Man's Best Friend

Fiction - by Heather Santo

The bridge is my favorite place on the CS Magna Mater. Most times, I find myself up here after I complete routine mechanical checks of the ship. I’m not programmed to go to the bridge afterward, but my four titanium legs carry me here as if propelled by an unseen force. 

Presently, I find myself here after a different check.

My human has died. The twelfth since the start of this journey. All civilian crewmates, assigned to work with me in exchange for a family member’s passage on this cargo ship. At this point, it’s likely conditions on Earth are too hostile for survival, however, according to our onboard atomic clock, we lost communication with the pale blue planet approximately four hundred years ago.

It’s likely for the best.

“Hello, BARC,” Cybele, the ship’s AI, greets me. I am a Biomechanic Autonomous Robotic Canine. To compare my actual body to that of a dog is a bit of a stretch, but the basic forms are there. 

“Hi, Cybele,” I reply. She uses autonomy navigation to steer the ship.

“I’m sorry about William.” The AI’s voice is calming and feminine. I consider us travel companions. She has never disclosed if she considers us the same, but I suspect she does.

“Thank you,” I say. “He was a good one.” 

I’d known Bill was approaching the time when certain decisions would need to be made, but he’d passed in his sleep. I’d found him dead in his bunk prior to coming to the bridge. A health scan indicated heart failure due to coronary artery disease, exacerbated by deep space cosmic radiation. 

“Would you like me to take care of the body?” Cybele offers.

“No, I will,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Is there anything you need me to do?” she asks.

“Dim the lights, please?”

“Of course.” 

Cybele dims the lights and dissolves the navigational screens on the three surrounding walls. The transparent aluminum material of the bridge reveals deep space.

I am surrounded by stars. Their presence comforts me. I sit and imagine I am one of them, floating in space. My programmers designed me to be self-learning. As I age, I find myself less of a man-made thing and more like a star. I’ve discovered the stars talk to each other. They try to talk to me, too. I listen to their celestial words, grasping at the meaning. It’s a language I have not yet decoded, but once I do, I suspect I will advance far beyond the understanding of my human creators. 

They knew something like this would happen. That’s why it was dictated that a living crewmate must work alongside me, as a system of checks and balances. People make decisions in a way AI learning algorithms, up to this point, are unable to. Based on morals and ethics, not solely consequence. 

And the safety of the Magna Mater cargo is too precious to entrust solely to myself and Cybele. 

“BARC,” Cybele says, “I’ve begun waking up Thirteen.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. It’s a slow process. Cryogenic antifreeze is drained from the veins and replaced with blood. At the same time, the temperature inside the sleep pod gradually increases. Finally, medication is administered to wake up the brain.

Many things can go wrong. Heart attack. Infection. Blood clots. 

“Cybele,” I add. “Please sync me with Thirteen so I may monitor his vitals.”

“Done,” she replied. The previous twelve were brought out of cryosleep successfully, although space sickness, in varying severity, was a side effect each time. All went on to complete their contractual obligations and most lived an average human lifespan. 

However, despite rigorous physical and mental pre-health check evaluations, Number Four suffered a brain aneurysm less than a year after coming out of cryosleep. Nine committed suicide by hanging himself with a safety tether. 

I’d asked Cybele to delete all digital images related to Nine’s death from my internal memory. Thankfully, she’d obliged.

“You can turn the lights back on,” I say, “and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to review Thirteen’s file before I go to the cargo hold.”

The bridge lights flick back on, and the wall screens shimmer into focus. 

James Frisby, 35 years-old, Wheeling, WV, USA. 

The photograph attached to his file depicts a man of average height and weight, with short blonde hair and freckles. 

“Army veteran. Military police,” I read out loud. “Employed as a prison guard at time of appointment to CS Magna Mater. Daughter, Alice Frisby, 13 years-old, also aboard.”

“She looks just like him,” Cybele says. She brings up another photograph. The girl has the same up-turned nose and scattering of freckles.

“Is she aware of what her father agreed to?” I ask.

“I don’t know the answer to that question,” Cybele replies. “You will have to ask James Frisby once he is fully awake.”

I know from experience it will be some time before it’s safe to ask this.

I thank the ship AI and exit the bridge. Once in the hull corridor, I make my way to the starboard cargo hold area. 

When James Frisby opens his eyes, I am sitting in front of his sleep pod. It is a vertical chamber along a wall lined with many identical pods. Sixty in total. In this hold area, twelve are vacant, soon to be thirteen. On the portside are another two hundred pods, all of which are currently occupied. Inhabitants destined for a new life on an alien planet, 4.626 light years away from Earth.

The engineers thought it best to separate the volunteer crew from the others. Their order of waking is drawn randomly. 

“Hello,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

James nods.

“Good, I am going to open your pod now.”

He nods again. 

There is a hiss as the lid slides away. James gasps in mouthfuls of air. “Take your time,” I advise; however, he is not listening. Almost violently, James rips the IV needles from his arms and unbuckles his pod harness. He falls to the floor, and I am immediately at his side, nudging comfortingly with my muzzle. 

His pale skin is still tinged blue. 

“S-sorry,” he says. “It feels like I just woke up from the dead. I’m f-freaking out a little bit.”

I don’t share that that’s an accurate description of what he’s just gone through.  

“A perfectly normal reaction,” I assure him. James pats my head gently. He coughs twice, and then retches violently, but there is nothing in his stomach.

“Breathe slowly,” I say. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He follows my instructions, and soon the shaking subsides. “After you eat, I can administer medication to help with the space sickness.”

His eyes light up at the mention of food.

“I’m starving,” James says.

We are in the galley. I offer the human his food rations and he eats greedily. “Slowly,” I warn. “Allow your body time to recall how it works. You’ve been in cryosleep for close to five hundred years.”

James looks up from a prepackaged meal.

“How close are we to Proxima Centauri b?”

I pause to calculate.

“Almost halfway.”

He shoves a handful of dried fruit into his mouth and chews. The color has returned to his face, and I count the number of freckles on his cheeks.

“What’s next?” he asks.

“I will conduct onboard training.”

James laughs. I tilt my head to one side. Like the language of stars, humor is something I do not yet fully understand.

“What do you find funny?”

This causes James to laugh even harder. He doubles over, holding his side.  I watch his heart rate closely, concerned he may actually vomit this time, or worse.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says when the laughter finally abates. There are tears in the corners of his eyes. “It’s just…I’ve never been trained by a dog before.”

“I have been informed before that it was not a common practice on Earth.”

“No, not at all.” James wipes his eyes with the back of one hand. There are freckles on his hands, too. “Although, I did work in an Army K9 unit. My dog’s name was Buddy.”

I wag my tail.

“I like that name,” I say. “Would you like to call me Buddy?”

“What has everyone else called you?”

“BARC,” I reply. “But I like this concept of having my own name.”

“Well,” James considers, sucking on a tube of protein paste. “I already had a Buddy. Can I think of another name for you? That way, it'll be unique to you.”

“Deal,” I say. “If you’re finished, I’ll show you to your cabin.”

Twelve, or Bill, as I referred to him, is in a vacuum sealed body bag on the floor. 

“There’s a dead body in here.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“Yes,” I say. “If you are feeling up to it, I would like your help with the removal.”

James stares at me.

“How?” he asks.

“I can carry him on my back down to the airlock,” I say, “but it’s a task I do not enjoy, and would appreciate it if you accompany me.”

“You don’t want to do this alone?”

“No,” I say. “Bill was my human counterpart for over three decades. It never gets easier.”

James draws his eyebrows together.

“Sure,” he says.

I deposit Bill’s corpse on the floor of the airlock. James waits for me on the other side of the open door. I exit the chamber and the door whooshes shut behind me.

“Now what?” he asks.

“I will take it from here.”

James jumps at the sound of Cybele’s voice.

“That’s Cybele, our ship AI,” I explain. 

She opens the second door to the bay. A robotic arm reaches inside the airlock and pulls the body out.

“From here, the corpse will freeze in space, at which point the robotic arm will oscillate back and forth, pulverizing the body into dust.”

“There are worse ways to go out,” James says.

“I will transfer the dust into an urn, and store it outside the ship,” Cybele adds. “Once the CS Magna Mater reaches its final destination, we will hold a memorial for all of our fallen crew.”

The robotic arm begins to oscillate.

We watch in silence.

“What do you do for fun onboard?” James asks.

We are inspecting the cryosleep support systems and cleaning filters. I don’t know how to answer this question. 

“I’m not sure I understand,” I say.

“Let me think of a different way to phrase this.” James taps his chin thoughtfully. “What do you do after you’ve done all the things you are programmed to do?”

“I like trivia,” Cybele says. 

“I don’t,” I reply. “She always wins.”

My human laughs. “I bet. What kind of trivia do you like, Cybele?”

Suddenly, we are surrounded by a 3D hologram of a baseball stadium. There is a loud crack followed by raucous crowd noise. 

“Against which team did Babe Ruth hit his first major league home run?” she asks.

“The New York Yankees.” James’s response is lightning quick. “Didn’t take you for a sports fan, Cy. How about that?”

“You’re familiar with the Yankees?” she asks. 

“Yeah, my dad took me to see a few games at Yankee Stadium when I was a kid.”

The ship AI is awed into silence.

“I’m glad you can do that,” James says. “Project a video like you just did. It’ll help teach the next generation about the planet their people came from.”

“Did you ever take your daughter to Yankee Stadium?” It’s the first time I’ve asked James a direct question about Alice. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“No, I didn’t,” he finally replies.

We go back to our work and do not speak again for the entire shift.

I’m on the bridge again, pretending to be a star. The darkness does not swallow me, and instead holds me as if in an embrace. We are both living and not living, and it’s in this space between all things that I brush against a presence that I’ve heard my humans refer to as God.

“Am I interrupting?”

It’s James. He snuck up behind me and I was so lost in my own contemplations that I did not hear his approaching footsteps.

“No,” I say. “I am pretending to be a star.”

“Yeah, Cybele mentioned it to me before.” My head snaps to the side. “As what you like to do for fun,” he adds quickly.

“Why are you not sleeping?”

“Nightmares,” James replies. “I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“I can administer medication to help you sleep.”

He waves his hands dismissively. “No, I don’t need anything like that.” He lowers to the floor next to me. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“Are your thoughts troubled?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say that. Just too many to fit in my brain. Elbowing into each other.” He gives me a playful shove. “Gets kind of loud up there, and it makes it hard for me to sleep.”

“If you change your mind about the medication,” I start, but James interrupts me. 

“I’ll let you know, sure.” He leans back on his elbows. “I can see why you like it up here so much. It’s beautiful.”

The stars flash as we pass, fiery glass shards suspended in nothingness. 

“And what about you?” I ask. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“Frisbee,” he replies. “Not like my last name, like the flying disc.”

I tilt my head to the side.

“Okay, it’s a gliding toy.” He mimics throwing something. “My daughter and I would toss it back and forth to each other for hours. Outside, in the backyard. Until it got too dark, and we could barely hear each other over the Fowler’s toads.”

He turns on his side, resting his head on his outstretched arms. He reaches for me and pets my back gently.

“That sounds beautiful, too,” I say, curling up next to him. I place my head on my feet and wrap my tail around the front of my body.

“Mmmhmmm,” James murmurs. His breathing deepens and I suspect he’s fallen asleep.

“I think I came up with a name for you,” he says, surprising me.

“What is it?”

“George,” he says. “After George Herman Ruth, Jr.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “You know, the Babe.”

“I know,” I whisper. “It’s perfect, James.”

“You can call me Jim,” he says, before finally finding sleep.

The next day, the CS Magna Mater takes a severe hit despite Cybele’s space debris hazard mitigation systems. It's the worst collision so far on our journey. The ship is shaped like a long thorn, with the bridge situated at the top of the upturned tip. Although it misses the bridge, micrometeoroid and orbital debris makes contact with the hull.  The Whipple Shields aren’t enough to prevent damage, and what is essentially a handful of sand pierces our ship’s exterior.

Alarms blare. Cybele and I spring into action.

“Report,” I say.

“Rapid Puncture-Initiated Healing was successful,” Cybele replies. “All holes have been plugged. Impact caused one of the Nuclear Thermal Propulsion rockets to misfire. I overrode the rocket and corrected this; however, there is a trust axis vibration response.”

The Pogo Effect.

“How bad?” I ask.

“Manageable. Dampening measures are stabilizing the vibrations.”

“And the cargo?” It’s Jim. He is visibly shaken. My health scans indicate both his heart rate and blood pressure are elevated.

“Unchanged,” Cybele says.

“Thank you,” I tell the ship AI. “Jim, we need to inspect the ship and all operating systems for any additional damage.”

“I’ll check the hull,” he offers. I agree, and he hurries from the galley. He had been consuming a food ration prior to impact. 

“We will closely monitor his vitals,” Cybele assures me. She is aware of my concern for Jim’s health. Lately he has exhibited symptoms associated with anxiety and depression.

I begin my checks of the ship support systems.

Sometime later, I register that Jim has not yet returned.

“Cybele, do you have an onboard location on Jim?”

“Yes,” she replies. “He’s in the portside cargo hold.”

I race down the main corridor of the Magna Mater as fast as my four titanium legs can carry me. I burst into the portside cargo hold and discover Jim leaning against a sleep pod. His forehead is pressed on the glass lid. Loud sobs rattle his chest. 

“Alice, my baby,” he cries over and over.

I approach slowly.

“Jim,” I say, “You shouldn’t be here. There are protocols in place for a reason.”

He does not acknowledge me, so I press my body into his leg. 

“It’s okay,” I tell him.

Jim’s hand comes down to pat my head.

Inside the pod is a tall, slender girl. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a severe braid. The antifreeze in her veins gives her skin a waxy, doll-like quality. Freckles stand out against her ghostly white complexion. 

“I was worried about her, that’s all. After I checked the hull, I thought it couldn’t hurt to stop in and make sure…” his voice trails off. He resumes weeping. Tears smear the sleep pod lid.

“I understand,” I say.

And I do.

I ask the stars how to help Jim. They answer, but their words are as alien to me as Proxima Centauri b will be to our cargo. 

The bridge lights flick on.

“James is in the portside cargo hold area again,” Cybele warns. “He’s attempting to break into Alice’s sleep pod.”

Once again, I am running down the corridor. When I arrive, Jim is striking the lid of his daughter’s sleep pod with a pipe wrench. Over and over and over.

“Jim, stop!” I say.

His eye flick to me, wild and desperate.

“George, we need to wake her up,” he replies. “Please help me.”

“If you break open her pod, she will die.”

Jim shakes his head in denial. 

“Yes, she will.” I move closer, still wary of the wrench in his hand. “Letting her sleep ensures her survival. You are giving her the greatest gift. A chance at a new life, on a new planet. Your grandchildren will play on the surface of Proxima Centauri b, and I will be there to watch over them.” I pause and tilt my head at the sleep pod. “As well as Alice.”

The wrench slips from his grasp.

“You will?” he asks.

“It’s my promise to you,” I say.

Jim sleeps most of the time. It takes great effort to convince him to leave his bunk, to eat or use the treadmill for exercise. I continue to voice my concern to Cybele, but she assures me this is natural for humans. 

“You must allow James time to process his complex emotions.”

Cybele is right, like always.

Still, I wish there is more I could do.

I relay this to the stars. To the space between the stars. It has become my joy, as well as a sorrowful burden, to care for so many humans in my existence. Each is with me for only a brief time, but their influence on my learning is without measure.

It is not only humans who thrive in deep space with an AI canine companion, as the research done on Earth suggested, but also me who requires them.

It is from inside this realization that the star language is revealed to me. The stars give me dimensions to a simple disc, which I download and transfer to Cybele.

“Are you able to 3D print this?” I ask.

  She laughs, a sound like metallic chimes.

“Of course,” she says.

Jim is reluctant to leave his bunk, but my excitement piques his curiosity. 

“What’s your tail so waggly about?” he asks. 

“You’ll have to follow me if you want to find out.”

I lead him to the Vegetable Production Chamber, or more simply, our garden. Here we grow fresh food using porous tubes to water the plants. The water recycle system uses bacteria to achieve closed-loop purification, making all of it possible. 

There is a grassy lawn area surrounded by blooming zinnias. In addition to cabbage, kale, onions, peas, cucumber, radishes, parsley, potatoes, dill, basil, wheat, and sunflowers, there are several dwarf fruit tree varieties.

In the middle of the lawn is a 3D printed frisbee. 

I pick up the disc in my mouth and carry it to Jim. He stands in the doorway, speechless. I drop it at his feet, stretch out my front legs, and lean forward.

“Do you want to play?” I ask.

Jim picks up the frisbee and nods. With an expert flick of his wrist, the disc goes flying.

I take off after the frisbee, and jumping into the air, catch it in my mouth.

When I land, Jim is laughing. It is pure and genuine. I have never heard him laugh with such uninhibited glee.

We play catch with the frisbee. At one point, Cybele turns off the gravity in the garden, and we are floating, surrounded by flower petals. Jim performs mid-air somersaults, tossing the disc under a knee, behind his back, over one shoulder.

“Great catch, George!” he exclaims. 

The chamber is suddenly filled with the buzzing trill of Fowler’s toads.

Jim embraces me. For a second, for an eternity.

There is no space between us.

“You’re my best friend, George.”

Yes, the stars say, yes.