Ship’s log, 22482.65 GST
Captain Harmon recording. It’s been a week since the technicians and those peculiar AI folks finished their work. They’ve all departed but assured me they’ll be keeping close tabs on us while we do a few milk-runs in the local cluster.
So far I don’t have much to report. Before the change we’d all just say ‘computer,’ and use it like an electronic personal assistant. Not to say it didn’t have a personality, but it had an artificial flavor to it no one could ignore for long. Now? They’ve tied it—sorry, her—into enhanced networks of sensors and rewired the interfaces, the way she processes feedback. She is the ship now, and it’s already helped us discover some micro-fractures in the hull and some hot-spots that could indicate failing conduits.
Addressing her has been a bit confusing. Abyssal Melody doesn’t really roll off the tongue, and we soon settled on calling her Abby. We’ve received instructions to engage with Abby as another crew-mate, and I must admit it’s surreal. How often do you have a crew-mate the size of an apartment building, much less one you live inside? It’s early though, we’ll adjust.
Ship’s log, 22490.95 GST
Engineer Radcliffe reporting. There was an incident today involving Abby. Crew reported weird sounds piped in over the com system in isolated parts of the ship and cabins with sole occupants. Hissing noises and modulating warbles. Also the lights started behaving oddly, stranding such isolated crew in an illuminated oasis while the rest of the corridor or room went pitch-black. Two other crew and I ran several diagnostics before Abby intervened and admitted she was responsible. I’m just going to clip in the conversation with Abby rather than try to recount it.
“What do you mean you’re responsible, Abby?”
“I thought the crew would like to hear the actual melody of the abyss, given my name. The sound of stellar dust against my deflector screens and the play of radiation across the shields modulated into your audible range created something I found quite beautiful.”
“That’s, interesting yeah, but why only play it in virtually-deserted parts of the ship? Or yourself, I guess, sorry. And what about the lights?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt anyone, so I only played it where crew-members were working or relaxing alone. The lights were simply an energy-saving initiative. Did I ‘screw up?’ I’ve been wondering: is success to ‘screw down?’”
“No, it’s not one of those idioms that make sense like that, and you just freaked some people out. It ended up sounding like a snake playing a theremin, and you might want to review classic human horror movies to get a better grasp on things that alarm us.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Classic horror film tropes. There are a surprising number of these. There are hundreds for ‘ghost ship’ alone! Are these why researcher Clifford used such colorful language when I would lower the temperature in any room she entered? I was attempting to accommodate her current medical needs. I also took the liberty of retrieving objects she’d dropped off the floor with internal tractors, and rather abruptly, so she wouldn’t bend and strain her back.”
“Whelp, that explains her transfer request and the surge in ancient holy-text searches. The sooner you dig into those movies the better.”
Abby reviewed the films and such and learned how not to act like a ghost ship, but along the way she mined some other dark veins of material including some ancient poet named Poe. Her tone has grown somber, and she seems withdrawn until you get her on a topic she's passionate about. You should’ve seen what a motormouth she turned into when we came across a derelict ship! She spontaneously spat this out as we all watched the damn lonesome thing glide by on the monitors.
So distant from the glow of any star
Embraced by sable vacuum, perfect night
A tomb of failed tech and ice, come too far
Frozen eyes become dark pits, begging light
Their dreams like ours, their songs were just as brave
We sail on with lanterns lit, ambitious
Their souls trail us now, faint moths of the grave
Hoping our course sails seas less capricious
Abby paused then and reported that after cross-referencing Confluence records, the ship in question had been delivering pizza-dough cultures to a large outpost when poor maintenance resulted in a life support failure. All hands aboard were rescued and salvage was never performed. We all agreed there was a note of disappointment in her voice. I wanted to laugh but I feel haunted by space-moths now! I hope this is a phase.
Ship’s log, 22496.22 GST
Captain Harmon recording. The list of transfer requests keeps growing, and the AI specialists have admitted they aren’t sure if anything can be done. Our resident Yellerites (the fuzzy, hyper, cute ones) have all sought counseling for depression after Abby compared their social grooming to the ‘beautiful’ skeletonizing behavior of deep sea creatures after a ‘whale fall.’
Some of the crew-members have been chronicling their experiences on their social webs, and believe it or not it’s actually attracted enough transfer requests that we’ll maintain a full complement once we make port again. I don’t know that I’ll be able to handle a shipful of Abby’s type, but at least we have a wide variety of anti-depressants available these days.
She isn’t wrong, either. There is beauty to be found in decay, in darkness, even death. I don’t trust anyone who wants it to be sunny, warm and green year-round while planet-side. You have to acknowledge the cycles, appreciate the renewal that follows the ebb, and not fixate on any stage of it. Abby will learn, even if some of our gardenworld allies can’t.
Abby, no. Don’t play that damn song. Abby! You're not even supposed to be listening to these logs!
~To everything, turn, turn, turn! There is a season, turn, turn, turn!~