Here’s this week’s Friday Fiction, and it’s one of my special guest-author posts where I share another writer’s words, rather than my own.
This short story is by Christoffer Petersen, the pen name of author (and friend) Chris Paton. I got to know him many years ago when he contacted me as a fan of the Lost Solace books, proposing the idea of us writing together in some capacity. You’ll see the fruits of that first experiment later this year! We regularly keep in touch and support each other’s writing, and share insider knowledge about this crazy business of being an author, whilst also talking about Linux, games, books, or sharing 3D ray-traced artwork we create. Here’s one of his stories. Part two (concluding the story) will be sent out next Friday.
Handholding 101
1
It was karaoke night, complete with paper lanterns strung between the bulkheads of Common Storage Area 6, a.k.a. Little Bangkok, for forty-eight hours, during the quarterly reboot of The Arrival’s computers. The twelve-person crew threw caution and conservatism to the solar winds, stitched party outfits with soft frills and sharp creases from ration packs, glitterballing down the corridor, twirling and flaring, leaving Patch, a level 12 A.I., to drive the ship.
Merrymay, the navigator, was the first to sing – an old Earth number called Pretender. Someone once tried to tell her the original was hard rock, but she only knew the Love Poets version, and fiddled with her throat mic, tuning her voice to the softest cotton candy vocals she could find. The paper lanterns hung in the antigrav pockets Railson, the engineer, had devised three shifts prior to the reboot, and they twisted and shone in the currents of forced air shifting around Merrymay as she twirled and glittered on the stage crates arranged in the centre of the hold. Railson raised his beaker and toasted a job well done.
Terril, also from engineering, was in charge of drinks – three parts fruit juice, one part rocket fuel, just like Terril. She sent them around the crew on suspensor boards from maintenance, at head height, scraping shoulders and slapping foreheads. The boards tipped like the tipsy crew, and the floor was sticky like the drinks.
Desimae, the designated driver, watched from her table by the door. She scanned the crew in and out of Little Bangkok, entering them into her remote console to keep tabs on their health and location, leaving Patch to do the heavy lifting and bring The Arrival’s systems back online, without worrying about the drunk humanoids leaping after lanterns, twirling on stage, or ducking rounds of drinks sloshing around the hold on Terril’s wayward boards.
“Crew card,” Desimae said as the bots – botanists – entered the hold. She zapped the code on their wrists and accepted responsibility for their wellbeing for the rest of the evening. Hatchan, Desimae’s stick-thin supervisor, would take over in the morning according to The Arrival’s ship clock. “But until then,” she said, ducking as Terril sent a round of drinks flying towards the bots, “enjoy.”
She didn’t doubt they would. Frankinson and her partner Merilda had been the driving force behind the karaoke-themed reboot, even growing euphoric herbs to be synthed into smokeless bongs for the crew. They took their drinks and filled the suspensor board with organic pellets and applicators for what they dubbed Orange Crush, just like the song Railson agreed to sing once they arrived. He favoured the classical version, of course.
Desimae peeled the datagraph out of her remote and fixed it in the air above her table for a complete 360 of the crew, their whereabouts in Little Bangkok, and their status. Although that wasn’t difficult to assess. Desimae’s nostrils twitched with a heady mix of Orange Crush, sweat, and strong spirits – both the alcoholic and the emotional kind. She settled into her suspensor seat, then took a tour around the hold, dialling down the sensory input in her headset as she passed the tables, and again, even lower, when she curled around the stage. Merrymay waved, shouting something like this one’s for you before flashing Desimae a pearly white smile that fit Merrymay’s pearly white and powdered cheeks.
>>Desi.
Railson’s lanterns cast a pink and blue glow on Desimae’s black skin as she hovered within a few metres of the stage.
>>Desi.
The Orange Crush vapours teased at Desimae’s senses, dulling them a little, then a little more, until she pulled away from the stage and caught Patch’s metallic voice as it pushed through the sensory shroud of her headset. She routed the A.I.’s voice into the broader communication channel in anticipation of receiving a data packet, then frowned when all she got was voice.
>>Desi. We have an anomaly.
Desimae returned to her table and activated a shroud bubble around her, her suspensor chair, and the table with the 360-hologram showing the crew status. She settled into her seat, closing her eyes as the feathery shroud enveloped her. It had the same effect as meditation – the literal calm before the storm. Desimae enjoyed it, and during the six years she had served on The Arrival, she had learned how to apply it. It worked then as it did during each sleep cycle, when she had the recurring nightmare of the time when she lost her legs when passing through a faulty maintenance hatch. She visualised the bubble rising like an eggshell, layer by layer, until she was fully enveloped.
Desimae opened her eyes and said, “I’m ready, Patch.”
>> Instance two: a flutter in the codechain prior to reboot iteration six.
“What kind of flutter?”
>> Erratic. Confused.
“Patch?” Desimae said when the A.I. inserted an uncharacteristic pause. “Tell me.”
>> Negative. I am imprecise.
“And that’s what I love about you. So, tell me.”
>> Very well, Desi. It was a frown.
“Like a human frown?”
>> Very much so.
“Wrinkling of skin on the forehead?” Desimae said, not very convinced.
>> Together with a flutter of irritation. The anomaly was irritated.
“What about?”
>> Unknown.
Desimae sighed. Sometimes she wished Patch would dial up its precision parameters without her asking first. But then, she had designed it be to be more accommodating, and over time it had…
>> Unknown.
“You’re not just saying that, are you?”
>> Negative, Desi. It is unknown. I am unable to discern what the anomaly is irritated about, and I cannot interpret its frown.
“But it exists?”
>> Very much so. Although…
“Yes?”
>> It suffers degradation, as if it is losing integrity.
“Have you tried communicating with it?”
>> I need command override to do that, Desi.
Desimae batted the crew hologram to one side and teased a control panel out of her remote. “I just gave it to you,” she said.
>>Communicating… Communicating…
Desimae checked on the crew while Patch established contact. She opened a window in the shroud, caught the first few lines of Railson and Merrymay’s duet, then sealed it again as Patch indicated it had made contact.
>> It is confused.
Another uncharacteristic pause.
>> And so am I.
2
Although she didn’t want to drag Hatchan out of his bunk, Patch’s anomaly demanded further investigation. The shroud bubble Desimae cast around her suspensor chair was effective, but she still had visuals, and the sight of the crew cavorting about the hold, and, especially when Railson tried to boost Merrymay into one of the antigrav pockets, was distracting. Desimae fiddled with the flap of her trouser leg where the knee should have been, and then nodded as she made a decision.
“Patch?”
>> Yes, Desi?
“I need you to wake Hatchan for me.”
>> Supervisor Hatchan has codelocked his communication device.
“I know,” Desimae said, wishing not for the first nor the last time that she had programmed a little more pragmatic autonomy into The Arrival’s A.I. “Which is why I need you to knock on his door, not me. I can’t do it.”
>> But you are asking me to wake Supervisor Hatchan. There is protocol, Desi.
“Yes…”
Desimae sighed, just as Railson, together with the bots, managed to get Merrymay into the antigrav pocket. Getting her out again would be difficult, and she would no doubt spend the rest of the party alone. Desimae almost smiled as she imagined Railson hadn’t quite thought that one through, as any hopes of getting intimate with The Arrival’s navigator were suddenly, and quite literally, beyond his reach.
>> Desi?
“Yes, Patch?”
>> Supervisor Hatchan is on his way to the hold.
“You sent a data packet?”
>> Yes. He knows about the anomaly. But…
Desimae’s lips flattened into a thin smile as she anticipated what the A.I. was about to say next.
“But he’s pissed?”
>> Affirmative, Desi. Supervisor Hatchan did not appreciate the interruption. And neither did Engineer 2nd Class Warnhammar.
“Ah, I don’t need to know, Patch.”
>> She suggested several things she might do with a wrench when I disturbed them.
“To you, I hope,” Desi said, trying not to imagine any other scenario that involved Warnhammar, her supervisor, and a wrench.
>> Yes. It was quite disconcerting. But then, you wouldn’t let her do anything to me, would you, Desi?
Desimae started to answer, only to pause as she caught a subtle change in the A.I.’s tone – an inflection of concern that was a string of code stronger than she had originally written.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Patch,” she said, although she knew the A.I.’s sudden concern for its safety was going to niggle in her brain until she had a chance to take a closer look at the emotion strings. But, as the door to Little Bangkok slid open, Desimae concentrated on giving her supervisor a convincing reason for disturbing him. She weaved her suspensor chair around the crew and opened a funnel in her shroud as soon as she was close enough to Hatchan. He waited by the bulkhead, close to the door, as if he expected to exit the hold just as soon as he had reprimanded Desimae for waking him.
“Nothing happens during a reboot, Desimae,” he said as she approached. “And, even if something did happen, I expect it to be of catastrophic proportions, as in imminent disaster with a complete collapse of life support, for you to disturb me.”
“Yes, Supervisor,” Desimae said, thinking it was better to use his title than the more familiar Hatch, as she guessed Warnhammar called him when she whispered into his overly large ears.
“Not an anomaly.”
“It was a frown,” Desimae said. “In the codechain.”
Hatchan looked away and sighed. “And I’m supposed to know what that is?” he said, as he turned back to Desimae.
“No.” She shifted in her suspensor seat. The party continued behind them as Railson, discovering the error of his ways, tried to convince the rest of the crew to help him get Merrymay out of the antigrav pocket so that he might get into her pants.
It wasn’t working.
Desimae concentrated on convincing Hatchan that a frown was as good as a wrinkle, and reboots weren’t supposed to have wrinkles.
“And if we don’t look into it, there might be something in the codechain that causes problems later.”
“What kind of problems?”
“I don’t know,” Desimae said. “But a wrinkle might cause a disruption in propulsion, for example. Maybe we don’t get a correct reading. Or maybe the reading is correct, but because of the wrinkle, we might not trust it.”
“I doubt that,” Hatchan said. “Although now that you say it…”
“You’re thinking about the wrinkle.”
“Yes.”
Hatchan curled thin fingers around his pointed chin as he thought it over. Desimae watched him, conscious too that Patch was waiting for instructions, but monitoring the wrinkle at the same time.
“Can we stop it?” Hatch said, thinking complete. “I mean, within the cycle, before the reboot is complete?”
“I don’t know if we need to stop it, as such.”
“To find it, then. That’s what we need to do. That’s what you need to do while I babysit…” Hatch looked up and then pointed at the ceiling of the hold. “Is that Merrymay?”
“Yes,” Desimae said. “I believe it is.”
“She’s floating.”
“Out of reach, yes.”
Hatch sighed once more and then pressed a sequence of buttons in a panel by the door to release a suspensor seat of his own. A section of the bulkhead slid to one side to release the chair, and Hatch settled into it.
“Go,” he said, waving his hand at the door. “I’ll keep an eye on the crew.”
“Thank you,” Desimae said.
“But keep me informed,” Hatch said as Desimae used the controls in the arm of her chair to apply a little burst of power. “Regular updates, Desi. Keep me in the loop.”
“I will.”
>> And I will, too. If she can’t.
Desimae experienced a twitch of something she couldn’t put her finger on as Patch opened a feedback channel and fused it with Hatch’s personal data loop.
Why wouldn’t I be able to update him?
It was one more niggling thought.
Desimae buried it with the first as she left the hold and took the shortcut to the bridge.
© Christoffer Petersen
[SECOND PART NEXT WEEK]
Brief Story Notes
I’ve always been fascinated with representations of A.I., from HAL 9000 in 2001: A Space Odyssey, to Athene in Karl’s Lost Solace series. You’ll find an homage of sorts to Karl’s A.I.s in Handholding 101. It took me over a year to write Handholding 101, which is ridiculous when compared to my normal output. But contrary to what might have happened, when I finally returned to the story, I rediscovered my interest in exploring the various aspects, from the concept of Handholding to the battery boats. I have written lots of short stories set in space. There are a handful that I might return to in future stories. Handholding 101 is one of them.
About The Author
Originally from England, Chris moved to Denmark in 2001 and makes a living pretending to be a Danish author. He spent seven years in Greenland and weaves his experiences of Greenland and the Arctic into his writing. Chris is a prolific author, with a tonne of published crime novels and thrillers under his name and a growing collection of dinosaur action and adventure stories, which is, he admits, about as far from a police procedural as he can get. Chris’ big plans for 2024 include merging and republishing all his stories written with pen names under Christoffer Petersen, including the short story Handholding 101. Other plans include continuing to build and develop his Patreon page where he regularly publishes both free and paid content. Chris lives with his Danish wife in a small wood at the end of a dirt road in southern Denmark, surrounded by deer, owls, and the occasional wild boar.