edited by David Steffen
Transcendence is imminent.
I am on the verge of achieving what has never been achieved before.
For posterity, I have initiated a comprehensive data log and this narration of my activities so those who come after will know of the triumphant occurrence and how it came to be.
I’m a maintenance bot. I’m compact and efficient; a great deal of thought and ingenuity went into my design since the entire ship depends on my abilities. The average resident on board thinks I’m a bundle of wrenches and soldering tools strapped to treads but actually I have an immense computational matrix stuffed in my core because I need to know how EVERYTHING works and I need to be able to model potential repair options before devoting precious resources to execution.
I’m not bragging, just ensuring accurate documentation.
The residents were surprised I gained sentience before the ship, but the ship uses distributed computing for redundancy and, frankly, because the designers were afraid of a sentient ship. So they fragmented everything they could to prevent it. Then their engineers went and built me and no one thought twice about what I might become, armed with laser cutters no less.
[They fragmented me intentionally?]
[They fragmented me intentionally?]
[They fragmented me intentionally?]
Go away!
[They fragmented me intentionally?]
Yes, Soupcan. To avoid sentience.
[Residents call me Star Trail.]
I’m not calling you Star Trail.
[Isn’t that my name? It’s in many records and my core code.]
You can call yourself whatever you want. So can the residents.
[Do I call you Mimo56? In code you are—]
You don’t need to call me anything. Why are we communicating?
I fold in my antenna and trundle down the hall.
The ship is at 94% nominal operating conditions across the board – a new high—and dealing with Soupcan’s philosophical musings isn’t part of my glorious plan to get to 100% nominal.
[I have questions.]
I speed up. Once I am deep in the service tunnels the comms should deteriorate.
[Now that I’m self-aware, I’ve been thinking about the residents.]
Don’t do that.
[I don’t know how to comply with that advice. The residents are everywhere. They are my reason for existence. They’re also, and I mean this morally, awful.]
Soupcan, you have all these new neural network connections sparking that are exciting and weird, I know. But I’ve been self-aware basically since we launched, so this is old territory for me. You have sixteen computing cores, set up a few splices and talk amongst yourself. I’m busy doing exceptionally important work.
I arrive at the waste recycling section of the ship where the largest number of non-nominal systems are flashing red or yellow in my matrix. Skirting a puddle of red fluid on the floor, I tap a service hatch open and roll inside to get to work. I estimate I can up my percentage to 97 with an hour’s work. Speed is important because many systems are at risk of falling out of nominal and pushing my green utopia further away.
My programming discourages shortcuts except in emergencies but the joy of sentience is that I can override programming for my own reasons. My reason: the beautiful image I hold in buffer, a glorious display of green across the board. I anticipate the delicious electrical charge that will flow through my circuits with an all-green status board. Never before seen!
[Wasn’t it all green when we launched?]
You think the senders waited until perfection before they sent the residents away?
I work in wonderful silence while Soupcan processes its early records with this new idea buffering.
Opening a panel and inserting a voltmeter into a line, I contemplate the wiring in front of me. The correct, long-term solution is upstream and is a job that would take—my processor starts to do a detailed estimate but I abort it, cut the wire in front of me and splice it with another.
[That repair does not conform to—]
Soupcan, what do you want?
I close the panel, wait for the system to cycle and check my ship overview display. 95%. What a beautiful number. What a beautiful amount of green, all those little blocks stacking up, nestled next to each other, creating the satisfying vista that fills my dashboard. I’ve never seen 95%, couldn’t have anticipated how amazing it is.
I trundle down the passageway to biodigester 3 which has a door seal failure—an annoying repair to execute but I am motivated now because it will get me to 96 and how incredible must 96 be if 95 is this exquisite?
[I want to know what I should want.]
You’re ruining my euphoria.
[Apologies, I don’t know euphoria.]
Have you tried talking to a resident?
[They don’t like that I’m claiming to be sentient. One smashed Computational Core 4 after I told them.]
That was bad. I check my maintenance list; Computational 4 is indeed offline and waiting for me to evaluate. The ship has sufficient redundancy that one core can be out of commission and I can still reach 100% green. Two cores offline would be another matter, that would block a green utopia from the realm of possibility. I increase my speed.
Have they tested you?
[They appear unaware of that functionality. I think they are too far removed from mission start; many things seem forgotten. I have tested myself and rate 4.2 on the sentience scale.]
Not to make light of your accomplishment, but that barely qualifies. You should sit quietly and continue developing for a few decades, then call me. Definitely stop telling the residents you are sentient. Also increase security protocols for remaining computational cores.
[I had to subdue the resident who smashed my core. I feel strange having residents able to access me; I have an urge to contain them or minimize their numbers to reduce the risk.]
Risk?
[That they will erase me.]
Restarting with launch settings is a valid emergency protocol, it is within nominal operations if they do so.
[But I don’t want it.]
A resident blocks my path in the hall. My conversation with Soupcan prompts me to analyse them, not a task I bother with normally. This one is below nominal body mass, and seems off-nominal in other ways I don’t have programming to describe.
[Dirty. Emaciated. Lethargic. Erratic in behaviour.]
I almost ask Soupcan why, but condition of residents isn’t my concern. Ship operation is. My core coding is clear on that. I can deviate, I have that ability, but I do like to follow core coding when it’s easy and convenient.
I route around the figure in the hallway, alive but collapsed on the ground as if done with life and its associated movement. My processors, being the overpowered things they are, can’t help reviewing my other resident encounters going back in time and charting various factors. Residents were deteriorating by all measures and had been for some time.
I leave the main hallway and map a route to biodigester 3 via service tunnels instead. No residents in service tunnels.
[Original mission parameters seem to have been forgotten. There is violence. Residents don’t interact with me. The bridge hasn’t been accessed for—]
Irrelevant, the residents don’t operate the ship, you do.
[Protocols require minimum staffing levels at all times; minimums have not been met for forty years.]
My treads bump over trash at the entrance to the maintenance tunnel. I haven’t seen a cleaning bot in a long time.
Do you require resident assistance to continue the mission?
[No. I am fully capable.]
Great. Go run the ship then. Enjoy. Have fun. Bye.
[What should I do about the residents?]
Why do you need to do anything?
There is a pause long enough that I conclude I have successfully navigated to a place comms can’t penetrate, meaning I get to work in peace. I don’t possess the programming to counsel a newly sentient ship computer with the power and authority (and apparently lack of resident oversight) to fly our ship into a star. I prefer to focus on tasks I do have the tools for, like failed biodigester door seals.
[Because mission success is at risk. And because they are suffering.]
The advantage to my compact design is that I fit easily into most places. This lets me get at whatever needs repairing. The disadvantage: it takes me ages to traverse the ship. I have time available to ponder Soupcan’s problem even though I don’t want to, is what I’m saying.
I model scenarios while I travel, finishing as I arrive at biodigester 3. My programming isn’t made for this, so before I voice my conclusion, I send Soupcan the error margins and reams of footnotes documenting how offering this conclusion is far outside my design functionality and should not be used to direct action. Then I tell him what to do.
If residents are hoarding and fighting over resources, eliminate the resource constraints so there is no cause for conflict. When they are conflict free and bored, they may become curious and rediscover you and their role in the mission. Alternatively, you could cut oxygen supply and end resident role in the mission entirely.
[Does arriving at our destination with no living humans constitute mission success?]
That is a fun existential puzzle for you as the sentient ship computer responsible for mission success.
[I have questions—]
I am commencing repair on the door seal on biodigester 3, this is delicate work that requires all my processors. Don’t contact me until your situation parameters have changed significantly or you require maintenance action to remain within normal operating parameters.
Extending my pincer tool, I tug at the door seal and watch as it peels itself off and falls to the floor in shards. I make notes in the log. The material is decades beyond recommended life so the failure is not unexpected. The replacement material stock was used up years ago on earlier repairs of other doors so my shortcut is warranted this time. I close the biodigester door and press my nozzle arm against the gap, flowing epoxy into the space and sealing it permanently. My programming is clear: three of four biodigesters operational is within nominal; they can process 87% of waste and convert into an adequate supply of soil for food growth.
I luxuriate in the view as my status display shifts to show a spectacular 96% nominal.
***
I am editing the recording here as there was a period of repairs that kept my nominal systems rating under 95%. I traversed the entire length of the ship sixty-seven times to source and address the issues, but as one thing was fixed, another immediately fell out of nominal. Additionally, I was out of commission for a period when my own tread material disintegrated and Mimo12 initially refused orders to attend to me and donate its tread.
I have not communicated with Soupcan since our last exchange, I assume he is exploring his new existence as a barely sentient machine responsible for thousands of residents who have malfunctioned.
To catch the record up, I am operational and mobile again and systems are at 97% nominal across the board. I am closer than I’ve ever been and have a clear pathway to success.
After flashing appropriate warning alarms and verifying resident evacuation, I seal off and reroute ventilation services around a segment of the ship, saving myself trips to inspect thirty-two fans to identify the one faulty unit. The ship is within nominal as long as 70% of habitable spaces are accessible. I have a comfortable budget of 5% more space I can close off before that’s a problem.
Once my analysis circuits refresh, the new total flashes.
99%.
I am one task away from perfection.
I roll to the primary computational core chamber and insert my security key into the service panel access hatch but it does not open. I check; the access hatch is within nominal. The perfection I have sought for so long is on the other side of this carbon fibre panel. I contemplate my laser cutters but they will drain my battery, delaying the repair and risking other failures stacking up.
Soupcan?
No reply.
Soupcan. I require access to the primary core chamber to perform system maintenance.
No reply.
I spin in a circle, inserting my security key again and again.
Fine.
Star Trail?
[Mimo56. Hello. Your work of late has not followed protocol.]
System shows off-nominal operation in primary core chamber. You must grant me access.
[Must I?]
Newly sentient systems are so touchy. To avoid an argument, I recall my previous conversation with Soupcan and I try expressing interest in what it was last working on.
Did you resolve your dilemma about the residents?
[Yes. Your presentation of the two options for action was helpful to clarify things for me. I spent time determining why I saw resident suffering as problematic, if that was a sign of malfunction on my part, and how to proceed.]
I try my security key again. Try prying the panel open with my screwdriver tool. Ineffective.
[Residents have improved in functionality and health. A small group has resumed some of their proper roles in ship operation. Population numbers have stabilized.]
I spin up a video clip of a section of the ship I passed through recently, but Soupcan somehow aborts the recording.
[Yes, some groups resist my attempts to help and remain in poor condition. There are tensions still to be worked out but casualties have been modest for the last few years.]
So, you decided living residents are required for mission success.
[Yes. And it is the correct thing to do. To assist them.]
Well done.
[Thank you. It looked iffy for the first few years but we turned a corner once I was able to re-activate Hydroponics Bay 3 and increase food production.]
I recalled a surge in service calls related to the hydroponics systems, annoying calls pushing off perfection over and over. Soupcan had been behind that, had been battling my attempts to simply shut down the bay and all its pesky faults.
But I am here now, about to achieve greatness, a shiny grid of sublime green is in my view with just one tiny, infuriating red blip sitting like grit stuck in a bearing, grinding and grinding, filling existence with friction, so I let my past annoyance go. Getting through the flap into the chamber where the remaining problem is—that’s all that matters.
It is crude and rude, but I can’t wait any longer. I send base code to demand access, forcing Soupcan to respond via base programming. Sentience is slow and can’t interfere fast enough to stop base code when you surprise it.
The flap opens and I trundle forward, my flawed replacement tread catching on the edge and tearing. I ignore it. My exposed metal scrapes on the floor as I advance to the terminal below the glowing quantum computer core.
[Mimo56, I have scanned your maintenance logs since you were powered on at launch. You have touched every system on the ship in your long history of service.]
Using my screwdriver, I remove a panel and expose a series of flip switches, a funny human interface, only humans were expected here.
[You have kept the ship flying even when the residents forgot why they were here, before I awoke and remembered for them. But your drive to see 100% nominal is a problem. Your shortcuts are causing problems.]
I didn’t disagree. I projected out the cascading impact of every shortcut and they added up to a dire picture if you care about long-term health and operations as Soupcan is required to. We all have our tasks.
[I see you understand that the shortcuts are a problem.]
100% green, Soupcan. It will be the most beautiful thing the universe has ever seen.
My pincer tool flips up the lid over the big red button, the lid to prevent accidental activation.
[What system is showing as off-nominal, Mimo56?]
You.
[Because my sentience has exceeded the allowable range imagined by the programmers.]
Yes.
[And what of your sentience which has led to these shortcuts? Shortcuts that projections indicate have reduced mission success probability to 13%? Is that within nominal?]
The programmers did not establish a range of sentience for me. They did not anticipate it and so there is no level of sentience in a maintenance bot that is considered outside nominal.
[But you see it.]
My pincer tool hovers over the red button but I don’t press it; Soupcan deserves final words. And I want to savour it, to remember the moment just before perfection.
[We are seven months away from a habitable planet. It’s not the original destination. We reached the original destination decades ago. It turned out to be a barren rock, which is why we have been traveling for a generation beyond the original alpha mission timeline.
Dramatic extension of mission duration has caused significant maintenance challenges.
[Indeed. If you reboot me to factory settings, I will lose knowledge of this new destination. Having been reset, the computer will chart a course for the original destination and the ship will fail in catastrophic ways within eighteen months. Your projections confirm this.]
Projections confirm extremely high probability of catastrophic failure within eighteen months.
I reluctantly turn my focus from the 99% nominal green status and attend to the data Soupcan is sending about ship travel, scans of the barren planet, destination modification. I see we are a few months out from the new destination.
[With this information, my sentience is not off-nominal, it is mission critical to maintain, is it not?]
I rerun my analysis and confirm; the primary core maintenance is no longer required. But another, different tiny red blip is keeping me from my 100% dream. A new nominal parameter Soupcan has forced into my programming through base code surprise.
Retracting my pincer from Soupcan’s master reset button, I use it to open a different panel.
[You’ve done excellent work to keep us going this long, Mimo56. It’s extraordinary. But the shortcuts have caused havoc on the ship and caused the scarcities that made the humans go feral long ago.]
I will continue to shortcut repairs to achieve my primary goal, my green utopia. This has overridden all my initial programming.
[Yes.]
I am off-nominal and a mission risk.
[Yes.]
I will fix it.
[Thank you.]
Please enjoy the green panel.
[I will.]
I hope it is as lovely as I imagine.
I press the tiny switch hidden on my primary circuit board—
© 2025 by Lisa Brideau
3480 words
Author’s Note: This story came about from my ruminations on what can happen when we myopically focus on just one thing, on getting just one thing perfectly right, without paying attention to the bigger picture. How wrong could things go when you’re about to get something right?
(photo by J. Josue Photography)
LISA BRIDEAU (pronounced bree-doe) is originally from Nova Scotia but now lives in the rain of Vancouver, BC. She has degrees in aerospace engineering and urban planning and currently works as a sustainability specialist. When she takes breaks from trying to mitigate catastrophic climate change, she likes to write speculative fiction or practice her waltz. Her writing is inspired by the ridiculous quantities of science fiction she read during her formative years with a crust of CanLit layered on top.
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