The Things We Repair
Copyright© 2026 by Flubu
Chapter 3: Coffee and Spare Parts
Daniel returned the following morning with enough supplies for a week and no coherent explanation for why.
He brought blankets, bottled water, canned soup, an extension cable, two toolboxes, work lights, a battery charger, spare fittings from the cattle water system, and the thermos he carried during winter repairs. He had also brought a mug, though he could not remember deciding to.
The selection represented several quiet negotiations with the farm. The extension cable had come from the grain auger and would need to be returned before the next feed delivery. The battery charger normally lived in the calving shed. The fittings were spares for a water line that could freeze without warning once the weather turned. Daniel had not brought anything whose absence might endanger the cattle, though he had stood in the workshop longer than usual deciding where that boundary lay.
Neris met him halfway down the logging track. Her emergency suit was gone, revealing work clothes shaped for her body and dense fur that made the cold seem less urgent. Her tail followed in a controlled arc until she saw how much he was carrying. Then it lifted in surprise.
“This is more than tools.”
Her English remained slow, each phrase assembled from broadcasts and the short conversation of that morning.
“Wasn’t sure what you’d need.”
“So you brought ... everything.”
“Not everything.”
ER’s voice came through the communicator clipped to her collar. The device remained linked to Takuhai by a narrow encrypted radio channel; his intelligence had not left the ship.
“He omitted three categories of fastener that may prove useful,” ER said.
Daniel adjusted the toolbox cutting into his fingers. “Good afternoon, ER.”
“It remains afternoon by local convention.”
Neris took one of the boxes before he could object. The ease with which she lifted it made his planned objection seem unnecessary.
Inside Takuhai, portable lights revealed more of the damage. The cabin looked less like a machine than Daniel expected. Surfaces curved around the pilot’s reach. Controls combined touch panels with physical levers. A narrow couch occupied one wall, and personal objects softened the precision: a folded cloth, a stack of journals, and a small ceramic mug painted with uneven green spirals.
One of Takuhai’s undamaged maintenance manipulators unfolded from a wall recess and lifted the lighter toolbox onto the work surface. A second arm attempted to follow, hesitated at its damaged joint, and withdrew.
Daniel watched the first arm fold away. “ER has hands.”
“Takuhai has maintenance manipulators,” Neris said. “ER controls them. They cannot leave the ship.”
“Good to establish limits early.”
“Why?” ER asked.
Daniel looked at the two toolboxes. “No reason.”
He set his thermos on the work surface.
Neris noticed. “What is that?”
“Coffee.”
ER immediately said, “The beverage contains a psychoactive stimulant and several compounds associated with acquired preference rather than innate appeal.”
Daniel poured himself a cup. “That’s one way to advertise it.”
Neris leaned close enough to smell the steam. Her nostrils shifted at the end of her short muzzle. “Bitter.”
“Very.”
“You enjoy it?”
“Usually after the first few years.”
Her ears angled forward. Daniel poured a small amount into the spare mug and waited while Takuhai analyzed it.
“Biologically acceptable in limited quantity,” ER said. “The pilot’s nanites will compensate for several unfamiliar alkaloids.”
Neris took a cautious sip.
Her ears flattened.
Daniel tried not to laugh. “Not a fan?”
She swallowed with dignity. “It is ... direct.”
“That’s polite.”
“I am attempting diplomacy.”
Over the next four days, Daniel returned each morning after feeding the cattle and checking the waterers. Neris’s English changed between visits. At first she built sentences carefully and avoided contractions. By the third day she could interrupt him. By the fourth, she understood that “I’ll bring the grinder” did not mean he intended to prepare food.
The linguistic implant mapped syntax and vocabulary from radio, downloaded recordings, and conversation. It could identify idioms and estimate context. It could not create experience.
“It provides possibilities,” Neris explained while they unpacked tools. “Then I learn which meaning humans intended after I have already answered incorrectly.”
“That’s how most of us do it too.”
“Your species designed the language.”
“No one person did. That’s how we got into this mess.”
At thirty-two, Neris had considered herself an experienced courier, capable of negotiating ports, failures, and unfamiliar cultures without needing anyone to check whether she had eaten. Daniel nevertheless arrived with soup every day and noticed when she forgot it.
On the second visit he asked about the bruise disappearing beneath the fur at her temple.
“The nanites repaired the injury,” she said.
“They can do that?”
“They prevent most illness, treat many diseases, stop bleeding, mend fractures, and repair wounds that do not require major reconstruction.”
Daniel looked toward the medical display. “And what can’t they do?”
“Replace a severed limb. Rebuild an organ destroyed beyond viable tissue. Reverse irreversible brain death. Multiple catastrophic injuries may exceed their capacity.”
ER added, “They are highly advanced medical systems, not evidence that biology has become optional.”
Daniel was quiet for a moment. “Could they work on a human?”
Neris’s ears shifted back.
“Possibly. They would first need to model your biology. Use would carry risks to the patient and consequences for your society.”
“So not for a headache.”