This Crazy Infection by Kaylim
fails, then I can always rely on my homing device which will lead me directly to the shuttle.”
“But where are you even going to start looking?”
“I thought I’d start by going to the abandoned research facility.”
She disappears through the trees and Myrha wonders if, at this point, she should even be surprised anymore.
She races to catch up with Lynne, “You know where it is?”
“No.”
“But you just said—“
“I am able to approximate its location due to the fact that I looked at a map of the island before embarking on this flight. The map was not to scale, it was little more than an artist’s rendering, but it contained landmarks and rough details of contamination zones.”
Myrha tiptoes around a particularly hungry-looking plant and then scrambles to make it back to Lynne’s side. There isn’t a path anymore, and Myrha isn’t fond of all the suspicious looking roots and flowering plants that could burn her flesh.
“But why would Spinner try to find the facility?”
“The lights,” Lynne says, as if in explanation.
“That made no sense.”
“Where else would they come from? Spinner must have found the facility.”
“Okay, Nancy Drew, that’s enough leaps of logic here—“
“Nancy Drew?”
And the way Lynne stops and cocks her head is just sort of adorable.
“Yeah,” Myrha flails weakly, “she’s a fictional character. A girl detective. She’s not known on Earth anymore, but she has a strong fanbase on Boes.”
“Many cultures on Boes seem to find Earth things fascinating.”
“Well, yeah, it was all a part of the cultural exchange thing that went on years ago, to promote peace after the war. Humans are obsessed with a lot of Boesian stuff too.”
“That was almost two hundred years ago,” the android frowns.
“Yeah, I know. Ever since then we’ve become bosom buddies with Boes. From mortal enemies to allies. It’s great, even if Boesians pick the oddest stuff to fixate on: like sunflower bread, really?”
“The peace you enjoy,” she continues walking, “was of course delivered, in part, by Mio Wy—“
“Yeah, nominated himself as the first ambassador to Earth, and the Boesian government got pissed—“
“How do you know this?” Lynne asks.
“Basic history, here.”
Lynne huffs, “Are all playgirls this knowledgeable about basic history?”
“First of all: you’re a judgmental asshole; just because I’m a playgirl doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. Second of all: Wy wrote ‘Poems for Peace’. Is there anyone in the known galaxy who hasn’t heard of it?”
Lynne doesn’t respond immediately and Myrha thinks ha, take that.
“You seem rather enamored with poetry,” Lynne says eventually.
“So do you. Odd habit, for an android.”
“Maybe you do not know as much about androids as you think.”
“Just like you don’t know that much about playgirls?”
Lynne glares at her; Myrha grins.
“I could teach you more, if you like,” Myrha waggles her eyebrows, and she’s sure she’s about to get smacked.
Lynne just laughs. Who knew androids could laugh? Myrha feels, stupidly, like she’s accomplished something.
Myrha’s the one who is laughing at the end of the day. Miss Infallible Android couldn’t find the research facility. Even though it means Myrha spent all day trooping about in a dangerous-possibly-contaminated jungle all for nothing, it’s worth it to see the sheer disbelief and denial on Lynne’s face. Myrha pokes fun at her the entire journey back, and laments her failure through dinner, and continues throughout the night.
“It’s okay,” Myrha snickers as they lay down to go to sleep, “technology isn’t perfect.”
“I never claimed I was perfect,” Lynne snaps.
Myrha snuggles her pillow to her chest and has never felt so content. Well, okay, except for maybe after some really awesome sex, but this is pretty good too.
“The real concern,” Lynne forges on, “is that Spinner has not been found.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be.”
“That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be.”
It’s dark in the room, so very dark, not even a little bit of moonlight spills in around the curtain’s edge. Myrha, so used to brightness, doesn’t like it very much. It’s sort of nice, to have someone talk and distract her from how not-Earth everything is.
“Do you think he’s staying at the research facility?”
“He’s the only person not accounted for. I think he might’ve been responsible for the lights.”
“Fossam seemed scared of them.”
“Not scared enough that he stayed at the hotel. He left for campsite five tonight, I believe.”
“The old couple went back out too. Bartin didn’t seem too terribly concerned we couldn’t find Spinner.”
“Bartin doesn’t seem concerned that his wife is missing half the time.”
“Yeah, where does she go to? I think she’s off inhaling some chemicals of her own, ha!”
There’s a break in their conversation, and below them there’s the hollow footsteps of the captain as he paces, waiting for a message, fiddling with the utiphone.
“How is it, not being on a shuttle?” Myrha asks.
There’s a pause and the shuffle of blankets, as if Lynne’s trying to get comfortable, but that’s a bit ridiculous because Lynne doesn’t need to get comfortable to sleep. She even said so.
“There is a…need to do something. I feel directionless. While I am generally self-sufficient,” and she doesn’t sound smug, but rather kind of fragile, “I have always had a general routine to follow, a goal to accomplish, and someone else who tells me this is when we fly, this is when we hibernate, this is when we land.”
“So it’s sort of like you’re…free.”
But not really, Myrha thinks at the same time. Myrha wonders how much of Lynne’s fervor to find Spinner comes from her Turobeck-like personality of discovery and exploration, and how much of it stems from her need to find a directive. Maybe, Myrha thinks guiltily, Lynne knows herself better than Myrha thought. Her search for Spinner, helping Myrha in the jungle…perhaps it does all come from her programming, her desire to continue her job…an android struggling for normalcy.
“I do not have vacations or sick-days. To have the day to do as I please…it is something new.”
“It’s probably something you’ll adapt to quickly,” Myrha laughs.
“Perhaps.”
Androids don’t have vacations or sick-days. They probably don’t have retirement either. What happens to them? Do they just get shut off and thrown away? Re-made into something new maybe?
She’s too scared of the answer to ask.
“Lynne,” she says slowly, testing the name out.
It’s the first time she’s addressed her by her name.
“Why do you read poetry?” Myrha asks.
“I read a lot of literature, human and alien alike.”
“Yeah, but you could’ve just stuck to non-fiction, or manuals, or things that help you with your job. Why poetry?”
“I was created by a human to be human-like. I am not human. That does not mean I do not wish to study that which I am modeled after.”
“Are you saying you…were studying what it was like to be human?”
“It is part of my job.”
The response disappoints her. Is everything programmed to be about her job?
“You mean you weren’t just curious?”
Lynne laughs again, quiet and soft, and Myrha desperately wants to know who taught her that.
“Just because it was part of my job does mean I was not curious.”
And Myrha realizes she doesn’t get it, doesn’t get androids, doesn’t understand how much of them is programmed, how much of them is personality, and if the two somehow merge and a
re impossible to pick apart.
“And you? How did the great interstellar playgirl come to love poetry?”
And the way she says it: love. Is Lynne even capable of love? Or is she able to create a facsimile impression of it based on copying human behavioral patterns? Lynne raises an eyebrow when she thinks it’s appropriate to be annoyed; she laughs when she thinks a situation calls for it. Could she show love in a similar fashion?
“Myrha? Have you fallen asleep?” Lynne asks.
And shit. The way she says her name.
“No,” she answers.
“You do not have to answer my question if you do not want to.”
“No, I will. I mean, it’s not all that personal. Not very interesting.”
“You do that often,” Lynne says.
“Do what?”
“Deflect. You are clearly intelligent to have won a poetry contest, and you seem to have rather extensive knowledge and opinions of poets and poems. Yet you project an image of carefree ignorance, almost to the point of deliberate obtuseness.”
“Well hey it’s not my fault I don’t talk all fancy like you do. You project an image of superior intelligence to the point of…asshole elitism!”
“I am not projecting an image of superior intelligence; I have superior intelligence.”
“You smug piece of shit!”
Myrha’s face is red from laughter and she pounds the pillow before collapsing on it, burying her face in it and resisting the urge to go over to Lynne and smack the pillow right in her face.
“Tell me?” Lynne questions.
“Ugh, fine. I didn’t grow up in such a great neighborhood, okay? Kids made fun of the smart ones. It wasn’t cool to be intelligent or interested in things like poetry. I didn’t want to get beat up or ostracized, so I just decided to fit in instead. That’s where my ‘projection’ or whatever comes from.”
“And your parents? Teachers?
“But where are you even going to start looking?”
“I thought I’d start by going to the abandoned research facility.”
She disappears through the trees and Myrha wonders if, at this point, she should even be surprised anymore.
She races to catch up with Lynne, “You know where it is?”
“No.”
“But you just said—“
“I am able to approximate its location due to the fact that I looked at a map of the island before embarking on this flight. The map was not to scale, it was little more than an artist’s rendering, but it contained landmarks and rough details of contamination zones.”
Myrha tiptoes around a particularly hungry-looking plant and then scrambles to make it back to Lynne’s side. There isn’t a path anymore, and Myrha isn’t fond of all the suspicious looking roots and flowering plants that could burn her flesh.
“But why would Spinner try to find the facility?”
“The lights,” Lynne says, as if in explanation.
“That made no sense.”
“Where else would they come from? Spinner must have found the facility.”
“Okay, Nancy Drew, that’s enough leaps of logic here—“
“Nancy Drew?”
And the way Lynne stops and cocks her head is just sort of adorable.
“Yeah,” Myrha flails weakly, “she’s a fictional character. A girl detective. She’s not known on Earth anymore, but she has a strong fanbase on Boes.”
“Many cultures on Boes seem to find Earth things fascinating.”
“Well, yeah, it was all a part of the cultural exchange thing that went on years ago, to promote peace after the war. Humans are obsessed with a lot of Boesian stuff too.”
“That was almost two hundred years ago,” the android frowns.
“Yeah, I know. Ever since then we’ve become bosom buddies with Boes. From mortal enemies to allies. It’s great, even if Boesians pick the oddest stuff to fixate on: like sunflower bread, really?”
“The peace you enjoy,” she continues walking, “was of course delivered, in part, by Mio Wy—“
“Yeah, nominated himself as the first ambassador to Earth, and the Boesian government got pissed—“
“How do you know this?” Lynne asks.
“Basic history, here.”
Lynne huffs, “Are all playgirls this knowledgeable about basic history?”
“First of all: you’re a judgmental asshole; just because I’m a playgirl doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. Second of all: Wy wrote ‘Poems for Peace’. Is there anyone in the known galaxy who hasn’t heard of it?”
Lynne doesn’t respond immediately and Myrha thinks ha, take that.
“You seem rather enamored with poetry,” Lynne says eventually.
“So do you. Odd habit, for an android.”
“Maybe you do not know as much about androids as you think.”
“Just like you don’t know that much about playgirls?”
Lynne glares at her; Myrha grins.
“I could teach you more, if you like,” Myrha waggles her eyebrows, and she’s sure she’s about to get smacked.
Lynne just laughs. Who knew androids could laugh? Myrha feels, stupidly, like she’s accomplished something.
Myrha’s the one who is laughing at the end of the day. Miss Infallible Android couldn’t find the research facility. Even though it means Myrha spent all day trooping about in a dangerous-possibly-contaminated jungle all for nothing, it’s worth it to see the sheer disbelief and denial on Lynne’s face. Myrha pokes fun at her the entire journey back, and laments her failure through dinner, and continues throughout the night.
“It’s okay,” Myrha snickers as they lay down to go to sleep, “technology isn’t perfect.”
“I never claimed I was perfect,” Lynne snaps.
Myrha snuggles her pillow to her chest and has never felt so content. Well, okay, except for maybe after some really awesome sex, but this is pretty good too.
“The real concern,” Lynne forges on, “is that Spinner has not been found.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be.”
“That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be.”
It’s dark in the room, so very dark, not even a little bit of moonlight spills in around the curtain’s edge. Myrha, so used to brightness, doesn’t like it very much. It’s sort of nice, to have someone talk and distract her from how not-Earth everything is.
“Do you think he’s staying at the research facility?”
“He’s the only person not accounted for. I think he might’ve been responsible for the lights.”
“Fossam seemed scared of them.”
“Not scared enough that he stayed at the hotel. He left for campsite five tonight, I believe.”
“The old couple went back out too. Bartin didn’t seem too terribly concerned we couldn’t find Spinner.”
“Bartin doesn’t seem concerned that his wife is missing half the time.”
“Yeah, where does she go to? I think she’s off inhaling some chemicals of her own, ha!”
There’s a break in their conversation, and below them there’s the hollow footsteps of the captain as he paces, waiting for a message, fiddling with the utiphone.
“How is it, not being on a shuttle?” Myrha asks.
There’s a pause and the shuffle of blankets, as if Lynne’s trying to get comfortable, but that’s a bit ridiculous because Lynne doesn’t need to get comfortable to sleep. She even said so.
“There is a…need to do something. I feel directionless. While I am generally self-sufficient,” and she doesn’t sound smug, but rather kind of fragile, “I have always had a general routine to follow, a goal to accomplish, and someone else who tells me this is when we fly, this is when we hibernate, this is when we land.”
“So it’s sort of like you’re…free.”
But not really, Myrha thinks at the same time. Myrha wonders how much of Lynne’s fervor to find Spinner comes from her Turobeck-like personality of discovery and exploration, and how much of it stems from her need to find a directive. Maybe, Myrha thinks guiltily, Lynne knows herself better than Myrha thought. Her search for Spinner, helping Myrha in the jungle…perhaps it does all come from her programming, her desire to continue her job…an android struggling for normalcy.
“I do not have vacations or sick-days. To have the day to do as I please…it is something new.”
“It’s probably something you’ll adapt to quickly,” Myrha laughs.
“Perhaps.”
Androids don’t have vacations or sick-days. They probably don’t have retirement either. What happens to them? Do they just get shut off and thrown away? Re-made into something new maybe?
She’s too scared of the answer to ask.
“Lynne,” she says slowly, testing the name out.
It’s the first time she’s addressed her by her name.
“Why do you read poetry?” Myrha asks.
“I read a lot of literature, human and alien alike.”
“Yeah, but you could’ve just stuck to non-fiction, or manuals, or things that help you with your job. Why poetry?”
“I was created by a human to be human-like. I am not human. That does not mean I do not wish to study that which I am modeled after.”
“Are you saying you…were studying what it was like to be human?”
“It is part of my job.”
The response disappoints her. Is everything programmed to be about her job?
“You mean you weren’t just curious?”
Lynne laughs again, quiet and soft, and Myrha desperately wants to know who taught her that.
“Just because it was part of my job does mean I was not curious.”
And Myrha realizes she doesn’t get it, doesn’t get androids, doesn’t understand how much of them is programmed, how much of them is personality, and if the two somehow merge and a
“And you? How did the great interstellar playgirl come to love poetry?”
And the way she says it: love. Is Lynne even capable of love? Or is she able to create a facsimile impression of it based on copying human behavioral patterns? Lynne raises an eyebrow when she thinks it’s appropriate to be annoyed; she laughs when she thinks a situation calls for it. Could she show love in a similar fashion?
“Myrha? Have you fallen asleep?” Lynne asks.
And shit. The way she says her name.
“No,” she answers.
“You do not have to answer my question if you do not want to.”
“No, I will. I mean, it’s not all that personal. Not very interesting.”
“You do that often,” Lynne says.
“Do what?”
“Deflect. You are clearly intelligent to have won a poetry contest, and you seem to have rather extensive knowledge and opinions of poets and poems. Yet you project an image of carefree ignorance, almost to the point of deliberate obtuseness.”
“Well hey it’s not my fault I don’t talk all fancy like you do. You project an image of superior intelligence to the point of…asshole elitism!”
“I am not projecting an image of superior intelligence; I have superior intelligence.”
“You smug piece of shit!”
Myrha’s face is red from laughter and she pounds the pillow before collapsing on it, burying her face in it and resisting the urge to go over to Lynne and smack the pillow right in her face.
“Tell me?” Lynne questions.
“Ugh, fine. I didn’t grow up in such a great neighborhood, okay? Kids made fun of the smart ones. It wasn’t cool to be intelligent or interested in things like poetry. I didn’t want to get beat up or ostracized, so I just decided to fit in instead. That’s where my ‘projection’ or whatever comes from.”
“And your parents? Teachers?