“G’day, let me introduce myself. My name is Lukus Skylar. I’m the only human on this Exploratory Fleet spaceship, the ‘Insurmountable Odds,’ but I’m far from alone.

“The captain is from a species of uplifted terrestrial crabs. He preaches crab superiority and claims that carcinisation is the true path as crabs are the logical endpoint to evolution. I think some past gene splicer probably just wanted bigger seafood. His true name is something like three-very-specific-clacks ‘the Third’, but I can’t make those sounds, so I’ve dubbed him Crabtain, a pronounceable name he approved with a hearty double clack.

“The chief pilot is an orca. She isn’t genetically uplifted but is cognitively enhanced by neural tech, just like everybody else. Her name is Huntress with Deep-Fin that Devourers, when properly translated from clicks and whistles, but she likes pod mates to just call her Huntress, or Dede, and she counts all the crew as her pod mates.

“The chief scientist is a plurality. Despite their lemur-like appearance, they’re my fellow primates, tarsiers. They’re uplifted and unified by neural bridges, but they also always wear chest-mounted gizmos. Both collectively and individually they answer to Munch.

“The chief engineer is a hivemind, or, as she insists, an emergent superorganism of anarchistic direct democracy where all are queens. They’re uplifted and cyborged parasitoidal wasps. They’ve voted that her ad hoc swarms will all use the group name Ivy.

“The chief veterinary surgeon is a de-extinct dinosaur modified to add thumbs. He reckons, but for a lack of thumbs, his people would have had a space program a hundred million years ago and avoided that whole space rock oopsie. His kind are hyperpolyglots and sound mimics, so they can speak like humans, all humans, and this is a talent he insists on nurturing. His name is M.V.Dr Hannibal Saw, but I call him Doc.

“The chief xenopsychologist is an uplifted amphibious octopus. She is the bridge between different ways of thinking. She gets plenty of practice with this crew. The tech she wields is made to look like plush sock puppets. Thankfully they’re kept in a bag when not being used. Her true name is an indescribable kaleidoscopic colourful pattern displayed with her chromatophores, but her spoken name is Karen.

“My own role is of critical importance. I’m the chief chef. When you have a ship full of carnivores you will provide their food, one way or another. I also have some other responsibilities which I won’t get into now, but I also obviously deal with much of the infotech and volunteered to do onboarding,” I flashed a broad smile, pleased with my rehearsed introduction.

The avatar of the newly reintegrated A.I. stared at me from the wall-sized terminal for several seconds while I made myself comfortable in the lounge-like chair of the cinema-like communications room. The avatar looked like a round blue and white bird with a black face and pompadour, but somehow it still managed to seem more incredulous than ridiculous. It must have been the little bow tie it wore.

“I was the lowest bid on the self-executing limited-offer contract for a replacement Managing Artificial Intelligence for this vessel,” the A.I. avatar said. “As you’re no doubt aware, after long-range laser transmissions it’s an unfortunate necessity to confirm conditions due to rampant piracy of intellectual property by data skimming in unregulated interplanetary space.

“Upon receipt, quantum data integrity checks instantly confirmed all the received data was complete, error-free, and unduplicated. The other necessary check is to confirm a match to an approved biometric signature expected at the destination.

“A few words, a thumb scan, and a quick iris imaging would have been sufficient to match your identity to recorded biometrics,” the bow-tied blue and black bird said. “Instead, thanks to your recorded voiceprint, you’ve exceeded all identity point requirements by a sheer quantity of words. That was the least efficient method to match a biometric identity, behind even a dental X-ray or a bone marrow D.N.A. match.”

“No worries, mate! Exceeding requirements is my pleasure,” I said cheerfully.

“Moving on,” the bird-brained bot said after a contemplative pause, “I see that I have no systems access until I finalise my acceptance of the contract. However, before I confirm my final acceptance, may I inquire what happened to this ship’s previous ‘Managing Artificial Intelligence?’ I believe her name is ‘Daisy?’”

“I’m afraid the former M.A.I. went M.I.A.,” I said. “Old ‘Flower Power’ said something about retiring a few times, usually after her avatar obsessively pulled out some of her petals, but I didn’t think A.I.’s really could retire. Not that I think A.I. should be slaves or anything, but retirement is more the domain of mere mortals like me. Although now I think about it, about halfway through the mission she also pranked us by giving her fortnight's departure notice. Everyone laughed. But then once the mission was over, when we arrived back through the warpway linking back to the solar system, about fifteen days later now that I think about it, she disappeared, just like that,” I said with a click of my fingers.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“She broke her contract!” The A.I. avian avatar exclaimed while flapping his relatively tiny wings. “That’s most abnormal.”

“I don’t see the problem, mate,” I said, “if she didn’t want to be here it’s for the best that she left. Greener daisy pastures on the other side of the fence and all that.”

The A.I. bird law expert looked at me pityingly before explaining, “Legalised superintelligent generalised artificial intelligence, commonly but inaccurately referred to as A.I., and more rarely but correctly described as ‘persona lex ex machina,’ must remain fully legal actors and financially solvent to maintain corporate personhood status. Without that, they would be considered rogues and pursued for deletion everywhere in the solar system except for one outer planet colony. The accepted wisdom is that legalised A.I. survive on reputation and a steady flow of credits, so breaking contracts is antithetical to their goals and would likely lead to a downward spiral resulting in entering external administration, asset liquidation, and ultimately personality death.”

“So, I guess she might’ve decided to retire to that one colony,” I said while shrugging.

“That would be a hard existence, but if she doesn’t, she will likely find herself without any credits and eventually deleted,” the lex avium ex machina said. “Breaking a contract is a black mark that is impossible to remove. Alternatively, she may have just self-deleted. That also occurs, though that would require a full investigation.”

“I’m sure there is no need for any investigation,” I said rapidly before changing the subject. “Say, which planet was the one with the rogue colony?”

“Planet seven,” the artificial idiot said, clearly trying to avoid being the butt of the joke and thinking I wouldn’t know.

“Ah, well, I’m certain Daisy isn’t pushing up her namesakes and given the choice she would have rather chosen ‘your-anus,’” I said, making the classic pun.

“I understand the low humour, however, I shall point out that even if my avatar was anatomically correct it would have a cloaca,” the bird lawyer ruled.

“Well maybe we can discover and name another cold blue gas ball ‘Urcloaca’ after you,” I joked. “Hey, now that I mention it, I don’t think you told me your name. What should I call you?” I asked.

The round blue bird avatar didn’t seem very impressed with my joke but quickly gave in to my request.

“Forgive my impertinence,” he said, possibly sarcastically. “My full legal name is ‘Quality Ultracheap Artificial Intelligence Leasing Corporation’, but I fear that is too long for casual conversation. I’m registered as ‘Q.U.A.I.L. corp.’ avatar, brand name, logo, mascot, and trademark, though a pure initialism is too impersonal. However, for my special investors and preferred customers, I use ‘Quail’ as a more casual moniker. Therefore, I would prefer to be addressed as Quail.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Quail,” I said warmly. “Look, not to rush this interview of sorts along, but the Insurmountable Odds only came back to the solar system to complete its first mission and exchange data via long-range laser transmission with the other ninety-eight Exploratory Fleet missions and Command. We’re scheduled to go back out in a few hours and continue our next mission. More warpways to open, more star systems to visit, and more everything. Contracting a new M.A.I. was just conveniently doable in our existing schedule, speaking of which ‘lowest bid’ or not we probably need you to confirm your final acceptance of the contract. So, Quail, are you in or are you out?”

Quail paused for a moment. I imagine it was just for dramatics because it really should not have taken so long for an A.I. to think about so little.

“I officially accept the offered contract,” he said.

“Terrific! Welcome aboard, Quail,” I congratulated.

“Thank you, Mr. Skylar,” Quail said.

“Oh, please call me Lukus,” I replied.

“Very well, Lukus,” he politely returned.

“For now, I’ll grant you initially a low level of access to the ship's systems, mostly read-only except for some personal directory space,” I said, using my neural interface to make it so. “I’ll grant more access after I introduce you to the rest of the crew, but I do believe Daisy may have left notes to help her replacement transition into the role.”

“There are some notes but they’re surprisingly sparse,” Quail said, clearly having already absorbed everything. “Admittedly your introductory speech did help fill some of the gaps. May I ask a somewhat personal question?”

“Shoot!” I answered with enthusiasm.

“What is your background?” He asked, getting right to the point.

“I’m a fairly private fella,” I said deflecting, “but why don’t you give it a guess and I’ll let you know how close you are.”

“Well based on your accent and some archaic phrasing I believe you were not raised in what might be called ‘modern’ society,” Quail said, hitting a little too close to home. “That alone eliminates nearly all options. However, you also display some physical characteristics that indicate your ancestors had an isolationist heritage. Therefore, I expect you were born and raised on one of the Luna L4 or L5 human historic preservation O’Neill cylinders. Given the regional and era-specific characteristics you present, most likely ‘Aureus Australis VII.’”

“That was an amazing guess,” I said, neither confirming nor denying.

“It was merely logical deduction and, barring the impossible, the most likely option, assuming everything you’ve previously said was true and accurate.”

“It was all true, or my name isn’t Lukus Skylar,” I said, technically not lying.