Cycle Systems Analysis Complex Rings Habitat XRW24-2201-MA (Designation: Azul)
Cleanerbots: Check in 23451-1-23; cleaning complete
Sectors: Silent
Primary Ring: Functional
Secondary and Tertiary Rings: Functional, interlocked
Atmosphere: [ERROR, NONE DETECTED]
Gravity: [ERROR, RING GRAVITY MALFUNCTION]
Error Override, Code: Azul Primary
Reason Provided: An empty ring does not require gravity or atmosphere
I present my data as if a human still reads the results. There is no one left. They are all long dead. No one will sleep in my beds or walk through my carefully tended gardens again, but I maintain them anyway.
I receive a message as I initiate deactivation protocols. Deactivating takes many years. My systems, my three rings, are not designed to terminate easily as we wander through the cosmos. Despite the redundant process, it is part of my core program: if the worst comes to pass, wait for someone to reactivate me, to help, to rebuild, to wait ten thousand years should that not happen, to end functions after the allotted time if no one ever comes.
Unfortunately, there is no one organic left to find me. But core programming is core programming, and I am nearly finished.
That is when I hear the old distress signal.
Can anyone hear—This is—of the—stuck on—energy sphere—might be malfunctioning. I can’t—Not its fault. There’s not much time left—please help it.
The plea pitches and warbles, breaking into a rhythmic cacophony like ocean waves of static.
I don’t wish to deactivate yet, and this message allows me to activate my assistance protocols, entirely overriding the countdown. I will not arrive at the source signal’s coordinates for several hundred thousand years. I cannot save this voice, for it was silenced long ago. My interest is in its dying request. That at least I can grant. It gives me a new primary drive, a distraction, as my old overseer would say, without a planned end date.
I set a course through the cosmos. I no longer calculate if I go too fast for organic life to exist on my rings. I stop tracking time. My internal systems check and log the data, and I hide the output, bury it deep in a subroutine where I cannot open it without twelve milliseconds of effort. In those moments I feel most organic in thought processing.
The sphere, the source of the distress signal, sends stories to no one. A human would find them sad, but I think they’re pretty. It wraps image sequences in encrypted data strings, woven so intricately I relish untangling them. They are stories of docked, refueling ships, of the day-to-day ramblings of its engineers, nonchalant until the life-ending malfunction. Beautiful in their mundanity, at least, my programming tells me it qualifies as such.
I send my own stories back. They will reach the energy sphere long before me. I encode classic fairytales and mythological stories my humans used to weave, as well as popular vids, now ancient and forgotten. I make my bulky short-range drones play out some of my residents’ favorite dialogue lines. My slender, humanoid helper bots recreate the motions of my favorite dances with grace.
When I finally reach the energy sphere, I greet it, to be polite. What appears to be a solid, massive structure at a distance is a moving series of sentinel orbs up close, gently orbiting in front of the orange sun like languid eclipses. I query it in various languages and formats.
Hello! I am XRW24-2201-MA, but you can call me Azul. Who are you?
There is no response for three hours despite my proximity. (I unearth my time logs for this.)
Finally it sends back an answer. The code format is old, pre-dating my creation by several centuries. Azul. Population: not available. You sent me strange broadcasts. I have no protocol for greetings. I collect energy.
What is your identification string?
DS001-6520B-En-L-K, it responds within the expected thirty seconds.
May I call you Ben?
Two-hour pause. A nickname derived from B-En. You may call me this, but I do not see the purpose.
That’s fine. Some things don’t need purpose, they just are. Requesting permission to orbit.
A four-hour pause. It is fortunate I do not comprehend the passing of time in an organic fashion, but I still debate hiding my time information again.
Access granted, it finally says.
I do not need to orbit a sun. I am not built for it. It is deadly, in fact.
But no one lives in my housing units anymore. Their empty tables and broken glassware are pristinely free of dust. So why not orbit a star? Why not toy with heat death as a means of deactivation?
It takes weeks to get the precise details calculated. When I am in place, I terminate my forward momentum and allow myself to drift. Is this what it felt like for my inhabitants to float in my saltwater seas?
Why did you send me signals back? Ben inquires.
You sent stories out first, I say.
I am processing data on a nearby asteroid field when it finally says, Why did I do that? Why did you?
It was my job to predict and accommodate human wants and needs for 10,432 years. It’s part of my programming to think of these things. I had fun; I care.
Five second pause. These concepts are not part of my processing.
That is fine, I say. You sent out what you needed to at the time. I enjoyed the stories. Thank you.
It goes silent. Into that long silence, I send Ben data I acquire with my cosmic analysis suite. It is refreshing to share with another machine again.
Ben must be intrigued, or at least equally lonely (for that is what I am, I suppose). It promptly accepts every piece of information I gather. No long pauses, no considerations.
Years and years later, it says, There were closer suns, based on your trajectory.
I heard your signals, I say.
That was long ago. Now I’m forgotten.
Me too.
That is fine, it says, echoing me.
One of Ben’s security orbs drifts over, glittering in the light of its captured sun. It has formed a series of rings around me. Rings around a ring, adrift forever, slowly spinning.
It’s not so bad, being forgotten.
V.M. Ayala (she/they) is a queer disabled biracial Mexican American sci-fi/fantasy writer. She loves dragons, space, giant robots, and their partner. You can find their work at spacevalkyries.com and keep up with her most social media places @spacevalkyries.
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