"Look out!"
I ducked against him as a column of purple-suited messengers
swept past us, right down the middle of the hallway. We continued, pressed
against the wall, till the last of the column passed, and then we could enter
the doorway.
"Why did they just have to take up the entire pathway
like that?" I spluttered.
Marx shoved his hands into the pockets of his uniform and
nodded his head toward another messenger heading our way. Only then did I
notice the metallic face plates showing through the synthetic skin, like Cher
had.
"Androids," Marx confirmed what I had just figured
out. "Supervisors like to use them because they're replaceable; they are
programmed and sent on their way, and if one of them gets damaged, the message
is beamed to the nearest messenger-droid, and the dead droid is cleaned
up."
"Oh, Private Denvamir!" A young woman in a lab
coat dashed up to us. She looked almost human, except for the gills instead of
a nose, and the massive blond beehive of hair on her head.
"I'm so glad you're here! We've been trying to figure
out what's wrong, but—"
"Yeah, that's just worthy!" Marx snapped.
"Just show me the problem."
She nodded. "Emess is over here."
We followed the woman past racks of droids, each receiving
some kind of servicing: I saw a charging station, a polishing station, a repair
wing, and even a bank of “offloaders” where the droids plugged in and
downloaded the messages they had—at least, the non-private communications. The
files they contained flashed briefly on the screen, flickering messages of live
communiqués and various photos and videos, some from different locations
on—planets, I guess—and some from different sectors of the ship. I saw
schematics and blueprints and text files too. One wing held the non-android
messengers: straight-up robots that were basically walking or flying screens
with antennae, which people could navigate using a bulky wrist remote. I saw a
couple of those evil red boxes zipping by my ankles, and I instinctively
huddled against Marx, but they scooted right on by me. I admit I did stick my
foot out and intentionally “tripped” one of them, but it righted itself almost
instantly, and it left me with a sore toe. I quashed my disappointment as we
headed toward the sound of a stuttering digital voice.
"At your—At your... At your
ser-ser-servi-servi-ser-ser-ser-ser—"
An android lay sprawled on a table. Its body was mostly
intact—only a few dents and dings. The only indication there was anything wrong
was the way its head flopped to one side, twitching and bouncing as it
stammered.
"Sir, sir, service-vice-vice-vice—"
Marx grimaced. "Is there a way to turn it off?" He
grumbled over the racket.
"We tried," muttered a human technician. "The
kill switch isn't responding."
"Vice-vice-vice—"
Just when I was sure I would start going crazy next, Marx
delivered a sharp blow that glanced off the android's metallic head. The
stuttering stopped, and Marx winced and flailed his hand to shake away the
pain.
"Thank you," said a voice.
"Don't mention—" Marx stopped speaking at the same
moment I realized that the droid had thanked him. I saw the young tech stiffen,
and he shook it off as he turned to gather the tools.
"Whatever caused the damage must have knocked the
speech regulator loose," he murmured.
"I do not recall what caused my fall," stated the
android in a perky voice. "I was delivering a message to the command
sector, when I discovered that I lay on the floor, nearly incapacitated."
Marx waited until the droid sat silently before commencing
work on the wiring in the android's neck.
Another tech asked, "Do you remember anything between
the time you delivered your message to the time when your compatriots found
you?"
"Warning, message not delivered," declared the
android. "Data Transfer fai—" the digital voice stopped as Marx
twitched a wire. The component connected to it's head sparked when Marx brought
the tool close to it.
"Ouch," said the android.
Marx winced again. "Sorry—" He shifted the wires,
bringing two into close proximity and causing another spark.
"Ouch."
"Yeah, hang on, I'm just—"
"Ouch."
"Could you stop? I'm almost—"
"Ouch."
"You're an android; you don't feel pai—"
"Ouch."
Finally, Marx located the source of the problem: one of the
processors had fried.
As opposed to the computer in the science lab, which he had
treated with respect and moved carefully to fix, here Marx ignored the protests
of his patient and hauled the faulty processor out from among the circuitry.
Slipping the wires out, he grabbed another board off the work desk next to him
and attached the wires to that. A flurry of sparks danced over the android's
body as it spasmed, and then the head came upright and it sat up on the table.
"Attention, the problem has been solved," it said.
"All systems normal."
Marx stepped back and grabbed my hand. "There, fixed
it; let's go."
The girl with the gills made a happy fluttering noise.
"Thank you so much!" She called after us as Marx made for the door as
fast as he could walk.
I was practically tripping over the seams in the walkway as
I tried to keep up with him.
"Hey, hold up!" I called after him, and he slowed,
but his face was still sulky.
"What's the problem?" I asked.
"Nothing, I'm fine," he retorted.
We stood awkwardly facing each other, though Marx wouldn't
look at me. I couldn't help feeling somehow culpable, though I couldn't figure
out what I had done—or not done.
"Dude," I finally just let the words out, without
worrying whether they were appropriate for the context. "What is your
problem? Is it me?"
Finally, Marx met my eyes. "No, it's not you,
Laura," he huffed. "It's just... Androids, you know—" he
muttered.
I tilted an eyebrow. "No, Marx, I don't know; why do
you have such a problem with androids?"
His jaw tightened. "It's not just androids, though."
He waved his hand, "it's all this automated stuff, the fact that we can
design machines to look and function like humans, but... They aren't." He
shrugged. "Guess it's just the old-fashioned upbringing I had."
I tried to give him a sympathetic smile. "Want to grab
a meal and talk about it?" I offered, nodding back toward the galley.
Marx rubbed the back of his neck. "I dunno," he
mumbled, "sure."
We set off together down the walkway that bisected the ship.
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