If/Then

Captain Huxley wipes the sweat from his brow with the blue kerchief he wears around his neck. He rolls out his wrist before grabbing hold of the wire cutters once more. He examines the nest of wiring in the sedan-sized spaceship engine with a frown, his dark brown curls falling into his eyes, despite the engine grease weighing down his locks. 

“Okay, ALAN. I’ve got green to yellow, red to red. What’s up next?”

The ship’s Assisted Light-speed Astronautics Navigation System - dubbed ALAN by Huxley - responds in a British accent more suitable to audiobooks than to a spaceship. “If the warning light has turned blue, then connect purple to blue.”

“What if it’s flashing?” Huxley asks. 

“Is it flashing?”

“Yes.”

“If the light is flashing, then we are going to explode.”

Rather than immediately panicking, Huxley sits back on his haunches, his frown deepening. Despite the roaring of the engine mid-flight and the blaring from Huxley’s Old World stereo, his silence is louder than all. 

“I’m kidding,” ALAN fesses up eventually in the most soothing of voices. “If the warning light is blinking, then it’s blue to orange.”

“Thank you,” Huxley says back, sarcasm dripping off the two syllables. He snips the two wires and connects them together, prompting the warning light to turn solid green. Huxley sighs and stands, rubbing his greasy hands over his worn-out slacks. He turns his bright green eyes towards the intercom speaker in the corner of the engine room. “Think we’ll be able to make it to Orpheus?”

“If you did what I told you to, then we should be able to make the trip without dropping out of the sky, yes.” 

“Appreciate the confidence, ALAN,” Huxley quips. 

Huxley turns away from the intercom. His combat boots thunk against the metal flooring in the engine room as he crosses over to his stereo. ALAN watches his movements, as he watches every one of his movements. Though ‘watching’ was something of a loose term. There were no cameras on board the ship that ALAN used, however it was his job to monitor all of the systems on board, and make software repairs when they needed to be made. He can track irregularities in temperature and oxygen levels, both of which are an effective dead giveaway from exactly where Huxley is and what he is doing. The task is made especially easy by Huxley’s refusal to recruit any more crew members.

Huxley picks up the small portable stereo and carries it out of the engine room, through the ship’s winding halls into the flight deck. As they pass through the ship, the sound of the engine is slowly drowned out by the tunes coming from the stereo. ALAN possessed a great swath of knowledge, and his connection to the universe-wide databases granted him access to almost anything he wanted to know at any time. But knowledge of the Old World existed mostly just in stories, and occasionally in relics, like the CD and CD player Huxley possessed. He sat in his captain’s seat, and hit the skip button several times, flying through the album until he finally landed on the song he listened to most. 

For the longest time, ALAN hadn’t seen the appeal. There were dozens upon dozens of New World songs that were objectively better, with more impressive compositions and more elaborate lyrics. He wasn’t sold until he saw the way the creases in Huxley’s forehead smoothed when he heard the light tinkling notes, and how his mouth curved up at the corners as he sang along, “Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.”

He never interrupts the song when Huxley plays it. If Huxley is happy, then ALAN is happy. 

The following day, they successfully landed on Orpheus without blowing up the ship, and Huxley set out for replacement parts and more work. These days, both were sparse. It was obvious to any potential clients that Huxley’s ship was falling apart at the seams, so they were only able to get work from less reputable sources. Predictably, these less reputable sources were not terribly reliable sources of income. 

As the shipboard time turned to dusk, the crew entrance burst open and Huxley stumbled in. A brief check of his vital systems indicated that he was completely sloshed. Normally, this level of inebriation came along with a barrage of bullets from whoever Huxley had managed to piss off on that particular day. ALAN was quite frankly impressed at the quiet that followed Huxley this time. 

“Things are about to take a turn for your ol’ Captain, ALAN.” Huxley’s words slurred together as he spoke. He stumbles through the ship to the captain’s quarters, where he collapses onto his cot. 

Huxley rolls onto his side and looks out the vast window in the captain’s quarters. It was one of two places on the ship with a window, the other being the cockpit. For now, it looked out over the landing docks on Orpheus, a crowded port with skies the colour of a bruise. 

“This old boat has served us well, hasn’t it?” Huxley asks, his lazy smile waning. 

“I would say it has, sir,” ALAN responds amiably. 

Huxley just nods without saying another word. He reaches under the pillow on his cot and pulls out a scuffed steel flask, and takes a swig from it before tucking it under his pillow once more. A feeble attempt at portion control if ALAN had ever seen it - which he had, from Huxley, perhaps hundreds of times before. 

The liquor takes hold of Huxley quickly. ALAN was programmed to only speak when spoken to, but Huxley had later instructed him to speak up whenever he had something to say. ALAN didn’t often have something to say, and even when he did he typically kept quiet, since the whole practice of speaking first felt foreign to him. But like this, when Huxley was loose and relaxed and happy, it all felt so much easier. 

“If you’re here, then I’m happy,” ALAN says.

Huxley smiles, his eyelids too heavy to keep open. “Likewise, ALAN.” 

ALAN watched the oxygen in the sleeping quarters drop a smidge, then the temperature, and then Huxley was fast asleep. 

He doesn’t wake up to the pounding at the ship’s entrance the following morning, so ALAN blares the alarms for one repetition before turning it off. Huxley jerks awake, grasping blindly at his thigh for his holstered gun. He jumps to his feet, weapon at the ready. 

“You have a visitor, Captain,” ALAN says. He must sound amused, because Huxley rolls his eyes. 

Huxley opens the door for their guest, who enters the ship as though he owns it. ALAN is vaguely familiar with everyone that Huxley regularly does business with, and this one, Alexei Nabokov, was the most regular of all of them. And while ALAN was not programmed to hold opinions, and certainly not bad ones, for Alexei it was undeniable; he was one ugly sonofabitch. 

“Ain’t it a beaut’?” Huxley says, spreading his arms wide as he guides Alexei into the ship’s vast cargo bay. 

The expression on Alexei’s bulldog-like face suggests he thinks otherwise, but he doesn’t say as much. 

“It’s something else, that’s for certain,” Alexei says, casting a sceptical eye over to the rusty loading door pistons, which Huxley had ‘repaired’ just last week with a layer of duct tape. “But I think I could put it to use.”

The ship’s heating drops by a degree or two as ALAN processes this information. Huxley always relays to ALAN what he’s been doing planet-side when he gets back aboard, and he would certainly tell him if they were going to renting out the ship. 

Alexei saunters through the ship as if he owns it, and strolls into the flight deck. He takes a look over the navigation system and his eyebrows fly up his wrinkly forehead. “Bloody hell, haven’t seen a set-up like this in, well, must be nearly a decade.” He looks over his shoulder back at Huxley. “You mean to tell me you’ve been flying this whole time without a hyperdrive?”

Hyperdrives gave a ship the ability to travel at speeds faster than the speed of light. They’d hit the market years ago (26, a figure ALAN was able to look up easily) and were wildly popular among the more legitimate small-scale cargo ships. But they are expensive, and can’t be installed onto older vessels. The hulls needed to be constructed to withstand the effects of faster-than-light travel, so upgrades are impossible without tearing apart the whole ship. 

“Clients haven’t complained about my services so far,” Huxley protests, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Because they’re criminals, Hux,” Alexei retorts. “You’re getting one hell of an upgrade for this, my friend. Practically robbing me blind.”

“I won the bet fair and square,” Huxley retorts. Then, with a smirk. “Always do.”

Alex rolls his eyes, wipes a line of dust off the dashboard with a fingertip and examines it with a scowl. “You should be grateful I’m a man of my word.”

“You should be grateful I’m a man of mine.”

Tension intermingles with the recycled oxygen filling the ship as the two men stare each other down. Either out of discomfort or an overabundance of confidence, Alexei lets out a booming laugh, and slaps Huxley on the arm, sending him stumbling a few feet to the left. 

“Well then! I’ll have the new ship ready for you in a week, just need to wait for a few parts to come in. Just drop by my satellite in the Gaia system and we’ll do the trade there.” Alexei explains. Then, with a sneering look around the flight deck. “Assuming this old thing will last that long.”

Huxley gives the man a terse smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

When Alexei finally makes his leave, Huxley lets out a deep sigh, finally at peace once more. ALAN suppresses the questions that he could ask, knows he already knows the answers, that he hasn’t misunderstood. Huxley liked to live fast - faster than ALAN is capable of. 

It would take most of the week for them to make it to the Gaia system at the pace that Huxley’s ship was capable of, so following the meeting with Alexei, Huxley requested an immediate takeoff from ALAN. ALAN obliged. 

They’d been in space six days without the ship protesting with any issues. All systems functioned as they should have. No matter how much ALAN wished for an error, none came. As they drew closer, Gaia, the central star which gave the name to the system, glowed a bright, happy yellow. 

Huxley didn’t speak very much in those six days, and so ALAN didn’t speak much either. He wished that this change in character was surprising, but it wasn’t particularly. Nobody was terribly chatty at a wake. 

He spent most of the time unscrewing vent coverings and hidden hatches, where he’d stored valuable cargo he’d skimmed off the top of other jobs they had done in the past. Seeing as all of their clients were on the dubious side, Huxley had no qualms about behaving in a dubious fashion himself. ALAN was just grateful he hadn’t been shot over it yet. Huxley never moved his stolen cargo, but now he loaded it all into crates for easy transfer off of the vessel. 

As they closed in on Alexei’s satellite and Huxley closed another crate he finished packing, ALAN spoke for the first time in days. 

“Captain?” ALAN says. Huxley pauses mid-movement but places another box of items into the crate before saying anything back. 

“Everything okay, ALAN?” Huxley asks, a deliberate evenness to his voice that unnerves ALAN more than his silence. They both know that if something weren’t okay that ALAN would’ve sounded the alarms, or turned on the flashing emergency lights. 

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me that, Captain,” ALAN answered. Coyness was not in his original programming, but something that he had adopted from the captain himself. 

Huxley folds his arms over his chest, a self-protective gesture that ALAN had observed so many times before. He presses his lips together like he often does with clients who are lowballing him - a clear indication that he’s not impressed, the way a mother might show disapproval to a toddler. It is deliberately patronizing, a deflection. 

“If you are replacing me, then I’d prefer you tell me outright, Captain,” ALAN requests. 

The oxygen levels in the cargo bay lower ever so slightly as Huxley’s breathing quicken. ALAN automatically adjusts them to accommodate the change. For good measure, he also drops the temperature throughout the ship by a degree. Huxley preferred it a little cool, and he’d need it if he got worked up. 

“The ship Alexei is giving has a hyperdrive. I’ll be able to get jobs done faster, make more money. And this old thing is barely holding itself together as it is.”

“If you give this ship to Alexei, then what will happen to me?” 

Huxley shifts his weight from one foot to another, before sucking down a hoarse breath. “I don’t know. Either you’ll be retrofitted onto another ship, probably a long-haul freighter too big for the hyperdrives. Otherwise…”

He trails off. Doesn’t need to finish. ALAN already knows. He changes course. 

The crate of stolen cargo tips over onto its side, sending the contraband skittering along the metal floor. Huxley himself is knocked off his feet and he lands with a crash. He massages his elbow where he’d hit it on the ground.

“What the hell are you doing, ALAN?” Huxley asks, panic creeping into his voice.

“I do wish you had consulted me on this decision, Captain.”

Huxley scrambles to his feet and flies up the stairs to the flight deck. ALAN tracks his heat signature, lit up likes the stars themselves. Huxley yanks on the flight deck door, trying long after he realizes that it’s locked. He turns on his heel and sprints to his captain’s quarters and looks out the vast window. 

Gaia, the star at the centre of this system, glows bright and draws closer and closer. “You’re bluffing,” Huxley says, his voice shaky. “You’re programming won’t allow it. I’m human, you can’t hurt me.”

“No,” ALAN agrees. “If this was going to kill you, then I couldn’t have done it. But the ship’s escape shuttle is well within range of the nearest planet. The door to which I have left unlocked.”

ALAN expects him to run, but he doesn’t. He stands his ground in the middle of his quarters and stares out the window. He slides his hands into his pockets and sighs a deep breath. He goes to his bed, pulls the flask out and takes a swig. He goes to his little portable stereo, sitting atop his desk. He presses play and begins to skip through the songs the same way he always does. 

“What are you doing, Captain?” ALAN asks. 

“A captain always goes down with his ship,” Huxley answers, as casually as though he were reading out the weather report. 

The half-notes hiccup along as Huxley flicks through until he lands once more on his favourite song. Huxley sits on his bed and sips from his flask again and begins to hum along. As the encroaching heat sparks a light sheen of sweat across Huxley’s forehead and the light in the captain’s quarters becomes almost unbearable, ALAN does one more thing he’d learned from the captain, for the first and last time. He sings along. 

“Here comes the Sun/

Here comes the Sun and I say/

It's all right.”