of this mess,” he said.
I grinned. M-Bot’s maintenance gear included a small mobile acclivity ring for service purposes. Dwarfed by the big one he flew with, it was a small hoop no larger than my hands pressed together, with a rechargeable power source.
Rig and I placed the maintenance ring under the booster. That—once activated—raised the hunk of metal into the air about a meter. Together we pushed it into place behind M-Bot, near where it would need to be installed.
“So?” I asked. “Will it fit?”
“I can probably make it fit,” Rig said, prodding at the booster with a wrench. “Whether I can make it work or not will depend on how damaged it is. Please tell me you didn’t rip this off a functioning DDF ship.”
“You said you weren’t going to ask.”
He flipped the wrench in his hand, eyeing the booster. “You had better thank me in your speech when you hit ace.”
“Six times.”
“And name your firstborn son after me.”
“Firstborn will be Executioner Destructorius. But you can have number two.”
“And bake me some killer algae biscuits or something.”
“Do you seriously want to eat anything I’ve baked?”
“Now that I think about it, scud no. But next time I bake some, you better have a compliment ready. No more ‘It would taste better with some rat in it.’ ”
“On my honor as a pilot,” I said solemnly.
Rig put his hands back on his hips, then grinned widely. “We’re actually going to do it, aren’t we? We’re going to make this old bucket fly.”
“I’d be insulted at that,” M-Bot said through the speakers at the side of the ship, “if I were human!”
Rig rolled his eyes. “Would you go keep that thing occupied? I don’t want it jabbering at me while I work.”
“I can both talk to her and bother you!” M-Bot called. “Multitasking is an essential means by which an artificial intelligence achieves more efficiency than fleshy human brains.”
Rig looked at me.
“No insult intended!” M-Bot added. “You have very nice shoes!”
“We’ve been working on his compliments,” I said.
“They aren’t nearly as stupid as the rest of your outfit!”
“He still needs practice.”
“Just stop him from bothering me, please,” Rig said, lugging over his toolbox. “Honestly, if I ever find the person who thought it was a good idea to make a machine that talked to you while you were repairing it . . .”
I climbed up to the cockpit and latched it, pressurizing and soundproofing it. “Leave him alone, M-Bot,” I said, settling into my seat. “Please.”
“If you wish. My processors are busy anyway, trying to devise a proper joke about the fact that Rig is installing me a new butt. My logic circuits are arguing that the expeller I use for old oil is actually a better metaphoric anus.”
“I really don’t want to talk about your scatological functions,” I said, leaning back. I stared up through the glass, but there was only blackness and dark rock.
“I believe that human beings need humor during times of depression,” M-Bot said. “To lighten their grim outlook and make them forget their tragedies.”
“I don’t want to forget my tragedies.”
M-Bot was silent. Then, in a smaller voice—somehow vulnerable—he asked, “Why do humans fear death?”
I frowned toward the console, where I knew the camera was. “Is that another attempt at humor?”
“No. I want to understand.”
“You offer lengthy commentary about humans, but you can’t understand something as simple as fear of death?”
“Define it? Yes. But understand it? . . . No.”
I leaned my head back again. How did one explain mortality to a robot? “You miss your memories, right? The data banks that were destroyed in your crash? So you understand loss.”
“I do. But I cannot miss my own existence—by definition. So why would I fear it?”
“Because . . . someday you’ll stop being here. You’ll cease to exist. Get destroyed.”
“I am powered down repeatedly. I was powered down for a hundred and seventy-two years. How is it different if I’m never powered on again?”
I fidgeted, playing with the control sphere’s buttons. I still had six more days of leave. Of simply . . . sitting around? Supposedly recovering? But really just prodding at that hole inside me, like a child constantly picking at a scab?
“Spensa?” M-Bot said, pulling me back. “Should I fear death?”
“A good Defiant doesn’t,” I said. “So maybe you were programmed this way on purpose. And it’s not really my own death that I fear. Actually, I don’t fear anything. I’m not a coward.”
“Of course.”
“But losing the others has me . . . wavering. I