When the boy stepped into the cockpit, all was silent. The flashing blues and yellows of the dashboard had ceased. All that remained, present through the window that encompassed them in a half-sphere, was the infinite abyss and the few remaining stars that flickered within it like distant lanterns. He took a step, and from the gloom a flat, staggering voice spoke.
<I apologize. I believe that I have failed you.>
The boy approached the twin chairs at the front of the room.
The robot sat rigid in the leftmost chair. Rivulets of oil leaked from its visual and auditory receptors and loose panels clung to wires like the last of Autumn’s leaves on her branches. At the sound of the boy moving, the robot turned its head to perceive him.
“But you said we only have a month left. We’re so close,” the boy whispered.
<Correct. Software has begun to fail, Casius. My system is deleting memory files to prioritize essential functions. Once those are erased, the operations bank will shortly follow.>
The boy lowered his head, strands of long, brown hair shrouding his face, and sniffled.
“It’s my fault, isn’t it.”
<To put you at fault would be to insinuate that you were in control of this situation. The prolonged exposure to the radiation levels your heart emits has caused the failure of my system.>
Silence invaded the spaces where the robot had once played ancient 00’s dance hits from its internal speaker.
“Can’t you rebuild yourself?”
<I have done so many times Casius, but we are no longer in possession of the necessary parts. And this time, I am afraid, it is not my hardware.>
“But if we change course, surely we can get to Zalaria-1 or Uxx-”
<Your mother’s final directive was very clear, child, as were the lessons she wished for you to learn. Lesson one->
“Do not blindly trust,” the boy spoke reverently.
<Precisely. To put our fates in someone else’s hands now, when we are so close to our objective, could place you in a vulnerable situation. To do so would be a waste of your mother’s death.> The robot lifted its right hand. Its internal mechanisms groaned, and it trembled as it fought against the violent radiation damage done to its form. A rusted finger found the boy’s cheek, where it collected a single teardrop. <Don’t cry child. You will need the moisture.>
“Tell me about her again.”
<The many traits you seek to know about your mother are within you Casius. Your intelligence, your compassion, your knack for tinkering. All of these are traits she possessed.>
“And my father?”
<As I do not possess a picture, you will simply have to look in a mirror. There, you will find his face.> The robot paused, processing its responses where they had once been instantaneous. <and his bravery.>
“What did he do that was brave?”
<You are aware of this story, but I will recount it for your comfort. As he and your mother were being hunted for your species’ Gaianium hearts, your father was one of the last to stay on Toros while your mother and I escaped. All transmissions from Toros, post-vacancy, were coded with imperial encryption. Completion of your father’s mission had minimal success probability, and yet he stayed to delay Imperial troops.>
The boy turned from the robot and stared out the front of the craft. The android noted the boy’s posture straightening, but did not acknowledge it.
“And you think I’m that brave?”
<Yes. And you will need to be.>
“What if I’m not able to? What if I’m afraid?”
<Fear is unavoidable and, like any emotion, it should be allowed to exist. Do not be unafraid. Be afraid, but be still in your resolve. Lesson Two.>
“Be prepared, and your fear will be manageable.”
<Correct. That is bravery.>
“Are you brave?” the boy asked.
<I am not able to be brave.>
“But you’re not afraid.”
<I am unable to feel fear, Casius.>
“But you’re dying.”
<My system is failing, as are my physical and computing functions.>
“And you said so yourself: it is built into your programming to survive.”
<That is… correct.>
“So you went against your programming to protect me.”
<That is… correct. As your mother died, I held you to my internal core and processed in patterns that would elevate the output temperature of my CPU to match that of her pulse.>
“But… you also knew about my Gaianium heart.”
<I am aware of your species’ condition. Yes.>
Silence fell upon the cabin. All that cued the boy into the android’s continued existence was the sluggish blinking of its singular, crimson retinae. The robot shifted in its seat, its internal mechanisms grinding and thumping.
“What if they’re not out there?” Casius asked. There was a whirring sound.
<There is a 65% percent probability that this is the case. However, the high levels of radiation emitted from the core of Yosan and its proximity to the nearby sun make it a suitable candidate for not only the rumors, but the survival of your species.>
“But what if we arrive… and I’m all alone?” the boy asked. The robot reached out and placed his heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. Bits of rust crumbled from it as he did, and the boy placed his cheek upon the cold metal.
<Inform me of your survival plan… Casius. Files containing it are in queue to be deleted.>
The boy took a deep breath and rose from his chair. There was an orange stain on his cheek from the robot’s hand.
“Step One: Early rituals. 50 push-ups. 50 sit-ups. 50 lunges. Eat nutrition bar. Clean body. Maintenance check on body.”
<…Correct…>
“Step Two: Maintenance check on ship. Ensure no unnecessary power is being wasted.”
<…Correct…>
“Step Three: Assess course. Adjust auto-pilot if needed.”
<…Corr…ect…> The robot’s form groaned as it slumped over in its chair.
“Step Four,” the boy’s voice hitched. “Record findings, discoveries, and thoughts in log.”
<…Corr…ect…>
“Step Five: Late rituals. 25 push-ups. 25 sit-ups. 25 lunges. Eat nutrition bar. Clean Body. Maintenance check…”
The boy stopped reciting his programming. The soft red light of the robot’s retinae had gone out.
<Continue…Casius… I am still cognizant.>
“When will you forget my name?”
<It will be the last thing I delete. Your final directive… please.>
“Step Six: Story time. Stargazing. Rest.”
<Ha. Ha. Ha.> The boy jolted, having never heard that sound before. < I am… laughing… to show that I approve… of your memory. You will not fail yourself.>
The boy reached out and placed his hand on the robot’s, aware that the nerve receptors built into its hands would no longer be able to feel his.
“Would you have lived forever…to see the stars go out?” Casius asked, his eyes on the slumped shadow. A minute passed. Terror and loneliness welled up inside the boy until the voice spoke.
<Would my fuel… cells and hardware… components have allowed it… yes…… But… there is… more beauty… in the life of something… than there is in the death of it……..>
“The third lesson,” the boy spoke in a hushed tone.
<…Casius…>
And then there was the Silence, the oppressive emptiness that fills the room after the final exhale. The boy removed his hand from the unmoving fingers of the communications robot, and climbed up in its lap just as he had done when he was smaller. Together, one seeing, the other not perceiving, they stared out into the great nothingness. He allowed himself to mourn. He told stories of boys exploring planets containing dangers and plants he’d only read about. He shared customs and traditions passed down from his mother to this robot, to himself. He identified distant constellations and told stories of a robot who, abandoning post and directive, took a dying mother’s child and sustained its life. And when the time came, he rose from the husk of his guardian, collected his tools, and undid the android’s lower extremities for he was not yet strong enough to carry its whole form. After his work was finished, he took the upper half in his arms and, like it had done for him so many times, carried it to the bed adjacent to his. He pulled the sheet over its head, recited the three lessons, and closed the door.
When he returned to the cockpit it was darker still, the quiet more daunting, the great expanse of space infinitely intimidating. The boy strode back to the robot’s chair and took a seat in it, inhaling the musk of motor oil and fried circuits. He stared out into the abyss, and even though he was frightened and alone, he remembered the final rule, the one given to him not by his mother or father, but the robot who had cared for him the first decade of his life. He spoke it aloud as his ship floated through the darkness, towards a life and hope uncertain.
“The adventure is the purpose.”
Genre: Science Fiction
Event: Greathearted
Character: Care-Giver
The Word and The Song 