I am intrigued, despite the gravity of the situation, that anyone would focus on the power grid in Madison rather than the serious risk of being shot, should confirmation of proper authorization fail to materialize. Is his intelligence too limited to comprehend his danger or does he show the same careless oblivion regarding his personal survival in other areas of his life? The answer might be interesting, if I am allowed to let him survive long enough to complete the investigation into his behavioral linguistics.
I send a request for VSR to Gifre Zeloc, who refuses to accept my transmission. Given the scope of the disaster still unfolding in Madison, I am not particularly surprised by this. I reroute the request to Sar Gremian, who accepts my call.
“What do you want, machine?”
“An unauthorized intruder has entered my maintenance depot. He claims to be my new mechanic. I require proper authorization permitting him access to my depot. Without proper authorization, I will carry out my original programming and shoot him as a hostile intruder.”
“Wait.”
I am placed on “hold” status. Twenty eternal seconds drag past. Thirty. Forty-five. Human concepts of time are inevitably different from mine. I could have planned and executed major portions of this star system’s defense from an invading armada in the time I have been left on “hold.” Does Sar Gremian hold grudges against artificial intelligences as well as humans? When Phil Fabrizio ambles closer to my treads, head tipped back in a slack-jawed perusal of my prow, I track the movement with anti-personnel chain guns and remind him — sharply — to halt.
“If you move again, I will shoot you.”
“Huh? Oh. Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
The nano-tattoo covering the right-hand portion of his face has shifted shape and color, perhaps in response to emotional biochemical markers read by the nanotech implants beneath his skin. The shifting color and pattern remind me of video-recordings in my natural science database, under the category of tactical camouflage systems encountered in nature. The Terran octopus is one of seventeen known species in human space that use shape and color shifting to disguise its presence from predators and prey.
I do not understand human notions of aesthetics that include decorating their skins with nanotech tattoos that produce a similar effect to that of camouflaged aquatic predators. Nano-tattoo technology serves no useful camouflage function in any war scenario involving civilians that I can imagine. Do humans enjoy wearing something like a nanotech octopus on their faces? I hesitate to speculate on the means by which a poorly educated Jeffersonian mechanic acquired the money to pay for expensive off-world technology that serves no logical function.
Sar Gremian reestablishes contact. “Philip Fabrizio is your new maintenance engineer.” He transmits a visual image of the man standing two point one meters from my left tread. The nano-tattoo octopus is a different configuration and color in the official ID photo. I scan facial features, fingerprint files, and ID code, run a comparison with those of the man who states he is Phil Fabrizio and conclude that the individual in my maintenance bay is who he says he is. I request further VSR on Mr. Fabrizio’s qualifications as a psychotronic engineer, having encountered conversational difficulties leading to inescapable conclusions about the intelligence of the man who is now authorized to tinker with my brain and warhull.
“Mr. Fabrizio is an honors graduate of the Tayari Trade School’s mechanical engineering program. He took the school’s highest honors and is the most qualified technician on Jefferson.”
This statement is patently inaccurate. Kafari Khrustinova is a fully certified psychotronic engineer and is familiar with my systems, as well. I check the bona fides of the Tayari Trade School’s mechanical engineering program and discover a curriculum that would not qualify as a challenging primary school course of study. It is heavy on POPPA social engineering theory and exceedingly thin on applied mechanical systems. If I were human, I would not trust a graduate of this program to tinker with the family’s groundcar. I am considerably more complex than any groundcar on Jefferson. I lodge a formal protest.
“The curriculum Phil Fabrizio has received high honors for studying does not qualify him as a psychotronic-systems maintenance technician, let alone a systems engineer. Neither Mr. Fabrizio nor any other graduate of the Tayari Trade School is sufficiently trained to perform even the most basic of systems tests on a Bolo Mark XX. Assigning him as my maintenance engineer is a dangerous and irresponsible action, placing my systems and the public safety at serious risk.”
“Phil Fabrizio is the only qualified mechanic on Jefferson who will ever be allowed to come near you with a crescent wrench. Do you understand that, machine?”
I do. Only too clearly. Phil Fabrizio is considered politically “safe” by those making the decisions governing Jefferson’s immediate and long-range future. Sar Gremian has found a politically “legitimate” means by which to take vengeance for the public humiliation I subjected him to, regarding his threatening actions against my Commander. Simon was correct in his assessment. Sar Gremian holds grudges. Even against machines of war. This discovery adds to the burden of unhappiness this day has wrought in my personality gestalt center.
“Understood,” I relay acquiescence to this decision.
“Good. Enjoy your new mechanic.”
The bitter humor in the set of Sar Gremian’s lips and the contraction of musculature around his eyes conveys very accurately the emotional satisfaction he has derived from this conversation. He abruptly terminates the transmission. I am left to cope with a mechanic who appears to perfectly embody the concept of “grease monkey.” His training is on a par with what a Terran simian could be expected to master.
“You have been properly authorized to enter this maintenance facility and provide my maintenance needs.”
“Huh?”
This appears to be Phil Fabrizio’s favorite word. I rephrase. “The president’s chief advisor said you could be here. I won’t shoot you.”
“Oh.” He brightens considerably. His facial octopus writhes like tortured seaweed and blinks in irridescent pinks. “Hey, that’s fuckin’ great! The president’s chief advisor? He said I could be here? Wow! They just told me at the job-corps office t’ come out here, today. I never thought the president’s chief advisor would know about that!” His octopus turns a cherubic shade of blue. “Say, you need anythin’? I could maybe change your oil or somethin’?”
I begin to taste despair. “It would be helpful if you removed the broken traffic signals and power cables from my warhull and turrets. If I need to enter combat, they are likely to foul some of my smaller gun systems.”
Phil peers dubiously upwards. “How’m I gonna get all the way up there?”
“Do you know how to climb a ladder?”
“Well, yeah, but I ain’t got a fuckin’ ladder that tall.”
Sarcasm is clearly wasted on my new “engineer.” I explain, as patiently as I can, and am admittedly less than successful. “There are ladders built into my fenders and warhull. You will need to climb up them. There are railings and handholds that will allow you to climb across my turrets, prow, and stern. If you are reasonably careful, you will not fall off and crack your skull open on the plascrete floor. I would suggest bringing with you a set of heavy cable cutters, so you won’t have to climb down, find them, and climb back up again. You might find this tiring.”