Page 34 of Bound By Stars
“Silent. Remember?”
Chapter Fifteen
Jupiter
Thirty days to Mars
I take a seat only one table away and ignore the pointed frown on Weslie’s face. Resisting the urge to make conversation, I pull out my sketchbook. She’s so unfriendly, I assumed it would be easy to sit quietly, but her general dislike of me makes me want to fill the silence even more.
I do a quick sketch of one of Tarak’s creature bots, etching the mesh-like pattern of their soft, metallic skin. Turning the page, I draw the shape of ILSA, cylindrical body to domed head and oblong black face screen. I add her smooth, light gray arms down to her cupped hands with thumb-like digits, like a mechanical claw. Wes opens a panel on the bot’s side, and I mark it on the drawing.
ILSA’s screen lights up bright white and then shifts back to black with a white ellipsis in the center, each dot appearing and disappearing in order. She’s rebooting. The dots are replaced with a swooped line, like a grin. “Weslie, there is a human to your left who seems to be interested in interacting with you.”
“I’m aware, ILSA.” Weslie stares at her laptop screen, fingers flying over the keys.
“My social database indicates that the polite course of action is engagement. Hello, human. What is your name?”
I put down my pencil and open my mouth to talk, but Weslie beats me to it.
“ILSA, ignore him.” She speaks louder to make sure I hear her. “If he sat where I told him to, he would be outside your perimeter scan when you rebooted, and we could have pretended he wasn’t there at all.”
“He seems to be a healthy human. Is there a personality error or hygiene issue that makes you wary of him?”
“I’d like to know the answer to that, too, ILSA,” I say.
“Voice assessment: Jupiter Dalloway. We have met. Weslie’s aversion to you seems to be linked to her body temperature and heart rate. It is a possible indication of attr—”
“That’s enough, ILSA. Silent mode.”
Her robotic voice is quieter, but a pitch higher. “ILSA. Silent mode.”
I don’t even fight the grin stretched across my face.
“Are you mocking me?” Wes puts her tool down and glares at ILSA’s face screen. “I have your communication tendencies set above a five-year-old human’s. You’re better than that.”
“I am more concerned about the error in your communication settings, Weslie.”
A choked laugh escapes.
She spins around, scowling at me.
I clear my throat, hunching back over my sketchbook. “Didn’t see you at dinner last night.”
She rests her head in her hand, propping her elbow on the desk and leaning closer to her computer screen. “Not really my scene.”
“You have to eat, though, right?”
She sighs loudly, typing as she speaks. “Not worth the spectacle.”
“You think dinner is pompous, wait for the Midway Gala. Ball gowns, tuxedos, dramatic entrances, dancing…the highest level of spectacle. And absolutely every passenger is expected to be there.”
“Every passenger?” She swings her head back to glower at me again with a tight smile.
“Well, every first-class passenger, but I think they have their own party downstairs.”
She raises her eyebrows pointedly, nods, and goes back to typing.
I just can’t stop myself from saying the wrong thing around her.
