Quirinus stormed through the party of ducks outside the Dockside canteen, through a labyrinth of narrow corridors and into one of the two shuttle maintenance bays built into the rock of the asteroid. It was here his ship the Platypus had been docked ever since being pulled from the wreckage of the sun many months before. From its broken nose to the dented rear fins, the freighter had seen better days. The ship’s cylindrical purple and white hull was deep in dust, its undercarriage tyres were badly in need of air and maintenance hatches hung open all along the lower half of the fuselage. The beak-like sonic shield generator at the bow of the craft was encased in scaffolding, upon which a multi-limbed robot brandished its screwdriver and soldering-iron fingers, busy with repairs.
Quirinus crossed the graffiti-strewn concrete hangar to the spacecraft’s open port-side airlock, strode up the cargo bay ramp and entered the ship’s hold. The Platypus began life as a standard Mars-class interplanetary freighter, but its carrying capacity had long since been drastically reduced by the addition of an extra-dimensional drive, a centrifugal passenger carousel and additional fuel tanks, leaving the cargo bay somewhat cramped even when empty. Yet something was present, for the strange tendril-like growths that had taken over the ship were growing thick and fast inside the hold. Quirinus was not sure it was right that the cargo bay felt more like a cave made by the roots of a huge tree.
He warily dodged a swaying tendril and crossed to the ladder running up the front wall of the hold. Halfway up was the metre-wide crawl tunnel that led to the flight deck through the centre of the carousel, the latter being a narrow barrel-like passenger cabin that spun like a miniature version of the hollow moon to generate the illusion of gravity against its inner wall. The voices drifting through from the flight deck were not, as Quirinus expected, the customary heated argument between Momus and the ship’s onboard computer.
“Zotz?” he called. “Is that you up there?”
“We both are!” Zotz’s voice replied.
Quirinus scrambled up the ladder and deftly passed through the tunnel to the flight deck, taking care to not fall through the open hatch to the stationary carousel on the way. He emerged to find Momus and Zotz idly standing and staring into an open ceiling maintenance hatch, not looking at all busy. Ravana’s electric cat lay curled upon the co-pilot’s seat, idly playing with a long piece of tendril emerging from a nearby control panel. Quirinus dropped into the pilot’s seat and heard the muffled clangs of Wak’s mangled prosthetic left hand upon the cargo bay ladder, interspersed by various muttered curses.
“It’s easier in zero gravity,” Zotz remarked. He cringed at the thud of a head upon the crawl tunnel roof. “Dad hates spaceships.”
“It’s hard to love this frigging heap,” muttered Momus.
Quirinus gave him a steely glare. Wak emerged from the tunnel wearing a scowl and sullenly took a seat. With a sigh, Quirinus turned his attention to the console.
“Ship!” he called. “Report status. Just the headlines, mind.”
“System breakdown as follows.” The measured female tones of the Platypus’ artificial intelligence unit sounded far too calm, given the state of the ship. “Life-support systems are on standby and functioning normally. Port and starboard main drive turbines, fuel pumps and intercoolers show signs of wear beyond safe tolerances, as do the shattered nerves of the abused AI unit. Upper and lower plasma drive injector assemblies require manual inspection and possibly complete overhaul. Main fuel tanks are empty, devoid of purpose and symbolic of the universe at large. Radiation shield plasma pump requires recharging; sonic shield generator is currently under repair. Faults remain on carousel drive unit, forward radar detector module, forward visual scanners, flight-deck air-conditioning unit and maintenance pod door. Gaps remain in my memory banks and I am continuing to run checks on my sanity. Sensors detect a bird’s nest in the rear port undercarriage housing, damage to the starboard tailfin that requires immediate attention, a faulty light unit in the washroom, a…”
“That’s enough,” said Quirinus, with another sigh. “More than enough.”
“Why do AIs always speak with a frigging woman’s voice?” asked Momus, frowning. “Sexist, that is. And how come it refers to itself like that?”
“What’s wrong with the way the Platypus talks?” asked Zotz.
“A spacecraft should talk like a man!” said Momus. “And not sound insane!”
Wak peered cautiously into the blackened space behind an open maintenance hatch. “The bomb maybe did more damage than we thought,” he suggested.
Quirinus heard a squeak of fear over the cabin speakers. The ship would not normally depart from standard scripts, or enter a conversation uninvited except to issue a warning, but it sounded almost as if the AI was tempted to ask a question.
“Ship, you were sabotaged,” Quirinus said. He felt slightly foolish to be explaining the facts to a spacecraft. “Some double-crossing fiend hid a bomb aboard. The console was badly damaged, I lost an eye and then we crashed. It was not a good day all round.”
“My mind was free,” the AI said wistfully. “Ravana and I, joined as one.”
“Told you so,” said Momus. “Totally crapping mad.”
“Ship, ignore Momus,” Quirinus retorted. “He’s an idiot. Can you estimate how long it will take to restore all systems to full working order?”
“Repairs as scheduled will be complete in approximately eighty-four hours time,” the AI replied. “This is subject to replacement parts being available. This does not include removal of the bird’s nest or stress counselling for the AI core processor.”
Quirinus turned in his seat and gave Wak a questioning look.
“The autofabs can reproduce most spares,” Wak told him. Programmable fabricators, three-dimensional liquid-alloy printers, were standard fixtures in engineering workshops. “However, a template for the carousel motor is proving tricky to locate. The scanner units are also of an old design. This ship is built of bits no one makes any more!”
“Sounds a right frigging bucket of bolts,” snorted Momus.
Quirinus glared at him. “At least the airlock door hasn’t fallen off.”
“Actually,” began Wak. “Last week…”
“I don’t want to hear it!” snapped Quirinus. “Ship, can you estimate the time needed to do the minimum repairs needed for interstellar flight? Assume there will be four crew members available to help the maintenance robots.”
“Three,” the professor pointed out. Quirinus saw at a glance that Wak knew what he was planning. “Someone has to take the Indra to Thunor.”
“Can’t we send it on autopilot as usual?” he asked.
“The last message I received from the Sky Cleaver crew was most insistent,” Wak told him. “Besides, you’ve heard the rumours. If something bad has happened out there, there may be no one around to troubleshoot if the automatic systems are down. We need that fuel.”
“What about the weird growths?” asked Zotz. Quirinus saw him looking warily at the tendrils spread throughout the cabin. “Are they dangerous?”
Quirinus frowned. “Ship, did you get all that?”
“A new schedule of basic repairs overseen by a crew of three will take approximately thirty-two hours,” replied the AI. “The recommendation is however for all repairs to be completed in full before launch.”