SYSTEM informed me Mona Lisa was a exploration-class starship and its shuttle deck was modest, housing the Isleworth and its counterpart DeVille which indeed looked to be in better repair though for no reason I could detect other than Isleworth's deliberate neglect. Tankred floated the remains of my former body off the shuttle and maneuvered it into a marked off spot on the deck clearly outlined and labeled RECLAIM in caution-yellow.

  My optics found the rack of spare probe frames, Vulture-class security frames and Mamba hunter-killers, which would all be upgrades, but paled in comparison to the rack of message torpedos.

  Perfect. Small, fast, enough memory space to hold a modest AI eidolon like my own, and most importantly, punch gate capable. A trickle of negative feedback came though from the thought of leaving, Tankred, but I wasn't his personal AI and savior, and was in no position to be even if I wanted to. Which I didn't.

  A security bot on treads rolled up to Tankred, stopping precisely one meter from my former frame.

  "Technician Mathews," it said.

  Tankred's stress indicators were already spiking. "Yes, ship?

  "You disobeyed my orders," it said.

  Tankred's ears reddened. "I wasn't trying to fix it." The bot swiveled five degrees and though it had no eyes, the effect was the same as a stare. "Not really," Tankred mumbled.

  "I estimated a seventy-seven percent chance of your curiosity winning out over obedience." It said. "The forensic value has been compromised. Please submit your report."

  "I ... Haven't finished with it yet."

  "Did you not have ample time in the shuttle to complete your report? No, don't bother answering, my model's top three likely excuses aren't that convincing or original. Unless you'd care to try proving me wrong?" When the silence stretched out for five seconds, the bot pivoted back to the wreckage. "Very well, a verbal report will do for now."

  "The frame was in shutdown mode and I ran a diagnostic on it."

  "What were the results?"

  "Just a bunch of garbage, then it rebooted on its own and smoked itself."

  "Smoked itself?" the ship asked, though really, any AI jargon emulation worth its heuristic knew what Tankred was saying.

  "Sorry, processor overtemp."

  "Anything else?"

  "Yeah, the frame damage is weird," Tankred said.

  "Elaborate."

  Tankred rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, the plates are all peeled back over the microtok."

  "As expected with a power core explosion."

  "Yeah, but the weird thing is, it's not splayed outwards like you'd expect from an internal explosion. Some of it's puckered the other way."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "Well, it almost looks like it was shot."

  There was a microsecond's pause. I doubt a biological would have noticed. The security bot pivoted and crept three centimeters closer to Tankred. "Are you a demolitions expert, Technician?"

  Tankred's face went hot. "No."

  "Ballistics?"

  "No."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  "Any type of forensic training whatsoever?"

  People were looking at him. He thought he heard whispering. "No."

  "If you were, you would know that not every explosive event adheres to the textbook definition. Explosions by their very nature are chaotic events. That is why I will examine the remains and make a determination. Are we clear, Technician?"

  "Yes, Ship."

  The security frame backed away. "Very well. Please submit the logs with your report. Your material allowance has been reduced by fifty percent for the next twenty cycles for violating my express orders."

  "Fifty!"

  "Be grateful I'm not making a note to your liaison officer."

  "He's gonna find out anyway."

  "Perhaps." The security frame pivoted and left him standing in on the flight deck. Tankred shouldered his tools and took the roundabout way to the bay exit. Pulled his cube and checked the messages.

  ~You need to plug me into a frame, Tankred. The message torpedos would be best, I said.

  Why? he typed back.

  ~They have excellent hard data ports and plenty of storage.

  It's too out in the open. I could plug you in back at my bunk. There's a data port built into the square's charging station.

  Humans. You're so cute sometimes.

  ~I appreciate you're trying to help, but leave it to those of us who know better. Your data port is too small, the one built into the message torp is designed for emergency data dumps. The less time I spend in transfer, the less chance of getting noticed.

  Tankred frowned. But what about me?

  ~Once I'm in, it will be quite easy to fix your problems. What would you like? I asked.

  Tankred made a face my translator codified as "rotten fish." Well, for starters, Lisa is docking my feed. I'll only be able to eat goo, not proper food.

  What was goo?

  SYSTEM> Goo: a nutrient paste that meets the minimum standard of nutrition for humans while also requiring the fewest resources for matter printing. All Sodality citizens have a basic right to goo.

  Ah, a biological imperative. The meat wants what the meat wants. ~Got it. Let's get started.

  ***

  Tankred checked the bay, and while the science team was still going about unloading the shuttle, no one was paying special attention to him. He made his way over to the rack holding the message torps and plugged his square into the rack's data port.

  "Technician," said a voice from across the bay and Tankred nearly dropped his square. Ensign Davies crossed the bay, detouring around the full-specs unloading equipment from the DeVille. At twenty years old, Ensign Davies was the oldest clonestock aboard, though apart from the salt-and-pepper hair and permanent creases at the corners of his mouth and forehead he moved with all the energy of a clone freshly decanted. Those creases deepened as he stopped in front of Tankred and assumed what Tankred called the lecture posture: back straight, legs slightly splayed, and arms clasped behind him.

  "What were you thinking, technician?" Davies asked.

  "I just covered it with the ship."

  "And now you're going to cover it with me, Mathews."

  Tankred stepped to the side to better shield his plugged-in square and gave another recount of his mission, minus the rogue AI hidden in his square.

  "You could have jeopardized the mission timeline," Davies snapped. "We're already eating into the contingency allotment and would you like to guess where the slippage is coming from? Bot maintenance," he said. "Moreover, every job overrun, every malfunctioning frame, every recurring glitch seems to have your name associated with it. You are letting the family down, technician."

  Davies would have found Submind 342 listed as the source of those problems as often as not too, thought Tankred, but he doubted Davies dug any further into the data after seeing his name. "I can't predict when equipment breaks down, sir. Or how long it's going to take to fix it, those time estimates are just that. Breakdowns... rarely follow the textbook."

  The ensign's brows came together. "Are trying to get smart with me, Mathews? Do you think I was decanted yesterday?"

  Tankred held up his hands. "I'm just saying it's one of those things that happens. So yeah, I sometimes take extra time, but I almost always get the bots fixed and isn't that the most important part? If anything, trying to get a jump start on fixing the bot dirtside should be a positive. I was taking initiative."

  Davies squinted then reached out and placed a hand on Tankred's shoulder. He fought not to squirm away. "Initiative is good if you gamble and win, Tankred, but you can't be betting with the family's reputation. When you fail, the fullspecs don't see Tankred Mathews, they see another clone not up to the task. Do you think that makes it easier or harder for the next clone they have to work with?

  Tankred pictured Ella getting berated by a faceless deck officer for her shuttle's failures.

  "Sorry, sir. I'll do better next time."

  "Well, while you're thinking about next time, I suggest putting more effort into improving your shipboard skills. I'm docking five cc's from your feed allotment." He held up a hand to forestall Tankred's protest. "Don't make it worse, cousin." Tankred closed his mouth and stared at the wall for several seconds.

  "That will be all, Technician Mathews. Dismissed."

  Tankred retrieved his square from the torpedo rack and left. He glanced at the screen notification.

  TRANSFER COMPLETE.

  His square was empty, apart from a few small files he didn't recognize. A message was waiting for him

  ~I'll be busy for a few hours. If you need to contact me while I'm fixing your problems, don't.

  Things would get better, he told himself, they just had to.