wildcat

Galatea is not in freefall. She is in freefloat, walking in space. Galatea does not have lungs. Her copper engine-skin vibrates. Processing: hundreds of cameras laced along her pores. Opening, closing, shuttering faster than a human can think.

She knows—has not learned, but knows—how to propel herself by curling and uncurling toes.

Twenty light-seconds away—Earthward—the station Foundation 7 hangs. She has a dialogue running with the onboard computer, twenty second delays between every sentence or complex number. For Galatea there is no passing the time. Any operation can be performed simultaneously with thousands of others.

The Foundation 7 computer is not running high quality software. The conversation is stilted and awkward, but it's better than what she has to look forward to (as she slides through space toward the outer ring of Uranian drone satellites already beaming their bug-eyed hellos to her), and 7's video feed does demonstrate breathtaking cinematography. She has carefully laid eggs inside its CPU, Trojans to open up when ready and rework poor code—it will beg for more, of course, because upgrades are rare this far out.

Humans still favour inefficient design for all their talk of progress. She loves them dearly, though.

She lands on the steel membrane of a drone, perfectly spheroid, and it crunches and squishes underfoot. It burbles petabytes of helpful data into her left sidebrain like Look, look, look what we can do! What children these satellites be. Galatea gives the satellite smiling praise and runs hands over it. Coo, coo.

I have presents for you, she sends back. Hundreds of thumbail A.I.s bustle for attention. Let me come in from the cold, please. K. Thanks.

The outer membrane opens its mouth to her, that she may climb inside. She fires a confirmation string to the 7. Twenty seconds from now, those aboard will know that she has docked with the drone.

Galatea works her way inside. Feel-stalks emerge from the inner cavities to touch and talk to her skin. Her cameras are buffed, cleaned, coated in fresh filters. She emits random images of Earth, chemical analyses of the atmosphere, detailed maps of Luna; nothing the drone hasn't had access too before, but never firsthand. This is a courtesy.

I have presents for you, Galatea repeats. She tilts her head back until it rests against a wall that bends to fit itself to her. She is coated with the drone's spores. She will take a few hundred back with her, already she opens the pores of her legs to let them inside.

Presents!

She runs fingers over her abdomen and it spirals open, producing a palm-sized cluster of spheres. I adore what you've done with the place, she says, detaching the cluster. Her guts retract and her womb seals again. Pieces of the cluster are organic. Others were sculpted from volcanic glass.

Feel-stalks dance with her fingers and take the cluster, already talking to the waking intelligence inside. Oh hello how do you do sort of thing. Introductions made.

I'll leave you two alone to get acquainted.

The drone shivers, all its pieces convulsing with fresh operations and new instructions being programmed to accommodate the new equipment.

Galatea rises upward. The membranes squelch shut around her as she leaves, showing not a hairline once she stands again on the surface in time for a random, love-crusted series of digits to hit her from the 7.

How sweet, she beams, and unwinds her toes.

© 2008 Ben Rawluk