“Using O18, labeled glucose, we were able to map the metabolism of the frontal and temporal lobes in response to multiple programmed stimuli. This has enabled us to weave a flexible 0.5-millimeter probe into twenty-nine loci for multiple microablations per your direction, Commander.” Zhivago was explaining the procedure to Cyrus, Savanna, and Maricia.
“What did you say the probability of success was for neutralizing his aberrant behavior, Zhivago?” Cyrus inquired.
“Fifty-seven percent, sir, with this first iteration.”
“Four out of seven. You estimate it will take at least one week to determine if more treatments are needed?”
Maricia interrupted. “At least a week, Cyrus. Probably more. The difficult decision will be whether to do more ablation if his thought processes and behavior are marginal. He is so intelligent that the standard psyche test standards don’t apply. Don’t forget, he did not consent to this procedure. I doubt he’ll be exceptionally compliant to our next request.”
“My fear is that the cheese-head is still a threat,” Savanna said.
“Cheese?” Cyrus asked.
“Swiss,” Maricia said.
Cyrus looked confused and then shook it off. “We had this conversation, Savanna,” he said. “You wanted to do more and were voted down. Just drop it.”
“That’s hard when you know you’re right.”
Cyrus grunted dismissively. Maricia squinted at her. “How can you be so sure?”
“He’s an anomaly, can’t be treated like the average person.”
“We can’t deprive him of rights just because you say so,” Cyrus argued.
“His right to create mayhem exceeds ours to be free from it? Sounds just like the government back home.”
“How did you get so cynical?” Maricia sighed.
“I once lived near Paris.”
“That made her both cynical and rude,” Cyrus added. “So when he recovers in a day or two and he is back to work, we are going to keep tabs on the evil doctor to make sure he does not blow us to bits, right, Zhivago?”
“That is affirmative, sir.”
“This is a colossal mistake. If you don’t kill or disable your enemy, they return with greater resolve to kill you.”
“Savanna, you don’t sound French—more like English or American,” Cyrus said. “Disgusting.”
“More like Darwinian. I want to survive.”
“Hah! He was English. Is anyone hungry?” Cyrus asked. “I’m ready for lunch.” The three conscious humans left recovering Suresh to the robots and walked downstairs to the mess hall.
Sitting with legs splayed apart was Raul, lunch patty in hand, staring into one of several photo galleries. He turned when he heard them enter. “Hola, folks,” he said gaily.
“What is for lunch?” Cyrus asked.
“Thursday burgers,” the cook-bot replied. “Sit your sweet ass down. You know what lunch menu is. The same damn thing you ate last Thursday and every Thursday for the last three months.”
Ignoring the remark, Cyrus, Savanna, and Maricia joined Raul at the table. Maricia tapped on her porta-pad and found that Lucinda was in CAC.
“How they hanging, Raul?” Cyrus grinned.
“The important thing is that they are still ‘they’ and they are still here.”
“It looks like you are still pretty sore,” Savanna stated.
“It probably would be better if one of them wasn’t four times bigger than usual.”
“Muy grande cajones!” The cook interrupted. “Most guys like to think they have big ones, but you actually do. You are the man! No Tengo cajones pero ruedas.”
“Who exactly wrote his humor algorithm?” Raul asked no one in particular.
“I’ll be happy to get you ice,” Maricia offered. “Dry ice.”
They all laughed.
“That was good, Maricia,” Raul said as the laughter died. “A nice blend of humor with a bite.”
“Frostbite?” she replied with eyebrows raised in a playful but edgy look.
“Can I get any of you a drink?” The cook-bot whirred around the small mess hall with two tables that could be joined to form a banquet table. The ceiling had indirect multicolored lighting, creating a soothing ambience. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. In fact, in space, it’s always five o’clock. Or it’s just a good reason to drink.”
They ordered drinks, and the cook whirred away, muttering, “No tips? A bunch of cheapskates is what they are. I might drain my transmission fluid into your mugs. Ya jus’ never know.”
“I need to catch up with the log. I think I can work on that a little bit today, Cy.”
“Not much to report except the soap opera,” Cyrus said. “Science is almost shut down, except Lucinda has the bots working on something. Do any of you know what she is doing?”
Raul and Savanna shook their heads. Maricia thought for a few seconds. “Not really, although I think she tried to tell me something the night of Raul’s surgery. I was too angry to talk with her. Whatever it was, it might have something to do with her science project. She is using the multi-bots when they are not needed in Medical.”
“All the intrigue is beginning to wear on me,” Cyrus said. “It needs to stop.”
“I think it’s good,” Savanna countered. “She has a project that keeps her mind occupied. She’s had more stress than any of the rest of us, with all due respect to your injuries, Raul. Other than your fling, she has really kept it together.”
“Your drinks and your Thursday burgers,” the cook intoned as the food was served. “With fries, no flies. What is it frogs say?”
“Time’s fun when you’re having flies,” Maricia answered.
“Did I already tell that joke? I must be getting old. How about this—do you know what the Scot said when he found a fly in his ale?”
“An ailing fly can float?” Cyrus responded.
“Oh, brother. You have absolutely no sense of humor. You must be an Arab.”
“Persian, you pissant. Go wash dishes.”
“He said, ‘Spit it out, ye wee little bastard!’”
Cyrus responded, “Deactivate humor program, voice authorization. Now, Spoon, leave us alone.”
The cook-bot whirred away whistling, seeming pleased by the pejorative. He answered to Cook, Cookie, Spoon, Grease, and his name, of course.
“His programming allows that to be verbally deactivated for about an hour,” Savanna said.
“By then, I’ll be upstairs,” Raul said. I need to figure out how to reprogram that software. It’s really annoying when you get it every stinking day for months.”
“It’s one of the few humor algorithms that is pretty good. The med-bots and multi-bots have nothing,” Maricia said.
“Thank God!” Raul replied as he stuffed the final morsel of his lunch into his mouth.
“Do you mean that, Raul?” Savanna asked.
“Yes. I hate that humor.”
“Enough to thank God that it stop?”
“It’s just an expression,” he replied, looking away.
“So you don’t mean it?”
“I mean it.”
“You believe in God.”
“I am a Spaniard and therefore Catholic.”
“I wonder how many of the crew believe in a god,” Savanna asked. “I don’t think we have ever discussed that, which is surprising when you consider how long we have spent together.”
“I think it depends on how you define god,” said Maricia.
“I was thinking the loosest definition possible. Let me say a deity, being, force, or essence that is involved in the affairs of man and the universe and may exist in a state that precludes strict scientific physical proof. I probably left something out, but that seems pretty general.”
“I could go with that. I believe in something,” Maricia said.
“Cyrus?” Savanna asked.
“For weeks, we have these arguments about nothing. Can’t you just agree on being quiet?”
“God is nothing?” Raul asked.
“Tell ’em what you believe in, Cyrus,” Savanna said.
“I keep my beliefs to myself.”
“I thought you didn’t like intrigue,” said Raul. “Or maybe you’re afraid to reveal yourself.”
“Tell them what you believe, Savanna,” Cyrus’s vitriol boiled over. “Go ahead, say it. It’ll turn this ridiculous discussion into a fight. I’m leaving. I hate god debates.” He stood but stuffed more food in his mouth instead of walking away.
“I am certain there is no god, so there’s nothing to argue.”
“You can’t be certain,” Maricia countered.
“Hey, guys.” The voice of Lucinda came into the room via the communicators. “I found something.”
“To be continued,” whispered Savanna to those in the room and then called out, “Did you find God?”
“Why don’t you meet me in Science in five minutes and I’ll show you?”
“Give us ten. We want to finish eating,” Raul replied.
“Ten minutes. Everybody come, even if you hate me and never want to see my face again. In fact, especially if you do… or don’t… or whatever.” A static click ended the connection.
“That makes me curious,” Savanna said. “What has she been up to?”
“We could search the work log,” said Cyrus.
“Especially if it’s a good surprise,” Maricia said.
Raul looked at her with his eyes crossed. “That was deep.”
“You are in deep,” Maricia said. “Deep in a cesspool from which you may never surface. If I were you, I’d be sending flowers, not insults.”