Though the captain had obtained his first posting by deceit, Arabella could not help but sympathize with his predicament, and even admired his pluck and determination in doing so.
He continued his tale. “Using the funds obtained from that successful voyage, I began to rebuild my prototype navigator. Then, after several more such journeys, I was able to put him into practice—in parallel with traditional navigation, at first. But as his theoretical advantages rapidly proved themselves practical, and in fact highly efficacious, he and I rapidly rose in prominence. After only eight years I found myself captain of my own ship. With the considerable wealth that attends that position I have continued Aadim’s development, extending his instruments throughout Diana so that he and the ship are, in effect, a single highly efficient mechanism of commerce. Yet my tinkering continues, for I am still not satisfied.”
“But he is already so successful, sir! I have never even heard of any automaton of any variety that is capable of such complexity of calculation, such subtlety of action … dare I say, sir, such a close approximation to human thought and feeling. Sometimes I would swear he seems nearly alive.”
He tutted. “You are too kind.”
“Sir, I do not exaggerate.” She hesitated, for what she was about to admit seemed highly implausible even to her. Yet the intimacy of this moment, and her uncertainty of what the morrow might bring, brought the words to her lips almost involuntarily. “From time to time, sir, Aadim seems to … to offer suggestions. Sometimes he seems to resist certain settings of his controls; at other times he encourages them.”
The captain shifted suddenly on his blanket, causing the sands beneath to respond with a hissing crunch. “You have experienced this phenomenon yourself?”
“I have, sir. It does not happen frequently, but when it does, the impression is quite distinct. I would swear that it was he, not I, who calculated the successful approach to my family plantation.”
He turned away from her then, his broad back in its buff uniform coat a slightly paler smudge against the black of the sky.
For a long time he did not utter a word. Then he took in a breath, as though about to speak, but still made no sound. Then he drew in another sharp breath, and let it out with a long, shuddering sigh.
The captain was … crying.
She longed to take him in her arms—to offer comfort to this brave, distant, complex man—but propriety restrained her.
“I…,” he began, but choked off with a liquid sob. He composed himself, then began again. “I had thought that I was only deluding myself. That my desire for Aadim’s perfection was causing me to imagine his actions as more intelligent, more conscious, than they could possibly be in reality. You are the first to offer any confirmation of this impression.”
“I do not pretend to understand how gears and levers can bring forth consciousness, sir, but it certainly appears that somehow they have.”
He turned back to her then, the blanket rustling beneath him, and moved toward her until they were nearly touching. “If any other person had offered me this assurance,” he whispered, “I would think that they were indulging me, or mocking me, or perhaps that they were merely as self-deceiving as I. But you, my dear, I know to be too intelligent to be mistaken, too forthright for flattery, and too kind for mockery. With your knowledge of automata in general, and of Aadim’s inner workings in particular, I am sure that you would not make such a statement in any thing other than dead earnest.”
“Indeed, sir, I would not.” Her voice came out as a whisper.
He swallowed, and the two shining stars of the reflected fire in his eyes shimmered. “Thank you, my dear Miss Ashby,” he said, “from the bottom of my heart.”
For a long moment they remained thus, their faces mere inches apart, and Arabella’s heart raced as she reflected that their only chaperones were three Martian warriors, who cared nothing for human proprieties, and in any case two of them were asleep.
But then the captain cleared his throat and sat up straight on his blanket, taking himself away from her. “We should take our rest while we can,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. “Tomorrow may be a very busy day.”
“Indeed,” she sighed, as the reality of the situation came crashing down upon her mind. “Still, though, I am glad to have had this conversation, and honored that you have shared your story with me. I assure you most sincerely that you may depend on me to keep your secrets safe within my breast.”
“From you, I would expect nothing less. Good night, Miss Ashby.”
Good night, my maharaja, she thought, but what she said aloud was, “Good night, Captain Singh.”
21