It was Conner's. Most of the contraband was his, with the exception of the bottle of Scotch hidden in the back of the supply closet—that was the captain's. Unofficial company rule stated that contraband could be dealt with in three ways: out the trash chute, locked up in a storage container to be destroyed and reported on upon return to Terra, or (and this was what made the options unofficial) shared among the crew. Which would have been fine if Taylor had had ever smoked before; she hadn't, and within two hours she was miserably sick.
"I'll get her to her bunk, and find something for her nausea," Conner told the others, Verlaine nodded.
"You guys, you've done this a lot. Have you?" Ripley, who more sick from the smell of it and the bad memories undergrad years than affected by the small amount she had, replied with clarity.
"Longer than you've probably been alive," Verlaine said, moving aside so Conner could help Taylor back to her cabin.
"I'm twenty-six, you can't be that old."
"Close to it unfortunately. My baby sister's kids aren't much younger than you are. She looks at the girl carefully. In the past three hours she's heard her speak more, and speak with more life than she has since leaving the Luna station. Whether that was from intoxicants or from being asked to join them, she didn't know.
"Well… I guess tell Conner I said thanks," the little party was over, if it could be called that and Ripley was not one to out-stay her welcome. Leave before they have a chance to leave you. That was what kept her alive the past ten years, and God willing would for another fifty or so.
"Good night, Ripley," Verlaine had opened her mouth to say it, but it wasn't her voice. Samuels had beat her to it, the company android that ran on flawless protocol, and much more polite than some of the jackasses from Weyland-Yutani she had worked with in the past. He'd been quiet most of the evening, listening intently and stopping himself at any point when he looked…excited about a subject that had been mentioned. Ripley looked about as surprised as Verlaine to hear him speak at such a volume.
"Good night," she said, and sounded more like a question than a well-wish; she rose to leave, following the way of Conner and Taylor toward the cabins.
Verlaine studied Samuels as he started automatically cleaning the table. She was owner of the Torrens and captain, but he was the senior officer on the trip and still never deferred menial tasks to anyone else. Silently cleaning up the galley after them, basic housekeeping, answering mechanical alerts from the ship's computer at odd hours when no one was on duty. He behaved as if nothing was below him, and everyone his superior. That was the intention of his creation, yes, but he seemed to have…something in him of a personality that defaulted to subservient. Especially now, as he watched the hallway long after Ripley has vanished from view
"Well how about that," Verlaine said, amused as she leaned back in her chair.
"What?" he asked, turning back to the table, picking up two glasses with each hand and setting them in the cleaner; he shut it, and pressed its 'on' switch.
"You've taken a liking to that girl."
"I assure you captain, Taylor is merely another company employee, I didn't even meet her until assignment for—"
"Not her. Ripley. The odd one out on this whole trip." Verlaine watched him closely; if he noticed her scrutiny he made no comment of it. She'd never tire of the delayed human reactions of synthetics, the split-second his eyes widened and then the protest:
"She's not odd."
"It's true, isn't it; you're the one that insisted she come with us?"
"Yes, its t-true," he paused. "But any person who came across her file would do the same,"
Verlaine stood up, walked past him to the water machine, punched in a number and steaming water poured into a fresh mug. From one of the containers on the bar, she took a tea bag and dropped it in. She didn't offer him one; synths were never offered things. It wasn't out of prejudice; it was only normal.
"'Person.' Not you. And yet, you still saw a need to have her here." She said
"I would say that 'need' is a bit strong of a word to use in this situation." He didn't' sit down when she did; he didn't want to invite this conversation to last longer than necessary.
"Depends on what kinds of needs you have. If any," she shook her head and laughed silently at herself. Ripley was wrong; her tolerance wasn't as strong as she thought. "Fuck, I don't know if you have any idea what I'm talking about."
"I'm not capable of the kind of adoration which one needs to give in order to be considered 'in love.' If that was what you were getting to."
"And you think that to love someone is to give?"
"Forgive me, I'm at a loss." His voice had dropped to be flat, robotic. "My understanding of the emotional spectrum is limited to necessity for Turing-passing conversation. Nothing more."
"Your get monotone when you're pissed off. Protocol to avoid argument, right?"
"Pardon?!"
"There's that Weyland-Yutani social and emotional authenticity. Your voice turns factory-fresh whenever you start talking about your specs, or anything else you don't like. All I asked was what you think human love is. Touched a nerve, maybe. I don't know, Jesus, what kind of crap does Conner smoke…"
Samuels took a seat across from her
"I would deduct from what I have witnessed, what I've read, that to love is to give whatever you can to someone. Offer whatever you have of yourself to the other person."
"Even at the risk of your—sorry," she apologized sarcastically, "Even at the risk of someone's nice company job?"
"Even at the risk of death," he said flatly.
"Is death something you can understand?"
"My concept of it is hazy, as you'd expect. Yet again, I'd take from what I've seen and heard that yet, to love would a willingness to die for the other."
The ship hummed to fill the break in conversation. There were too many natural satellites in this region to go through it in hyperspace—likely the reason that Sevastapol was built to begin with, and crossing it would take time. Slowly and silently, asteroids and micro-planets passed in the distance as they approached the massive orange gas giant that the station orbited.
"Would your programming allow you to die for a human?"
"There's nothing in it that tells me I can't, as long as there are no contradicting orders at the time."
"But would you be willing to—"
"Gladly."
The resoluteness of his answer, and the quickness with which it came shocked her, and she leaned back in her chair. She thought he might have found Ripley aesthetically appealing, which was interesting enough—the idea that an android could appreciate physical looks. She hadn't thought that he might actually have more complicated thoughts about the woman.
"My unwarranted advice would be don't let yourself getting offed for someone be the signal that you had a torch for them. Tell them ahead of time," she said.
There was an echo of humor in his reply "I thought this was more philosophical than practical."
"Take it or don't, but don't let yourself end up in a recycling plant while Ripley gets a white picket fence, and a nobody husband, in a cozy small town back home."
"She would never settle for complacency. But again, what you're insinuating isn't something…"
"Isn't what?"
Once again he pauses. It does not take him long to think through what he's going to say; his mind is faster than a human's by a good deal, but he does not want to say it. He could walk her in circles, out logic her, or keep her trapped in fallacy after fallacy—but she's inebriated. She's not likely to remember this, less likely to repeat it, and there's a strange weight in his central processor that's telling him he's not coming home from this trip—as routine as it was. The internal cooling system's fans slowed down, and let out air, and it sounded like he sighed:
"It isn't possible for it to be reciprocated."
Verlaine offers a sympathetic smile. She didn't think he was lying, but she wasn't entirely sure either. He was odd, inhuman, yet still he was still nice. But to what point and to how far was it his own doing and thinking and not some strange glitch in programming. Was it love or hyper-fixation? Maybe a sick attempt by the company to induce him to keep a closer watch on Ripley.
Even with all of that aside, there was a snowball's chance in hell that the engineer would feel anything in return, even though she too, was odd in her own way. And if she did the long-term ramifications of whatever relationship they could share would be the cruelest yet. No matter the outcome it wouldn't be good, and she felt awful for having pushed him into confessing to her, and for suggesting he tell Ripley.
"Well," she said, shoving away concern for a moment, as there was nothing more she could do. "I'm turning in. Good night."
"Good night," he said, nodding at her as she left.
You've really done it this time. He knew he had been glitching for a while. Sentience or not—he hoped (another glitch: hope) that that was what he was approaching, but was nearly sure he couldn't be so fortunate—whatever was wrong with him was what made him as useless as Taylor, fresh out of law school, and Amanda, a thorn in Weyland-Yutani's side. They were expendable, every one of them. The fact that they didn't use a company ship gave him even more cause for concern.
But talking to himself? Surely that was more of a sign of system failure than increasing humanity. You'll be damn lucky if she doesn't tell her. Tell her what though; my errors aren't worth the small talk. You'll never see her again after this anyway; she'll hate you now, or worse fear you. I know. Even if you were human, she wouldn't want you. Thank you, I was unaware of that, now please piss off. The lights timed off, not that it made a difference; it took true vacuum darkness to blind him. Outside the stars looked distant; their home sun was one of them, and Earth impossibly far, invisible, and yet that's where they had began. You know it's impossible, truly impossible, you have nothing to give her, you don't even have a life, and the company owns the body your computer is housed in. Understood. Their logo is stamped on your fingerprints. Of course.
"Nothing…" he replied to himself out loud, thoroughly certain that something in him was absolutely failing.