“And the controller is artificial intelligence?”
“Controllers aren’t sentient, but in addition to doing all of the navigation and providing limited Stryxnet access, they’re programmed to handle most of the situations that come up in space. Which reminds me, I have to add you as a guest.”
“What will that do?”
“If I had a heart attack right now or got knocked unconscious, the controller won’t respond to your voice since I haven’t added you yet. If I didn’t recover, we’d eventually end up returning to my home port, which is registered as Union Station.”
“How eventually?”
“The default no-response timeout is seventy-two hours,” Larry said. “Once you’re added as a guest, if I’m disabled, you could tell it to return us home immediately. I didn’t pay for the medbay option so the controller has limited ability to scan our health status, but if it determined I was in really bad condition, it would let you specify any Stryx station. That and answer your questions rather than ignoring you.”
“So how do we do this?”
“Controller. Recognize Georgia Hunt as an official guest.”
“Georgia Hunt added to manifest,” a female voice responded. “Please repeat the following sentence for voice registration—My name is Georgia Hunt.”
“My name is Georgia Hunt,” the reporter repeated dutifully.
“Recognition complete.”
“Is that it? Are there any instructions?”
“It’s a natural language interface and it’s always listening. You can address the controller directly, or like with Genie, it can usually figure out that you’re talking to it through context. Where is that bot?”
“Genie was in deep charge mode and has just completed self-test,” the controller replied.
“I never actually heard of people owning bots. I thought they were an advanced species thing,” Georgia said.
“People have been building robots for centuries, though Genie was manufactured by the Sharf as an add-on accessory for this type of ship. Don’t be disappointed when you see her. She’s basically just a box with mechanical arms for cargo manipulation, but she’s pretty strong.” There was a loud buzz, and Larry explained, “That’s the alarm for when the hatch between the bridge and the cargo hold opens. I usually leave it open all the time once we’re underway, but it’s good practice to close it during arrivals and departures because that’s when most accidents happen.”
“Here she comes,” Georgia said, watching as the bot emerged from the hatch. “Good, Genie. Come here and rescue me.”
“She’s not a dog,” Larry said, but to their mutual surprise, the bot navigated directly to the reporter and closed a pincer around one of her wrists. “Don’t worry, Genie won’t hurt you.”
“I wasn’t worried, but how can I make her take me back to the garbage locker?”
“See how the ship controller is able to parse your meaning?” Larry said, as the bot gently propelled Georgia towards the safety line that ran between the lockers.
“You’re sure it’s not artificial intelligence?”
“I’ve been living on board for eight years and I would have noticed. And why would an AI agree to stay on a little tin can like this? They have better things to do.”
“Well, I’m going to thank her anyway. Thank you, Genie.”
“You’re welcome,” the ship’s controller replied.
“You can return to your charging bay, Genie,” Larry said.
As the bot floated off towards the hatch, Georgia put her empty water box in the recycling bag, this time being careful to hook the safety line with her elbow to keep her hands free, and then she opened her food locker again and began rummaging through the squeeze tubes.
“Hey, they won’t stay put!”
“Actually, stuff remains exactly where you place it in Zero-G, but only if you’re not moving yourself when you let it go. Kids who grow up on small spaceships can do it without thinking, but people who experience weightlessness for the first time as an adult may never get the hang of it.”
“This is too much work, I’m just going to pick one at random,” Georgia said. She proceeded to do just that, and then quickly closed the locker before the rest of her food could drift off. “Chicken cacciatore with rice?” she read off the label.
“Chicken in tomato sauce with bell pepper and onion,” Larry told her. “I thought you said you were a food writer.”
“I know what chicken cacciatore is, I just never expected to be eating it out of a squeeze tube. Do you know if they use real chicken, or is it vegetable protein.”
“Kind of late to be asking that if you’re a vegetarian, but I think the brand stocked in the chandlery uses vat-grown meat.”
“I’m not a vegetarian, I just wondered because the chandler didn’t say anything about refrigeration.”
“It’s all irradiated, lasts for years without spoiling. So here’s the thing,” Larry continued, easing off the pedals and twisting to watch her. “You can warm it in the microwave, but if you overdo it the tube will burst and we’ll have a real mess to clean up. They make the squeeze tubes with a little steam release valve so you can heat them within reason before the contents get pressurized, but do me a favor and be really careful since it’s your first time.”
“I’ll set it for five seconds and keep checking it,” Georgia said, stretching for the next safety line, and then pulling herself in front of the microwave. “Where’s the keypad?”
“I can operate the microwave for you,” the ship’s controller announced. “Will five seconds on ‘warm’ be sufficient?”
“Yes, thank you,” the reporter said, placing the transparent squeeze tube, which was about the size of a burrito, into the small microwave. “Ready when you are.”
The light in the microwave turned on, it hummed for five seconds, and the light blinked off and the ship’s controller announced, “Ding.”
“I taught it that,” Larry said from halfway between the exercise bike and the rock climbing machine
