Lucinda stirred in her bed, alone as she had been for about a month. She was stuck in a dream she knew was a dream where she could not get a med-bot to stop a reiterative circuit. It was an oriental female model with a Korean manufacturer. The dream went on with interruptions and obstacles that prevented her from fixing the malfunction. No matter what the problem was, the robot said, “This is entirely consistent with North African Somalian Small Back Camel Bite Fever.” She wanted to wake up but knew it wasn’t yet time.
The dream changed. The robot became an Asian male, a handsome, square jaw, chiseled chest, six-pack abdomen seen through a thin muslin shirt. He gave her a bird of paradise and an éclair. He gently caressed her cheek and told her he wanted her—wanted her not as a possession but to savor her skin, her hair, her eyes. She felt young and beautiful as he spoke, and the familiar, pleasant flush of lust began in her chest and spread. She kissed the robot, lips as soft as butter, scented like Madagascar. He placed his warm hand behind her neck and up into her hair, taking her breath away. He hugged her tight. She felt him tremble in excitement. He caressed her face and moved his fingers to her upper chest.
She gasped andwoke up at the peak of arousal. The handsome man was gone. On the nightstand was a flower, a bird of paradise. She flew into a sitting position, pulling her sheet up to her neck, looking madly around the room.
Next to the silk flower was a card, folded and sitting like a tent. She picked it up. It was scented, sweet and clean. Inside was writing. “When a surgeon asks for a wet one, do you give him a dripping sponge or a wink and a lusty growl?”
The day before, she had awoken in a similar excitable state with a different note. “Looking forward to working in your area. Olay!” She was confused about the syntax. As she looked at it later, she wondered if it was a word play, a reference was to her areola. Someone was coming into her room, and it made her angry. Even more disturbing was why this always happened with an erotic dream.
A little later in the morning, Raul hurried into CAC. “I just posted some bad news, Cy,” Raul said.
Cyrus closed a colorful screen before Raul could tell what he was viewing. “Just tell me.”
“REAP 22 failed before going to sleep stage. They had a sudden loss of communication. Speculation is there was a collision. At 0.7 c, a teacup could probably destroy the ship.”
“There are not a lot of those out there,” he said.
“You know what I meant.”
“Bad luck.” Cyrus smiled wryly.
“They were in the Oort cloud. That’s the only known failure in the fleet.”
“That we know of.”
“There is also a communication from Control about our incident. I didn’t read the whole thing, but it doesn’t say much either positive or negative. They have officially confirmed you as the commander. So I think that’s good.”
He said nothing in reply.
“You’re a ray of sunshine today. Anything I can do?”
“It’s the end of another long shift. There is a lot to do and nothing to do. I’m tired.”
Maricia walked in, winded at the top of the stairs. “Hey, does my shift start now?”
“In a few minutes,” said Cyrus. “How do you feel about your cross-training to take the helm?”
“I have a couple of questions. Hi, baby,” she said to Raul as she kissed him hard on the lips and squeezed one buttock out of sight of Cyrus. “What are you going to do during my four-hour sentence in CAC?”
“Read the news, finish the log, respond to control. The usual.”
“Boy, does that sound fun or what? OK, Cy,” Maricia started. “Before I ask you about the level four error messages and the response options, as a medical officer, I want to arrange a time to talk to you about how you’re doing emotionally as the new boss.”
“How is Suresh?”
“That is not an answer.”
“That is remarkably astute of you. I’m the commander, and I want to know about Suresh.”
“Well, OK, then. Your response is enlightening.” She sat in a nearby chair and glided to sit directly in front of him, unavoidably in his visual path. “He has been spending a remarkable amount of time with Lola.”
The med-bots were built in a frame of other phenotypical female robots. They had flawless skin that gave them a soft, warm exterior as pleasant as an acne-free eighteen-year-old. Their speech patterns could be programmed, and their voices were voluptuous. This made the physicians less threatening. They also had complete sexual functionality, that programming dating back before 2020, over two hundred years earlier. This function was deemed not necessary for this mission, but no one could buy this kind of robot without it in the operating system. Such was the robot market.
“For counseling or what?”
“Mostly the ‘or what’ stuff. He downloaded some rather exotic subroutines into her.”
“Well, that does not sound good. What is your assessment?”
“It’s been five weeks. This sexual thing started about then. It is now down to about once a day, some times more. I am thinking about reprogramming Lola to be less receptive to his amorosity. He would program around it. Her prediction is that this will taper off in another week.”
“I don’t think amorosity is a word,” Cyrus observed.
“It is now, because I used it. Focusing on the issue, as long as he does not interfere with the mission or with Einstein’s medical or staff role, I would give it another week, as she suggests.”
“Is that good for him?”
Cyrus waited for a response. “I don’t know,” she started, glancing sideways at Raul. “Some men just need an outlet, any outlet. Maybe it’s a good thing we have anatomically capable robots. It’s too bad the bots are so damn beautiful and so expert at techniques. As you know, they can be addictive.”
“Could you ugly her up a bit?”
“Funny.”
“That’s her famous ‘any port in a storm’ speech,” Raul said.
“Well, try to get both the lady bots to offer him more insight and less pleasure.”
“He has never approached Gnawcoeur. He must not go for blondes, which is also good for me. I will do a little reprogramming after my turn at the helm. Maybe I’ll have Lucinda do it. So how are you doing? You seem more taciturn than usual, Cyrus.”
“Let’s go over the responses to error messages.”
“Before you start,” Raul interrupted, “Maricia, did you read that REAP 22 lost communication abruptly about a month prior to schedule?”
“No. That sounds bad.”
“The mission is probably lost.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Destroyed.”
She knew the crew, had said her farewells, and knew she would never see any of them again in this life. It was still a disappointment at the minimum. “Cyrus, how does that make you feel?”
“We all know the risks.” His response was devoid of emotion.
“We do. What we know is not how we feel.”
He said nothing. Raul went to say something to his wife, but she shook her head.
After an uncomfortable delay, Cyrus became hostile. “I’m not in the mood for a session on the couch. I’m the commander. My feelings, if I had the luxury of having some, are irrelevant. So let’s get on with your damn issues with running CAC and forget the emotional crap.”
“Duly noted, Commander.” Maricia had the information about his emotional state she needed and didn’t like.
Lucinda was relaxing in her quarters, lying on her bed, looking at the computer-generated changing patterns of colors on the ceiling. Nothing was scheduled for days. The medical section doldrums made her numb, listless. She got up and sat at her desk. She noted a new posting of news from Control and opened it. She knew all eight people on crew 22. Two of them she knew very well because they had been assigned first to crew 23, and both were from California. The man, another Asian American from Caltech, had been a close friend of Chen. Their target had been half as far and in a different direction, toward Cassiopeia. The report left her with an aura of oppression. The realities of idealism hit her with full force, bringing another monsoon of tears followed by fear.