The bright side of the moon
07 Dec 2021Katrina Bekers
"Would you say we are successful?"The question broke the apparent stillness in the wide cockpit, sudden like an hammer striking an anvil.
"Sorry?" replied the other voice, unusually puzzled.
"I mean, do you think we'll be able to reach our goals? Would you say our enterprise is going anywhere?..." Katrina tried to express her doubts.
"I don't th..." the Wanderer started, but was interrupted.
"...Because it doesn't look like we are. I mean, yes, we accumulate wealth, we have incredible tools at our disposal - look at this ship! - we have an entire galaxy and we're free to roam it. And we're getting pretty good at satisfying our partners, or customers, our masters - or what you want to call those - but..."
Words were flowing unfiltered, dumped verbatim from the brain.
A cold silence filled the helm. Long enough for the background noise to be noticeable - humming and murmuring of machinery and life support equipment - yet short enough for the Wanderer to try and reply.
"Commander, maybe you should explain what you mean with 'we'..."
After a short pause, the Wanderer tried to elaborate: "We as you and me? Or the faction you're currently working for? Or the squadron this ship is named after, or the human race at large?"
On the icy surface of a cold moon, a parked ship was waiting for the answer from her pilot.
"Does it matter?" asked Katrina, trying to dodge the question.
"To be able to define success, you first identify who is looking for that. Different actors on the global theater have different degrees of achievement for the same endeavor."
"You're pretty annoying to be a ship AI, you know?" - Kat again avoided to answer.
"It's not my duty to nitpick, but to keep you safe. And I'm doing just that", rebutted the not-so-impersonal voice of TFS Void Wanderer, ninety meters of spacefaring metal, plastic, nuclear fuel and some traces of sarcasm.
"Well, what about all of them, huh?" the Commander replied with a shade of irritation, knowing her ship just hit home with that question. And not answering it for the third time.
"What are you worried about? Not being able to complete the tasks you take on?"
More silence followed, while the Elite pilot sank in her seat - and in her thoughts.
Outside the vessel cabin, the frozen landscape was intermittently lit by the usual blinking patterns of navigation lights; while the idly thrusters were barely dusting the thinnest of atmospheres. Without the whirring of the main engine, the landing site was eerily quiet, under the twin stars. The day was a long one, and some of the missions - albeit accomplished - were rather challenging for the hull and its single occupant.
"No... Not really. No, no..." repeated Kat almost muttering. More to convince herself than to answer the artificial brain of her spaceship: "I'm pretty sure we can do whatever they ask"
"...But?..." asked the synthetic entity on the other side of the cockpit speakers.
"...But we should? I'm losing grip with the point of it all. And the worst it can happen is discovering there wasn't one to start with. We roam the skies, we fight all the battles, we do their bidding and we come out on top, victorious, always with shinier toys to restart the carnage..."
By now she was just venting out frustrations.
"I don't think of myself as a toy..." tried to joke the Wanderer - at best, a failed attempt at humor. Katrina ignored her.
"...And after years on this treadmill, we learn that maybe-just-maybe, we were the first shooting at what we call the aliens, the monsters, trying to cover up the genocidal mission of a betrayed fellow Elite! Or that the "anarchists" we fight so bravely day in and day out, may have a reason that's just hidden from us, to make us more easily manipulable. And maybe they are the real driving force behind much of how this godforsaken galaxy works! Or those NMLA freaks: you cut one head, two more pop out! Not earlier than one week ago, we wiped the floor with their ships and yet their leader is unscathed and holding thousands in hostage..."
A long, loud sigh was needed both to catch breath and to put some order in the mess of contradictory conjectures storming her mind at the moment.
Then she reprised, with a determined tone: "So, no, my artificial friend" and after a solemn pause: "We will be able to fight for us in this Delacy naval marvel, for our faction, our squadron, our power, our race. For our side."
The binary stars would soon be eclipsed by the unnamed planet.
"I just wonder if we are on the right side".
