Neither solution were practical or possible today, what with sterility, the vastness and vacuum of space hugging us in our meteorite bedding. Limiting us to a lonely civilization of solitary servitude.
I had finished up my logging for the day, tracking fifty-two comets in the vicinity with possibility of life, large enough or craggy enough. That didn't take long, it never did, but still, every hour, on the hour, I tracked. We all tracked, actually. It wasn't glamorous, but we were protecting other planetary bodies, satellites in nearby asteroid fields, ships embarking on the next quadrant of space. We did a service, us militant nomads, floating on our rocks to best serve the greater good. It seemed way more glamorous when I was fifteen.
I shut down the T2- Telescope, its iris squinting on blackness, a motion-detecting monitor keeping an extra eye open for radiation preceding foreign matter. Compy was hooked up to that notifier. If there was something out there, he would light up like the corona of GodHead Sun and start beeping until I would smack him with a broom and get back to work.
Work was done, the forecast called for mild nights, 10% chance of meteorite precipitates, which meant that my force-field could take care of anything the cosmos dished out for the next few hours. Time to play enjoy the lonely silent nothingness...
Well, I did have Compy, many of us did. Our adoration and alone-time may have resembled those archaic relationships. He was cold, and steel, and bright blue, and spindly on his carbon-covered legs. We were just pals, He was a computer, he was a Compy.
A few things are to be said about Compy: they cannot handle heat, water, or the truth. When faced with an overflowing pot of boiling water, they would shut down due to the internal conflict of protection and inability. Compy did not cook. They did not clean. They solved problems.
Problems were everywhere, in health, math, love, death, philosophy, games, space... My Compy especially enjoyed Games in Space.
One problem which Compy could not truly solve was that of multi-task: some were plagued with the life-long inability to master more than two tasks. So Theory/Games and Space Spelunking were my Compy's favorite.
I began my little rhyme:
"Today is the day,
With you and your games,
That we shall both play,
In so many ways.
There is truly nothing
That I would prefer,
Than seeing your features
As your empire grows poor.
Silent, here you come.
You're ready for an order.
You know the day's done,
You're ready to establish boarders."
He knew this rhyme well, and as I would sit down to the table before me, made of astromilk crates and a steel sheet, he followed suit. Our expressions were both solemn, sobered, and still. My hands on my knees, scarred from years of repairing sub-deck modules. His iron digits creaking from a lack of oil. My tank top of worn canvas hanging on a frail frame. His micro-blue LED eye-sockets glowing a refrain.
"Begin." He said.
"Roll the dice, and don't think twice." I reply.
He rolled his pair, made of steel and modified to hold a certain number of dots on each of its twenty sides. I watch as the steel plate lights up just before his die chose their footing. The game has begun, and his first move permits that he move to Park Place.
I curse the air around us.
This game went on for hours, stressful, and mind-racing. Each round a new holographic deck would raise, creating a 3-D simulation before us, increasing our number of pieces, increasing our amount of money. It was a moment before his piece went past Go To Jail that an alarm began to beep.
It wasn't Compy, though. It was coming from the dashboard HUB display. From my seat, I refused to move, I noticed that something was approaching. The speed was not worrisome, but a strange curiosity rose in my gullet.
"Compy, display."
Compy emitted a holographic image from those micro-eyes, revealing the approach of a vessel. The streamlined green vessel was slowing, reverse thrusters allowing it to dock upon my space-rock. An anchor was dropped upon my frosty acreage.
"Compy, assess."
"One life form. Male. Vessel low on fuel. Vessel unregistered. Vessel assessment: Threat5."
I took a moment, thinking. A Threat5 was nothing I'd encountered before. Hell, I'd never encountered anyone...Thing out here before my 15th birthday and my rank assignment. I began to take action, and stand, grabbing my die before Compy could pull a fast one. That's when the visual of a small shock overwhelmed the exterior of the green vessel outside. That's when everything went dark, and I dropped my die.
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