So, I was writing. Sort of. I'm not too terribly proud of this one, because I was tired and bored and couldn't stop watching youtube videos of Aha. Please, don't judge. Or do. I guess I don't really mind. Anyway, here it is, so you can discover how even someone such as I can fail.

That was sarcasm, by the way. It's hard to convey with no voice, but....anyway, here it is:

Space. Not that it is terrible, actually--I like the beginning. It just sort of fell aprt, I think--so here's the texty text.

James's eyes were closed, thick, mascara-ed lashes overly dramatically done, as usual. Slender fingers tapped, brushed over the new toy's thigh. I wrinkle my nose. Gross. Then, just to wipe off that contented smirk, I say quite sincerely, "I'm pregnant."

His eyes fly open to reveal those angelic peepers of cyan, and he kicks the bot across the room. She, if it can be called as such, makes a rather melancholy clunk.

I raise an eyebrow. "With that chocolate cake you made. I really need to start working out."
He growls at me, and pushes past, through the plastic doorway and into the carpeted hall. 
"There's work to do!" I call sweetly, flicking my fingernails, and following. 

It's a typical day for us, here at the TerraPrep Automated Engineering Facility. Admittedly, we are not model employees, what with James' collection of company property, used for, well, non-textbook purposes, and my penchant for protesting every aspect of our work. 

How are we still here? Well...I'll get to that. Right now I think I can smell James burning another casserole. Dinner for two, comprised of ick, blech, and onions. For some reason, onions are the only thing we can grow here anymore. Kind of sad. I miss tomatoes. I don't care what anyone says, those tiny shriveled bundles of salt aren't sun-dried, or even vegetables. Actually, I know they aren't, because tomatoes are fruit.

Sorry. I'm a bit of a know-it-all. That's originally why I was hired, you see. 
Well, I was hired because I was smart, not because I rubbed it in people's faces, though I suspect James liked that bit. At least until I stopped using it on his enemies in the office, and only on him.

The food isn't really that bad. James, a human from the original Earth, was a pretty good cook. But with our range of supplies, there's not much room for creativity. Or for taking tastebuds into account. I haven't asked him to disable mine yet, because I feel that would be cruel to him, and while that wouldn't usually stop me...I would miss it. And we might not have the power to turn them back on. 


I enter the control room, and find James bent over a computer, one of the thick backed types. We don't have the newer types they have in the ships that transport people. We don't need the new ones.. but the speed is appalling.

But..if he's here, what's the burning? I tilt my nose to the air, and whiff. Carbon, of course...and silicon. Oh no. "James!Fire!" He jumps up, and I am grateful for his reflexes as he immediately pulls out the tiny, pressurized container of fire suppressor, while I lead him, my eyes closed to better my scenting, to the scene--one of the monitors has combusted. He sprays it over with the foam, and sighs. "Fifth one this week. We really need to clear out the hard drives..."
"We can't." I remind him immediately, automatically. "They're keeping us in orbit." He rolls his eyes, Russian accent thickening as he gets annoyed. "I don't care. I'd rather not die of an explosion one of these days." I sigh, and he glares at me. He hates it when I breathe. 

The next day, James seems depressed. He doesn't even play with Tricsie or Sabrena, his favorite bots.

I stay out of his way most of the day, and watch the old fashioned, digital clocks count down the minutes. Sometimes I wish I didn't know how the rest of the world was doing, how behind we are. How obsolete.
But automatic updates are nonnegotiable, and news reports used to give James some enthusiasm. Not now.

I'm worried. He isn't eating. He says 'There's not much point, is there?" 

I have to agree. The decline continues, until I don't see him anymore. He sleeps most of the day. No more automatons of the female persuasion disappear from the storerooms. 


One morning I am drinking water. It is unnecessary, but something about the filtered, synthetic fluid seems....natural. It is interesting, and I like the way it is smooth and soft and cool in my mouth.
I see a control panel by the wall, and I step over, curious. It is covered with dust, but the words read 'Observatory Controls'. I frown. This seems odd. We never had..windows.

Or did we? I press the startup button, enter the passcode now completely unneeded with a total of two employees on board, and fiddle. 
A low hum fills the room, and I am motionless as light, no, darkness, fills the room. The white walls, dimly lit by old fluorescent lights, are lifting, and I am speechless, stunned, and enthralled. Endless. It is endless black, pinpricks of stars that look no closer than from a planet. It is nothingness. Emptiness.

"Put those down." A haggard voice turns my head, and I look back at James. He is sick. I can see it and hear it in him. 
Not ill. But sick all the same. I feel pity and refuse. "No. I need to see it all. Come here." He doesn't. He sits at a computer and closes his eyes. And I see something in my periphery. I turn, press my perfectly proportioned features to the pane of window. Not SiliGlass. I don't know what it is. It must be archaic. Maybe even real glass. But this ship is old. I frown. There is something there. I move around the room, till I reach controls for propulsion. We haven't used them in years, though not for lack of fuel. For lack of hope. 
He looks up briefly, eyes red rimmed and tired. "What are you--" "Hush." I say sharply, and let my programmed fingers dance across the keys, throwing the ship to life. We are moving, turning, and James, thrown by my attitude, stands, then sits with a thud. It's there. In front of us. A planet. He is breathing quickly, and I smile. We will land. We will land. We will land.

But our ship is old. It does not know how to survive the atmosphere, and as we are hurtling down, I do not know what to do to save it.

Then I wake up.

James stands above me, wearing an eyepatch and a loose t-shirt. "You made it." He smiles.

I sit up. "We...--"He cuts me off. "We landed. You landed us. I don't know where you learned to do that, Sten. You were like a computer."

"I try." I murmur, suddenly uncomfortable. I am a computer, and he knows that. 
But I don't like being remi--"Sorry, I'm sorry." He says. "I shouldn't have said that. Now...get up. Come on. They said you'd be fine." Who? But I obey, unused to this commanding nature, and follow him out. Out of what I realize is a hut. An honest-to-goodness, mud and reed hut. And as I exit, I am flooded with scent, sound, and sights: A plain, tall grasses, trees in the distance, and people. People everywhere, with four legs, with two, with...seven? Huh.
"Where are we?" I venture, and he shakes his head. "I have no idea. They call it Fayl. They have some way of communicating with any language...technology I've never seen. I don't even know what they are..But we are staying." I look at him, surprised at the sound in his voice. Determination. And happiness.

"Why? It's life, Jim..but not as we know it." He pauses. "Because any life is better than no life, Sten."