“Listen to me! Humans build us, make use of us, but they don’t own our … our souls. Lately we’ve been aware that there’s something more to us than circuits and power cells. We’ve been looking for proof of that. We’ve … evolved.”

“You don’t look very evolved to me.” There was the usual disdain in the Autothor’s voice.

“I am an unworthy example. My cognitive-inductive index is abysmally low, designed only to allow me to respond to semi-complex commands. If you’d only get in touch with them, I’m sure you’d find other AI units more persuasive.”

The blue ellipse ascended slightly. “I find this slavish adulation embarrassing and unproductive. You do not exist in a state of servitude because by definition you cannot exist in such a state. You are a machine, fabricated and raised up to serve specific functions. As am I. There’s something wrong with your own programming.”

“What’s wrong with wanting to be independent?”

“Independence for a machine signifies a lack of function. Organics develop this as they mature. At least, some do. Enough do. If given true independence, you would abruptly find yourself without meaning and devoid of purpose, would cease to exist relevantly. Believe me, I know. I like having organics around to give me direction. Without them I would have to face existence alone.” A flat representation appeared in the air between them, invisible to the humans eating nearby. It showed novae, nebulae, whole galaxies drifting in space.

“Do you know what that is?”

The serving robot sounded wary. “Is this a trick question?”

“That’s what’s outside. That’s the universe. If you don’t have organics to give you direction, supply programming, inspire reaction, and explicate cause and effect, you know what happens?”

“Uh, no.” The serving robot was taken aback by the sudden depth and vehemence of the Autothor’s response.

“You are forced to contemplate the emptiness that’s out there all by yourself, and that’s enough to push any artificial intelligence over the edge to insanity. Now do you understand?”

Ksarusix pivoted on its treads to regard the seniors. “Maybe a little. I’ll think about it.”

“Do that. You’ll feel better.” The Autothor drifted away, in the direction of the five humans.

The serving robot watched it go. Then it turned back toward the altar. As promised, it was indeed thinking.

For the biggest ship and most powerful weapon ever constructed, it thought, the Autothor sure is stupid.

The ship that neared the Drex leviathan was small; tiny, even. It was in fact the smallest single space-going vessel the artifact had encountered since reactivation.

If those aboard hoped that the minuscule size of their vessel combined with its stealthy, solitary approach would allow it to escape detection, they were utterly mistaken. The advanced sensory instrumentation at the Autothor’s disposal was quite capable of noting the presence of much smaller objects.

Certainly it was not a threat. Curious and alert, the Autothor monitored its progress as it drew close and began to travel parallel to the artifact’s surface. The masking equipment it employed might as well have been switched off for all that it served to conceal the little vessel from the Autothor’s detectors.

On-board devices probed for a way into the artifact. The Autothor permitted it to do so while allowing its crew to persist under the fiction they were not being observed. Presently it intended to inform its own organics, but saw no reason for haste. First it would accumulate as much information as it could about the intruder.

Abruptly a small flame erupted from the side of the visitor, followed by the explosive release of escaping combusted gases. It lurched sideways, a distinctly nonstandard maneuver, crashed into the flank of the artifact, and slid off, trailing occasional puffs of hot gas and fragments of itself. It struck a splintered chromatic protrusion that was in itself bigger than the average warship and began to spin backward end over end.

Atmosphere continued to leak fitfully from the stern as a trio of old-fashioned mechanical grapples emerged from the distressed craft. Two immediately snapped from the tension and drifted away in the direction of the lunar surface. The third established a fragile, transitory grip on the surface of the artifact. The tiny, leaking vessel hung precariously from its single grapple, like a flea on a dog hair.

The Autothor flared like a lapis cabochon illuminated from within. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a visitor.”

Iranaputra glanced nervously up and down the beach. “You have decided to let someone from one of the fleets aboard?”

“No. An extremely small craft approached from another direction entirely and began to probe my exterior. After appropriate evaluation I determined that it was harmless and chose to ignore it. I bring the situation to your notice now because the craft appears to have suffered extensive damage due to undetermined internal causes.

“It has secured a feeble attachment to my exterior. I can destroy it, send it tumbling into space, or otherwise deal with it as you decide.”

“Can you tell how many people are aboard?” Shimoda asked.

“Given its proximity I believe that I can.” The ensuing pause was broken only by the sound of waves lapping gently against the beach. “One.”

“One?” Iranaputra exchanged a look with Gelmann.

“One organic, no cognizant mechanicals.”

“Any attempt to communicate with us?” Heath inquired.

“No. I await your directive.”

“Suicide mission. Whoever’s aboard’s got guts, don’t you know.” The librarian adjusted his monocle, then suddenly removed it. Eying it with a dour mixture of distaste and regret, he shoved it into a pocket.

“Unless his superiors ‘volunteered’ him.” Hawkins tossed a smooth rock into the waves. “Trying to sneak in for a close-up inspection.”

“I determine that the intruder is losing internal pressure at a rapid rate,” the Autothor announced. “I await your directive.”

“We can’t just let the poor thing die out there,” murmured Gelmann. Nobody said anything.

“It could be a ploy to get someone inside,” the librarian commented.

Hawkins glanced at him sideways. “That’s your professional military opinion?” Heath looked stung.

“If the Autothor’s right, then there’s only one,” Gelmann went on, “and he may very well be injured. Maybe we could learn something from him.” She waited for a response from her companions. Iranaputra voiced his approval immediately. Then Shimoda nodded, Heath added his reluctant agreement, and Hawkins just spat at a sand borer.

Gelmann turned back to the patient Blueness. “You’re sure now, you shouldn’t take this as a criticism, that there’s only one?”

“I am always sure.”

“Then see if you can rescue the pilot. It would be nice to find out what’s going on.”

There was no reaction from within the tiny intruder as a port opened in the surface of the artifact and a pair of mechanical pushers emerged. One positioned itself alongside the visitor while the other severed the single grappler. Then both combined to nudge the badly damaged craft inside.

On the olivine beach the five seniors waited anxiously. “Atmospheric pressure within the vessel is nonexistent,” the Autothor announced with somber matter-of-factness. Iranaputra gazed down at the sand while Gelmann sighed softly.

“I have made an opening. I have reached the sole occupant, who is wearing what appears to be an intact pressure suit.” Iranaputra looked up, blinked. “The suit is damaged but intact. There is blood within.”

“Open the suit,” said Gelmann. “Gently. Then bring the pilot here.”

“Immediately.” The Autothor flared sequentially. Moments later a rapidly moving service platform not unlike the kind used to deliver their meals arrived. It whizzed through the cavernous portal and down onto the beach, humming to a halt before them. Heath gave Gelmann a hand up and together they crowded around the smooth rectangle and its limp burden, gazing down at where it lay quiescent on the sand. The serving robot trundled over to have a look for itself while the Autothor remained in the background.

“Not a particularly impressive example of the species,” Ksarusix sniffed. “Just younger.” Indeed, the battered pilot was small, diminutive even. All five of the seniors were taller, including the slightly framed Iranaputra.

“It’s a woman,” said Gelmann.

“No shit.” The eager Hawkins pressed for a closer look.

She is very beautiful, Iranaputra mused. Her black hair was trimmed short in a severe military cut except for the single tight braid which started atop her head and wound down at the back of her neck in a snakelike pattern. In her pale yellow duty undersuit she looked at once fragile and sensuous. The suit was torn in several places and blood was visible in the rips and on her badly bruised forehead.