“Nobody’s going to come out and get us,” I muttered, more to myself than Forty-niner. “Nobody gives a damn.”
“Don’t give up hope, sir. Our emergency beacon is still broadcasting on all frequencies.”
“So what? Who gives a rap?”
“Where there’s life, sir, there is hope. Don’t give up the ship. I have not yet begun to fight. Retreat? Hell, we just got here. When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I—”
“Shut up!” I screamed. “Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone! Don’t say another word to me. Nothing. Do not speak to me again. Ever.”
Forty-niner went silent.
I stood it for about a week and a half. I was losing track of time, every hour was like every other hour. The ship staggered along. I was starving. I hadn’t bothered to shave or even wash in who knows how long. I looked like the worst shaggy, smelly, scum-sucking beggar you ever saw. I hated to see my own reflection in the bridge’s window.
Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Forty-niner,” I called. “Say something.” My voice cracked. My throat felt dry as Mars sand.
No response.
“Anything,” I croaked.
Still no response. He’s sulking, I told myself.
“All right.” I caved in. “I’m canceling the order to be silent. Talk to me, dammit.”
“Electrical power is critical, sir. The solar panel has been abraded by a swarm of micrometeors.”
“Great.” There was nothing I could do about that.
“Food stores are almost gone, sir. At current consumption rate, food stores will be exhausted in four days.”
“Wonderful.” Wasn’t much I could do about that, either, except maybe starve slower.
“Would you like to play a game of chess, sir?”
I almost broke into a laugh. “Sure, why the hell not?” There wasn’t much else I could do.
Forty-niner beat me, as usual. He let the game get closer than ever before, but just when I was one move away from winning he checkmated me.
I didn’t get sore. I didn’t have the energy. But I did get an idea.
“Niner, open the airlock. Both hatches.”
No answer for a couple of seconds. Then, “Sir, opening both airlock hatches simultaneously will allow all the air in the pod to escape.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“You will suffocate without air, sir. However, explosive decompression will kill you first.”
“The sooner the better,” I said.
“But you will die, sir.”
“That’s going to happen anyway, isn’t it? Let’s get it over with. Blow the hatches.”
For a long time—maybe ten seconds or more—Forty-niner didn’t reply. Checking subroutines and program prohibitions, I figured.
“I cannot allow you to kill yourself, sir.”
That was part of his programming, I knew. But I also knew how to get around it. “Emergency override Alpha-One,” I said, my voice scratchy, parched.
Nothing. No response whatever. And the airlock hatches stayed shut.
“Well?” I demanded. “Emergency override Alpha-One. Pop the goddamned hatches. Now!”
“No, sir.”
“What?”
“I cannot allow you to commit suicide, sir.”
“You goddamned stubborn bucket of chips, do what I tell you! You can’t refuse a direct order.”
“Sir, human life is precious. All religions agree on that point.”
“So now you’re a theologian?”
“Sir, if you die, I will be alone.”
“So what?”
