Elbow-deep in the guts of an XL-5 memory unit, Pavo was beginning to question his life choices. There was only a thin gap between the unit’s hard, shell-like casing and the riveted bulkhead and this space was darker than the sky between stars; a thick, sticky darkness that seemed easy to drown in. It introduced a fierce sense of claustrophobia that he was unused to. A galvanised bolt had been digging into his elbow for the better part of an hour and the prickle of a bruised nerve radiated down his arm like popping candy beneath his skin. If he licked his upper lip, he could taste salt and sweat and the bitter filth of frothy fuel that had leaked into the component during the shuttle’s rough landing at the hands of whoever had last rented it. Pavo had a lithe, lean form – scrawny, one might say, but in the manner of a street cat; wiry with a sharpness about him that implied he had a vicious bite – but being squashed into such a narrow space would get to anyone, himself included.
Officially, he was working. It was a simple job – a basic clean-n-repair that he could have fixed in his sleep – and it would deposit enough credits in his account to cover the rental fee on the storage unit that had served as his residence for the last two months. The unit was only a few inches larger than his current location, but it fit a mattress and the sturdy lockbox that harboured his Universal Citizen ID card and a remote drive holding the backed version of his AI. The little string of code had only been sentient for just under nine days, but Pavo already felt oddly protective over it, not quite in a paternal sense but certainly a similar sentiment. Zora, his creation. The mere thought of her filled him with pride. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. This job was for her benefit, after all. He’d perform the repairs, but he’d come away with a little extra tucked up his sleeve. If Zora was going to evolve, she’d need room; Pavo’s real job was to steal a secondary memory disc from the XL-5 unit.
In theory, its loss would go unnoticed. It was a redundant backup, only brought into action in the rare event of the ship’s main computer being knocked offline for longer than an hour. But this was a private shuttle which never left orbit – rented only to tourists who fancied a joyride up to one of the many satellite clubs to enjoy nectar-sweet drinks as thick as syrup with the distinctive citrus tang of any fruit grown in Metalio’s mineral-rich soil – and so never faced threats such as an electromagnetic storm that could potentially knock a ship’s brain offline. And even if some sort of accident or manual overhaul uncovered the disc’s absence, Pavo hoped to be gone within a fortnight. Metalio was a haven of technological odds-and-ends – hence why he’d fetched up here to begin with – but it was also lawless and he didn’t fancy his chances if anyone discovered his fully-functional AI. The block which housed his storage unit doubled as a black-market ring; so far no one had dared to mess with him, unnerved by his silent demeanour and cyborg biology, but his luck would run out eventually.
He wedged his knee higher to keep himself in place. Above him, situated at an unhelpful forty-five-degree angle with the distinctive green glare of night vision, a security camera observed his every move. He angled his chin to conceal his wrist, pressing a thumb to the underside of his arm where sleek metal met pale skin. Coding Zora into his own body had been a risky move but it was about to pay off. He tucked his head lower, curling around the projected holo until his spine ached in protest.
“Zora? You there?”
An indignant flash of purple light came from the holoprojector chip in his wrist. “Always.”
“Remember the plan?”
“I’d say my memory is somewhat superior to yours.”
Pavo twisted his head awkwardly to wipe the sweat from his upper lip against his shoulder. The watchful stare of the camera bored into his back, as intense as a laser and potentially just as dangerous. He lowered his voice to a thready whisper despite knowing there were no mics.
“Not quite yet. We need to get our hands on this disc before you can make that claim.”
Zora’s code was sufficiently advanced for her voice to display emotions. She sounded distinctly excited in the manner of a young child introduced to the concept of a fairground for the first time. It would have been endearing had it not tested Pavo’s already frayed nerves. He needed her sharp, focussed, not giddily rushing around the ship’s systems as if the mission were a simple game. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He gulped a lungful of sticky air and tried not to gag on the fumes. He wasn’t entirely sure how his life choices had led him here; he’d never broken the law – although technically his very existence broke many ethical rules of smaller solar systems which didn’t permit bioengineering – but now he was about to become a thief and possibly even a fugitive.
“Cameras will now loop footage from the last hour. We have about twenty minutes before someone figures out there’s a glitch.” Zora’s lights blossomed into a merry lilac. “Did I do well?”
“Very well,” Pavo murmured absently. His muscles were aching and he was grateful for the reinforced plates in his ankle joints as he pushed himself deeper into the unit. The disc met his fingertips, cold and hard like the edge of one of the pearly shells that often washed up on the shores of his home world. He eased it free and tucked it into his suit where it nestled above his heart, a sharp shock of ice against his overheated skin. Zora monitored the spike in his heartrate but made no comment.
He slithered out of the unit and into the inky tunnel which spat him out in the cargo bay. No one questioned him as he stashed his uniform in his designated locker, nor when he clocked out or even when he cast several furtive looks over his shoulder upon leaving the spaceport. He could practically sense Zora’s irritation; could actually hear her voice, weaving through his auditory implant.
“Stop looking so suspicious. You’re going to get us caught.”
Pavo didn’t dignify her accusation with a reply. She had a point but he didn’t care for the snarky undertone with which it had been said, particularly not when he knew fully well that she’d inherited her sarcastic streak from him. Aspects of his personality had leaked into her code, influencing his work just as a creator’s emotions crept into music and art; he only had himself to blame. But the way she viewed the world – beautiful yet something to be feared, to be observed from a distance with an escape plan constantly at the ready – was also his doing and that unnerved him more than her character traits ever could. He was an outcast; Zora was supposed to be better than him.
He threaded his way through the streets; narrow, dark arteries that cut diagonally through lopsided city blocks, filled with thick webs of wires and clothing lines and once-merry flags that had been dulled by grime to a sickly yellow and now flapped in the hot smog like snared butterflies, as frantic and ghostlike as the people scurrying along the slimy flagstones beneath them.
Metalio had joined the Universal Alliance as a thriving mining community but those precious metals had run out over a century ago and now the rich stayed rich while the poor just kept getting poorer. Whispers of civil unrest kept the streets abuzz but it would never grow bigger than a mere rumour and the occasional propaganda. Such a flyer – join the rebellion, reclaim our planet’s wealth – was tacked to his door. It had peeled at the edges, corners curled by damp vapours – sewage, fuel, body odour, smoke with no discernible origin – and Pavo tore it down and crumpled it into a wet ball.
He stole a final swift glance around the alley, then slipped into his storage unit and bolted the door behind him. His heartbeat was fluttery in his throat, fingertips, behind his eyes. He couldn’t tell whether his hair was damp from humidity or sweat. He combed black strands out of his face with his fingers as he delicately sidestepped his few belongings; stacked parts retrieved from old tech yards, lumpy mattress with a shrunken home-stitched quilt, old-fashioned paper books lovingly stored in an airtight container, and his only good jacket, still in mint condition from the day it had been gifted to him. He pressed his fingertips to the remote holoprojector to let Zora transfer across, then sank onto the mattress. He kicked his boots aside and drew his feet up to sit cross-legged, disc cradled closely.
Zora’s lights floated above the projector. She had yet to decide on a proper avatar. It had taken her long enough to pick a name, so Pavo suspected choosing a face would take her months, maybe years.
“So?” Zora pestered. “Is it any good?”
Pavo tilted the disc into her lights. Even with his enhanced vision, it was difficult to make out the details in such dim illumination. Fluorescent strips ran in two jagged lines across the ceiling, but their range was limited. He blinked as he ran the pad of his thumb over the disc’s surface. The tiny grooves were difficult to locate but if he honed his senses, he could not only feel them but read them too, and that was the key. He closed his eyes and translated the code into his mother tongue, letting each letter roll at the back of his mouth, as close to a ritual or perhaps a prayer as he ever let himself get.
“Pavo,” Zora demanded. “Tell me all of that planning wasn’t for nothing.”
He opened his eyes. For a moment, he let the silence drag out. Then, cautiously but unable to stop himself, he began to smile.
“It’s perfect.”
Zora’s lights sped through every shade on the spectrum, translating her joy better than any string of words could have done. She remained silent as Pavo began to pack his meagre collection of belongings; his entire life all folded neatly into one small suitcase. He wouldn’t be sad to see the back of Metalio but the idea of being adrift in space again without a destination filled him with a keen sense of existential dread. At least this time he’d have Zora to keep him rooted in reality.
“How are we going to get a ship?” Zora murmured presently. She’d returned to his wrist implant, nestled against the steady thump of blood through his artery. “We don’t have enough credits.”
Pavo stared into the dark. He’d discovered over the course of many sleepless nights that he could pick constellations out of the water stains on the ceiling if he looked at them for long enough.
“I’ve got a friend,” he replied.
“You don’t have friends.”
“I have you.”
“You built me. Doesn’t count.”
“Fine, let’s say I have a contact. He can hook us up. We’ll be out of here by the eclipse.”
“And we’ll see the universe?” Zora’s voice was soft with wonder.
Pavo closed his eyes against artificial constellations and pictured the real stars. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and hopeful as Zora’s.
“We’ll certainly see some of it.”