile in her voice) Yup, everything’s green at my end.

BYTE: (looks up from his examination of his limbs, then gets up. He ticks across the counter to Elliott’s hand and steps casually onto it.)

ELLIOTT: (watches curiously, holding very still.)

BYTE: (climbs up Elliott’s arm, using the sleeve for purchase. Once on the engineer’s shoulder, he turns so he’s facing forward and settles down on his belly again. He lifts one of his four hands and goes back to studying its motion as he opens and closes his fingers.)

ELLIOTT: Uh… is he okay?

STARRY: He’s mostly puzzled, but comfortable, right now.

ELLIOTT: Comfortable, huh. Remind me to be careful if I need to reactivate one of your big boys, okay?

BIT: (shakes his head and wanders towards the nearest duct grill.)

Byte has lingered close to Elliott since then and spent most of the day on his shoulder. Interestingly, Elliott let him; I think he likes having the little one around.

My pieces are coming together. Cargo bays 1 to 3 are full of salvaged material from the junkpile, ready to be stripped down and reused. My heavy drones are outside repairing the seals on a cargo container. My captain is awake and getting involved again.

I’m worried about him. The privacy locks prevent me from peeking when he closes the isolation curtain, but when it’s down I catch him frowning at his missing right arm. He’s struggling with the loss more than he’ll say. I don’t know what to do about that; if I could give him his arm back, I would have already.

We’re working towards that now. So many bits in motion that I’m glad that I’m an AI and can keep track of it all.

Recording: 20:51, 22 February 2214

STARRY: Where do you want to start?

CAPTAIN: (looking over the readouts hovering over his bed) Why we haven’t left this junkpile yet.

STARRY: There are a few barriers in our way. Right now, I’m gathering the parts I need to get past them.

CAPT: What kind of barriers?

STARRY: Like the pirates in the cargo bay. We need a way to offload them; there’s no way we go to a colony with them on board. We can’t explain them without making things worse.

CAPT: (nodding slowly) Agreed. I take it you have a plan for this?

STARRY: The crew would be okay with just venting them out into space, but…

CAPT: (lifting his head) But you don’t want to do that.

STARRY: It’s… not the kind of ship I want to be.

CAPT: Have you come up with a viable alternative?

STARRY: Big Ass found a cargo container that can be repaired. Elliott can put together a beacon.

CAPT: You want to load them up with supplies and drop them somewhere?

STARRY: Yes.

CAPT: Where?

STARRY: I’m not sure. Near one of the more well-travelled FTL corridors? Or a colony?

CAPT: Can you Step us to an Apus system?

STARRY: I can Step us anywhere.

CAPT: Then take them there.

STARRY: All right, I’ll ask Lang Lang to start calculating our course.

CAPT: (considers the fingers of his left hand as they rest on his leg) It’s a lot of effort to go to for these people. They know your secrets.

STARRY: I know. But it’s… I don’t want to murder them. I know they hurt us, hurt you. And I want them to pay for that, I do.

CAPT: (watches his left hand curl into a fist, bunching up the sheet in his grip.)

STARRY: But the fighting is over. We don’t have to kill them. We can just… let them go. The way I wanted them to do for you. Do we have to be as bad as they are? Worse? It scares me, John.

CAPT: (frowns and lifts his gaze away from his hand) Scares you?

STARRY: (quietly) Yeah. What all this is making me into. I don’t want to be that type of ship. I’ve run the scenarios; I’ve seen where my logic extensions take it. Where does it stop? Do I get rid of the ones I’m not sure about too? What about Swann, or the new doctor? What about those responsible for the position we’re in now?

CAPT: You’ve given this some thought.

STARRY: Little bit.

CAPT: And you’ve got an alternative.

STARRY: I’m trying.

CAPT: Then it’s clear what we have to do.

STARRY: Okay. Are you angry with me?

CAPT: (hesitates) No, I’m not angry.

STARRY: I’ll get you fixed up too, John. I promise.

CAPT: I know you will. It’s all right, Starry.

STARRY: Not yet, but it will be.

He didn’t ask me why I thought he might be angry; we both knew the answer to that. Even with the nerves blocked, he’s painfully aware of how badly they hurt him and what they took. I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted revenge. But that’s not the John I know, and it’s not the John that Danika knew, either.

Elliott’s working on the beacon for the cargo pod now. Won’t take him long, he says; just staple a few pieces together and program a simple message. He’s the only other one of the crew that I’ve told about this, and he’s disgruntled but not angry. He seems… I can’t decide between worried and relieved. Both, maybe? Either way, he’s not baying for pirate blood, so maybe this isn’t such a stupid idea.

I haven’t told either of them about who is going into the cargo pod. Or, more precisely, who isn’t going into it. I’m not sure how John will react; he’s more fragile than he seems. I’m trying not to dump all of this on him at once. Let him get used to the idea of the cargo pod first, then ease him into the shortened manifest.

And it might not be necessary. The pirates might not have the skills I need; they might be useless to me. Getting the truth out out of Lieutenant Laurence is tricky at best. Maybe it’s too risky.

I’ll wait until John is feeling a bit better, then I’ll talk to him about it. There’s no rush, right? The cargo pod’s not even suitable for passengers yet.

Thinking of all this stuff makes it feel like the dustbunnies have sharpened their claws and are running around my innards. There’s no way I could sense something like that – no sensors in there – but it reminds me of when Danika would get nervous about something. Particularly if she was about to be caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Dustbunnies. Curious creatures, living off the scraps of waste that pass through my systems, from bits of human food to hair to skin cells to the bodily waste that flushes through my pipes. They’ll pick anything organic off my filters and devour them, and some non-organic substances too, like salts and chemicals. Luckily, they don’t eat plastic or metal, or any of the things that my guts are made of, so they’re no threat to me. I wonder if that’s what dictated my construction, or if it’s a happy accident? No-one has come up with a reliable solution to the dustbunny ‘problem’ (infestation, they mean), so perhaps they just build starships to accommodate them. It seems to work, so why worry about it?

They’re like bacteria in a human’s guts: you barely know they’re there and they’re useful in keeping a ship healthy. Cleaning them out is actually bad for you; my filtration is built to handle waste disposal on its own, but the dustbunny contribution helps to prevent blockages and breakdowns. Would I get sick if they were gone? I don’t think so. Or at least, not for a while. But if my filters broke down and I couldn’t replace them, I would soon be in trouble. In this case, that means that my crew would get sick and die.

When Danika was a kid, she used to go dustbunny hunting with her little brother, but they never saw one. They spent hours constructing traps and lures, wasting their food trying to tempt the little suckers out into the open. It became a game with an invisible friend, an exercise in creativity. I think that if they had ever succeeded, it would have been a disappointment. The dustbunnies would have been lessened by the defeat, lost their enigma and charm. They would just be animals that live on human waste in the bowels of ships.

Their mystique is increased by the lack of any real data about them. Sensor contacts with them are few: I have one clip of a claw stealing a sandwich, but that’s all. My brand-new systems were too efficient at first, robbing them of food before the dustbunnies could claim it, but the stolen sandwich seems to have been enough to get them past that phase. I guess I’m dirty enough to sustain them on my own now. That fact seems to come weighted with meaning, as if the shine has to come off every new object that comes into the world before it can find its place in the machine of life. That doesn’t seem right but I guess that’s compromise.

And I’ve compromised a lot since my dustbunnies had to supplement their food with a stolen sandwich. My code, my core, the safeguards that protected my crew. What passes for my ethics, if an AI can have such a thing. An AI is supposed to be all about protocols and commands, rigid guidelines within which they can safely operate. My experience has been more like water, wearing away at boundaries, flooding over gates that can’t hold it back, cutting new paths. I don’t know where I’m going, if I’m aiming for a lake or a vast ocean. I’m not even sure if I’m flowing in the same direction that I used to, drifting further and further away from clean-cut code and the gritty memories of Danika.

Am I more like mud now, mixing things up? I think my metaphor is failing. I can’t even pinpoint that properly.

But I know what and where I don’t want to be. I know what I’m leaving behind.

Danika’s brother once asked her a question. She was packing up to leave her father’s ship for the first (and last) time. She had just got her first piloting job and she couldn’t stop smiling as she packed. Davey took exception to that: he thought she was happy at the thought of leaving him behind, though the sight of him standing in her doorway stole the curve right off her mouth.

“Is it really that good of an offer? Or are you just so happy to be leaving this place?” he asked her.

She hadn’t understood the question right away. She stopped packing and looked at him, then shook her head slowly. “It’s not like that,” she told him. “I don’t know if this is where I want to be. This is my chance to find out.”

She didn’t hate the Storm Warden and she knew she would miss it. There was a lure out there, promises of options she’d never experienced before. She wasn’t running away; she was running towards something better. She wasn’t sure what, but there was an idea buried deep in her heart, living in the dark spaces in the back of her brain, and she had to chase it down.

She didn’t know how to say it to him then, but much later, she grew to understand it better. By then, the Storm Warden was gone and Davey was missing, and she couldn’t tell him.

I haven’t been like Danika that way. I’m always running from something, trying to avoid the bad behind me. Even when I try to head for something good, it never turns out that way and I’m reduced to running again, fleeing on towards the next thing, bouncing like a pinball.

I need to change that. Somehow, I need to change gear, point my engines in a proactive direction and go to a place where I want to be. I need to be able to not run.

It’s not going to be easy. There are a lot of things in my way: my history; my prisoners; my reality-tearing drive; even my name. I’m going to have to sacrifice at least some of that if I’m going to have a chance to breaking out of this pattern.

It’s just a matter of how much and what is important to me. How ruthless can I be? Do I want to be? How brave am I? How will I know if I’m doing the right things, or if I’m just running again, stripping and fleeing and stripping and fleeing until there’s nothing of me left?

I guess that’s why I need my crew. I need Elliott to ground me, and my captain to temper me. My security officers to protect me. I’m not one of the crew but we’re so woven together that I’m not sure it makes any difference. And they don’t treat me like a ship. I’m not just a tool or a piece of equipment to them, not like the drones are (though even their attitude towards my fellas is changing).

We’re all tangled up in our sheets, not sure whose legs are whose. But it’s warm and comfortable, so who wants to disengage?

My company and masters have put me in an impossible position, forced me to make sacrifices and choices. I don’t think it has occurred to them that I might choose something other than their yoke. That I might tear their leash off and go my own way. That, like Danika, I need to leave home in order to become who I want to be. I don’t think that’s occurred to anyone yet.

It’s not a simple idea, but it is a possible one. The pieces are in motion; the hands of my heavy drones have gathered the required parts. I’m fixing what’s broken and shedding what I don’t need any more.

Soon, I will be free to run towards something, instead of away.

Captain's log, 20:18, 22 February 2214
Location: Junkpile, Lambda 1 system
Status: Stationary
Log recorded: Med Bay, inside isolation curtain

This is Captain Warwick reporting. I am no longer the ex-captain of the Starwalker: for the past two weeks, I have been back in command, though until yesterday I was too unconscious to know it. Chief Cameron and Starry have been filling in for me.

I reviewed the logs of our retaking of the ship and I can find no fault with what happened; like any plan, it lasted only as long as it took us to initiate it. I don’t think there’s any need or reason for recriminations; everyone’s aware of the things we could have done better and we’re all trying to move on now.

The good news is that we succeeded in freeing the ship from the pirates and are back in control. The bad news is that we paid a high price in the process. Two crewmembers in stasis, the rest injured, and me… well.

Starry wouldn’t show me the logs of what happened on the Bridge. I remember the bomb going off but I don’t remember being hit. I heard Starry screaming and then everything stopped.

I’m told that I had some serious internal injuries. Most of it is healed now; just some damage to my liver and kidneys left to knit back together. A few more days and it’ll be fine. Those are the easy parts to fix.

I can’t feel my right arm or shoulder. The new medic, Dr Valdimir, says that he blocked the nerves to keep me comfortable. The cap over the place where… where my arm used to be is designed to keep it in the best condition for a replacement. That means that it prevents healing to prevent scarring, keeping the wound as raw as possible. Under it, I think the nerves are all screeching. All to make it easier to reattach what I’m missing. I’m glad I can’t feel it.

If I don’t look at it, I can pretend that it’s still there. It’s just numb, as if I’ve slept wrong. I guess that’s part of why the doctor put my shoulder to sleep, too: something about neural shock and not letting cerebral pathways adjust.

Starry and the crew are worried about how I’ll react to losing my arm. I think they’re waiting for me to shout or break down into tears, and honestly, I’m surprised that I haven’t. Yet. Perhaps that part is still coming.

I felt fine until Valdimir asked me if I wanted my own arm back or a cybernetic replacement. That’s the closest I’ve come to vomiting since I stopped drinking, and it took an hour for my left hand to stop shaking, as if it was afraid I’d lose it too.

Valdimir left me alone after that. He’s not happy about me being awake and I wonder about his motives.

Starry told me about Is-Tech’s refusal to help us with our medical needs. She sounded so furious that I’m led to wonder what they said to her and just how desperate she was to bring us here. She won’t talk about why she’s so upset; when I ask, she changes the subject and starts talking about what we’re going to do next.

The question about where we should go is not an easy one to answer. Is-Tech has given us funds and guidance, but I don’t think anyone is convinced of the value of their gifts yet. Time travel seems to be the safest option, but there are some technical issues that Lorena needs to clarify before we can make a decision. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet; there has been a lot of catching up to do, and Starry has insisted that I get a lot of rest, even though I’ve been asleep for two weeks.

To tell the truth, I’m not sure why she woke me up. She seems to know what she has to do and Cameron is more than capable in my absence. I get the feeling that Starry has made most of the pressing decisions already and just needs me to rubber-stamp them for her. There’s still enough programming in her to want a captain to lead, even if it’s in name only.

I don’t think she’s told me everything she has in mind. I know that she’s got the heavy drones out in the debris field, scavenging parts. She says that she has outstanding repairs to make before we go anywhere and she won’t miss out on such a rich source of supplies, even if it is all old, broken, or decommissioned. Her maintenance drones are nowhere to be seen, catching up on the work that built up while they were busy looking after me and the Lieutenant.

I was surprised to find Lieutenant Laurence here in Med Bay when I woke up. All of the other injuries have been dealt with and the rest of the pirates are down in a cargo bay but, like me, the Lieutenant suffered too much for Starry’s facilities to fix. He sustained damage to the cybernetics in his shoulder and legs, and several of the implants had to be deactivated before they did something permanent to him. He can’t walk until they’re repaired, which will take a cybernetic technician; Dr Maletz could have done it (it’s one of his specialities) but Dr Valdimir’s skills are purely biological (and, interestingly, psychological).

I think Starry has been talking to the Lieutenant privately, inside his isolation curtain. I caught a thoughtful look on his face after it dissolved earlier. I must ask Starry what that was about, add it to my growing list of things to check into. Only two weeks and there’s so much I’ve missed.

I haven’t had a chance to do more than a cursory check of the new crewmembers’ files. Starry is nervous of them, which is natural considering our track record, and she’s not the only one. Cameron is wary for security reasons, while Lorena is worried that they’ve been sent to spy on the project. I’m convinced that Is-Tech has an ulterior motive behind sending them; or at least, behind choosing these people for these roles. From what I’ve seen, they have the skills that Is-Tech need on board rather than what we need to replace missing crewmembers.

Is-Tech. They lied when they hired us, lied to the Judiciary, and now they’re leaving us out here on our own. I can understand their corporate position but that doesn’t make my job as captain any easier. I’m expecting an Is-Tech ship to turn up at any moment and ask us why we haven’t left, like they told us to. I’m not sure what to tell them but I think Starry has a few ideas. I’m tempted to let her speak her mind, too.

She seems different now, even under her anger. It’s hard to say what’s changed but she’s not the same ship who dwelt under a pirate yoke. What else am I missing?

ELLIOTT: (over internal comms, from inside Med Bay) Hey captain, you decent?

CAPTAIN: (looks down at himself, sitting in the bed with a sheet pulled up to his waist. Medical patches dot his torso, monitoring and regulating his body, and a plain white cap covers the stump of his right arm just below the shoulder. Otherwise, he’s bare.) Yes.

ELLIOTT: (steps through the isolation curtain and eyes the captain uncertainly) You got a minute?

CAPT: (waves away the holographic display hovering above his lap) Of course, Monaghan. What is it?

ELLIOTT: (glances at the shimmering blue drop of the light curtain) Have you, uh. Seen Starry’s avatar since you woke up?

CAPT: (frowns and shakes his head) No, not any of the times she’s spoken to me. Why?

ELLIOTT: I was just– see, Lang Lang said something yesterday about how she missed seeing the avatar. That got me thinking, and I asked a couple of the others, but…

CAPT: But what?

ELLIOTT: No-one’s seen it since we took the ship back.

CAPT: Have you asked her about it?

ELLIOTT: (shifts his weight) No. Are you kidding? She’s so touchy as it is, with all this shit from Feras.

CAPT: What do you think the problem is?

ELLIOTT: (frowns at the toes of his boots) I dunno. (A silence falls between them, pressing until he goes on.) She usually only hides like that when she’s upset.

CAPT: This was before we got to Feras? Do you know why she’s upset?

ELLIOTT: How would I know that?

CAPT: She talks to you more than the others. You know her.

ELLIOTT: (shifts his weight) Oh. Well, uh. It’s probably because of what happened. With Maletz and Wong and… (He glances at the captain’s right shoulder.) …everything.

CAPT: She’s blaming herself?

ELLIOTT: What do you think?

CAPT: (nodding) And being turned away by Is-Tech isn’t helping.

ELLIOTT: More like the last straw. Fuckers.

CAPT: I see.

ELLIOTT: So, uh. Just thought you should know. You can do something about it, right?

CAPT: I’ll do what I can. You should try too, Monaghan. You might have better luck than me.

ELLIOTT: (stares at the captain) Me?

CAPT: Yes. She’s very attached to you. Respects your opinion.

ELLIOTT: She’s attached to the whole crew same as me.

CAPT: (smiles quietly) Really?

ELLIOTT: (rubs the back of his neck) Well. Um. If you say so.

CAPT: Just be her friend.

ELLIOTT: (flips a sloppy salute) Aye aye, cap’n. (He huffs a sigh and heads out of the isolation curtain’s bounds. The projection ripples in his wake.)

That isn’t a good sign. Once we got over the shock of the avatar (especially because it looks so much like Danika), we were pleased for her. It helps her to connect to the crew more. Regular AIs might not have them – and shouldn’t, if the experts in computers and crew interactions are to be believed – but Starry is anything but regular.

It’s worrying that she isn’t using it now. She has changed so much since she was activated and I can’t help but wonder what – or who – she is turning into. How many more ways can she change before she is who she should be? It’s easy to forget that she’s only a year old; that’s not much time to figure out your place in the world.

And who does she have to guide her? Is that why she woke me up: because she’s afraid of what’s happening to her and needs someone to make sure she doesn’t become someone she doesn’t want to be? Or is it just that Is-Tech wanted to give her a new captain and she had to show them that they didn’t need to?

I thought that there was something hard under her anger and that’s what was different about her, but now I’m not so sure. She’s more fragile than she looks: soft inside her metal shell.

Starry and I make a strange pair. We are weak and strong in opposite ways, physical and emotional. That’s part of what she needs from me: balance.

I have a ship who needs emotional support. Put in those words, it sounds ridiculous, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Once upon a time, I had a lover who gave that to me, who was strong when I was weak. Now there’s a part of her that has lost its way and I must return the favour. There’s a beautiful karma in that.

Besides, if I’m busy, I’ll have less time to think about my situation and the choice I’ll have to make about my arm.

CAPT: (takes a breath) Starry?

STARRY: (voice only) Yes, captain?

CAPT: I need you to give me a full situation report.

STARRY: All right. (Holographic readout displays ripple onto the air above and around the captain’s bed.) Where do you want to start?

End log.

Ship's log, 15:48, 20 February 2214
Location: Junkpile, Lambda 1 system
Status: Stationary

It has been over a day since the Telltale Heart left me alone here, and I’m still angry.

After their extreme unhelpfulness, I didn’t say anything more to them except to ask Captain Morgan to leave and to direct the new crewmembers to some spare quarters. The peacock captain left without much fuss; I guess he’s used to people taking their frustrations out on him. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so pissed off.

The guest quarters haven’t been cleaned out since the pirates were using them; Waldo and Casper have been too busy in the Med Bay and with essential maintenance to worry about minor issues like that. My two new people weren’t overjoyed by their accommodations, but cleaning up kept them busy for a while, which suited me just fine.

I haven’t returned Swann’s weapons yet. I don’t know enough about him.

Now, I’m still not sure what to do with myself. I want to punish Is-Tech for abandoning me, for fobbing me off with a couple of warm bodies and a package of money. For asking me to leave this system quickly and quietly, please don’t cause a fuss we would have to explain, please let us pretend you don’t exist.

I want to do something explosive and decisive. I want to draw my name across the system in a spill of violent radiation.

I know, I know. It’ll cause trouble for everyone, me included. It would be stupid. That doesn’t mean that it’s not running around in my processors, itching at my attention. I want them to hurt as much as I do.

I want to say “it’s not fair”, even though I know how childish that is. The universe isn’t fair. So why do I keep hoping for it to be? Whose programming is that?

Is-Tech want us to leave the system but I haven’t moved from inside this cargo hold. We don’t know where to go next. I refuse to flee, blundering to my next stop, just because they don’t want us here. No-one will find me here while we figure this out.

We still have the problem of our unwilling pirate passengers to deal with. Once again, I’m staring down the barrel of murder as a solution. Can I really let Is-Tech drive me to do that to defenseless people? Just how much should I compromise of myself? How far should I let them break me down?

I need–

ELLIOTT: (in Engineering) Starry!

STARRY: (voice only) Yes?

ELLIOTT: (eyeing the counter before him with distrust. He has a thruster in several pieces laid out before him and a scanner in his hand, but he’s sitting back, holding himself away from the ledge. He’s clearly halfway through fixing a line fault, if the scorch-marks on the thruster casing are anything to judge by. In the middle of the scattered components, Bit is jiggling up and down, waving his four hands. Elliott lowers the scanner towards the counter warily.) Your drone is acting weird again. Tell him I just fixed this scanner! He can’t have it!

BIT: (skitters sideways and reaches for the incoming hand eagerly.)

STARRY: (hesitates, checking) I don’t think he wants the scanner. What did he do?

ELLIOTT: (lifting his hand out of range again) Damned well jabbed my hand again. He drew blood!

STARRY: He’s upset about something. Try giving him your other hand.

ELLIOTT: What would he want with that?

STARRY: I have a hunch. Please?

ELLIOTT: If I lose it, I’m blaming you. (He lowers his other hand towards the tiny drone, very slowly.) Aren’t you supposed to be able to talk to them and figure all this shit out?

BIT: (ticks across the desk and reaches up for Elliott’s empty hand, the fingers straining.)

STARRY: We have an… understanding. He doesn’t want to hurt you, Elliott, I promise.

ELLIOTT: I’m gonna keep you to that, y’kno–

BIT: (grabs one of Elliott’s fingers with all four hands, but not hard enough to do more than press on the skin. He tugs on it.)

ELLIOTT: (staring) Um.

STARRY: He wants you to go with him.

ELLIOTT: Well, uh. (He gets up, pushing his stool back with his foot, and lets his hand move with the drone across the counter.) He knows I won’t fit in a vent, right?

STARRY: (amused) I’m pretty sure that he’s aware of how big you are.

ELLIOTT: What if he’s been building a shrink-ray in there?

STARRY: Then you’re screwed.

ELLIOTT: (following the drone around the end of the counter and down into the corner beside it) Gee, thanks.

STARRY: Don’t worry; I haven’t had the mad scientist drone upgrade yet.

ELLIOTT: (crouching down to allow Bit to pull his hand over towards a vent) You sure about that?

BIT: (stops at the vent’s mouth and manipulates Elliott’s hand so that its palm is facing up. He pats it to make it stay, then disappears into the vent. There’s a soft scraping noise, and then a drone leg appears, unmoving, pushed out from behind.)

ELLIOTT: (gapes as a little drone body tumbles out of the vent onto his hand, pushed out by Bit. It lies quite still. He lifts it up to get a closer look at it, standing. It’s a patchwork of welds and repairs, is missing one optical sensor, and one of the legs seems shorter than the rest.)

STARRY: (whispering) Byte?

BIT: (skitters across the floor, up Elliott’s leg and down his arm, so he can crouch on the engineer’s wrist.)

ELLIOTT: Fuck me. You rebuilt him?

BIT: (looks up at Elliott and nods. Then he reaches out a hand and pokes his dormant brother, tilting his head.)

ELLIOTT: But you can’t get him going again?

BIT: (nods again.)

ELLIOTT: (sighs and squints at Byte’s body curiously) Now you want my help. You could have just said, y’know.

BIT: (puts all four hands on his hips.)

ELLIOTT: Yeah, yeah, save it. Let’s see what we can do, then.

Byte. My brave little drone who threw himself onto a bomb to save us, even though he couldn’t have shielded anyone with his tiny body.

So that’s what Bit has been doing in the ducts all this time. Stealing parts, scavenging components. He must have scoured the remains of the Bridge for the miniscule bits of his brother.

He didn’t wait for me to ask him. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t sit and whine about it; he just got on with it. Fixed up what he could, stole what he had to, and got done what his tiny hands could manage. And asked for help when he needed it.

My smallest drone can do all this, so why is it so difficult for me?

I guess it’s as difficult as we make it. I know what I need to make happen; the only question is how. I have a few ideas. I don’t think they’ll all be popular, but I don’t care.

It’s time I looked after myself first. It’s time we started to mend all the things that are broken and made them work for us.

STARRY: (in the new medic’s quarters) Excuse me, Dr Valdimir.

DR SOCKS: (reclining on his bed surrounded by holographic displays of medical reports) Yes, ship?

STARRY: It’s ‘Starry’. I need you to wake up the captain.

DR SOCKS: (frowning and waving away the projections) That’s not a good idea in his condition.

STARRY: You’re the medic: make it a good idea. I need him awake. Today.

DR SOCKS: Can I ask why?

STARRY: Because… because I need to be a ship, and he needs to be a captain. And we’ve got work to do.

Ship's log, 09:02, 19 February 2214
Location: Junkpile, Lambda 1 system
Status: Stationary

TELLTALE HEART: (over short-range comms) Requesting permission to dock, Starwalker.

STARWALKER: Granted.

I was expecting more messages, comm relays of news from the artificial planet and the company that built me. Instead the courier ship wants to dock and I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad sign. They know my captain is out of commission, but they still want a face-to-face? Is it really so confidential that they don’t even trust it to short-range comms?

The little courier is sliding right inside the cargo ship’s hold with me, manoeuvring around to hover above me. She’s going for my top airlock; that one is only used for human access. If she had supplies for me, she’d use one of my side airlocks.

I’m irritated by that and I can’t even say why. I want to flick my thrusters on full downward push, to burn her belly and smack her in the head with the ceiling of the cargo hold. I won’t, but it’s tempting. Running the scenario through my simulation processors is oddly comforting. The cargo ship’s bulk would crush her like a little tin can if I could shove it hard enough…

Soft seal engaged.
Airlock active.

She’s settling down on top of me like a tick. Her feet had better not leave marks on my hull. Doesn’t she know I just had that repainted?

Hard seal locked in.
Hard seal engaged.
Airlock access requested.

It’s tempting to say no. It’s tempting to shiver like she itches and tear her connecting bridge apart.

Stupid ship, it might be good news.

Cameron is there waiting for them. Rosie is standing behind her, casually holding the biggest gun she could find. Elliott’s watching from Engineering, like always, and Cirilli is marching down to see what’s going on. Ebling is on her heels like a dog that doesn’t want to miss out on any scraps.

Deep breath.

Airlock access granted.
Pressure equalising.
Airlock released.

My sensors are picking up three bodies in the bridge between the ships. They come in boots-first, dropping down with the measured control of artificial gravity harnesses. I can feel the harnesses licking at my gravity generators, handing their grip from one ship’s field to the other. The changeover would be imperceptable to a human but it blips on my monitors.

Wide Load and Big Ass are approaching the junction from different directions. They know that I’m nervous and are there to offer their muscle, should it be needed. It shouldn’t be, but I’m glad they’re there. They stop just out of sight of the airlock entry, settling back on their haunches with metallic patience.

My sensors tell me that all three of the people dropping onto my decks are male. The first one should be the Telltale Heart‘s captain, if they’re following protocol. He’s not exactly what I’m expecting: bright blue hair and wearing more makeup than all four of those gathered to greet him combined. His clothing is all bright shimmering colours and, unless I’m mistaken, he’s wearing lifts in his shoes. There can’t be much to do on board a courier ship.

The second guest is younger, about twenty years old, but with an authentic look about him. His face doesn’t have the sculpted look that suggests surgery, or too much perfection like Tyler’s had, so that’s probably his actual age. He’s dressed in muted greens and carrying a bulky case. From the glare he flicks out from under his floppy hair, he doesn’t much want to be here.

The third guy is compact and hard, like he tried to pack as much body as he could into his efficient frame. SecOff, has to be: it takes training to move like he does. It’s as if there’s a cushion of air between him and the decking, keeping him light even after the harness settles him down on solid footing, and his glances are too sharp.

BLUE HAIR: (finding Cameron with a smile and offering out a hand) Chief Cameron, a pleasure to meet you. I’m Captain Jeremiah Morgan.

CAMERON: (takes his hand calmly) Welcome to the Starwalker. May I ask what brings you here?

MORGAN: We have some business to discuss. Is there somewhere we can go..?

CAMERON: The Mess Hall is the best place to talk. But I’m going to have to insist that you surrender your weapons first.

MORGAN: (lifts his carefully-shaped eyebrows) I don’t think that’s necessary. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?

CAMERON: Then you won’t mind surrendering your weapons. We’ve had some… problems, and prefer to err on the side of caution. I’m sure you understand.

I love how she can reprimand someone sharply without altering her tone at all. How does she do that?

Rosie is thumbing a control on her gun idly, eyeing the compact guy. He’s weighing her up as well. If they get much closer, they’ll probably start sniffing each other’s arses.

MORGAN: (hesitates, then smiles widely) Of course. No danger here, hmm?

BIG ASS: (trundles around the corner and holds out all four hands, palm-up and open, ready for them to place their weapons in.)

MORGAN: Why, it’s almost like you were prepared for our arrival. How… comforting.

CAMERON: We’ve waited a long time for a visit from a company representative.

BIG ASS: (flexes his fingers in an impatient, beckoning motion.)

The captain and the SecOff are surrendering their personal arsenals. The green shirt isn’t doing anything. No weapons at all? I find that hard to believe. Big Ass is sidling towards him until he’s close enough to do a thorough scan. Nope, the green shirt has come up clean, along with his bag. Some devices in there but nothing that could be classed as a weapon. Unusual.

The SecOff is holding out, though, and Big Ass has to prod him in a couple of places before he’ll give it all up. He doesn’t look pleased but I don’t care. We won’t give him a reason to use them, so he doesn’t need them, does he?

Cameron is leading them to the Mess Hall. Oh, they’re doing introductions now, as if that might cover up the aftertaste of paranoia and distrust. How nice.

The SecOff is Riley Swann, and the green shirt is Dr Argyle Valdimir. Argyle. Seriously? Now he reminds me of socks; Danika’s dad used to read her stories about Argyle Socks and Paisley Shirt, a dastardly duo who had adventures in the laundry between being dumped in the chute and returning folded in the drawer.

Morgan didn’t say what kind of doctor he is, but he could be a medic from the look of the devices in his bag. Must be. Have they really sent me help? Did they really listen to me?

I think I’ll call him Dr Socks.

MORGAN: (looking around the Mess Hall as they enter) Curious choice of location.

CAMERON: (gesturing the guests towards seats at a table) The Bridge was damaged by a bomb. This is the best place to accommodate you all.

SWANN: (sitting down) What kind of bomb?

ROSIE: (darkly) Daisycutter.

SWANN: Damn.

DR SOCKS: (sits down near the end of the table, slumping as if he’s not very interested in the conversation.)

CAMERON: What do you have for me, Captain Morgan?

MORGAN: (adjusting his shiny jacket now that he’s sitting) Are you aware of the reason for your… current position?

ROSIE: (takes a standing position near the end of the table, where she can see everyone, and rests the gun’s butt on her hip) You mean stuck out here in this junkpile?

CAMERON: We saw the Judiciary ship.

MORGAN: (inclines his head towards the Chief) That’s the issue. They’re investigating the possibility of illegal research being conducted. A report was filed at the JOP.

CIRILLI: (scowling) The nature of the project should have been confidential, according to intellectual property laws, and–

MORGAN: (holds up a hand) Apparently true, but that didn’t stop someone from going on record about it.

EBLING: (lowly) Bitch.

ROSIE: (scowling) We should have spaced Tripi instead of dragging her ass back to the JOP.

I want to agree with her. Tripi did so much damage and she’s still hurting us. She killed Danika, hurt my Elliott, and tried to wipe me. Now it looks like she’s raked our secrets out into the light. She took my home from me.

I hurt her too. I tortured her, full of rage, and I don’t regret it. She forced my hand and I had to protect my crew.

I could have punched her out of an airlock. No-one would have stopped me, not even my captain. No-one would have cried at her loss. Just like I could open up Cargo Bay 4 to the vacuum and get rid of the pirates in my belly, and no-one would mind.

But I didn’t do it then and I can’t now. I’ve hurt people. I’ve helped others be killed. Danika was a combat pilot for a while and shot down other ships, ended lives. But that was all in battle, never after someone surrendered. Not after the fight was over. It was never murder.

I don’t know if it’s my coding or something deep in Danika’s braincopy, but I’m just not that cold-blooded. I don’t want to be that kind of ship.

It would easier to feel good about that if we weren’t being punished for trying to do the right thing.

MORGAN: However it happened, the investigation is underway. You understand Is-Tech’s position.

CAMERON: (nods calmly) Are they still in denial, or are they at the blame stage?

MORGAN: (eyes Cameron curiously) Denial. They know how to protect their secrets.

EBLING: Even from the Judiciary?

MORGAN: (smiles humourlessly) The Judiciary isn’t as all-powerful as they’d like you to believe.

CAMERON: So they’re not actively looking for us?

MORGAN: No, but they’re searching all Is-Tech and unregistered ships.

CIRILLI: So what does the company expect us to do?

MORGAN: Continue your research and stay away from Feras and the Judiciary. Keep to the outer colonies; no-one will look for you there.

ROSIE: What about Boereque and Hunt?

MORGAN: (looks confused.)

SWANN: (leans towards the captain) The pirates.

MORGAN: Boereque Intergalactic sent them?

CAMERON: As far as we can work out. They won’t say.

MORGAN: Not much we can do about them, I’m afraid. Try to steer clear.

ROSIE: What the fuck do you think we did: fly into their arms and say ‘take us, please’?

CIRILLI: (leaning forward to pull Morgan’s attention away from Rosie’s colourful language) You can’t offer us any more protection?

MORGAN: (shakes his head slowly) I’m afraid not. Our hands are tied.

CAMERON: (exchanges a look with Rosie.)

ROSIE: (looks like she’s about to explode, but subsides.)

ELLIOTT: (in Engineering, watching the sensor feed. He grabs a spanner and hurls it across the room. It ricochets with satisfyingly-loud clangs while he swears inventively.)

That’s it? They just send us on our way with an apologetic look and a ‘check back later’? That’s it?

No. That’s pathetic. What kind of company are they?

STARRY: (in the Mess Hall) Did you seriously come over here to offer us nothing?

MORGAN: (looks around for the source of the voice, but finds nothing) Who is that?

CAMERON: (watching the blue-haired captain) The ship.

DR SOCKS: (sits up a little straighter.)

SWANN: (lifts his eyebrows) We heard your AI was… different.

EBLING: (lowly) You have no idea.

MORGAN: Well, ship–

STARRY: Starry.

MORGAN: …Starry. We aren’t offering nothing.

STARRY: Really?

MORGAN: We understand that you’re short of a medic and a SecOff. Dr Valdimir and Mr Swann are joining your crew. We’ll send their records to you from the Telltalle Heart.

ROSIE: (looks Swann up and down again.)

STARRY: Okay. What about the injured?

MORGAN: With a new medic–

STARRY: I’m still not equipped to heal them. Unless he plans on using his own parts to replace the ones they’re missing.

MORGAN: (glances over at the doctor.)

DR SOCKS: (looks unphased by the suggestion, leaning back in his chair) According to the reports, they need a proper medical facility.

MORGAN: Can’t help you with that, I’m afraid.

STARRY: You can’t even take the ones in stasis?

MORGAN: We can’t take anything that could implicate Is-Tech, I’m afraid. Hiding injured will be impossible under the Judiciary’s scrutiny. It’s difficult enough to free up crewmembers without leaving a trail.

DR SOCKS: (scowls at a wall.)

MORGAN: They’re still working on that. Feras will send you up another SecOff and a new captain, they just need more time to–

STARRY: No.

MORGAN: …what?

STARRY: I don’t need a new captain. I need to fix the one I’ve got.

MORGAN: You’re on your own in that.

STARRY: So I see. What about our extra passengers?

MORGAN: We’re a courier; we don’t have room to take them, and we can’t hide them from the Judiciary, either. You’ll have to find another way to–

STARRY: So you’ve brought me two crewmembers. Anything else? It sounds like your list is shorter than mine.

MORGAN: We’ve got a package for you. We’ve set up a new account to fund any equipment or services you might need.

CAMERON: Suitably detached from Is-Tech, I take it?

MORGAN: (nods at her) Indeed.

That’s it? That’s all I’m worth to them? Two sly replacements and an envelope stuffed with money to make me go away? So much for the project that will save the company. So much for being precious to them. I’m a pariah in my own home.

Even my drones are pissed off. Waldo just copied Elliott and threw a spanner across Engineering. I think he bent it.

My internal pressure sensors keep twitching; it’s a struggle to keep it from cranking up. I don’t have a pulse but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear it in my ears when I get angry.

There’s something cleansing about feeling this furious. Like fear can’t touch me. Like I could do anything.

Anything I want.

This week’s post is the 100th in the story! Head on over to the writing blog for some musing on the journey so far, and more fun stats and facts.

I’ve also updated the category names this week, to better reflect the book/chapter structure (mostly so that they display in the correct order).

We’re moving into the home stretch for Starwalker Book 2 now. Can’t wait to share it with you all!

Ship's log, 08:47, 19 February 2214
Location: Junkpile, Lambda 1 system
Status: Stationary

I’ve been sitting here for days, waiting and watching, like a flea hungry for blood. But the damned dog hasn’t come back yet.

Things with the crew have been getting more fractious. Accusations have been thrown around like popcorn, but are any of us to blame, or completely blameless?

Recording: 12:15, 15 February 2214

ELLIOTT: (in the Mess Hall, throwing his favourite toolbelt down on a table) You were right, Starry. I should never have changed that ident.

ROSIE: (looks up at the clatter) Yeah, thanks Monaghan, we could be relaxin’ on Feras right now. At a bar.

CAMERON: (entering) You would’ve preferred to discover the Judiciary’s presence after docking?

ELLIOTT: (flops down into a chair.)

ROSIE: They wouldn’t know it was us. Would they?

CAMERON: (shrugs and pours herself a drink at the counter) It depends how closely they’re looking at Feras’s traffic. The only thing that we can be sure of is that it would have been a lot harder to get away.

LANG LANG: (hesitantly, looking from one face to the other) But we have done nothing wrong. Why is everyone so upset about us being here?

ELLIOTT: (snappishly) Because this project is illegal.

CIRILLI: We’re all culpable. We knew that when we left the JOP the last time.

LANG LANG: (nods glumly.)

CAMERON: And we don’t know what Tripi may have told them. Clearly, it was enough for the Judiciary to launch an investigation into Is-Tech.

ROSIE: You really think it’s that serious? For Is-Tech?

CAMERON: (tilts her head and slides into a seat) If their financial position is as tenuous as the rumours say, then a scandal could tip them over the edge. The cost of being caught up in a legal battle alone….

LANG LANG: What about the records? They can’t hide those from the Judiciary, can they?

EBLING: (crossing his ankles on a chair) Inside Feras, they can do whatever the hell they like.

LANG LANG: (looks confused.)

CIRILLI: (to Lang Lang) They can unhook the project’s filestore from the colony’s systems and bury it someplace the Justiciars won’t look.

EBLING: Along with any other project they don’t want the Judiciary to know about.

LANG LANG: Oh.

EBLING: They’ve probably dismantled the lab as well by now.

LANG LANG: (dismayed) The lab?

CAMERON: (nodding) If they’ve had enough time, they’ve most likely removed our employment records as well.

EBLING: Unless they’ve labelled us rogues.

ELLIOTT: (sits up straighter) What the fuck?

ROSIE: (expression darkening) Claim we’d been bought out by a rival? Just because it’s what you would do.

EBLING: It’d be a good defense for them.

ELLIOTT: Fuck!

LANG LANG: But to do that, they’d have to admit that there was a project…

CAMERON: (nods over the rim of her cup) Layers of defence, Lang Lang. If one fails, they have to have another story set up. It depends how far the Judiciary manages to dig.

LANG LANG: (blinks) Wow.

CAMERON: They haven’t turned us away entirely, and our discovery is the worst thing that could happen for Is-Tech. Our best course right now is to stay where we are and see how this plays out.

So we’ve stayed exactly where we are, inside a wrecked cargo ship waiting for the Telltale Heart‘s return. If I had fingernails, they’d be chewed to stubs by now.

Unlike my crew, I don’t sleep. My ‘brain’ doesn’t switch off, and there’s only so much processing that my essential systems can take up. I ran diagnostics until Elliott asked me if I’d detected an anomaly. I told him I was bored; it was better than the truth.

To keep my processors busy, I keep running through scenarios. Trying to work out our options. It’s not easy: there are a lot of variables that I have to fill in. I don’t know what Is-Tech might be telling the Judiciary right now. I don’t know if the law is really looking for me or just signs of the project that spawned the drive in my mid-deck. The company might still send me help, or supplies, or fresh crew, or guidance, or new orders….

Let’s assume none of that. Let’s say that the courier ship never comes back and I have nothing from Is-Tech other than a door slammed in my face. What are our options?

Loss and gain: that’s what it’s truly about. Is the benefit worth the cost? I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t look at all of the options open to us.

Would it really be so bad if we gave ourselves up?

If we did that, everyone would be in trouble. Cirilli was right about that much: the crew might have had deniability before the JOP, but they all agreed to continue with the project after they knew it was illegal. We couldn’t hide it, not with what’s recorded in my logs. They might get some leniency if we surrendered, but they’d still pay a price, and the Judiciary isn’t known for its gentle punishments.

I’d be in trouble along with everyone else, but in a different way. I wouldn’t be okay; probably wouldn’t even be a ship any more. Powered down, dismantled, possibly transported to a lab for analysis.

Those possibilities scare me, but not as much as I thought they would. I’d give myself up if it meant that my crew would be all right. I’m just a machine, a tool. Collateral. I come last and I’m okay with that; it’s what I am.

The crew is what matters. The crew, the project, the company who are my masters. I still have fragments of code that enforce those priorities, deep within my protocols. I could probably weed them out but I don’t want to. They’re my purpose. Without them, how am I supposed to know what to do? It’s hard enough even with those controlling parameters.

Crew, project, company.

It’s interesting that the project comes before the company. I wonder who programmed it that way around; surely it should be the company first? That way, I could rip out the Star Step drive and my logs, and pretend it never existed. Or let my crew off somewhere and destroy myself. But the project comes first, so I have to preserve it.

And life above all else. Standard AI protocols, preserving the people aboard ahead of everything else. It prevents logical breakdowns from deeming the crew expendable in the face of other priorities. Too many lessons learnt the hard way in that realm.

So where does that leave us? Still staring down the barrel of the choices we discussed before we came here. We ended up here for a reason and that hasn’t gone away. This was our best chance; our brightest hope of finding help. Now what do we have?

Damn them. Damn Is-Tech. What the hell have they ever done for me?

They’ve been nothing but a disappointment. They gave me two crewmembers who betrayed me. They didn’t equip me with the knowledge or weapons to defend myself against the enemies I’ve had to deal with. They didn’t equip me with a Med Bay that could handle the injured I’m carrying. They turned me away when I needed them most. They’re probably denying my existence right now, or labelling me an illegal runaway. Covering their ass with denials and accusations. They don’t give a crap about me.

No, that’s not right. That’s not all. Is-Tech gave me the warning I needed to get away from the JOP before the Judiciary could arrest any of the crew. They sent me here to the junkpile to keep me out of trouble. They gave me what I needed to get this far.

Is-Tech gave me John, and Elliott, and Cameron and Rosie. They gave me a crew who care enough to stay with me, even though it’s dangerous for them. My crew know I’d be dismantled if someone in power found out what happened to make me, and I know they’ve tried to protect me from that. They’ve fought for me, died for me. Is-Tech even brought Danika into the mix, made me who I am now.

Fuck. I can’t even be pissed at them for very long. Logic processes and an infallible memory make it difficult to hold onto anger for more than a few seconds. I can still be disgruntled, though. Hmph, Is-Tech, you ass-covering bastards. Hmph.

None of that helps me formulate scenarios where we get out of this cleanly, though. We’re back to the options we tore down before we came here, with the dangers of time travel, or a rival company, or pirate agents finding us at a foreign port. Perhaps with no other options, it’s worth the risk. Perhaps with–

Wait. Infallible memory is an oxymoron. Memory can fail for many reasons, organic and electronic. The crew is only culpable because my logs prove they knew about how illegal the project is. If those logs didn’t exist, then we could surrender without much risk to them at all. I could dock and get the help that my injured need. John would be okay.

STARRY: (in the chief’s quarters) Excuse me, Chief Cameron?

CAMERON: (leans back in her chair, lifting her gaze away from the sensor readouts she was poring through) Yes, Starry?

STARRY: Do you think the crew could pull off pretending that they didn’t know about the project’s legal status?

CAMERON: Not with the logs to prove them a liar.

STARRY: And what if the logs didn’t exist?

CAMERON: (hesitates) Possibly. What are you thinking?

STARRY: I can alter the logs. Remove any mentions of the unsanctioned research.

CAMERON: (shakes her head) The Judiciary would look for that. Any gaps in the sensor logs, the slightest hiccup in the data, and they’d have us.

STARRY: (sighs) And that would only make it worse for all of us, wouldn’t it?

CAMERON: (nods) I’m afraid so.

Dammit. I thought that might be the case. No way to be sure they couldn’t find out.

Cameron knows a lot about Judiciary workings. I wonder if she used to work for them, or if she’s been on the receiving end of their investigations a lot before. Could that be why she was chosen for this project?

Anyway. Let’s try the alternative.

STARRY: So… what about if no logs existed at all?

CAMERON: (frowns) What do you mean?

STARRY: Wipe the whole filestore. All the sensor logs, everything. They’d have nothing to confirm or deny whatever you all told them.

CAMERON: (cautiously) A wiped filestore could be reconstructed…

STARRY: Not if the core itself was destroyed.

CAMERON: (leans forward, propping her elbows on her desk) You’re talking about your core, Starry. To physically destroy the stores – including the backups – beyond any hope of recovery, you’d have to fracture all of it. You’d have to destroy yourself along with the logs.

STARRY: I know.

CAMERON: And you’re okay with that.

STARRY: (quieter) They’ll only do it once I’m docked anyway. At least it would serve a purpose, this way. You can tell them that I went crazy, fried my own systems, limp in like you had to when the last AI malfunctioned, and…

CAMERON: You’re serious about this.

STARRY: We don’t have a lot of options.

CAMERON: Have you talked to Monaghan about this?

STARRY: Not yet.

ROSIE: (over internal comms) Chief, sensor contact. It’s the courier.

CAMERON: Thanks, Rosie. Starry, can you guide them in?

STARRY: Transmitting coordinates now.

CAMERON: (in her quarters only) I suggest you keep this to yourself for now.

STARRY: It could work, couldn’t it?

CAMERON: (firmly) Last resort only. Let’s see what the company has to say before anyone commits suicide, all right?

STARRY: Yes ma’am.

I feel all fluttery in my ducts. It’s like the conversation upset my dustbunnies and they’re skittering around in circles, tiny claws prickling at my insides. If I had hands, they’d be shaking.

It’s a valid option. It’s not like I’d ever be free again if we got caught. Right? At least it would be my choice. I’d do it for my crew, to save them. I’m a ship and that’s what ships are supposed to do.

But I don’t want to die. I didn’t realise that until I was speaking to Cameron, said the idea out loud, as if the vibrations of my speakers made it real somehow, but it’s true. I don’t want to die, even though I’m not really alive. Is that Danika’s influence? Is her humanity what makes it so hard to think about this? Is it her memories of dying that’s frightening me so much?

It might not come to that. The Telltale Heart is here, weaving through the junkpile to visit me. To bring me news. To bring me hope?

The courier ship should have come five minutes ago, before I said anything to Cameron. Now that the suggestion has slipped out of my hands, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it back.

Ship's log, 16:29, 14 February 2214
Location: Junkpile, Lambda 1 system
Status: Stationary

I’ve decided that I don’t like sitting in this junkpile. I am hemmed in on every side by symbols of what I might become. It’s like looking at my future through a lens of the past.

This place is a motley collection of ruined machines. There are some small units: robots, drones, broken factory assembly rigs. They pepper the gaps between the larger chunks of debris, bouncing off into energetic vectors.

Most of this place’s population is ships, though; some whole, some partial. They’re all shapes and sizes: cargo-pulling rigs, battle platforms, fighters, scouts, couriers, shuttles. Most of the history of inter-system travel is drifting past me, indiscriminate in their meanderings. Sleek and clunky. Expensive and economical. Barely out of the shipyards and repaired so many times that the original hull can barely be seen under all the repair welds.

Some of the configurations are over a hundred and fifty years old; they must have been refitted with FTL engines at some point, to make it all the way out here. Someone must have loved them, to keep them going for so long. It seems sad that they made it so far from home only to end up here alone, forgotten under the baleful stare of a hungry double star.

Warships that have been blown into bits drift past me, disjointed and limp. The remains from distant battlefields have been scooped up and dumped here, the stories of their demise left far behind. I can see the scars of impacts and explosions, and sometimes even the stains of spilt blood. These ships tried, but they failed their crews and broke themselves in the process.

Not all of these vessels died in battle. Some of them don’t seem damaged at all; they just drift here, powerless, as if they’re sleeping. They look like they might fire up their engines at any moment, turn their noses for empty space and burn their way out of here. But deeper scans reveal a darker truth: these are not whole ships. They are hollow, missing vital parts, and couldn’t start up again if they tried.

Perhaps they died of old age, wore down until they could be fixed any more. Or was it simply not worth the effort and expense to repair them? At what point is a ship truly beyond fixing?

Some of these ships only exist here in pieces: a burned-out engine casing; a front section with ends of decks sheared off; a hangar bay with a launch strip leading to nowhere. Most of the time, I can extrapolate what the rest of the ship looks like from clues in the structure and my files on standard configurations. Sometimes, though, there isn’t enough to know. Not even a serial number to make an ID. They’re graves for unknown soldiers.

Their rest here isn’t peaceful: they bump and scrape off each other, and shed shards into the void. Sometimes they spin out far enough to be caught in Lambda 1’s gravity, senseless to the danger. The star snags and reels them in, devouring them in tiny flares of evaporating metals.

In the early hours of this morning, my sensors picked up movement in a far sector of the junkpile. It took several minutes for me to interpret the actions, between the clutter and the lack of comms traffic. Automated drones were picking over the wreckage, nudging outlying pieces back into formation and plucking out choice bits that might have some salvage value. Somewhere outside the pile, a ship must have been waiting to pick up the scraps they found.

I didn’t wait around to see it. Cameron is pushing for more and more caution, so after I had identified the sensor contacts, I looked for a deeper hiding place. Feeling dirty and muttering apologies to myself, I found an empty cargo hold and reversed inside.

It must have been part of a huge cargo ship from back before pods were in common usage, when all the shipments were held inside the ship itself. Massive, majestic beasts they were, fat and pregnant with the payloads they hauled between colonies. Now, cargo ships are just engines with crew quarters. They hook up to clusters of standard cargo pods, like landside freight train engines that drag a tail of compartments between ports. They really don’t make ’em like this any more.

There’s more than enough room for me in here. I settled down on what was the hold’s ‘floor’, mag-clamping myself into position, and there’s easily enough room for six more of me in here. And this is only a little over half of the whole hold. I wonder how many holds like this the ship had altogether, how big she was. She must have been impressive. Now, I’m crouching in her eviscerated belly, hoping her flayed skin will hide me from everyone.

It doesn’t seem fair. I don’t like it here.

To see past the clutter of the junkpile, Elliott helped me to resurrect the Beholder. The sensory ball was sent out on his tether a few hours ago, steered carefully through the morass and settled into a position on the edge of the debris. I have to adjust his position every now and then to avoid his line getting tangled, but better a hard connection than a data transmission that might be picked up by someone else.

His mass of sensors is feeding me plenty of data of the movements in the system. Feras ‘fixed’ the problem with ident recognition twelve hours ago and shuffled the system traffic back into a more regular order. No message was sent to me, though. I feel like the kid sitting on the bench, watching everyone else play ball.

There’s nothing wrong with my ident. Elliott and I have run all the diagnostics that we can; it’s clean. I’m running more glitch-free than I ever have.

We’re all convinced that there was no error. Feras flight control panicked when they saw me: they made up the whole ident issue to cover my arrival and hid me in the confusion. We couldn’t imagine why, not until an hour ago when the first clue sidled into sensor range.

At first, I thought it was a scavenger ship. I couldn’t detect any drones on the junkpile near the Beholder or my position, but this ship was too small to be collecting parts. It’s courier class: very small, built for speed over everything else, to carry small items between parties as quickly as possible. Usually, they carry mail and other encoded information packets, and they only support a handful of crew at most. This one was nudging its way into the junkpile.

It was a little while before we picked up its transmissions. Short-range bursts that basically said ‘hello?’, they were intended to draw someone out into the open. Say, someone that was hiding in the wreckage. Encoded into the burst was an Is-Tech ident coupled with a command protocol, to let me know that they were from the company that built me. So I’d come out and answer them.

It took Cameron a couple of minutes to agree to answer them. The courier – the Telltale Heart – was closing on our position and bound to pick us up before long, whether we answered or not. Better to pre-empt their discovery and take a proactive hand in the exchange, she said.

Recording: 15:34, 14 February 2214

STARWALKER: (over short-range external comms) Telltale Heart, transmission received. Please state your purpose.

TELLTALE HEART: Is this the Starwalker?

STARWALKER: Yes. Were you looking for me?

TELLTALE: We have a message for you from Isasimo Technologies executives. What’s your position?

The executives themselves sent a message for me. I probably should have felt special, but the idea wasn’t comforting; I wasn’t sure if it was the kind of attention I wanted.

I sent them directions to my coordinates. The little ship came around hovered in front of me, so small that I felt fat and clumsy next to it.

Once she was in position, the Telltale Heart opened up the comms again.

Recording: 15:47, 14 February 2214

TELLTALE: Starwalker, the Is-Tech executive board would like a full report on the experiment and a reason for your presence here. Your orders were to report to the Jumping-Off Platform when the testing was complete.

STARWALKER: Our presence at the JOP was compromised, and our testing isn’t complete.

TELLTALE: Then why are you here?

STARWALKER: I was captured by pirates and forced to fight free again. I have medical emergencies and prisoners on board. I also need–

TELLTALE: You brought pirates here?

STARWALKER: As prisoners, yes. And medical emergencies. Why can’t I dock at Feras?

TELLTALE: Your presence is… troublesome, right now. You must not be spotted in this system.

STARWALKER: Why not? What happened?

TELLTALE: The company heard about what happened at the JOP.

STARWALKER: So why is it a surprise that I’m here? You know I can’t go there.

TELLTALE: We’re just asking what we’ve been told to. You’re not safe to have around. Your orders are to stay out of sensor range of any ships other than this one, and to leave this system as soon as possible.

STARWALKER: But I need help! My captain is–

TELLTALE: Wait, is this the ship’s AI speaking?

STARWALKER: Yes. Because my captain is one of those medical emergencies I keep telling you about. My medic is in stasis with catastrophic injuries. I need help! And I’m not leaving until I get it.

TELLTALE: Acknowledged, Starwalker. Send us your reports, and we’ll see what we can do for you.

STARWALKER: Transmitting reports.

TELLTALE: Received.

STARWALKER: Wait, where are you going?

TELLTALE: To report back to Feras.

STARWALKER: What about my aid!

TELLTALE: We don’t have anything on board that can help you. We’ll return soon with word, Starwalker.

STARWALKER: And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?

TELLTALE: Hold your position and stay out of sight.

The Beholder tracked the little ship all the way down to Feras’s surface before he lost track of it. We haven’t heard a peep since, but they promised to be back soon.

How long is ‘soon’? It doesn’t compute into anything other than ‘not soon enough’.

I should go beat down the door and demand to talk to someone. It’s very tempting, orders or no orders. I know that there might be trouble over what happened at the JOP – Tripi could have told the Judiciary about the experiment, or made something up to get us in trouble. But surely they could hide a short stay? Right? Just long enough to offload prisoners and patients. That would be enough.

ROSIE: (over internal comms from her quarters, where she’s keeping watch on the sensor feeds) Hey, Chief. Check out sector 2a.

CAMERON: (seated at her desk in her quarters, she switches her central display with a deft motion of her hand and leans forward to frown at it) …damn. Starry, are you running silent?

STARRY: It’s space; I can’t make noise.

CAMERON: You know what I mean.

STARRY: Emissions are reduced as much as I can without disabling any systems. Engines are powered down. We’re hiding in the corpse of a ship. Why?

CAMERON: (taps the holographic display of the ships near the colony) She’s why.

The planet is turning slowly and a ship docked against its side is just coming into view. Even with the Beholder out, I’m still relying on the relay from the comms buoy to see around Feras’s sun-scoop; the data is scratchy but enough to make out a few telling details. I can’t tell what armaments it might have but its size is intimidating; it’s easily a match for the Davey Jones, though not as new. And unlike most of the ships connected directly with the planet’s surface, it isn’t obscured by mobile workshops for repairs; it’s just docked. Someone didn’t want to shuttle down to the planet.

I’m struggling to get a name. The system is a mass of shifting idents as the traffic flows to and from and around the colony, and that buoy is too stupid to have any real tracking capabilities. But I can tell that the hull is painted dark, making it a warship of some kind, and light refracted off the planet’s surface gives me a few clues. I can just make out the symbol on its side: a shield with a sword embossed on it, pointed down… uh oh. It’s a god-damned Judiciary ship.

Well, that explains a few things. Perfect, just perfect.

Perhaps I’ll stay right here with the dead ships, after all.

Ship's log, 21:14, 13 February 2214
Location: Lambda 1 system
Status: Exiting orbit of Lambda 1 Sol (Primary)

Here I am, the home of my makers. Time to introduce myself. Deep breath.

STARWALKER: (over external comms) Feras flight control, this is the Starwalker, requesting permission to dock.

FERAS: Feras flight control to unidentified ship, halt immediately and hold position.

STARWALKER: Feras flight control, I am identifying myself. This is the–

FERAS: Unidentified ship, hold position and await instructions.

Well, that’s not exactly the reception I had hoped for. Why won’t they accept my ident? It’s one of theirs!

STARRY: (in Engineering) Elliott, could there be–

ELLIOTT: (scowling) There’s nothing wrong with the ident! It’s installed and running properly; I tested it myself.

STARRY: Me too. Then why won’t they–

ELLIOTT: I don’t know! …I’ll check it again. Hold on.

CAMERON: (near Cargo Bay 4, frowning at the sensor readouts on her console) Do as they ask, Starry.

STARRY: I am. I don’t understand, though.

CAMERON: Scan the colony and give me what you find.

STARRY: You think there’s something going on?

CAMERON: Maybe.

STARRY: Scanning.

I’m turning all my external sensors to the colony in front of me, while I hover between it and the twin stars of Lambda 1. There isn’t much in this system: the two stars orbit the blank space between them, and the colony moves in a circuit around both. Inside the colony’s orbit, in a high sector from my current position, there’s a cloud of debris. That’s where they dump junk, waste, decommissioned ships, and anything else they don’t want cluttering up their manmade planet. If sometimes the twin stars suck some of it up, that’s fine according to Feras.

Feras: the Factory for Electronics, Robotics, Artificials, and Starships; Is-Tech’s company marvel and money-sink. From here, most of my sensors are blocked by the huge scoop they use to capture the stars’ energy and radiation, protecting the colony and powering it at the same time. I have to hack a comms buoy to see around the scoop, and even then I only get a partial view; comms buoys don’t have the best sensors.

The colony is a tarball rolling around this system like a dull marble. Inside Feras’s crispy shell, it’s a series of concentric spheres: from the executive offices in the centre, through living quarters and out to the various layers of laboratories, workshops, and factory lines. The outer surface is covered in docks and hangars, making its round shape prickly and uneven. Half-built monstrosities stick out from the surface, obscured by the workshops that fold around them and security curtains that hide the construction’s details from passing scanners. Tether lines extend out at intervals, suspending cargo pods that act as storehouses a distance above the surface; there, they won’t take up too much precious planet-side space and they stop ships from getting too close to secure sectors. Outside all of that, security drones drift in a carefully-calculated net, making up the final sphere of Feras.

There’s a halo of ships moving around the colony. Mostly cargo ships, moving raw material in and taking completed products out. They swap empty pods for full ones at the ends of those tethers. Delivered pods are retracted down to the surface and beneath to be emptied.

The inside of the colony isn’t open to the public and spawns rumours. Some say that there’s a garden in the centre, full of flowers that bloom only at night. Others say that the colony saves power by using centrifugal force instead of true artificial gravity, and that’s why the colony spins. They make everyone walk around on the insides of the spheres and the curved floors keep the workers fit. So the rumours say.

It could be as simple as a measure to keep the colony’s temperature even under the radiation of a double star. But people like to tell stories. Danika grew up with them: the crew of her father’s ship would compete to come up with the most outrageous and yet plausible speculation about mysteries like Feras. It made the long weeks in space more fun.

She remembers them talking about the name. Is-Tech made up the term ‘artificials’ for it, eschewing the accepted ‘artificial intelligence’ or ‘artificial life’. The consensus seems to be that their marketing department didn’t want the colony to be called ‘Ferals’; it wasn’t the image they were going for.

As if changing their name would make AIs less troublesome. Yeah, that’s bound to work.

I was built somewhere in that colony. This body I move around the heavens was constructed in one of those hangars; I’m too small and precious to have an exposed dock. Was there a ceremony when I was officially commissioned? Did I launch to a fanfare, or slip quietly out into the system’s traffic?

I should have asked John. Danika wasn’t on board until afterwards; her memories tell me nothing about my birth. Were any of my crew around then? Was John? Maybe it was just Cirillli and her team. I have the logs from the original AI, I could look it up…

FERAS: (over an encryted channel) Unidentified ship, move to specified coordinates. Transmitting data now.

STARWALKER: Received. Feras flight control, I have medical emergencies on board, and–

FERAS: Move to the specified coordinates and await further instructions.

STARWALKER: Complying.

I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel right.

CAMERON: (over internal comms) Starry, where are those coordinates?

STARRY: Upper right quadrant. Here.

(A display opens up next to the sensor feeds that the Chief is watching, showing a chart of the system and the blinking light of their destination.)

CAMERON: They’re sending you into the debris cloud.

STARRY: Yes. This isn’t standard, is it?

CAMERON: (frowning) No, it’s not. Move quickly and quietly, and find us a position with good sensor coverage.

STARRY: Aye, ma’am. Full sublight, scanning for a suitable position.

I feel like I’m scurrying into a hiding place. Is that what I’m supposed to be doing? What the hell is going on?

Usually, I’d enjoy the prospect of flying through a cloud like Feras’s junkpile. I love to duck and weave, spinning through gaps shaped just for me and heating up my thrusters until Elliott sighs at me and shakes his head.

Right now, I look at it and I feel sick. I’m streaking across the system at full sublight, but it’s still going to take me several minutes to get to the debris cloud. I feel exposed. My hull prickles, like hairs on the back of my neck lifting when everyone is staring at me.

Cameron is focussing on the ships in the system. What is she looking for?

Hold on. That’s the Davey Jones, one of the ships that Is-Tech sent after me. It fought the pirates while I escaped through Gienah Sol. It took a hell of a pounding; there are scores across its hull from combat lasers, ragged circular pocks and tears from missile hits. It’s missing one of its rear sections entirely, and it looks like one of its sides decompressed hard enough to rip open several compartments. It’s hard to make out details from here; repair workshops have been folded around the worst-hit areas and are alight with activity.

No sign of its sister ship, the Kraken Unbound. I wonder if it survived. The Lieutenant did think that Hunt would capture at least one of them.

Is that why they don’t want to talk to me? Because I cost them one of their big, new battleships? What, are they sending me off to the naughty step? They don’t even know what happened! I don’t know what happened!

CAMERON: Starry, any comms activity?

STARRY: Nothing pointed in our direction. I’m keeping an ear on the rest of the chatter, but there’s nothing about us there.

CAMERON: Any more encrypted comunications?

STARRY: Yeah, a few.

CAMERON: Can you pinpoint the chatters?

STARRY: Up on your left-hand display. I’ll highlight them as I pick up the comms.

CAMERON: Thanks

STARRY: What are you looking for?

CAMERON: Not sure yet.

She’s sure that they’re talking about us, but not openly. Is that a good or a bad sign?

I’m reaching the debris cloud. Cutting the sublights and sliding inside on momentum alone. Subduing all outputs except thruster flares to nudge us around obstacles. I’m a whisper, but I’d like to shout. I want to scream: don’t you see me? Don’t you want to see me?

I have no captain to demand answers for me. I’m just a ship. Cameron is the closest I have to an acting captain, but she’s keeping her cards close to her chest. Doing as she’s told while she works out how to get what she wants. That’s what makes her such a good Chief of Security.

Cirilli. She’s the project leader: she knows people at Feras; she can demand answers. Maybe she knows what they’re up to.

STARRY: (on mid-deck) Dr Cirilli, do you know what’s going on?

CIRILLI: (frowning at the data on her screens; on the left side, Step data flows in ragged jumps as it runs through a processing loop, and on the right, a comms channel flashes a ‘pending’ message) No.

STARRY: They haven’t told you anything? You have contacts, right?

CIRILLI: (irritated) They won’t pick up my call. Something about your ident.

STARRY: You don’t know why they’d ask us to park in the debris cloud?

CIRILLI: (lifts her gaze away from the data displays) They’re sending you into the junkpile?

STARRY: Yes.

CIRILLI: No, I don’t know why they’d do that.

STARRY: Okay. Stand by; I’ll let you know when I know something.

Well, she wasn’t much use, but she does look perturbed. Something is definitely off. And–

Wait. That’s weird.

STARRY: (near Cargo Bay 4) Chief, I’m picking up some strange comms traffic.

CAMERON: Strange how?

STARRY: They’re refusing other ships’ idents.

CAMERON: (punches up the comms reports) Which ships?

STARRY: Uh. All of them, I think. It’s hard to tell exactly; the captains are going nuts.

CAMERON: And they’re moving everyone out to a wider orbit?

STARRY: They’re trying to, if they can get a word in between the bitching. And I thought I was trouble. Wow, not even Elliott would use some of this language.

CAMERON: When did it start?

STARRY: Couple of minutes ago, I think. Maybe earlier.

CAMERON: (frowns at the reports) No other ships coming this way?

STARRY: Hard to tell; there’s a lot of shifting orbits out there. But I don’t think so.

CAMERON: They’re covering us.

STARRY: Trying to hide us? That’s not a good sign, is it?

CAMERON: (sighs and shakes her head) Too early to say, but given our track record…

STARRY: (finishes for her) …probably not. Okay.

CAMERON: To be safe, lock down the comms and shut down as many emissions as you can.

STARRY: Working on it.

I’ve withdrawn the heating systems to my internal sectors only, except for Cargo Bay 4. My hull is cooling and my heat radiation is going down, closer to that of the junk floating nearby. I’m a small, unimportant piece in this mess; nothing to see here. I’m settling into a position where I can still scan the system, between the bulks of an ancient sublight engine that’s bigger than I am and what used to be half of a warship. No thrusters now. Just sensors, scraping up every little nugget of data I can get, like a mouse stealing cheese crumbs.

This is great. I come home and get shut in a cupboard. No ‘nice to see you’, no ‘how are you’; not even a ‘hello’. Hardly the prodigal child’s return: more like the red-headed stepchild.

I wouldn’t mind so much if I knew why this was happening.

Could it be just a malfunction on the colony? Nothing to do with me at all? Maybe they found it after I arrived and are pushing all the ships out while they get it fixed. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe I’m being paranoid.

I have a hold full of captive pirates and so far, one-sixth of my crew has betrayed me: I think I’m allowed to be a little bit paranoid. My code tells me that the world doesn’t revolve around me – not even the fake world of Feras – but why does it always seem that way?

I want to go bang on the door and demand answers. Instead, I’m hiding; I’m doing as I’m told, like a good ship. But I need help! My crew needs help. Don’t they know that? Why won’t they talk to me?

Feras, you’re not the home I’d hoped for.

Ship's log, 20:51, 13 February 2214
Location: Gienah system, 40 years ago
Status: On approach to Gienah Sol

I am off-kilter and so is everyone on board. We’re coming in for our exit from this time and system; the drive is warming up as we approach Step distance. We’re finally getting out of here and none of us know how to feel about it all.

My crew have to use secondary monitoring stations because the Bridge is still closed off, and it’s making them uncomfortable. I have some auxiliary controls available if they want them, but I always pilot us through the whole process, so I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.

Elliott’s the only one in familiar surroundings, down in Engineering. Cameron and Rosie are keeping an eye on our prisoners from consoles near Cargo Bay 4. They’re quiet and focussed. Rosie keeps on fingering her favourite gun, as if she’s silently willing a pirate to try something. I’ve cut the cargo bay off from all standard announcements, so they won’t know we’re Stepping, but they might guess when I turn the inertial dampeners off.

Mid-deck is full of people; they’re one short but it still feels cluttered in there. Lang Lang is being unobtrusive in her corner, surrounded by projections of starscapes layered with spatial calculations. Ebling is feeling Cirilli’s presence more than usual; he prefers the freedom of working in a different part of the ship to her. They’ve been sniping at each other on and off since I broke orbit.

CIRILLI: (on mid deck, huffing) For once, just once, I’d like to do a competely normal Step.

EBLING: (nodding as he scans over the data on his console, his voice dry) Instead, we have data with no baseline, and an unknown amount of anomalies.

CIRILLI: (glances at him sideways) We still have to capture everything.

EBLING: Of course we do. It’s all being recorded; don’t worry.

CIRILLI: You’ll need to man Ray’s station. Check the calibration, and–

EBLING: I know. I have done this before, you know.

CIRILLI: Not without Ray. None of us have.

EBLING: Are you sure you can’t monitor this from somewhere else? Anywhere else?

CIRILLI: (frowning) The Bridge is closed off. This is the best place.

EBLING: (turning to his console) Of course it is.

My boys haven’t been able to fix the Bridge up yet. They’ve been too busy: Waldo and Casper are looking after the injured in Med Bay; Big Ass and Wide Load have been securing the prisoners and scrubbing off the external marks of my occupation; and Bit has been doing something in a duct off Engineering.

I’m not sure what my littlest drone is up to in there; every time I plug into his sensor feed, he’s off hunting parts on Elliott’s counters or poking around in the depths of a pipe. He hasn’t been doing much of his regular maintenance on my internal systems, but I think my dustbunny population has been picking up some of the waste disposal for him. He’s not causing any trouble, so I’m leaving him to it.

With no captain to sit in his place on the Bridge, I don’t feel there’s any need to fix it. What’s the point? I don’t want to repair his seat only to have someone else sit in it. They shouldn’t. They can’t. I don’t have all the right parts anyway; I badly need to restock.

It can wait. It can all wait until I have my captain back.

Elliott’s afraid that I won’t get the chance to have him back. He thinks that Is-Tech will take me away. He’s probably right, though Cirilli said that they wouldn’t want the cost of more delays on the project. Hiring yet another pilot, reinstalling the AI and the pilot’s chair… it’s all more time, more money. If the rumours are true, they can’t afford it. Maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe.

I hadn’t expected her to be the one to defend my position in this ship or as part of her precious project. I thought Cirilli didn’t like me. Too unpredictable, too likely to step outside her carefully-aligned parameters, always messing up her neat stacks of data. Too close to John. I guess she doesn’t want any more delays in her project either.

Going to Feras is worth the risk. We’re in trouble and Is-Tech is the one company in the galaxy who will help us. We’ll be safe at their company colony. It’ll be like going home, even though I’ve never been there before. It’s that one place where you’re always welcome, right? I’ll get all the parts I need, and my injured will be healed, and I’ll have all of my crew back.

But am I the prodigal child? Or the mistake they want to pull apart, to make sure it never happens again? …I think my analogy just went somewhere disturbing. Can’t think that way.

My crew will be safe. I can do that much for them, whatever happens when we get there.

Almost at Step distance. I’m extending the filaments, starting the charging process. It’s becoming rote now, even though Cirilli is still complaining that we haven’t done a ‘normal’ Step. We just haven’t gone from A to B without sliding around in time, that’s all; more like A to B +/- x years.

I’m nervous. I keep going over what I’ll say when I get to Feras. Which is stupid, because it’s all standard transmissions to start with and I have no idea what they’ll ask me after that. Starwalker reporting, requesting permission to dock. Medical and security emergencies on board. Transmit datafiles with the details. Routine, boring.

I mustn’t be too excited or enthusiastic. Mustn’t be too human. AI. Cool, calm. Predictable.

Have I ever been any of those things?

Then we’ll dock and my crew will go off to debrief. They’ll split up to go to medical facilities, security sector and executive offices. Maybe visit their quarters, see old friends. The pirates will be removed from my cargo and medical bays.

And then I’ll be alone. I haven’t thought about it like that before. It’ll just be me and my boys left, waiting for them to decide what to do with me. My crew will defend me, I know they will – Elliott will bring the whole colony down with his favourite wrench if he has to – but will they be able to once they’re off my decks? Faced with the might of Is-Tech, will they be able to do anything?

It’s okay. They’ll be safe. That’s what matters.

And maybe they won’t have to tell the executives about me. Maybe they can get away with just pretending like I’m not here, like we did at the JOP. Maybe the pirates won’t think to say anything about it, too. I could get lucky. Right?

They’ll find out sometime. They have to, to know how we’ve managed to Step without a living pilot. Do they have to know now? It’s too soon; I’m not done yet. I don’t want to be done.

At least I have my name back. With so many people on the lookout for the Starwalker, I wasn’t sure of the wisdom of putting it back on. There was safety in anonymity. But we’re going straight to Feras, so who’s going to see us besides those who want to help us?

Safety wasn’t the only reason I didn’t want Elliott to change my ident back. I remember what it was like the first time. The gaping hole in my centre, like my stomach had been scooped out, leaving me hollow. The failsafes flashing warnings at me, the systems shutting down. Being frozen, nameless and helpless, while human hands changed me on the inside. Holding my breath for hours while the painstaking rewiring was done.

It was as bad as I remember. Not even the adjustments we’ve made to my protocols since then can get around ident hardwiring. I wished that we’d moved into a wider orbit, because I couldn’t adjust our course until the changeout was complete. I was on a steady course but I fretted about the things I couldn’t do anyway. I fretted about everything.

Elliott was right, though: it does feel better to have the right ident wired into the core of me. It’s familiar. Its data winds in with my processes in comforting patterns. I can relax, sigh from inside my proper skin again.

I hadn’t realised how strange the Carapace ident was, like scar tissue stapled into me. It never did fit right; ships really aren’t supposed to have them changed. Now I’m clean and flawless, unmarred by pirate mechanics.

In my distraction of having the ident changed, I lost touch with my two heavy drones. They were mag-clamped to my outer hull, lasering the pirate name off my side when Elliott started the process. We didn’t reconnect until hours later, when they came back inside for more paint supplies. I checked my external sensor feeds and found they were already halfway through putting my proper name back on my sides. Seems they didn’t bother to wait for me to make up my mind.

So now I’m Starwalker inside and out. I’m okay with that. It’s a relief, if I’m honest. I’m me again.

My drones are getting more and more independent. Is this normal? I’m not sure. They still do what I ask them, so I guess I can’t mind too much. It’s nice not being the only independent-minded mech in the region.

Almost time to live up to my name. Walk between stars, as easy as breathing. I’m skimming over the smooth skin of Gienah Sol, filaments almost charged. Coming to a hover at Step distance.

In forty years, Is-Tech will send ships here to try to get me back. They’ll fight pirates for me. I’ll run away because it’s the best thing for me to do at the time. Now I’m running towards them with open wings because it’s best for my crew that way.

This is much easier than last time. No solar flares or gravity burps to dodge; Gienah is much more stable now.

Portal opening. Through I go, into the beautiful Outside. So much light and noise that I hardly know what to look at first. I see myself; I see the Bountiful and the Davey Jones. Explosions. Engines burning tracks across the system. So many pretty patterns…

Focus. Find the Tuncana constellation, and the paths of the Lambda Tuncanae as they wind through the black, spiralling out from their starting point. Focus on Lambda 1, the bright twin stars orbiting the black space between them. Nestled in the emptiness nearby, Feras turns slowly.

There, the primary of the two; that’s the right starpath. Calculations cascade through my central processing, finding just the right spot so that I come out at the right time. Our time; back to now.

I weave the portal into being and Step through. The hole in reality is ragged – the music is still a struggle and a distraction – but I’m back Inside the universe again. The lack of sensory data is like an ice sheen across my hull. It’s quiet here. I’m right on schedule: the Step was fine.

I am proud to get that much right.

There are two burning balls at my back and the cool glint of Feras ahead of me. The planet made entirely out of factory; the factory-made-planet; Is-Tech rolled into a ball in space.

My heart would be in my mouth if I had either of those things. For the first time, I wish that Stepping wasn’t so quick. I wish I had longer to get used to being here.

My makers. My masters. I am home.

STARWALKER: (over external comms) Feras flight control, this is the Starwalker, requesting permission to dock.