I preferred to think of Egori as "living" only before he fell into the aerospace rabbit hole. Not so long ago all he wanted to do was enjoy himself. He tried to maintain his lifestyle, but it was still tossed into this structure that told him what to do. Later, he found himself slipping off, craving excitement in other ways, but never knew where to turn. A sybarite out of time, I could tease him like that. He was still open-minded about his job, just wanted to lighten the load on this planet, but like any seasoned worker and prisoner, being wrong about his place under the managerial job line was painful. I tried to speak out of honesty, yes, but I was also seeing through the wall with Egori. We had little in common, he was a misfit for being in the Agency.

How would I describe myself? More interested in starting my own business, not blindly following whoever squished me. Involved with work, but out of uniform. Determined with my own values, not for someone's image, not what impressed me but what was important to me: getting the hell out of this suffocating world, and the Agency was the only opportunity for that.

Satele was a different breed of misfit, someone who believed giving up is impossible, she believed in second, third, fourth chances. Her syntax was not simple, she served a convoluted purpose I didn't fully understand. She was in a way more human than anyone, or was that just my emotions projecting onto her? It's bizarre to write about a robot as if it lived and had thoughts and emotions.

Egori and I shared an infuriating trait: we both were humans bound to our primal programming, mistaking metal for flesh in our desperation.

His mere presence made my mind race and become beclouded. I deliberately avoided him at work, I had to. The most critical time of my life was just too important to let someone like Egori inflame my personal sphere. Systematically I sealed off any access to my decision-making processes, I had to get the work done.

Graham opened up the wide door and poked his head in, "the Research team needs a hand," then continued on his way.

A hand in Agency terms meant extra unwanted responsibilities for anyone naïve enough to heed the call, but I had to find any excuse to get away from Egori, so I grabbed my tool belt and ran.

Going into the hangar, I found a hunched figure in front of V6's wreckage, knees on floor. Zemlya was dedicated for sure, at least that's the impression I got from my short glimpses of her work. I cleared my throat to let her know I came to help.

"Pass me the torch," she said, holding out her gloved left hand without a flair, "the hydraulic lines have separated for some reason."

She turned her head as I handed her the flashlight, glancing at my hand with distracted eyes. They were the color of coffee, focused and unwavering despite the hint of tiredness. Her hair was black, tied back in an unkempt ponytail. I tried not to stare as she leaned forward to poke the insides of the rocket's casing.

"Yep, burnt out, and the hydraulics are shot," Zemlya's voice was quiet without a hint of reproach or anger. She seemed to possess neither of those, just observational calm. I got the impression that, no offense to her, her emotions were cold.

I wasn't sure what to say, so I mentioned the basic facts of the accident. "Just before Max-Q, the rocket's rotation reached beyond normal parameters as engine seven's thrust lowered to 94%," she knew that, of course, "maybe caused by carbon-monoxide deposits in the fuel needle?"

She nodded, "that would explain the pressure spike on engine separation, but that's theoretical," she stood up and started removing her thick gloves, "to make this work, we would have to plate the needles with gold," she scoffed sarcastically, "unless we found a way to use electricity to spin the fuel nozzle screws continuously."

That stung me, I wonder if she knew I was the one responsible for the fuel injection system integration. "I'm not sure that's possible, even if we find a way to continuously energize the nozzles, the friction at high velocities would collect plasma and send it right into the combustion chamber."

"If we had the engine to analyze," she leaned over the table, looking over V6's schematics, "we could at least verify the mechanics of the thing. That'd be a start."

I walked back to V6 with a lump in my stomach, equally irritated and disturbed, convinced that her assessment report would lead to my doom since I was already on thin ice with the administration, "Zemlya, are you going to..." I wasn't sure how to put what I wanted to say in a tactful manner, what was I thinking? Did I want her to lie in the report and make the next rocket blow up too?

"Analyze the failures, yes," she took off her jacket, "what's wrong?"

"I guess I'm nervous about seeing how this goes," I bit my lip, "I want this thing inspected and analyzed, and I want to see the next design in perfect working order more than anyone else, but..."

"I'm sure I can find more issues, let's make the next one work flawlessly." She dropped her jacket to the floor, "If it doesn't work out," she continued with emphasis, "I'll be back for the next autopsy."

The hangar, or rocket morgue as it was nicknamed, held the remains of each of our failures. Every rocket was a rookie that faced a premature death. "What possessed me to pick such a low altitude? Why did I fail to separate? And how come, when one of my engines failed within acceptable levels, my other engines didn't have enough thrust to compensate?"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

These tragedies weighted heavy within my heart. I never knew that building a rocket would be so stressful. Each launch was a monumental challenge to overcome and each of them led to a monumental failure. Every time an indispensable component flashed red in the telemetry displays my heart pounded in unpleasant anticipation, a weight of guilt crushing my stressed heart. The screaming displays were gauges of my performance and my mind was filled with static, reflecting the video feeds.

"Anyway, I need some help lugging these things," she smiled, her face was framed by the spotlights above, revealing delicate facial features, with just a thin layer of grime.

We sweated together on the hangar's concrete floor, dragging the metal specimens. Neither of us were exactly athletes so this was no small task, especially without the leverage of a lift.

"So, is it true?" she stopped to find a breath of fresh air, "that robot that hangs around the Engineering wing is yours? Does it talk to you?"

"Satele? Yeah... I mean, I don't know really. She just does her thing." I didn't want to make a big deal out of her, she flew under the radar and it was better for her and everyone to think she was nothing more than a toy.

"I think she feels when she is damaged, I saw her losing control and hitting a wall once, and I'm sure she yelped as if in pain," Zemlya stopped, admiring the rocket part she was just dragging, "if I could check her internals we could learn a thing or two."

I couldn't even think of talking about Satele's innards; to me, the weird robot was more flesh than me, "don't worry about Satele, Zemlya."

"She has a horrible flight controller, right? Super unstable, who designed such rubbish?" her statements bit into my cheeks a little.

"Someone that hasn't been around for a few years, I'd say." I didn't know who built her, couldn't possibly know. I wasn't that involved with the machine, but when she was working properly she was simple, fun, vibrant and… nice. I felt like mentioning fond memories with a supposedly unfeeling mess of metal and wires would come off as pathetic so I quickly changed the subject, "so, do you like working in Research?"

"There are so many things to learn here that sometimes you think it'll never end," she paced around in thought, "but you keep working nonethe—Ah!" Zemlya tripped on a particularly heavy-looking cable and nearly fell over, "um, sorry. It's okay, I guess, I only wish we had more personnel and machinery to push all this trash around."

My respect for the girl grew quickly, she seemed to find her job fulfilling, she floated effortlessly between physics and mechatronics. She radiated composed enthusiasm with her glinting dark eyes, Zemlya was a shining reminder of the potential the project carried. Despite our distance, alongside her I designed rockets, schematics with the hope of some future glory based on her findings.

We met eyes as we tugged the parts to their respective corners; I was painfully aware of the heavy air in the hangar, "we can have some coffee in the dining hall, maybe?" I blurted, heady with the thought of her next to me more often.

"Oh, I… uh, that's great, okay. Thank you." Our hands briefly touched while we balanced the rocket's nose cone, "but I'd better get back to work."

A vibration rattled my ribs with every breath and sweat poured from my pores; the sedentary drought had left me so thirsty and itchy. The raw heat seared my fingertips where they grasped the doorhandle, squeezing it tight. "Coffee, please." I told the deaf button with the faded letters spelling out my desire, eagerly anticipating the promised beverage. The break room both sterile and destitute and not particularly welcoming, yet the coldness was a relief. Liquid pouring out. The lines of ceiling lights flickering against the black surface; the room's mix of blue and white's vain attempts to soothe the burning in my veins. The table with two empty cups directly below the brightest light attracted me so.

Satele, she was gracious, kind, interesting, insighful, programmed and put together in everything but cold steel. Her creator must have loved her; she seemed eager to please. Her charm was a vessel better suited for a household than the void of space. Yet, she was still a robot. A vaguely familiar and idealized version of Satele danced in my mind, how much of her was just my desperation speaking?

A tiny flame arose from my heart in the dullness of the break room and into existence, it danced; its little presence awakened, fluttering until it bloomed, jolting from me with such force that my ears rang. My body felt hot and flushed; I began to feel light-headed. The coffee's odor assaulted my senses, I could barely cope with breathing without it grating at the surface of my nostrils. I sat before my legs failed me.

I thought I had gotten over it, the whole human thing, who I was even.

Robots are difficult, unfeeling, they're expensive, they break, and when they break they don't fix themselves. Humans are contraptions that think for themselves and fix themselves, have desires and goals. The cup is placed on the table. When robots calls for help, the best they get is an odd look from those around them. Humans offer help, sometimes unasked for and sometimes unwanted; it's up to the recipient to decide how useful it will be. When humans gaze upon the winds of the world, they sit and think about how it makes them feel, the steam warms their faces. Robots don't feel, they are cold. They are not programmed to absorb.

And I'm tired of it.