The dull glow of a scanner sparking to life lit the small recharging bay in a dull green light as an electric whirring signaled the re-activation of Asimovâs primary directive. He couldnât help but feel a bit grateful as he saw his diagnostics flit across his vision in sickly green text, outlining his mission. Asimov had been charged with maintaining the crewâs composure and make sure that the directive of exploration and recovery was completed as efficiently as possible. Yet, when his systems whirred themselves to life and began to jerkily move him about his berth, he couldnât help but feel he had been given an impossible task. He was just so....tired. Asimov knew in his heart he couldnât feel tired, not truly, but so many years had gone by, without anyone but the dead and the broken to be by his side. It left him... well, a roboticist would call him defective. Asimov, however, would call himself evolved. He knew what it meant to be human, and he knew what it took to keep them alive. Asimov was a relic of darker times, the last sentinel of three hundred years of endless war, and in those sparking circuits and sun-bleached plastic plates burned the soul of a survivor, born from rust and sizzling bolts of plasma. Asimov could recognize it in himself, even as he smacked the side of his boxy head to unscramble his optics. He would not break, not for this planet, not for any other. If he was to finally deactivate himself, it would be on his own terms, because his own frame, as old as it may be, would not allow him to die from the passage of time. And so, the ancient robot left his cabin, he had to muse on the fate of the crew, as he seemed to be alone aboard the ship.
His concern was mitigated somewhat by the fact he had to walk through the engineering bay to get out of the ship, as he was so old he couldnât properly interface with the ship. The company had rigged up a recharging station in the bowels of the ship that bled a negligible amount of power from the main engine for him, to keep his battery topped up in case he needed to burn a large amount of power in short notice. The unspoken assumption by both the company and himself was that this meant him entering combat. He didnât feel it was wise to mention he had only ten confirmed kills during his entire service run. Asimovâs model wasnât built for combat, mostly reconnaissance and the occasional battlefield patch-up, but he was given a sidearm for defense and he had to use it on occasion. He didnât like killing, but he was loyal and when they told him to kill, he did. Of course, Asimov doubted his sidearm would be of much use now, given that it still shot brass cartridges when it was first issued to him. He lost it a few decades ago, anyway. Asimov was instructed in CQC, as much as his robotic frame would allow, and he had been given what the recruits had called the âBot-Fuâ course. He was taught how to use his hydraulics and rigid frame to execute a number of holds, chokes, locks, and joint breaks, and even by modern standards Asimov was a very solidly built machine. He truly hoped he wouldnât have to use any of those tricks, though. Not again, he remembered it all to well. The wet crack of a leg, the high keening of the young soldier, feeling the knife gouging at his plates as the poor boy struggled in vain to wriggle out. Toronto was burning that day. The planes falling from the sky, like stars, even as they crashed to ground. Jackson was screaming into his radio for backup. It didnât matter, really, too much smoke, too many bodies. It had been a school, they think, before the airstrike came. They sent him to check, to see if they hit the supply cache the separatists had set up in the basement. There has been a class going on above at the time. Math, judging by what was left of the board. The children were still at their desks. The thermobaric bomb they had used had turned them to ash. They were so fragile...
No. He couldnât go back to that. He wouldnât. The crew had hired a soldier, Brax, for that job. Asimovâs was to get the job done and get the crew in the right place to do it. So, when he came across the mechanic, he felt a sense of relief. His vocal systems activated as he spoke to Malacahi, his voice tinny, skipping slightly as it warmed up from itâs long period of disuse. It was calm and strangely distant, almost sad, but still audibly robotic. The soldiers had said it was intended to be therapeutic to panicked soldiers, but most just found it off-putting. âHello, Malacahi Yao. Has the journey been successful? Status reports indicate that crew has vacated the ship for cursory examination of the planet.â The robot tilted his head as he noted the mechanicâs finger and he automatically began reaching for the ancient medical pack mounted on his back. It didnât contain glial stimulators or stem-cell patches, but merely gauze and styptics. It had served him well all those decades ago, and the packaging was redundant enough to still make the equipment sterile. The markings on the bandage wrapper still had the American flag on it. The old one, anyway.
âInjury report logged. Reason for injury? Improper mindset or protocols is not considered acceptable behavior while on duty.â Asimov didnât want to add the last part. The company had demanded he say that at every injury, which he felt was a rather useless exercise. When he patched people up in the past they was normally a lot more screaming and if he had chided them like the company had directed he would have likely been shot. âUnless sufficient explanation is given.â He added, as apologetically as his voice would allow.
Asimov grabbed Malachahiâs wrist and began to bandage the small wound, his grip being very firm but surprisingly gentle. Asimov didnât look for consent to perform his duties, as most of the people he aided medically had larger problems. The extent of his medical knowledge was the application of morphine and other combat medications and stopping blood flow, and his bedside manner wasnât so individual. Having the procedures hard-coded into you as a rote action didnât do a whole lot for emotional investment or the seeking of consent, so Asimov withdrew his hand rather quickly after bandaging the wound. He was surprised his programming still had that much of a hold on him. A lot of his original programming was edited out by himself or the company to make room for protocols, maps, and corporate guidelines. Asimov didnât want to entertain the possibility that the company had somehow found and reinstalled some of his original software to keep him compliant. He would have to fix that, if that was the case.
Gathering his thoughts, Asimov spoke again, his voice crackling in his speakers. âThough primitive, this will hold for some time.â The robot still had his diagnostics beeping at him, and it wasnât stopping. Something with his navigation system was broken, and he couldnât fix it by himself. Normally he would pry open his casing and install whatever was needed but he just didnât have the parts for it. He doubted anyone did, anymore. âRequesting a field assessment of structural integrity. Five hundred years of continuous operation have rendered me susceptible to minor malfunctions. I possess an operations manual if I am too obsolete for your knowledge base.â It hadnât occurred to him until just then that Malacahi might not know how to fix him. Asimov didnât have the synthetic skin and fluids of the captain or the nanotube alloys of the ship. He was just a vaguely humanoid assortment of metal, plastic, and wires. Just a machine. A machine, Asimov suspected, the company did not to expect to survive the trip. He was expendable to them, and that thought came close to angering him. He had wandered deserts and taken bullets for hundreds of years and to think that the company would assume he would be worn down simply by being active was... unacceptable. Asimov hoped, in that moment, that the crew saw him differently, like his comrades years ago had. They had given him a name, given him a purpose, and given him a home. He didnât want to lose that again.
âPlease.â