He marked her presence with a nod like he was supposed to do. And even though she was near the bottom at G-7, didn’t even have her two-year star yet, he wanted to speak to her, to be near her. He always made a point to greet his crew in the hallway, but right then he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to put his hands. So he reached for the cold metal wall as if to steady himself. He decided he’d ask about the inductor coils because even though he never was much of a mechanic, especially when it came to the newer Federation engines, he knew they had an inductor coil.
“Ensign Voss,” he said. She turned, brown eyes, smooth skin, her beauty striking against the gray ship and her light blue uniform. And just then the wall hit his head and he yelled out in pain.
He awoke thinking he was in a bunk and tried to roll out but there was nowhere to roll. He was in the pod, but something was different. The engine noise was down by half. He yelled and heard his own voice and was surprised to hear it. Like it was someone else’s voice. Deep and strong. He said a few words just to hear himself, then suddenly had an urge to sing, but couldn’t think of a song. He must know a song. And then a thought drifted up into his consciousness: Did the pod have a computer?
“Computer!” he shouted.
Nothing.
“Computer!”
Still nothing. I just want a song, he thought. What’s a good song to sing when you are lost in space and can’t remember anything? And then a strange thing happened. A song popped into his head. The lyrics flashed into the front of his mind like they were on a computer screen.
The lady from Sarnos with golden hair,
Dreams of a man from Col du Faire.
Run along, run along, Gunboat man.
Long live the Fe-der-a-tion clan.
Neural network? He thought.
“Computer. Are you connected via neural net?” And then he remembered that didn’t work, so he asked in his mind. Computer, are you connected via neural net?
There is no neural net, came the reply.
Computer, the man thought, What’s my name?
No data.
Where am I?
Logic functions beyond simple query unavailable.
What kind of boat is this?
Please supply serial number and year.
He read the first line of the song slowly. The lady from Sarnos with golden hair. And he listened to the sound of this voice he couldn’t remember. Everything was new. Was it coming from him? It must be. And then he laughed at the thought and surprised himself again at that new sound. It was a good sound.
He said the first line again a little faster. Then again. Then he full on belted it out:
The lady from Sarnos with golden hair,
Dreams of a man from Col du Faire.
Run along, run along, Gunboat man.
Long live the Fe-der-a-tion clan.
There were more lines and he sang those. His arms and legs moving. And he smiled and sang, his heart a little lighter. And right at the end there was a big crescendo.
We’ll blow your ass right out of the sky.
Fe-der-a-tion man ain’t afraid to die.
And he raised his glass, and someone said, “JV don’t do synth-ale.” Blue uniforms in a large hall. But there was no glass, and his hand hit the inner padding of the pod.
“Computer!” And then he remembered. Computer, who said, JV don’t do synth-ale?
Invalid search parameters.
Who is JV?
Invalid search parameters.
What kind of shite computer are you?
Vellosian Mark V prototype, v. 25940912.4
Vellosian? said the man out loud to the computer. And then in his head: From Vellos?
Yes. Rigel 5, First of the three moons, Vellos space.
Are we going to Vellos?
Functions beyond simple query logic unavailable.
The man reached down with his right hand to scratch his leg, discovered he was wearing boots.
Who are the Vellos? he asked the computer.
Digest or full-text, came the reply.
Digest.
The Vellos are a humanoid race from the Halafor sector, formerly under Federation protection, known primarily for agricultural production, meat synthesis for human consumption, and synthetic humanoid generation.
Synth-humans… Oh, shite, he thought. I’m a synth!
Am I a synth? he thought.
Invalid query.
Am I a synthetic life form?
Please state your name and serial number.
I don’t have a serial and don’t know my name, he yelled.
Then he took his right hand, the non-food tube hand, and eased it down between his legs. If it ain’t there, I’m pulling the tubes out, he thought. He released the waist belt holding him to the side of the pod and gently probed between his legs.
“Oh, thank you, God,” he said, holding his private parts gingerly, careful not to bother the tube sticking down into his penis.
“Hey, computer. I’m human. Log that in your shite database!” Then he reattached himself to his bed with the waist belt, and took a few more deep breaths, a smile on his face. And he was happy. He lay there for awhile content. But soon the triumph of him actually being human, of having a penis, faded a bit, and the hand protecting his human male parts slowly let go.
He hummed the song again. His hand tapping out the beat on his leg. He searched for a smooth bit of fuselage he could knock with his knuckle, but there wasn’t any spaces large enough between the padding.
He tried to remember his name, who he was. Where he came from. It was like opening a familiar door, but what
