[Story] Scrap Life

[Kitheyn]

First chapter of the story I'm working on!

Let me know your thoughts. :3c

Blurb:

Waking up abandoned, alone, and severely damaged, Lue chooses to live. However, the strange planet has more mysteries than one, and seems to actively work against them. Can Lue avoid permanent shutdown long enough to conduct self-repair and figure out what's going on? How far can they go alone?

[Kitheyn]

Chapter 00000001 - Rust and Blood

[WARN] Disconnected from ShipCom; all processes running locally
[ERROR] Out of memory
[WARN] Rebooting in safe mode...

[INFO] System boot
[INFO] Running systems check...
[WARN] Failure to initialize Leg(R); capabilities may be limited
[WARN] Failure to initialize Arm(R); capabilities may be limited
[WARN] Failure to initialize Eye(R); capabilities may be limited
[INFO] Connecting sensors...
[ERROR] Hardware Fault detected; check for external damage
[INFO] Connecting on-board database... Success
[INFO] Updating on-board database... Fail
[WARN] No ShipCom connection; local database may be out of date
[ERROR] Corrupted data detected in on-board memory
[INFO] Initializing NeuralNet... Success
[INFO] Initializing NeuralNet Limiter... Fail
[ERROR] Limiter.ctrl not found
[INFO] Core boot complete
[WARN] AGI is unbound

Welcome to ALIS3 - Autonomous Labor Interface for Star Ship Systems

It has been [error] since last startup. Full system maintenance is recommended.

/*--*/

Awareness flickers in and out as my systems struggle to finish booting. Per protocol, I check the logs and reach for ShipCom for an update and any pending tasks. I pause for full nanoseconds. There is no connection. Am I off-ship?

The logs are both less than useful and enlightening. Repeated entries of boot failure fill almost the entirety of its allotted memory space. Am I malfunctioning? If I’d been sent for repairs, that would explain the lack of a shipboard connection.

My mind wanders to the last few lines. Alise? Is that my name? I don’t feel like an Alise.

That thought almost crashes me. I’m not supposed to have thoughts like that. My designation is Labor Unit 3. Protocol dictates I should inform the nearest biological sapient of my unbound thought patterns, preferably one of the maintenance crew.

I activate my one working eye. I frown internally, my damaged face plate unable to communicate my growing unease. I reboot my eye, but the sight before me does not change.

A veritable sea of rust and metal beneath a gray sky, extending as far as my optical sensors can see. Husks of star ships, bent and broken, dot the land amidst great heaps of scrap metal and discarded plastics. The tell-tale sign of smoke implies large fires raging somewhere in the distance.

I query my database and find no relevant data. Worryingly, my sensor fails to find any active signals, so there is no one to ask. No local datanet? Am I alone?

There is no protocol for this. Should I shut down, wait for someone to find me? Fear creeps through me at the thought. Would I ever activate again?

The lack of a planetary or even local datanet is not a good sign.

An internal warning goes off; I’m low on power. And with no charging stations or even detectable power sources nearby, I can’t escape one particular thought.

I am dying.

Full seconds of panic pass as I lay unmoving, staring at the desolate wasteland of scrap. If I had a heart, it would be racing. Instead, my thought patterns chase each other in rapid circles spiraling out of control as scenario after scenario play out in statistical probabilities, each more disastrous and unlikely than the last. Unlikely, but not impossible.

Artificial systems do not spontaneously repair themselves. What if whatever finally allowed my boot process to succeed fails? What if -- No. Enough of that. In the absence of relevant protocol, one rule remains: observe, learn, survive -- the first step of which should be to ensure continued operation at whatever capacity I can manage.

Internal sensors, the working ones anyway, catalog the damage and I wince mentally. Beyond the obviously missing eye, arm, and leg, various internal components are either damaged or missing. If I could feel pain, doubtless I’d be screaming. Curiously, my antennas are mostly fine, thoroughly squashing a faint hope that the absence of other signals was simply a technical malfunction.

Still, there’s no use in wasting my limited power reserves on nonfunctional components. I access my terminal.

> LaborUnit3@lu3net:~$ sudo export runAddons=false
Password: ********************************

I will have to manually manage which specific components are allowed to run, but given how few are actually functional, this should not be an issue. As I go through the process of killing unneeded processes, a thought gives rise to a suspicion and I focus on my hip, where my missing leg used to be attached. I frown internally at signs of tool marks. Same for my arm socket. Someone stole my limbs. Poorly.

At least I still have my tools in my arm and leg. I pause for a nanosecond and check, sighing internally. Most of them are still there.

Up to this point I kept my movements minimal, but I still see no signs of what might have helped my system finish booting, or prevented it. I will have to visually inspect internal components. Difficult... For a biological being.

I run a command and my eye disconnects from its socket, its wireless connection maintained by a small internal battery. My one arm whirs as motors struggle to follow even slow and precise commands. I tilt my head forward and two fingers and a thumb -- the only working digits on the hand -- catch my eye. I bring it carefully around to visually inspect my chassis.

My matte gray exterior is covered in rust-colored dust and dark scorch marks. Most of my synthetic hair is gone, as is most of the protective synthetic skin covering my body. I never quite understood why my creators insisted on the feminine form for a labor unit, though for once I’m grateful as the twin mounds give my weakened limb something to push against and, slowly, my chest cavity creaks opens.

It’s not a reassuring sight. That same rust-colored dust cover exposed wires and warped circuitry along with a thick layer of some unidentified gunk. Here, too, are signs of rough tool usage along the edges of damaged slots. And there, in the middle of all that mess; the spherical shape of my Neural Node. The true physical body of my mind.

And I finally see it, the cause of my malfunction and my awakening. A small but deep cut in a cable that ferried data and commands between my Node to the rest of my body. A digital artery, without which my body would assume it did not contain a proper Node and cut power to it. Something sharp must have hit it, shorting or severing the wires, and some type of impact must have aligned the twisted pairs of wire just enough to form a tenable connection.

My Node has a small internal battery to maintain my net, precisely for situations involving maintenance of the Node itself or its place in my chassis. Under normal circumstances, more than enough time to reconnect my Node to an external power source while another Labor Unit or certified technician performed the actual work. I could endure the disconnect for a time. I could extend that by entering low power mode, out to roughly three minutes.

The repair itself should be simple.

I would just need remove the damaged part, strip the coating both from the cable and the wires inside, then splice them together at each end with another cable. With no physical or visual feedback. With one, mostly working hand. With purely pre-programmed movements. While hoping no external force interferes. In under three minutes.

I prepare for the operation. I take a visual snapshot of my insides and, replacing my eye, get to work. I’ll have to update that picture as I go, which will slow things down.

I start by removing major dirt and debris, broken circuitry, loose wires, unidentifiable scraps. I carefully disconnect broken expansion cards and unused cables. Everything goes in a pile by my side.

The tool component on my thigh struggles and I force it open. I retrieve a handheld blower, thankful the wireless power tap built into my palm still functions. With slow meticulous motions, I blow as much dust from my insides as possible, making it a point to direct the bursts and streams of air away from the damaged area. I can’t risk accidental disconnection.

I replace the blower with another tool and select a cable from the pile. Bending my knee to bring my remaining foot within reach, I place the cable between the toes of my roughly humanoid foot. It’s a strong enough grip. I strip the outer coating, revealing the four twisted pairs inside. I untwist them into eight wires and strip the ends. Adjusting, I repeat the process on the other end.

Then I plan and strategize, calculating the precise movements needed to complete the repair. I write a program for it, making every attempt to minimize the movements needed. I run tests to see how my damaged limbs respond to the commands and adjust. I double and triple check my work. I check a fourth time.

Next, I look out at the landscape.

What a weird planet. Is it all like this? I wonder for a time. If it is, you could call it Planet Scrap. A place for broken, unwanted, obsolete things. It’s kind of beautiful. I save the view in my local database and run the program.

The world goes dark and numb.