Chapter 1

With a practiced flick of his wrist, Hoxley flipped this morning’s breakfast in the pan. The food, if one could call it that, sizzled in the hot oil. He knew life in space meant he’d be dealing with matter-converted meals, but the reality of the wet slabs of nutrition was still depressing. What he wouldn’t give to make the crew some braised onion chicken with gruyere. He silently committed to purchasing some real ingredients when they next docked at a station, damn the expense.

“You were saying, Hox?”

Hoxley snapped out of his musing, “Oh, sorry Xavier. What did I say last?”

“You left off at ‘horrible writhing masses that spread across the walls.”

“Right. Those were there. Then the ceiling was torn off the building, revealing the cosmos. Except that all of the stars were eyes and all the eyes were looking at me.”

“I see. You know Hox, I do have access to several terabytes of literature on psychology, but maybe you would benefit from talking to another person about this. We have a doctor on board.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to talk with me anymore?” Hoxley said, a note of betrayal entering his voice.

“No, no! I very much like interacting with you and the crew. I just believe you have complex issues that would benefit from someone qualified and physically present, not the disembodied voice of an AI.”

“I am extremely uncomfortable with that idea. Oh, speaking of disembodied voices, the eye-filled cosmos said something after that. I don’t remember what because the words resonate so loudly that I always explode at that point.”

“Explo-”

“Yea, like a glass that reverberates until it shatters,” he explained, dicing a block of nutrition and adding it to a curry sauce.

“You know, Jim is both a doctor and an AI. Maybe that’s a happy compromise to getting some professional help.”

“What? Why? This is helping plenty,” Hoxley declared.

Xavier was preparing a dialogue to explain self-denial when Ozzy buzzed in on the ship’s comms.

“Hoxley, can you report to the cargo hold? We’re approaching our destination.”

Azure light swept across Buddy’s field of vision. Once. Twice. Three times before the machine chimed a cheerful tune. The firm cushions lifted her to a seated position, slowly revealing the back of Dr. Jim as she was elevated. She waited patiently for him to say something for several minutes then cleared her throat.

“Did you find anything?”

The form of the doctor rippled before he turned around, dark metallic microbots briefly exposed before the projectors corrected themselves. He had chosen the appearance of a bald, middle-aged man which, according to Jim, was the galactic average appearance of a doctor. He had used the same metric for his name. Buddy was uncertain if a doctor made of small machines was a normal thing, as her frame of reference was roughly two weeks.

“No,” he stated.

“Nothing?”

“That is what ‘no’ means.”

Buddy stared at him expectantly.

“Oh,” he continued, “You wish for a report of our tests?”

“Yes please,” she confirmed pleasantly. Zenith and Adam had told her that the doctor’s curt demeanor resulted from underdeveloped social algorithms. For whatever reason, the AI was developed without a social parent to draw personal skills from. To Jim’s credit, he was adamant about correcting this.

“No markers for common pathogens found in your bloodwork. Your cardiovascular readout is in the 99th percentile for your age, sex, and race. Significant surgical intervention has been performed on you in the past, gunshot wounds and plasma burns are the most prevalent. There is some evidence of chemical trauma in the hippocampus, the origins of which are unknown. Serum progesterone is at indicative levels for an elf of your age undergoing ovulation. Your fecal samples indicate sub-satisfactory digestion-”

“Wait, wait, did you just say I have brain damage?”

“Correct.”

“But you said that you didn’t find anything. That could explain my memory loss.”

“The mechanism by which your brain was damaged has not been conclusively determined. Therefore, the source of your memory loss remains unknown.”

“Sure, but you could have told me about it.”

“Your brain damage was obvious given your nature,” Jim said, then continued after registering anger on Buddy’s face, “by that I mean the lack of understanding you demonstrate due to your memory loss. We can pursue other means of investigation, such as psychotherapy. Can you describe your oldest memory?”

“Sure, I was at a docking bay aboard Galduron station. There was a blue-haired guy, human, looking at me like he was about to miss his flight. When I asked him what was going on, he said, ‘You’ll be fine, Buddy,’ and ran off. Oh, and he had an empty syringe in his hand.”

Jim was motionless, as if his CPU had frozen. Buddy was deciding whether she should try and shake him out of it or go get BOB when Jim abruptly spoke, giving her a start.

“I am going to schedule another scan to assess the possibility of further brain damage.”

“Oh,” Buddy said, deflating, “I thought the psychiatric approach sounded promising.”

“That will likely accompany our diagnostic endeavors. Do you have any further questions?”

“What was that about sub-satisfactory digestion?”

“You require more dietary fiber.”

The ship’s comms buzzed as Ozzy’s gruff voice was broadcast.

“Buddy and Jim please report to the cargo hold.”

Adam looked on anxiously as Odybrix twisted a copper wire with a pair of pliers and jammed it into the patchwork device. His training made him keenly aware of how deadly improvised explosives could be. The halfling looked utterly unphased by the danger. If anything, she was treating the bomb with increasing aggression as the pieces refused to come together.

“Is the dining table the best place to build that?”

“Is anywhere aboard a spacecraft?” she replied distractedly, reaching with a tattooed arm for a nearby screwdriver.

“That’s a very good point. Maybe we shouldn’t be doing it then?”

“What, am I supposed to not build bombs? Don’t be ridiculous. The problem with you, kid-”

“We’re roughly the same age.”

“The problem with you is that Remington has removed the joy of creativity from your life and tossed it out an airlock. Nothing makes a Corporation happier than crushing our spirits with the hammer of capitalism.”