Cristopher Stasheff - Escape Velocity

“I felt sorry for the computer.” Whitey turned back to the grid. “You take orders from me, now—or from my niece, really; she’s the pilot.”

“Hi,” she said, stepping up beside Whitey. “I’m Lona.”

Dar stared, galvanized by the warmth in her voice. What a waste! All that allure cast before a machine—when it could’ve been coming at him!

Lona sat down at the console. “Let’s get acquainted, FCC 651919. By the way, do you mind if I call you—uh—‘Fess’?”

“Fess?” Dar frowned. “Why that?”

Lona looked back at him over her shoulder “How would you pronounce ‘FCC’? Never mind, this’s how I’m going to pronounce it!” She turned back to the grid. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“My opinion is of no consequence,” the computer answered. “My owner has delegated the necessary authority to you, so you may call me what you will.”

“Not if you don’t like it. A good computer tech needs a certain degree of rapport with her machine.”

“Such rapport can only exist within your own consciousness,” the computer replied. “I am incapable of feelings.”

“All right, then, humor me; I need the illusion. Besides, since a computer’s mathematical, it has to be electronically biased toward harmony and euphony. So I ask you again: does the name ‘Fess’ suit you?”

The computer hesitated. When it did speak, Dar could’ve sworn there was a note of respect in its tones. “The designation is pleasing, yes.”

“Fine.” Lona settled down to work, eyes glowing. “Now, Fess—how long ago were you first activated?”

“Five years, seven months, three days, six hours, twenty-one minutes, and thirty-nine seconds—Terran Standard, of course. I assume you do not require a more precise response.”

“No, that’ll do nicely.” Lona’s eyes gleamed. “And computers tend to be very durable these days; you’re almost brand-new. With you in it, this burro-boat should’ve been worth twice what Grandpa paid for it.”

The old miner cackled again.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lona demanded.

The computer was silent for a minute; then it answered, “My first owner inherited vast wealth, and spent a great deal on material pleasures…”

“A playboy.” Dar could almost see Lona’s mouth water. “I can see why he’d need a very loyal brain for his personal robot.”

“Indeed. Due to his, ah, excesses, it was frequently necessary for me to assume piloting of his aeroyacht.”

“Meaning he did the best he could to become a cask, and you had to fly him home when he was dead drunk.”

“You choose accurate terms,” the computer admitted. “On our last journey, however, he retained consciousness, though his judgment and reflexes were severely impaired. Consequently, I could not, according to my program, assume control until it became totally obvious that his life was imperiled.”

“Meaning he was heading right for a collision, but you couldn’t take over until it was almost too late. What happened?”

“By swerving the ship, I did manage to avoid damage to the cabin. Unfortunately, I was located in the aft bulkhead, which did suffer some impact.”

Lona nodded. “What was broken inside you?”

“Nothing. But one capacitor was severely weakened. Now, in moments of stress, it discharges in one massive surge.”

Lona frowned. “It could burn you out. Couldn’t they fix it?”

“Not without a complete overhaul and reprogramming, which would have been more expensive than a new unit. They did, however, install a circuit breaker and a bypass, so that the capacitor now discharges in isolation. Unfortunately, I am thereby deactivated until the breaker is reset.”

“If you were human, they’d call it a seizure. What’d your owner do?”

“He elected to sell me, which was economically wise.”

“But lacked ethical harmony.”

“Aptly put. However, there were no buyers on Terra, nor in the Martian colonies. No one wished to purchase an epileptic robot-brain.”

“But in the asteroid belt,” Lona murmured, “they’ll buy anything.”

“If the price is low enough, yes. Mine was seventeen therms.”

“Of low price, but incalculable value.” Lona smiled grimly. “After all, you’ve just saved all five of our lives.”

“True, but it was a low-stress situation for me. In a moment of true crisis, I would fail, and cause your deaths.”

Lona shook her head. “When things get that tense, I do my own piloting. The computer just feeds me the choices. No, I think you’ll turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me, Fess.”

Which was something of a blow to Dar’s ego; so maybe it was just his imagination that made the computer sound worshipful as it said, “I will do all that I can to serve you.”

Lona just smiled.

“Apropos of which,” the computer went on, “it might interest you to know that, while we have been talking, my former master was surreptitiously transmitting a message to Ceres City.”

Every eye locked onto the old miner.

“That’s garbage!” he spluttered. “You’ve been sitting here next to me the whole time! I didn’t say a word!”

“Computers can’t lie.” Lona’s gaze was a poniard.

“It’s a breakdown! Malfunction! Programming error!”

“How’d he do it, Fess?” Lona never took her glare off the old miner.

“By pressing and releasing the transmission button,” the computer answered. “That sent out carrier-wave pulses, which spelled out letters in the ancient Morse code.”

“What did he say?” Whitey’s voice was almost dreamy.

“ ‘Solar Patrol, emergency!’ ” the computer recited, “ ‘Burroboat FCC 651919 has just picked up five castaways. Have reason to believe they were crew and passengers of ship you were just chasing. Emergency!’ ”

Lona stood up with the slow, sinuous grace of a panther. Whitey stepped over beside her, his eyes chips of ice. “How do you want to be spaced—with or without your pressure suit?”

“But—but you can’t do that!” The old miner cowered back against the bulkhead. “I picked you up! I saved your lives!”

“Your computer did,” Lona corrected, “and it’s ours now.”

“The killing of humans,” Fess murmured, “is the worst of crimes.”

“What’s your definition of ‘human’?” Whitey growled, glaring at the miner.

“Treachery is right up there, too,” Lona pointed out.

“True,” Father Marco agreed, “but this man had no reason for loyalty to our little band—and every reason for loyalty to the government, and its Solar Patrol.”

“If you can call blind faith ‘reason,’ ” Whitey grunted. “But I guess you would, Father.”

“Sir!” Father Marco stiffened. “I’ll remind you that I’m an engineer as well as a priest! … But I am able to look at the situation from his viewpoint.”

A gleam came into Whitey’s eyes. “Well, then—why not let him see things from our viewpoint? The one we had an hour ago.”

“You wouldn’t!” The miner blanched.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Whitey’s lip curled. “They’ll pick you up way before your supplies run out. What’s he got on his claim, Fess?”

“A bubble-cabin ten feet down inside the asteroid,” the computer replied, “with complete life-support systems and a month’s rations.”

“With a two-way radio?”

“No; he had mine, and didn’t see the need for the expense. I do, however, have a spare emergency beacon.”

“Perfect!” Whitey grinned. “He can call for help, but he can’t rat on us. Oh, don’t give me that terrified look, you old crawler! The patrol’ll have you safe in Ceres City inside of a week!”