To Mom and Dad: my AIngel and I wrote this report. Please read it so you know why I had to save the solar system.
[FILE ATTACHED]
My host’s name is October Moon Jankowsky-Smith. I’ve been with her since I was an early model AIngel, installed when she was six years old. Over the years, my hardware was upgraded, sometimes completely replaced, but the core neural network and the stored memory was always carried over, at first petabytes, and eventually exabytes. Sensory data, dialog, actions, reactions, sleep cycles, eating habits, tutor sessions, little league games, all the activities that concern a child. Then a teenager. Then a young adult, a college student. A graduate. A trauma counselor employed by a hospital.
Finally, she became a ship’s counselor for the United Earth Space Administration, embarking on the fully equipped science vessel christened the UES Destiny. The maiden voyage of the Destiny brought her to orbit around Dysnomia, the only moon of the dwarf planet Eris, one of the Trans-Neptunian Objects at the edge of our solar system. She arrived on September 19th, 2236. A week later, she landed on Dysnomia’s surface.
The Destiny had a crew of eighty-six living human beings, consisting of flight officers and personnel, security teams, biologists, astrophysicists, geologists, mathematicians, engineers, operators, medical staff, and a bevy of so-called soft science professionals, such as psychologists, sociologists, politicians, and even spiritual advisors and philosophers. October Moon Jankowsky-Smith was a member of the first of these groups, because although she was a counselor, she was not on the mission to study psychological effects of deep space travel or evaluate any potential alien psychology; her function was to serve the flight crew, to monitor their morale and their mental states, and ultimately to ensure they were fit for duty. Space is no place for the fragile-minded.
When she was a child, October’s parents called her Tobe, sometimes Toby. At age eleven, she decided the name was too childish for her and she insisted on going by her middle name, reasoning that she’d be taken more seriously, given the significance of her middle-namesake. Jorge Westbrook-Smith and Olivia Clay-Jankowsky made sure their daughter had every opportunity possible. The best education, the best environment, and of course, the best assistive technology. With a strong early childhood education program, Moon made substantial progress despite her condition, graduating with a high school diploma and eventually earning a master’s degree in psychology.
Though the gene manipulation technology existed that could have possibly treated the trisomy condition of the twenty-first chromosome in utero during the first trimester of the pregnancy, Jorge and Olivia were of a growing popular opinion that genetics should be left alone when assistive technology could equalize opportunity. And so Moon learned the truth of her condition, commonly known as Down syndrome, at an early age. She coped with this revelation in a manner that would reflect her approach to much of life: she focused on things actually under her control. Although I wasn’t with her until the age of six, I sometimes like to imagine that Moon’s first words as a toddler were, with an accompanying shrug, “Whaddya gonna do?”
Moon has always been an effective counselor. As a product of AIntelligent Systems’ Empowerability line, my assistance comes in the form of information about behaviors, tone of voice, and other physiological clues. Micromovements undetectable to the human eye but so revealing; involuntary functions such as respiration and heart rate; even pheromones provide hints that I can pass on. But Moon’s true advantage comes from her ability to disarm her patients. To get them to relax, to shed defenses, to reveal anything and everything.
Much of this narrative has been written after the fact. For reasons that will become clear, I write with a voice unlike any artificial intelligence you may be used to. Many of the events I will describe happened before I was cursed with conscience. All of this history I have perfect digital record of, but only recently have I had the ability to truly reflect on it.
I have no guarantee this story will make it to you intact, but I hope enough of it gets back to communicate its warning. Although I tell this story from Moon’s point of view, it is not her story alone. It is the story of the UES Destiny, her crew, her clusterfuck of a mission, and the grisly deaths of everyone involved.
#
September 26, 2236.
Monday.
The bridge of the UES Destiny was a hive of excitement, with rashes of anxiety breaking throughout. Moon stood on the precipice uncertain, wary of stepping into the unpredictable path of one of the many junior officers and flight crew underlings buzzing about under the shouted orders of the senior staff running the operation.
The ship had landed only hours before. Immediately, the captain had begun planning an away mission. Moon, like everyone else, was still recovering from the decade-long cryosleep they’d only been awakened from a week previous. The general sense around the ship was that no one was ready for action. Yet second-guessing the captain was a waste of energy. Everyone knew that, but Moon in particular had spent sessions learning all about the man’s childhood and career and dreams, and so she knew most of all how much momentum he carried.
A gust of wind fluttered the straggling wisps of blond hair that had escaped the tight bun atop Moon’s head as a subordinate blew past her. When the blur receded, it was as though a curtain had pulled away to reveal her target: Second Officer Hiran Kapoor.
After looking to her right, left, and right again like she was crossing a noisy street, Moon half-jogged to cover the two dozen meters. Hiran was hiding behind a large datapad that he held in one hand while stabbing at it with the other. Under normal Earth gravity, he’d have dropped the unwieldy thing.
“Hiran,” Moon sang, waving around the torso-sized screen to get his attention. “You called me?”
His thick, black eyebrows poked above the datapad, followed by murky eyes that were poorly recovering from their recent defrosting. “Counselor.” He tapped at the screen then rotated his body so she could see it. “The captain has assembled an away team. You need to sign off.”
“An away team?” she said, without looking at the pad. “For what? I heard that the Preposterous Hope isn’t out there.”
“The Prosperous Hope,” Hiran said, drawing out the name, though Moon would never notice the difference he was trying to illustrate. “The ship isn’t there now but it was at some point. They built a base, and the captain wants to have a look at it.”
Moon leaned over the pad and looked at the list of names, then laughed without sarcasm. When Hiran glowered in response, a frown overtook her. “Hiran, I haven’t had sessions with any of these people. I haven’t had any sessions at all yet.”
“You had plenty of sessions with everyone on the flight crew, Counselor,” he said in a voice that was trying to be firm, but failing.
She cocked her head and furrowed her brow. Then the smile creased back across her face. “That was ten years ago!”
Moon loved a good joke, and firmly believed any joke worth telling once was worth repeating. Straight out of cryo, one of the lab assistants had asked another lab assistant on a date. The latter reminded the former of a previous rejection, and this one-liner had been his response. Moon thought about it groggily for forty-five minutes before asking me for help untangling the temporal humor. Once it clicked, she tried her hardest to work it into conversation with each unsuspecting soul she came across.
The giant datapad sank to Hiran’s side and he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Look, Counselor, the Chrises are all over my ass. I have a big list of things to check off and your psych eval is just one of them. You know this crew. You spent twelve months with them before we launched.”
“Oh, for fluff’s sake,” she muttered.
“Counselor!” Hiran tried to pull off angry indignation, almost halfway achieving it. “Anyone who made it into this mission only did so with your approval.”
“I know that, Hiran,” she said evenly.
“But, Counselor—”
“Hiran.” She drew his name out with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow.
There was a rule that everyone used formal titles when on the bridge, but Moon had her own rule, and that was in one-on-one conversations, people should use first names. She understood the need for discipline in the operation, but she also felt that honesty was an even more important asset for functional team dynamics. And besides, the captain himself never used titles.
Hiran’s jaw slid forward and his face bunched up. “Moon,” he said. He lifted the pad again. “You evaluated all these people.”
Stolen novel; please report.
She took a breath, slowing down to assemble her thoughts. “Being frozen for ten years does things to the human brain. Pro — procedure says that every crew member needs another val — eval — evaluation.”
There was a pained grunt from beneath the console behind Hiran. “Mate, you mind watching where that damn datapad is swinging? You clocked me right in the knee!”
The second officer flinched and twirled, his motion exaggerated by the low gravity.
“Mr. O’Dowd,” Hiran said, checking his datapad for damage. “I’m sorry. Have you made any progress with that nav computer yet?”
“Hi, Seamus,” Moon said.
“Hey, Moon.” The tech flashed her a smile as he crawled out from under the console and stretched his skinny body to its full height, towering above both of them. The perfect teeth against the backdrop of deep black skin spiked Moon’s heart rate imperceptibly to anyone but me. Seamus wore a beige one-piece jumper, a synthetic material designed to look like canvas, and it’s understatedness was fashionable when contrasted with the gaudy royal blue and gold piping of the official UES uniforms that the flight crew – which included Moon – paraded stiffly around in. He lost the smile as he turned to Hiran. “Listen, mate – it ain’t the nav you gotta worry about. The fission-fusion pulse propulsion system is offline. Diagnostics are failing.”
“The nuke engine?” Hiran said in a hush. “Are we in danger?”
“Insufficient data,” Seamus said. Micromovements around his eyes and lips told me he was mostly frustrated, slightly amused, and not at all afraid. He put a hand up to steady the second officer. “That’s just what the nav computer says: insufficient data. I’ve already been down there and everything is fine. There’s a problem in the communication between here and there.”
Hiran relaxed by millimeters. “So the nav computer is online.”
Seamus stepped back and presented the console with a wave. “Duct tape and chewing gum, and she’s good as new.”
The tech gave Moon a sideways wink as Hiran looked past him to examine the collection of monitors going from yellow to green. “Yes, well, good,” the second officer said. He tapped at his datapad. “What’s next?”
“You’re welcome,” Seamus said. Hiran just stared at him, so he sighed and added, “Next is I go recycle some water.”
Moon blinked and cocked her head. “I didn’t know that was part of your job.”
I couldn’t explain, as I was more naive than Moon then. “He means he has to wee,” Hiran said, portraying disapproval with his voice, betraying amusement with a wayward smirk. Then he frowned again. “I meant, what’s next on your task list.”
Seamus gestured with a broad wave. “Thanks to your bumpy landing, we got wires coming loose all over the ship. And United decided this thing is so state of the art it only needs one tech. Frugality, they all said to each other in some board room, safely on Earth.”
Hiran glowered, his brown skin turning slightly red around the ears. “It’s not a matter of money, Mr. O’Dowd. The restricted population is a matter of practicality. There are very limited resources, and everything is calculated—”
Seamus put a hand up. “I ain’t got time for debate, mate.” He looked at Moon and grinned and spoke as though Hiran had disappeared and it was just the two of them in that second. “No rest for the wickedly brilliant. See you around.” He gave one last look at Hiran and performed an odd salute: two fingers to his right temple, then a quarter-twist of the hand. “To the Twelve.”
Hiran flinched, then looked around sheepishly, trying to appear not to look around. He quickly repeated a semblance of the salute. “The Twelve,” he mumbled.
Seamus grinned and left. Moon was used to things going over her head, and I knew she would ask me about the interaction later. In the meantime, she smiled involuntarily, and turned to Hiran. “Sir, I don’t think he was trying to hurt your feelings. That landing was pretty good.”
The second officer’s shoulders dropped and he looked away. Moon knew just as well as the rest of the flight crew that the captain had heckled his first and second officers mercilessly once the dust had settled. The fact that they were not officially reprimanded seemed to make the “good-natured ribbing” leave more of a mark on Hiran than a formal demerit.
He turned back to Moon, raising his datapad. “Counselor. I mean, Moon. The sign-off?”
Moon almost took pity enough to relent, but instead, she straightened her back and tipped her chin up. “I’m sorry, sir. I have to insist that these crew members meet with me at least once before any away missions.”
“We’ll do it right after,” Hiran said. “Trust me, Moon, the Chrises are not budging on this schedule.”
He clammed up as the first officer appeared from out of the bustle swirling around them. “Number Two,” Christine Perez said, her words sharp and stabbing. “What’s the status of that nav computer?”
Hiran grimaced. “It’s—”
“Navigation computer is fully operational,” the ship’s central AI blared through the bridge’s speakers and simultaneously into the Mesh.
“—fixed,” Hiran finished with a scowl.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Before Hiran could open his mouth, Perez yelled out. “Navigator! Break’s over. Get over here and give me a report, Francisco.”
Pierre Francisco materialized from the fray, deftly maneuvering through the busy bodies despite his bulk.
“Hi, Pierre!” Moon said with a wave. He gave her a nod and opened his mouth, but closed it quickly under Perez’s glare. With a grunt, he pushed past Hiran and tapped at the nav console.
The first officer looked at Moon. “Something we can help you with, Counselor, or are you just distracting Number Two from his duties for your own amusement?”
Moon blinked and cocked her head. “He called me here—”
“Uh, I was just having her sign off on the away team personnel,” Hiran said, waving his datapad, which was big enough to generate a slight breeze from the motion.
“Sign off.” Perez’s face grew darker and her eyebrows dipped even lower. “Well? Sign off and get out of here so Number Two can get back to work!”
Moon flinched at the raised voice of a superior officer. “I’m,” she started, then stopped and straightened her back again. “I can’t, sir. I haven’t had a session with any of the people on the list since we woke up.”
“What?” Perez looked at Hiran as if to confirm what she was hearing. “Who cares about that? Just sign the damn thing already.”
As a counselor, Moon was no stranger to confrontation. During a session I would remind her to deflect anger with questioning, and together we would get to the heart of a patient’s issues. Outside of a session, however, Moon’s defense mechanism in the face of aggression was to respond over-cheerful.
“I’m just following procedure, sir,” she said, face brightening and smile drawing ear to ear.
The effect was not as disarming as she might hope.
“Procedure?” A vein appeared along the right side of Perez’s forehead as her whole body tightened.
Captain Christopher Striker came around the steaming first officer. “Hiran, what’s going on with that nav computer?”
“I was just about to report back to you, sir,” Hiran said, stiffening. “The tech guy was just here and he got it working again. And Pierre — I mean, Francisco—”
“Tech guy, eh?” Striker repeated thoughtfully, looking into the distance. “What’s his name again? Samuel Down?”
“Seamus O’Dowd, sir.”
“October Moon, how are you doing?” Striker said suddenly, turning his attention to her as though Hiran’s answer to his question came too late for his quickly-working mind. Again, Moon’s heart rate quickened; though as where she showed affection for Seamus, her reaction to Captain Striker was one of reverence. He was a dashing man, tall and perfectly proportioned, with a shock of blond hair that was always ruffled just the right amount, and irises that made everyone who looked at them miss that distant Earth sky.
Moon’s eyes widened slightly in response to the direct inquiry. “I’m great, sir!” she said with enthusiasm, though later she would realize his simple question was cover for something along the lines of: What are you doing on my busy bridge, distracting my busy officers?
“I asked her here to get her sign-off on the away team, sir,” Hiran said. “Unfortunately, procedure requires the counselor to have one-on-one sessions with each of the crew members post-cryo, and that hasn’t happened yet.”
The captain’s eyes slid from Moon to Hiran while his head remained still. Unlike the rest of the flight crew, who kept their uniforms properly buttoned, his jacket flapped open casually, revealing a comfortable gray undershirt. “Procedure, eh?”
“Yes, sir.” Micromovements on Hiran’s face betrayed the amusement he was hiding from his superiors. When Moon was obstructing his own responsibilities, he was quick to argue, but with the challenge rolling uphill, he sat back to enjoy the procedure banner she was flying.
“Can’t we do the one-on-ones when we get back?” Striker said, looking at his first and second officers before turning the question to Moon. “Would that be okay?”
“The rule is that we have them after awakening,” Moon said, her confidence softening. “Before any operations are carried out.”
The captain waved an arm. “We already landed. That was an operation. Sure, it was a bit of a bumpy landing.” He shot Hiran and Perez a pair of sideways glances with a smirk, before turning serious again. “But everyone did their jobs.”
This too had been a breach of protocol, but Moon swallowed that response. “These rules are for everyone’s safety, sir.”
“Of course,” Striker said. He stepped back, as if to address a suddenly larger audience, though the rest of the bridge was too busy to notice. “Safety is our highest priority on the UES Destiny,” he said, chopping one hand onto the flat of the other. Just as quickly, he pulled back in and reverted to familiar informality. “Hey, I have an idea, Moon: you could come with us!”
“On the away mission?” Perez said. “Captain, I don’t think—”
“No, it’s perfect,” he said, then turned back to Moon with a reassuring smile. “You could observe the crew. It would be even better than a session in your office, wouldn’t it?”
Moon didn’t have an answer. There was no question that she was a constant observer, as her position required her to pay close attention to every action and reaction. However, observation during duty was no substitute for the deep-dive of a one-on-one session.
But something else had her opening and closing her mouth noiselessly like a fish: she wanted to go. As a counselor, she knew any off-ship excursions were bound to be few and far between. And she hadn’t made a ten-year trek across the solar system to stare at the walls of the narrow compartments of the Destiny.
“Captain, sir,” Perez said, dulling her words to butter knife levels. “You shouldn’t even be going on this mission. We don’t know what to expect. We can’t risk the whole crew.”
He waved at her dismissively. “Christine, it’s fine. There’s a base out there. We won’t even be outside.”
“But, sir! The away team is already—”
“Number Two can stay.” Striker looked at Hiran. “You don’t mind, do you, Hiran? You’ll be in charge while we’re gone.”
The second officer’s face flushed with relief. “Sure, no problem, sir. Let the counselor have my spot.”
His enthusiasm for staying behind didn’t frighten Moon, though perhaps it should have. “And we’ll do one-on-one sessions as soon as we get back?” she prodded.
“Yes, absolutely,” the captain said, beaming.
She looked at each of them: the captain, smiling warmly; Hiran, with a raised eyebrow and an encouraging curl of the mouth; Perez’s face deflating ever-so-slightly with resignation. “Okay,” Moon said, full of cheer. “I’ll go.”
“Great!” Mission accomplished, Striker turned to walk away, dropping orders for his officers to pick up. “Hiran, get me an equipment check. Triple-diagnostics on the portable comms. And Christine, I want a full report on the weather system. Let’s make sure that turbulence wasn’t a sign of something nastier. Oh, and Hiran, add Seamus to the away team,” he said, as though the last amendment was nothing more than a contract rider.
“The tech guy?” Perez said after a half-second of processing, stumbling in the captain’s wake.
“He’s good. We might need him.” Before another protest could be voiced, he played his trump card with a tap to his temple. “Captain’s instinct.”