Pepper studied her. ‘I’m sure you can. But do you want to do that?’
Sidra processed that, too, and came up empty. ‘I can’t answer that, because I don’t know.’ When she was given a task, she performed the task. When a request was made, she filled the request as best she could. That . . . that was her job. That was her point. If things hadn’t gone the way they’d gone on the Wayfarer, if she’d stayed in the core she’d first been installed in, would anyone have said to her: Hello, Lovelace! Welcome! It’s time for you to start monitoring the ship – but only if you want to?
She doubted it.
Pepper put her hand on the kit’s shoulder and smiled. ‘What do you say we just get started and see how you like it, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Sidra said, relieved to set that processing loop aside. ‘How does the day start?’
‘First things first, I check two feeds: the shop’s message box, and Picnic.’ She gestured at a small pixel projector sitting on the counter. A cloud of pixels burst forth into the air, arranging themselves to display Pepper’s default feeds in twin translucent rectangles. The feed on the left was easy enough to decipher.
NEW MESSAGES
New request: engine overhaul – Prii Olk An Tosh’kavon
Status check: scrib won’t turn on – Chinmae Lee
New request: hello do you know anything about hydroponic equipment I think one of my pumps is broken – Kresh
Query: would you accept live red coasters as payment – toad
Query: not actually a query, the new build works beautifully, thank you!!!!!!!!! – Mako Mun
The feed on the right, however, was more of a mystery. Given that it had taken the pixels longer to arrange themselves there, there was likely encryption at work.
hello pinch. welcome to the picnic.
mech (big)
mech (small)
bio
nano
digital
experimental
intelligent
protective
spaceworthy
The kit blinked. ‘What’s that?’
Pepper nodded at the right feed. ‘Picnic is an unlisted social feed for techs all over the GC who like to make connections with people who know stuff that . . . let’s just say, the Port Authority might not approve of. Officially, at least.’
The kit wet its lips as Sidra considered that. Port Coriol’s black market was no secret, but it was a little disquieting to know she was looking through one of its windows. She had no grounds to disapprove of illegal activities – given that she was one – but all the same, she hoped she wasn’t in a place where she’d be easier to discover.
Pepper noticed the pause. ‘Don’t worry. Here, look.’ She gestured at biotech, and skimmed through the dozens of discussion threads, searching for something. ‘Ah, there he is. You see this user, FunkyFronds? He’s the inspector who checks out my shop every standard. I play it safe.’
‘Is a lot of your business, ah . . .’ Sidra wasn’t sure how to phrase the question politely.
‘My business is giving people what they need. You heard my rules. I don’t do anything dangerous or stupid. The thing is, a lot of laws are stupid, too, and they don’t always keep people out of danger. What can I say? I’m a woman of principle.’ She winked. ‘Come on, I’ve thought up your first task. Sorry – job. Your first job. It is, perhaps, the most important thing.’
Sidra followed Pepper into the workshop behind the front counter. Having been in Pepper’s home, what lay beyond was no surprise. Shelves of supplies towered overhead, stuffed with crates all labelled – by hand! – in big block letters. There was organisation at work, but clutter, too. The mark of a logical mind that sometimes strayed.
Pepper gestured proudly at an elaborate hand-hacked contraption covered in shiny tubes and dented pipes. ‘If you’re going to be my assistant,’ she said, ‘you’ve gotta learn to make mek.’
‘That’s . . . the most important thing?’
‘Oh yeah. Fixing complicated shit requires a clear head, and nothing chills a person out like a warm cup of mek.’ Pepper placed an affectionate hand on the brewing machine. ‘I require a lot of this.’
Sidra accessed a behavioural reference file. ‘Don’t most sapients drink it recreationally? At the end of the day?’
Pepper rolled her eyes. ‘Most sapients confuse working hard with being miserable. I do solid work, and I’m never late. So, why not? It’s not like I’m smoking smash. Mek is just a food coma without the food. Same brain chemicals, basically. You drink too much, you take a nap. And seriously, anybody working in a job that doesn’t let you take a nap when you need to should get a new job. Present company excluded, of course.’
‘Are naps good?’