A Pretty Cherry Gig

Humphrey Wallace lay on the floor, his body half buried in the wall where a panel had been removed. The kaleidoscope of colored wires wrested from the station’s innards covered his rumpled orange jumpsuit. The wires, much like his hair, were a tangled mess, disheveled, disorganized. Both had clearly seen better care in better days. The whole station had seen better days, for that matter. When Humphrey arrived, it was a pristine specimen of space faring technology. The walls were smooth and white and without blemish. The soft ambient lighting blurred the seams in the ship’s paneling that hid away the unsightly mechanical and electrical components keeping the Oroboros Orbital Research Station running. Now its labyrinthine halls were decorated with a lattice of crossed wires, the result of a hurricane of disasters and jury-rigs over the past few months. At the eye of that hurricane lay Humphrey, the sole living being onboard. His fingers delicately pinched a small red wire and traced its path through the rat’s nest of cables from the atmospheric regulator to the power conduit. Back and forth he followed the wire, ensuring it was the one he needed. Finally certain, he made a fist around the power conduit and yanked hard. The lights flickered briefly, then came back on. The quiet hum of the air purifiers grew softer and died.

“Looks like we had another accident, Peter” Humphrey said aloud.

***

Humphrey stood before the booth, eying the list of benefits written with bold colors and more exclamation marks than were probably necessary. Lips pursed and arms crossed, he nodded slightly as his narrowed eyes took in each fantastic perk the job had to offer. He hoped he had made himself presentable enough for the fine folks at the Omnidelta Research Technologies employment booth. He’d spent considerable time meticulously planning his appearance before he left his apartment. After careful consideration, he had parted his hair cleanly down the left side of his head. The booth man parted his down the right. Humphrey wore his beard thick and neatly groomed. The booth man wore a thin, trim mustache. Humphrey wore his best two-button, three piece suit. The booth man wore a three-button, two piece suit. Humphrey’s was brown and tweed. The booth man’s was black and silk. Humphrey’s shoes were brown, wing-tipped loafers which he had freshly polished. He had no idea what the booth man’s shoes were like because there was a table in the way, but he was convinced that they were much nicer than his own. “I look like schlub,” Humphrey thought.

“It truly is an excellent opportunity, Mr. Wallace, especially for someone of your position.”

The thought continued as he slipped a hand behind his back in an attempt both to appear sophisticated and intellectual and to scratch himself discretely. Humphrey had no intention of looking like a bumpkin of the highest order before his potential future employer.

“The job is comparable attending the finest universities on Earth. The major difference, of course, is that instead of owing a small fortune at the end of your term, you’ll have made one.” The booth manager chuckled.

Scratch accomplished, he moved his left arm to his waist and perched his right elbow on it, his right hand casually stroking his beard. Humphrey hoped the booth attendant took the calculated gesture as a sincere display of the deep, thoughtful intensity and consideration.

“On Earth, you say?”

“Or anywhere else, for that matter,” the booth manager quickly added. “Our program has produced leaders in the fields of industry, science, language, robotics, physics, and mathematics, not to mention three of the past five Grand Chess Champions, all from humble origins.”

Humphrey let out a grunt of feigned indignation. He hoped the pitch man perceived it as real. Maybe he could get the gentleman representing Omnidelta Research Technologies to sweeten the deal if Humphrey appeared to take offence. After all, this gentleman, this... Humphrey checked the nametag. This Hyrum Hatch certainly didn’t want to embarrass his company by letting others in the crowded hall see a person storm away from the booth upset. It wouldn’t be good for business. Looking around, Humphrey realized the flaw in his plan. The place was crowded. Too crowded. Few people would get a good look, and before word could spread, someone else would step in and take his place. Plus, his origins were humble. His thrift-store suit didn’t exactly scream “here walks a man of means.” Plus again, men of means weren’t exactly the client du jour here. He let out a guffaw.

“Just pulling your leg, Mr. Hatch,” he laughed. “Serious business today. We can’t let it get too serious, now can we?”

“No sir, Mr. Wallace,” Hatch replied. “Now have you looked at the pay benefits? Not only are they very competitive, but given the nature of the position, all room and board will obviously be covered by Omnidelta Research Technologies. As you will have no other financial needs while stationed at one of our research facilities, we will deposit your paychecks into a high yield banking account, which we will turn over to you upon completion of your term. Imagine all that back pay waiting for you. The bank account fat with child, the free education, the easy workload. It’s truly a dream job.”

“Let me think about it,” Humphrey said, still stroking his beard. And in truth, he did intend to think about it. A ten year term was a long time. A long, lonely time. He may have actually thought about it too, were it not for the sudden approach of  a long-time professional rival. Humphrey had lost several jobs to the guy, and he wasn’t about to lose another, especially one this cherry. Besides, who had time to think in this economy? His hands darted for one of the promotional pens resting on the table. “Where do I sign up?”

***

Peter had just defeated Humphrey in another game of chess. Humphrey stared at the virtual board, examining another lopsided victory for his undefeated opponent.

“I guess Io you a beer, eh Peter?” he quipped.

“You owe me nothing, Humphrey, as we had no wager on the game. Further, I need nothing, particularly nutritional requirements such as beer, so such a wager would be unreasonable in the first place,” Peter replied.

“No, Io as in ‘I owe’ but also the moon... because we’re orbiting... never mind.”

Humphrey slumped over in his chair and sighed. Another day in the most monotonous location in the universe. He felt out of place in his baggy, bright orange jumpsuit. The station was a shrine to picking a theme, one which Humphrey assumed to be the inside of an egg, and sticking to it until it was dead. The corridors were all long white plastic affairs. Smooth, gently curving walls, ambient lighting. Each room, each hall appeared virtually indistinguishable from the next except for conveniently placed signs informing Humphrey what was behind this door, what was in that cabinet. Everything neatly tucked away behind panels. “I guess they don’t trust me not to trip and unplug the gravitational gyros,” he said to no one in particular, his finger tracing a small crack in the chair. It was the only imperfection he’d found in his five years onboard.

Incapable of understanding the irrational nature of humans talking to themselves, Peter replied. “On the contrary. Your selection to the position shows a clear trust in both dexterity and coordination and an adequate knowledge base in a broad range of mechanical and engineering fields. Studies show that while the paneling may be inefficient, as it adds two steps to all repair processes: add panel and replace panel, the soft colors of the décor help maintain relaxed demeanors and are more aesthetically pleasing to the average human sensibilities than the more practical exposed view.”

“You hate the panels, too,” said Humphrey. “Finally something we can agree on.”

“I do not hate them,” corrected Peter. “I merely view them as inefficient and unnecessary in an area not occupied by children or uncoordinated individuals. They are, in this context, unreasonable”

“Of course they are,” said Humphrey as he turned his attentions away from the King of All Reason and brought up the movie list on the monitor in front of him. His eyes glazed over before the soft light of the film archives. He didn’t pay attention to the list anymore. He must have read over it a thousand times in the five years he’d been here. Star Wars? Seen it. Dozens of times even. Casablanca? No. He didn’t think he could stomach another of Peter’s explanation about how Rick’s actions at the end were “very reasonable.” He skipped 2001 completely. Movies were for escapism, and between HAL and the white rooms with the softly lit floors, the whole thing was a little too close to reality. Scrolling through the list before choosing nothing was merely a formality these days.

“That is an unreasonable routine,” Peter said, as he did every time Humphrey couldn’t pick something to watch. “Why do you view the entire list and then choose nothing? The selection has not changed, and if you are in the mood for none of them, it is an inefficient use of time to carefully consider every option in a decision with a foregone conclusion.”

Humphrey opened the list of books. He’d already read most of the ones he was interested in, but maybe he could reread some. Or perhaps he could challenge himself by reading War and Peace in the original Russian, one of three languages he had learned since he boarded the Oroboros. His leg bounced, an old anxious tick of his. He could read a book. He could watch a movie. He could watch the moons rise and set over Jupiter, but it had all been done. Nothing changed. Star Wars was always Star Wars. Holden Caufield always overused “phony.” The halls were always that indistinguishable white. Peter would always say everything was unreasonable. Even the once breath-taking sight of moons, planets, stars, and comets had lost its luster. The whole pristine station was a pleasure palace of stagnation.

More than anything, however, more than the boredom, more than the wash of languor that colored everything he said or did, Humphrey was lonely. He had no one to talk to. No one who could surprise him. No one who could say or do things he didn’t see coming from a mile away. He had no one he could truly interact with on a personal level. Sure, there was Peter, the omnipresent, disembodied voice that he was, but he hardly counted. He never laughed or told jokes or sounded genuinely sincere when commenting on an anecdote from Humphrey’s Earth-side days. It was all “Your statement makes no sense” this and “That is unreasonable” that. It was downright maddening.

Stupid Omnidelta Research Technologies. Oh, they had money to spare on state-of-the-art orbital atmospheric monitoring systems, and gravitational calculators that could detect the slightest shift in Jupiter’s gravitational pull caused by some meteor no bigger than a house barreling into the atmosphere. The GPS could track the movements of a grain of rice through the violent storm of the Great Red Spot. The data station’s thermographic sensors could tell if a fly had a fever down at the planet’s core if it wanted to — presuming, of course, the fly could survive the crushing weight and extreme temperatures, yet still be weak enough to get sick. But when it came time to install a companion computer, could they afford the extra hundred grand to upgrade the AI to an AP? Not even an amazing, top-of-the-line model. Just a simple artificial personality was all Humphrey wanted. Someone to laugh at his jokes. Genuinely laugh. Not fake laugh like he’d asked Peter to do once before promptly deciding never again. No. No they could not. For the makers of the multi-trillion dollar Oroboros Orbital Research Station, ORT could be surprisingly frugal.

“This was supposed to be a real cherry gig,” thought Humphrey as he mashed the big green button that transmitted the month’s data packet to the scientists anxiously waiting for it back on Earth. Why the data packets didn’t autosend, he couldn’t say. His guess was to make him feel as though he had some important purpose. Alone in the farther reaches of the solar system, Humphrey assumed pressing the button was meant to make him feel like something beyond glorified handyman, something to say, “Look, ma! Your janitor son is contributing to science!”

“‘Great education,’ they said. ‘Plenty of free time,’ they said. Movies. Books. Sure, you’re all alone up there for ten years, but with the cryobeds, you only age about six of ‘em. Fewer if you sleep a lot. And when you come home, there’s that tasty nest egg waiting in your bank account.”

“Are you feeling well?” inquired Peter, with all the synthetic emotion his programming could muster. “You appear to be convincing yourself to apply for a job you already possess. That is unreasonable.”

“Besides,” said Humphrey, cutting off the intruding AI as his voice increasingly became a caricature of the hypnotic Hyrum Hatch baritone, “you’re not alone if you have the company provided Companion Computer, a genuine, fancy schmancy artificial intelligence with preprogrammed speech and vocal recognition software in dozens of languages and many of the more predominant dialects. He’ll play games with you. He’ll talk to you. He’ll watch movies with you. He’ll listen to you and can even provide free therapy, thanks to his access to vast data archives on just about every subject! What a friendly, knowledgeable companion! What a great bonus gift from ORT!”

“Extolling my virtues does not convince me of your mental health, Humphrey,” replied Peter. “Furthermore, you persist in this unnecessary sales pitch. As I am incapable of performing your job, and as there are no other life forms on board for you to persuade, and as there are no open commlinks, I am forced to conclude that you are talking to yourself, suggesting the onset of schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder, or a reversion to a childhood state in which one develops imaginary friends to avoid perceived inadequacies in social situations. Do you feel inadequate socializing with me, Humphrey? That would be unreasonable, as I am designed to be a boon companion, friendly and accepting until the end.”

Humphrey groaned in equal parts at Peter and the memory of the spiel Hatch threw at him at the career fair those five years ago. Sure, he could talk to Peter the Computer, the arbitrarily chosen name Humphrey had given him upon arrival at Oroboros, but it was rather like talking to an encyclopedia. Being an AI, Peter held no real opinions. He simply did or said what his rapid-fire logic circuits calculated to be the most reasonable thing. Humphrey couldn’t have a discussion with the guy. Any time he expressed an opinion not supported by Peter’s vast data archives, Peter would simply explain, in exquisitely painful detail, why Humphrey’s ideas were incorrect according to this research, that theory, those popular opinion polls conducted three years past. Some cherry.

That was the problem with an artificial intelligence, Humphrey mused. It was all reason and logic and rationality. For years, man struggled to develop artificial intelligences only to realize once he had created them, that they were nothing but smug, know-it-alls. Developing a computer to look at all of the available data and make rational, informed decisions seemed great for business or science. Unfortunately, the user interface was patronizing at best and downright condescending at worst. Artificial intelligences always had a better way to perform tasks, with no regard for creativity or personal quirk. Peter, for instance, was incessantly sharing with Humphrey tiny ways he could improve almost every facet of his life.

“Starting with the rightmost pawn is always foolish.”

“Increasing your brushing speed while adjusting your stroke to a circular pattern rather than your current alternating up/down, backward/forward pattern will save you considerable time in your oral hygiene routine without suffering any loss of quality.”

“Why do you not input predefined filter parameters before scanning through movie archives, Humphrey? That way you could remove from your search films containing any unwanted genres, actors, directors, plots, or tropes, leaving only the most desirable selections?”

“Because, Peter,” Humphrey would reply, “some days I don’t know what I’m in the mood to watch.”

“Then how can you know what to choose without any knowledge of your optimal enjoyment parameters?”

“Look, Peter, I’ll know what I want when I see it,” he’d say in a humph.

“That is unreasonable,” Peter would reply. And Humphrey would leave it at that.

At least Peter didn’t object to the way Humphrey slept. Few activities were more energy efficient for the body than cryosleep. With most things, however, Peter would kindly “suggest” an alternate way to perform some task that Humphrey would ignore until he could take Peter’s nagging no longer and he changed his unreasonable ways. There was no sense in arguing with the reasoning of an artificial intelligence.

But an artificial personality. That was the real Holy Grail of programming, or if not the real one, the one that replaced artificial intelligence once it had been revealed to be nothing more than a Styrofoam cup with gold paint. People didn’t want to talk to a computer that was rational. People wanted to talk to computers that were slightly irrational. Bored housewives and wealthy CEOs were tired of being put in their place by some smartass refrigerator. Humphrey himself had personally broken more than one scale when its logic circuits provided constant reminders about things he could do to reach a more healthy weight, and he was no more a fan of his car, which provided a real-time critique of his driving. Logic. Who needed it?

“Hey, Peter, are you busy?” Humphrey asked one day, which would have been a fine, crisp October morning on Earth, but was indistinguishable from any other in the climate controlled meteorological tedium of the Oroboros.

“I am currently monitoring your air supply and vital signs and am making slight pulses with the maneuvering thrusters to correct for orbital degradation, but my interpersonal systems are not in use,” came the computer’s reply.

“When I was a kid, they had those ISS modules. You know what they are, right?”

“Interactive Story Systems. Virtual movies whose characters and plots responded to the actions of the audience. The audience would don a simsuit and helmet and take the role of a character in the story. You have a habit of engaging them after prolonged discussions with me. Invented in 2109 as Hollywood’s makeshift attempt at artificial personality, the ISS-”

“Great, you know what they are,” Humphrey said, cutting off the computer before it launched into a thirty minute history lecture. “When I was a kid, and new ones would come out, ones I really wanted to see, do you know what I’d do?”

“I cannot know as it is not in my databanks. I can, however, reason based on your habits here that you would engage one between three and seventeen times and never engage it again, as you have done with the movies and ISS modules in our present archives.”

“When I was a kid, I wouldn’t rush out opening weekend like my friends. I’d wait a week or two. Check the nets for cracks to come up. You know what cracks are, right?”

“Diagrams of the complex branching of reactions the characters and plot could provide based on the types of behaviors the participant engaged in within the ISS. They allowed ISS participants to accomplish any predetermined action possible. My data archives are very large.”

Humphrey sighed. “Of course they are. Anyway, so I’d wait for these cracks to come out. They were mostly put together by teenagers who were bored or lonely or whatever and they’d share them on the nets with other kids who were bored or lonely. Anyway, I’d read over them. Really study them, you know? Some people used them to make the best friends in a kid’s movie fight. Other people tried to get a little R-rated action out of PG-13 movies? Stupid stuff like that. Kid can’t get in to see the good stuff, so he finds a way to make it happen in the ISS flicks he is allowed to see. Not me. I’d get those cracks and I’d use them to make friends. How sad is that?”

“That is not sad. What you describe would be lonely or perhaps pathetic, but not sad. Regardless, this social difficulty you experienced reinforces my previous theory regarding inadequate childhood socialization being the cause of your talking to yourself. Would you like me to psychoanalyze you?”

“No!” Humphrey protested, his voice damp with frustration. Realizing how useless it would be to yell at Peter, he took a breath and counted to ten. “No. I just... I just want you to listen.”

“Very well. I am listening.”

“I’d study these cracks, you know? And I’d learn what it took to make everyone in the thing like me. To make them want to talk to me, be around me. And I don’t mean in a star-struck way, like the fangirls did. ‘Oh my goodness! I totally got Jimmy Orton to hang out with me in the new Whatever movie!’ It wasn’t about having famous people want to be around me. It was about having someone, anyone want to be around me.”

“I am still listening.”

“I mean, I know they weren’t really my friends. I’m not that stupid. They were just intricate patterns of yes/no questions and logic loops and virtual flow maps. I get it. But I thought, maybe if I could learn the friendship patterns, if I could go through them enough so that they became natural, maybe I could use that pattern or formula or whatever to actually make some real friends. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“I am still listening.”

Humphrey leaned over and propped his head upon his open palms. His eyes stared blankly forward; his breathing slowed to long, deep breaths, any one of which could have been mistaken for a sigh. In near silence he sat, kept company by nothing but the sound of his own breath and the low hum of the life support systems.

“Do you need me to keep listening, or shall I provide therapy now?”

“You’re still correcting orbital degradation, aren’t you?” Humphrey asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“Of course,” replied Peter. “Giving you my undivided attention would leave critical operational systems unmonitored, resulting in the loss of this station and everyone aboard.”

“You mean me,” Humphrey snapped. “Everyone is me.”

“Logically,” Peter replied. “Likewise, logic dictates you desire therapy as evidenced by your shared childhood memory. Shall we begin psychoanalysis? Tell me about your relationship with your mother.”

“Forget it, Freudian,” mumbled Humphrey, rising to his feet. He rubbed his eyes as he shuffled one weary foot after the next down disorientingly identical halls to the simsuit in entertainment room. Scrolling through the archives, he selected one of his favorite modules from childhood, changed into the skin tight gray suit, and engaged.

It was an action module. Hostage situation in a small deli. The participant played a hostage with some kind of special ops training or another. As the drama unfolded, the old patterns came back to Humphrey. Do what the hostage taker says at first. Mention having kids three times. Drop the wallet so the villain finds it. He sees the pictures. Opens up about his own kids. Sympathizes. For a moment, Humphrey felt a glimmer of a connection to the man.

Then the module lagged, as it always did at this point, and Humphrey remembered why he stopped engaging ISS programs. It couldn’t be helped, Humphrey knew. It was the nature of the beast. Having hundreds of options at every decision point meant the simulation could respond in almost any way imaginable to almost any stimuli. The module ranked each response in the memory banks from most likely to least. It also meant that the more unlikely the response, in this case friendship, the longer it took to load. After several seconds of the terrorist standing frozen, he put his hand around Humphrey’s shoulder and offered him a beer. The action seemed sincere enough out of context, but after the load time, the illusion was shattered. Any shred of a connection Humphrey may have felt to the personality construct vanished in a puff of digital smoke. At a glance, the constructs seemed human, but they were pale imitations, ghosts of ghosts that relied on a complex system of multilayered, preprogrammed responses. They were nothing more than artificial intelligences with acting lessons, and Humphrey could no longer stomach an act.

He removed the helmet and tossed it onto its shelf on the far side of the room. His arms folded across his chest as he exhaled. He didn’t want something that pretended to respond or pretended to have feelings. He wanted, he needed, something that could respond, could feel. He needed something that wouldn’t do the exact same thing given the same stimuli. That was the problem with the personality constructs and the artificial intelligences. They operated on a binary level. Yes or no. Peter longed for something trinary to interact with, something with a randomly determined “maybe.” A trinary companion, a genuine artificial personality, could surprise him. It could be irrational. It could be something a person could talk to, something that wouldn’t always make the most informed decision. Something Humphrey could feel smarter than, at least once in a while. Something with as true an approximation as anyone had ever seen to a real personality.

Something that would laugh at his jokes.

“And ORT was too cheap to spring for one,” grumbled Humphrey. He stared into space for a while, watching gray silhouette of Ganymede pass by the window, his thoughts adrift among the dust outside. He knew why they couldn’t post two people at the station. For starters, nutritional and O2 needs would be doubled. The air purifiers were able to stay atop Humphrey’s breathing needs, but that was with downtime in the cryobeds to play catch-up. Economically, it wasn’t feasible. Just like it wasn’t economically feasible to train a scientist and send him up to do maintenance work on the station. Scientists cost money. More money, at least, than a maintenance man like Humphrey. And it was harder to replace a good one. Even so, they could have at least put a decent artificial personality onboard. Man needs companionship, he thought. He needs someone to talk to. He’s a social creature, for crying out loud.

He had, of course, heard the arguments against the AP time and again. An irrational computer might destroy the Oroboros if Humphrey got into an argument with it. It wouldn’t make the best decisions. It might perform a harmful prank on whichever poor sap was currently stationed onboard. It might blah blah blah. It also might keep the maintenance man with the ten-year tenure from opening the airlock on himself, thought Humphrey. He wondered briefly if any Oroboros maintenance men in the past had done so. At launch, he was so excited about what a great opportunity it was, especially for someone in his position, that it never occurred to him to ask. He could picture himself afloat out there, bouncing off of Ganymede, and floating forever onward into deep space. That, he mused, or bob aimlessly in orbit around the gas giant until Jupiter’s gravity well finally pulled him in and gave him a first-hand look at that hypothetical fly with a fever. Anything to be free of Peter’s brazen abuses of logic and reason. Even trapping the AI in false syllogisms had lost its fun, and if he couldn’t enjoy mocking the “infallible” reasoning of an AI, he could enjoy nothing about it at all. As his eyes drifted over the surface of the nearby moon, his mind returned to Hyrum Hatch and his sales pitch.

“The job has been compared to being paid to attend the finest universities on Earth,” Hatch said.

“It’s truly a dream job,” Hatch said.

“Especially for someone in your position,” Hatch said.

“Our program has produced leaders in the fields of industry, science, language, robotics...” Hatch said.

Something flashed before Humphrey’s eyes. Maybe it was space dust, or the majestic rise of Ganymede out of Jupiter’s shadow. Maybe it was the sheer brilliance of the idea. Humphrey reasoned that in reality it was probably just space dust, but that conclusion in no way diminished the quality of the idea. He turned back toward the monitors.

“Hey, Peter?” he asked, as though he didn’t know whether Peter would be home or not.

“Yes, Humphrey,” came the reply, friendly in a sort of emotionless kind of way. “What can I do for you? Another game of chess, perhaps?”

“No,” replied Humphrey with a shudder. “Thanks, but no.”

He paused, worried that Peter might be offended or perhaps alarmed if he were to discover what Humphrey had in mind. Then he shrugged it off, remembering that Peter had no soul and thus could not care about Humphrey’s actions and that he didn’t care much for Peter the Computer anyway.

“You say the archives cover just about every subject, right?” Humphrey asked.

“That is correct,” replied Peter. “The data archives are thorough enough for a person to gain the equivalent of an accredited doctorate in most any field imaginable.”

He chuckled at Peter using the word “imaginable.” As if the AI could imagine anything. He paused again, his lips quivering at the pure, electric potential of his coming endeavor. It would be an enormous undertaking, but if he could do it, if he could pull it off, he might just be able to make it through those next five years after all.

Humphrey Wallace shifted his weight in the white plastic chair molded to the floor of the Oroboros Orbital Research Station, the fabric of his orange jumpsuit sighing with each slight movement. Unaware that his leg was bouncing, or that he was chewing on his thumbnail, or that his hair was a mess, he let his gaze drift about the cramped control room before settling on the silver gray sliver of Ganymede cresting Jupiter’s shadow just outside the observation window. Slowly, Humphrey drew in a deep breath and held it for longer than he realized. Then, cautiously, delicately, he spoke.

“Peter, could I get training in, say, advanced computer programming?” He held his breath anxiously.

“Of course.”

Humphrey Wallace was resolved. He would do it. He would create his own AP.

***

The next many months were a flurry of study. Humphrey poured over data tablets covering everything he could find relating to programming theory and practice. He devoured books on mechanical and electrical engineering and physical computer construction. There were even example sections of code in the archives that helped him with the programming legwork. Of course, all the programming in the world wouldn’t help him, he realized, if he didn’t have someplace safely beyond the prying eyes of Peter to contain his work. Humphrey wasn’t worried, though. He had a plan for that.

Humphrey had taken to drawing on the walls of his room in grease pen. The former oppressive tedium of solid white had been replaced by algorithms, schematics, doodles, and a blueprint for a datapad he’d pulled up from the archives. He would use the datapad to house the software for the AP so he could keep the information off of Peter’s networks and complete the project in secrecy. All Humphrey needed to do was collect parts.

Over the following weeks, the Oroboros turned into a technological nightmare. Several times a day, the near flawless design seemed to suffer some glitch here, some systems failure there. The repair log swelled as Humphrey made his way from one end of the station to the other, tool kit in one hand and hot coffee in the other.

“What are you doing, Humphrey?” Peter would ask every time Humphrey opened a panel.

“Oh, well things have been a bit sketchy lately, so I thought I’d manually check the ship bow to stern,” he would answer.

“That is reasonable,” Peter would reply.

Humphrey leaned into the space behind the panel and sorted through the rat’s nest of wires until finally he found those leading to the part he was looking for. A quick yank and the part went offline.

“Oh geez, Peter,” Humphrey cried in mock surprise, “the wiring to the subcompactor’s motherboard seems to have gotten snagged on my flashlight. I think it fried the hardware and we’re all out of spares. How would we go about fixing the subcompactor without one?”

He already knew the answer. He always did on jobs like these. Only a fool would remove a part like this if he didn’t know how to fix the mess it would make, and Humphrey wasn’t a fool, not anymore. It wasn’t help he needed, it was a distraction. After a moment offline for computation, a moment which Humphrey used to slip the motherboard into his tool kit, Peter came back with step-by-step instructions for bypassing the broken part, which Humphrey followed to get the system back online. Humphrey silently thanked ORT under his breath for being too cheap to install video cameras and image recognition software into the AI.

Repair after repair, something went wrong. Flashlights snagged. Static discharged. Humphrey would clip the wrong wire. Each time Peter would go offline for a moment to determine the most efficient repair method, and Humphrey would slip another part into his tool kit. The corridors took on their own unique designs as the panels gave way to impromptu patches and creative rewiring whose colorful spider webs crisscrossed the walls creating a beautiful chaos that held the tedious white at bay.

“Your coordination seems to have become suddenly lacking,” Peter commented after one particularly unfortunate coffee spill. “Your bioscans do not seem to suggest an inner ear infection. Are you feeling well?”

“Fine,” Humphrey replied. “Just a little out of practice, I suppose.”

“Based on your recent inexplicable failures of dexterity, I am beginning to understand the aesthetic choices of the station designers, and I no longer find the panels to be inefficient or unnecessary.”

“That’s nice, Peter,” Humphrey said, adjusting the wiring he had just pilfered in his pocket.

“Yes,” replied Peter. “An increase in understanding is always nice.”

Over time, Humphrey turned his secret stash into a data tablet not connected to any of the station’s wireless networks. Any information or program on the tablet would be inaccessible by the station’s onboard computer unless it was manually transferred. Because Peter had no hands, Humphrey felt assured that computer wouldn’t be able to access and corrupt his creation with things like “logic” and “reason.” And vice versa. The AP would not be the all knowing, all seeing being that was Peter. After all, Humphrey reasoned, maybe ORT was on to something when they decided not to put control of a multi-trillion dollar space station in the hands of a crazy computer. Plus, he thought, the AP can’t be a know-it-all if it doesn’t have access to the ships data archives.

As the project neared completion, Humphrey copied the speech software onto the small tablet, which he carried in his pocket; a hardwired ear piece ran to his ear so Peter couldn’t listen in on Humphrey’s creation. Humphrey spoke to his new-found palm-sized friend throughout the day, testing and tweaking its personality based on its interactions trying to find just the right balance of reason and non-sequitur.

“Let’s try that again,” said Humphrey to his data tablet.

“Humphrey, I cannot understand you,” noted Peter, with a touch of ersatz concern in his voice. “You speak, but what you say bears no contextual relevance to any stimuli around you including comments I make. As there are no other intelligences on board for you to communicate with, and as there are no open commlinks, and as your speech suggests half of a conversation, I am forced once more to conclude that you are again talking to yourself. Did you lack adequate social interaction as a child, leading to your adult development of imaginary companions?”

“Blue sheep dance merry jigs,” said a tiny voice in Humphrey’s earpiece.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Humphrey replied to the data tablet in his pocket.

“Quite the contrary,” argued Peter. “It is a very reasonable conclusion. This sort of behavior is not uncommon in under socialized individuals.”

“Mashed potato jelly roll, let’s go to the moon!” said the little voice.

“Let’s try turning down the irrationality,” said Humphrey to himself, ignoring Peter.

“I am being very rational,” protested the station’s computer. “Furthermore, I assume by your hostile comment that my line of questioning, though uncomfortable, is correct in its inherit assumptions vis-à-vis your failure to make friends as a child. Please, tell me about your childhood.”

Humphrey laughed. He also didn’t mind the fact that Peter believed he was talking to himself and thus tried for hours in vain to psychoanalyze what it perceived to be a maintenance man slowly going mad. In fact, he found it to be something of an unintended bonus. He could practically smell the circuit boards sizzle as Peter attempted to identify, based on a total lack of cooperation on Humphrey’s behalf, where the technician’s insanity was coming from. The real difficulty with Peter was the computer’s attempts to slip messages into the monthly data packet regarding Humphrey’s mental instability, but as Humphrey was ultimately in charge of pressing the green button and sending the data packets, the messages rarely went through.

In this manner, time passed. Peter would inquire about a game of chess. Humphrey would talk to himself. Peter would psychoanalyze the babbling lunatic. Humphrey would keep talking to himself. Something would break. Humphrey would ask advice. Peter would ask about chess. Humphrey would talk to himself. Peter would psychoanalyze. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Over and over the cycle looped, until finally, after many, many long months, Humphrey was finished.

***

“Hey, Peter,” Humphrey said one day, which was a little chilly thanks to some repair work on the atmospheric regulator a couple of months back.

“Yes, Humphrey,” came Peter’s unchanging reply, friendly in that same emotionless kind of way he always had. “What can I do for you? A game of chess, perhaps?”

Goodness how he wished Peter would have come programmed with some other game.

“Peter, we have a new resident,” Humphrey announced.

“That is highly improbable, Humphrey,” Peter replied. “We have had no dockings, are not due for another dock for another three years, four months, two weeks, five days, three hours, and twelve minutes. Likewise, the pressure of the station has not been compromised, ruling out the exponentially improbable event that we have been forcibly boarded by extra-terrestrials. Moreover, Oroboros’s onboard bioscanners have detected no life forms other than your own. As you are male and have no female with which to breed, I must point out that the chance of your claim being accurate is virtually non-existent, and thus must be dismissed as an unreasonable fallacy, an impractical jest at best and a vast lapse in mental faculties at worst.”

“Say hello, Little Pete,” replied Humphrey coolly.

“Hello, Little Pete,” came a strange new voice.

“I do not understand, Humphrey,” spoke Peter. “I detect another voice which does not match your own in resonance, pitch, or rhythm, yet I detect no other life forms.”

“He’s uh... wearing a bioscan-blocking suit,” Humphrey said, searching for an explanation that would satisfy the computer.

“Yeah, I’m wearing one of those,” Little Pete chimed in. “Don’t want those bios being scanned or anything.”

“This is unreasonable. Without the bioscanners, how shall I be able to monitor you to ensure you are in proper health?”

“I don’t know,” replied Little Pete. “Maybe I want to die. You don’t know me.”

“I do not,” replied Peter. “Please tell me. Do you have suicidal thoughts often?”

“And if I do?” asked Little Pete.

“I can provide psychoanalysis,” replied Peter. “Please, tell me about your childhood.”

Humphrey sat back and watched as Little Pete spun a wild yarn about a father lost to the asteroid mines, an emotionally unavailable mother, trouble a school, and every other hard-luck cliché it could conceive. He giggled as Peter tried to keep a data tablet from throwing itself out the airlock. Finally, he and Little Pete laughed outright as Peter logged off for a few hours to compile Little Pete’s improvised life story into an appropriate treatment and therapy schedule. As they talked, Humphrey smiled.

“Thanks for getting rid of him, Little Pete,” he said as the warm glow of real interpersonal contact washed over him. “He was driving me crazy. I guess Io you one.”

Little Pete laughed. Genuinely, sincerely, truly laughed.

“I don’t know,” replied Little Pete. “He didn’t seem too thrilled to Metis.”

Humphrey grinned at the AP’s pun. He propped up his feet, turned his gaze to the passing serenity of Europa’s frozen oceans beyond the viewing glass, and let his mind wander. Yeah, this was a pretty cherry gig.