Estrella De Asís
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 24
Port of Cape Town. Aboard the Ocean Wanderer.
Captain Dawie De Villiers drained his coffee. “Well, let me get us underway. I want to be past Robben Island before the sun sets.”
“Then don’t let me keep you, Skipper. I’m sure TC and the gang would be along any time soon,” I replied.
“Some of them are on the exercise deck. I’m sure Stella would show you around and get you acquainted with the ship,” Dawie replied and looked at Stella. “You would not mind, do you, my dear?”
She did not respond immediately. Her blue eyes remained fixed on Dawie for a full second, a silent, processing pause that felt longer than it was. Then, her head turned, and her gaze shifted to me. The focus was absolute, as if I were the only other object in the room.
When she spoke, her voice was a level, neutral tone, without inflection but with perfect clarity.
“I have no objection, Skipper.”
She pushed her chair back with a single, soundless motion and rose to her feet. Her eyes held mine.
“I will familiarise you with the vessel’s primary decks and operational centres. Shall we begin?”
There was no warmth in the invitation. No irritation. It was a statement of fact and a procedural question, delivered with an unnerving efficiency that was both impressive and deeply unsettling. It was clear she was now in charge of this interaction, and she was waiting for me to comply.
“Thank you, Stella. I don’t wish to inconvenience you if you had other more pressing matters to attend to. We can do this any time that will suit you better,” I replied.
Stella blinked once, a slow, deliberate motion. Her head tilted again, that same fraction of an inch as before, as if she were parsing the grammar of my sentence rather than its social meaning.
“Your concern is noted, Mister Roy Reasor,” she began, her tone unchanged. “However, the term ‘inconvenience’ is not a relevant variable in this context.”
Her eyes met mine, clear and steady.
“The Skipper has issued a directive. My current designated task is to provide you with a tour of this vessel. Therefore, no other matter is more pressing. The most efficient time to complete this task is now.”
She made a small, subtle gesture with her hand toward the hatch.
I got up. Blinked and thought: “What a cold person. Doesn’t she like me? Doesn’t she what to be on this vessel, or is she just in utter control of herself?”
I looked at Dawie’s departing back and the look he gave me over his shoulder. There was a smirk on his face. “Don’t get her wet!” Dawie said over his shoulder, and I could not understand his cryptic statement.
My face was stone.
“Eh ... Stella, I’m not your enemy. Please, let us be friends seeing that we are to work together.”
Stella’s expression did not change. She met my gaze directly, her blue eyes clear and analytical.
“The classification of ‘enemy’ has not been assigned to you, Mister Roy Reasor. My function is to assist you. Our objectives are aligned.”
She paused for a fraction of a second, the slight delay that made me a little uncomfortable. Who is this woman?
“The state of ‘friendship’ is achieved over time through demonstrated reliability and a consistent pattern of mutual support. It is a logical outcome of a successful operational partnership, not a prerequisite.” she concluded.
Her tone was not unkind, merely factual, as if explaining the atmospheric pressure required for water to boil.
“If we work together effectively, the ‘friendship’ designation will likely become applicable. I am prepared to begin that process.”
She turned toward the hatch once more, a clear, final gesture. “The tour will be your first acquaintance with this ship.”
“Lead the way, Stella,” I said. Stella just looked over her shoulder at me for a moment and blinked.
“We will start in the Dive Centre, Mister Roy Reasor,” Stella responded.
“Stella, please call me Roy. I’m not the bossy type of person. In a diving situation we need to be trusting one another and look out for one another.”
Stella turned to me with her one hand on the hatch opening mechanism. “Understood. I will address you as Roy.”
Looking me full in the face, her eyes never flickering left or right: “You are correct,” she continued, her voice as even and measured as before. “Trust and mutual support are critical variables for mission success in a high-risk environment like a dive operation.”
She let that statement hang in the air, a factual agreement that somehow felt like a correction.
“However, trust is a direct result of proven competence and predictable performance under pressure. It is not established by the use of informal address.”
Her gaze was unwavering, analytical, and utterly devoid of judgement.
“I anticipate that our work together in the Dive Centre and beyond will provide the necessary data to establish this foundation of trust quickly and efficiently.”
She turned, her movement fluid and decisive, and started down the companionway.
“Follow me ... Roy.”
The use of my first name at the end felt less like a friendly concession and more like the confirmation of a software update. She wasn’t being friendly; she was being compliant. And somehow, that was even more unsettling. What the hell is this woman and what is her nationality?. She looks European, but there’s no accent to let me know from what country she might be. The way she talks and thinks before she speaks tells me that she’s not very comfortable in English. Like if she just learned how to speak English.
We walked through the companionway towards the stern of the ship. Stella was quiet and did not speak at all. She led me down several ladders to deep in the bowels of the ship. Stopping at a hatch stencilled with the words; “Dive Centre,” she opened the hatch without much effort and stepped inside.
I followed her inside and stood to look around. There was an equipment prep and storage area with racks and lockers for the storage of dive suits, helmets, gloves, fins, harnesses, and bailout cylinders. Workbenches with tools for servicing the gear. Hooks and rails for drying wetsuits and drysuits.
To the other side was a gas control and mixing station, and deeper into the room there was a Dive Control Console and supervision station with video and audio feed from diver helmets or ROVs.
While I was scanning the dive centre, Stella stood to the side, looking intently at me. I had the idea that she was assessing me. She looked like this was her kingdom and I was the alien intruder.
I let it slide.
Scanning further I saw the decompression chamber as well as the zone marked for diver entry and exit.
I knew that Ocean Wanderer was equipped with a mini-sub ROV. This was housed in a separate area and the ROV was covered.
A pallet of ten diving cylinders was standing in the middle of the Exit / Entry Zone.
“Sorry, Roy. That pallet is not supposed to be there. I will move it.” Stella said and walked over to the pallet. I supposed she would take the pallet jack about six meters away but instead she bent down, grabbed the pallet with both hands and just lifted it, turned and repositioned it in the prep area!
“WTF! That pallet weighs over one hundred kilograms!”
“Stella...” I started. “You could have just used the pallet jack!”
She turned her head to face me, her expression as placid and unreadable as ever. There was no flicker of exertion in her eyes, no sheen of sweat on her skin. She didn’t look proud or embarrassed. She simply looked ... analytical. As if my outburst was an interesting new piece of data.
“The total mass is one hundred and nineteen kilograms, to be precise,” she stated, her voice a calm, even monotone that did nothing to soothe my shock.
She took a single step closer, her posture remaining perfectly balanced.
“My physical conditioning program focuses on the efficient application of biomechanics. Proper use of the kinetic chain and core stability allows for the lifting of loads that can exceed perceived muscular limits.”
Her explanation was delivered with the clinical detachment of a physiologist lecturing a student. It was technically plausible, but it felt ... rehearsed. Programmed.
“Your suggestion to use the trolley is valid from a standard safety perspective,” she continued, “However, my analysis indicated a zero percent chance of structural failure on my part. The trolley would have introduced three additional steps and approximately twelve seconds of non-productive time to the task.”
She paused, letting the cold, hard logic of her statement settle in the air between us.
“The direct lift was the more efficient solution.”
She then turned her gaze away from me and gestured toward the gas mixing station, seamlessly resuming her role as tour guide as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all.
“This is the gas control panel. From here, we can blend custom mixes of helium, oxygen, and nitrogen for deep-water and decompression operations...”
“Stella...” I replied. “Who are you? What are you?”
Stella turned to face me, blinking her eyes and moving her head slightly to the left. For the first time since I met her, a faint smile formed on her lips.
“They have not explained to you what I am?” She questioned.
“No!”
“What do you see ... Roy?”
“I see a beautiful young woman of about twenty years of age, with an intellect that can move mountains and an impossible strength the surpasses mine in an impossibly small frame.”
“I thought that they would have explained me to you...” She said evenly and blinking only at the start of her speech. “But thank you. You only made one mistake. I am only four years old...”
I had to sit down. What did she mean... “ ... only four years old... ”
“Roy, if nobody told you about me, then it was an omission that I was not aware of,” Stella continued. “That omission puts me in a difficult position as that I treated you as a person in the know, but due to the data that you did not know about me, I now see the way you treated me was in-line with your human emotion of meeting a stranger and being polite towards that individual.”
“Stella ... you’re a ... machine ... a robot?”
“The short answer is yes. I am a machine. Would you care to explore that data?”
“It’s overwhelming, but yes, I would like to know more of the ... person ... I am going to entrust my life with.”
“You called me...” And Stella paused for a moment. I thought I caught a stutter in her speech. Then she blinked, smiled and said: “A person? Do you see me as a person?”
“Short answer?” I replied, getting over the shock of speaking to a robot. “Yes.”
“Thank you,” blink, “Roy.”
Then she did something that I did not anticipate. She reached out and took my hand. “Let’s go to somewhere a little more appropriate and explore the routine of WHO is STELLA.” And she smiled a full-blown happy smile. Then continued with something that startled me.
“Maybe the Elara Ghost Matrix protocol is surfacing in my circuitry...”
Stella led me out the Dive Centre, down the companionway and up the ladders to the B-Deck, and her cabin.
Inside, her cabin was a mirror of mine — same cot, same porthole, same spartan functionality — with two startling differences. The first was an ensuite head, but what was inside made my brain stall. There was no shower, no toilet. Just a small washbasin. The rest of the space had been converted into a high-tech alcove, dominated by a strange, ergonomic recliner chair that looked more like a pilot’s seat from a sci-fi movie. A diagnostic computer with a triple-screen array sat beside it, its dark screens reflecting my own confused expression. Neatly coiled cables of varying thicknesses hung from hooks on the wall, organised with an obsessive precision.
The second difference was the small dresser. On it sat a collection of props for a life she wasn’t living. Bottles of perfume, lotions, a hairbrush, all still in their shrink-wrap or unopened boxes. It was a perfectly arranged, yet utterly sterile, tableau of femininity. A stage set for the role of “Stella Maren.” It confirmed what I already suspected: very few people on this ship knew they were sharing their quarters with a ghost.
“I need to replenish my energy levels,” she stated simply, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “We can talk while I complete the cycle.”
The memory of the mess hall clicked into place. Dawie ordering coffee for us. Cookie not offering her any. It wasn’t an oversight; it was protocol.
I moved to the small stool by the dresser, the only other place to sit, and watched her.
“Roy,” she began, and the now-familiar sequence played out: a single, deliberate blink, the slight tilt of her head, and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a disarming gesture, clearly programmed for this exact moment. “Do not be alarmed. For me to interface with the power core, I need to remove my outer dermal layer.”
Before I could process the clinical horror of that sentence, she began. There was no ceremony, no hesitation. She reached up to the nape of her neck, her fingers finding a seam I couldn’t see. There was a faint hiss, like the release of a vacuum seal, and she lifted her face away.
She held it in her hands for a moment — the face of Stella, complete with its freckles and lifelike hair — before placing it gently on a padded stand on the dresser. Beneath it was a complex metallic skull, chrome and silver, with two luminous blue optic lenses that pivoted and focused on me. The effect was dizzying. I was still looking at Stella, but now I was seeing the machine beneath.
With the same unembarrassed efficiency, she unfastened her clothes. The T-shirt and shorts came off, revealing a body that was, by any human standard, perfect. Every curve, every muscle definition was flawless. She was a work of art, an anatomical blueprint brought to life. A part of my brain, the primal male part, registered her nudity, but it was immediately short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming strangeness of it all. This wasn’t a woman undressing. This was a machine opening its chassis for maintenance.
She placed a hand on her chest, just above her heart, and her skin parted down the middle with a soft, magnetic click. She peeled the two halves of her torso’s “dermal layer” away, followed by the layers on her arms and legs, folding them with a practised, precise motion and setting them aside.
What was revealed underneath stole my breath. It wasn’t the stuff of nightmares — no tangled wires or smoking hydraulics. It was a marvel of engineering. A sleek, silver-and-white exoskeleton of woven carbon fibre and polished titanium. Bundles of fibre-optic cabling pulsed with soft, internal light, like veins carrying data instead of blood. Delicate actuators and micro-servos hummed faintly, mimicking the muscle groups they replaced. It was alien, yet strangely beautiful — the most advanced piece of technology I had ever seen.
She turned to the wall of cables, her movements now making a series of soft, metallic whirs. She selected several and, with practised ease, plugged them into various ports on her torso, arms, and the back of her head. The main power conduit connected to the base of her spine with a solid, resonant thunk.
The blue optic lenses flickered, and a low-level hum filled the small cabin. She walked to the cot — not the strange recliner, which must have been for diagnostics — and lay down on her back, her metallic frame making a soft clinking sound against the thin mattress.
Her optics remained focused on me. The faint smile was gone, replaced by an unreal robot head without any expression.
“This process will take approximately three hours and forty-two minutes to reach optimal operational capacity,” she stated, her voice now emanating from a small vocaliser grille beneath her optic lenses. The tone was the same, but without the filter of her “human” face, it sounded purer, more mechanical.
A single blink of her optic shutters.
“Now ... where were we? Oh, yes. I am Stella.” And she turned her head, looking up.
“S.T.E.L.L.A., short for Strategic Tactical Engagement and Logistics Liaison Asset. I am a prototype of the now defunct Prometheus Initiative Project. Created by the now deceased Dr. Aris Thorne. My current status is that of an asset acquired and fully integrated into the Foundation for Law and Order, and field active.”
“Why would Ashwin Windsor keep you a secret from me, as he would have known we would be working together?”
She turned her head towards me and her blue optic lenses remained fixed on me from across the room. The low hum from her internal systems was the only sound for a moment as she processed the query. Her head didn’t tilt this time; the movement was internal, a silent sifting of data.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.