My name is Wye Omun and I fly the merchant route, delivering goods from the inner worlds to the Comet Zone. I was traveling solo on a heading for my home world, when old Coyote started giving me a hard time.

"Fire retro rockets for orbital insert," I ordered the multi-engine propulsion system. A moment earlier, my heads-up displayed an electric blue pattern of coordinates sent by Couvan Space Traffic Control. Once I gave the "go" I was expecting a grid vid of rockets firing up, turning the ship toward our designated orbit. But, all I saw was the flight plan for the trip back from the Zone utilizing the nuclear pulse drive.

"Hey, am I talking to myself?" I asked the ship, not expecting a reply. I changed my tone. "OK, show me the manual checklist for course corrections." I hadn't done that in fifty Couvan orbits -- I memorized the protocols when I first bought this bird, preferring to fly the ship in myself. I ran the list against actions taken. My view screen lit up green; I hadn't missed a step. So why wouldn't the retro rockets kick in? A sense of hurry tightened my stomach. I had to take the assigned orbit or cancel my request and fly back to interplanetary space. I eased out of my personal protection shield and paced around the cockpit. An auto message from a Controller aired loudly. I jumped a half-meter.

"Interplanetary vehicle Coyote, do you require assistance?"

I punched in a resounding, "No, thank you," which was just a stall. If I didn't move in or out of range soon, Control would have a live person get on the horn to talk to me. Polite at first, he or she would assume I was having a technical glitch and proceed to send help. If I insisted I could fix it myself  but didn't do it promptly  Control would get impatient and send out a ship ambulance with towing capacity. They get edgy when space vehicles linger nearby with no obvious purpose. Even Couvans trying to orbit their home world have to follow rules.

Being a stubborn old guy who cut his teeth building these birds from scratch at the old coastal plant when the technology was new, I didn't want some neophyte coming on board telling me what I already knew. I sent a second message to the controllers that I was returning my designated orbit to them and would return at a later time.

That was my first attempt at going home. I flew around the neighborhood for days, going over procedures and electronics, commanding the chemical rockets to perform self-checks. Nothing was structurally wrong, as far as I could tell. The AI program, which was an overseer of my propulsion units, was silent on the issue.

After aggravating Space Control three more times with my go-no-go stunts, I instructed the NavSys to implement a flight plan for Idvego, so I could get Coyote checked. I hate going to the fourth planet. Oh, it's easy enough, with no asteroid belts to circumvent or comets to dodge. But, those folks ask too many personal questions. I guess they're being sociable. I wasn't trained for that, although I have made improvements. The bottom line is that Idvegons are the best mechanics in the biz. And, when you make your living delivering supplies you can't make a fuss about over-friendly service. The NavSys responded instantly to my new command. The nukes fired up and pushed us to our new destination in less than a week.

Once in Idvego's space, I turned off my command lock so their controllers could pull me into the orbital ward 400 kilometers above the planet. They instituted this safety precaution after some clumsy pilots crashed into the orbital garage. You have to ease into an artificial satellite with minimal velocity, or else pay the damages.

Attendants pulled us gently into one of the beds reserved for my kind of ship. Coyote's got aero engines for liftoff and landing on top, retro rockets for course changes on the sides and a nuclear pulse drive. The nuke ensemble fills a lot of space. The ship's last and largest cylindrical module holds the hydrogen bombs. Attached to the aft section is a kilometer-wide steel plate which provides protection against radiation and catches the blasts that push us forward. It's old technology. But there's nothin' better on the assembly line for commercial transportation within the solar system. I waited for the enclosure to pressurize and took the space elevator down to the planet.

I have to adjust my expectations whenever I see the Antenna People (our affectionate nickname for the Idvegons.) Couvans have two arms, two legs and a round head with nothing sticking out of it. And while Idvegons don't look exactly like bugs, they act a bit like them, swarming around, buzzing at you, their extensions lighting up . . . whew. After awhile, I get used to the attention and even start enjoying it.

About ten of them greeted me in the lobby of We-Can-Fix-It, Inc., the best place around 'cause they mean what they say and they don't overcharge. I asked for my usual guy and the swarm dissipated to let him through. Iggy is short and wiry which contrasts mightily with my height and robustness.

"How are you feeling today, Wye?" Iggy asked, his antennas bopping back and forth. I figured Iggy was male 'cause he's big around the shoulders and always opens the door for his assistant, a slight little thing called Lonnie.

"Oh, can't complain, Ig, except for Old Faithful acting up again."

"I see, I see," Iggy said, antennas wagging as we entered his office. Holo images of galactic space filled the corners; my mouth watered at the sight of antimatter starships flying amongst the spirals and nebulae. Iggy handed me a sweet beverage (Bug juice doesn't do anything for me; I drink it to be polite.)

"How are your kids?" he asked.

"Fine, thanks. One just got his medical license. The other's in flight school; she wants to follow in the old guy's footsteps. I couldn't be prouder."

"Good, good. No grand kids yet?"

"Nah. But, I reckon they'll be along in due time. I'm lookin' forward to it."

"Sure, sure," Iggy said, nodding his little, oval head. I complimented the latest picture of his family: skinny, little mate and a bunch of tiny buglets. Really cute, I had to admit.

"I guess we better get to the reason you came here today, Wye."

I followed Iggy out of his office, across the promenade to the space elevator. "Hey, Iggy. How's it I have to come all the way down to get you just so we can go all the way back up again?"

Iggy laughed so that his antennas shook mirthfully. "I ask the questions, Wye."

I nodded with good humor. I felt a little frayed around the edges after the elevator eased into a complete stop; funny that an old flyer like me would get that way after a little lift into low orbit. I figured. I was nervous. Iggy was gonna ask me tough questions about my bird. The elevator opened onto the observation deck.  The pressurized area of the spaceship hospital was a humongous structure with space enough for mechanics to examine their charges from all sides. We climbed a ladder to the metal catwalk on the starboard side of my ship. I stared for a moment at Coyote, locked in its berth, a maze of retractable girders holding the big ship in place. Iggy stopped by the bomb bay. He looked at his hand-held scanner displaying sunny yellow letters in a language I couldn't read.

"You say she balks at orbiting Couva?" he asked.

"Yes."

"That's your home world isn't it?"

"Right again."

Iggy gazed at me with his big, black bug eyes. No pupils or nothing-but-pupils. Who can tell?

I watched him suspiciously. "Why are we standing in front of the nuke engine? My problem is with the old-fashioned tin cans. I can't get the retro rockets to fire up and insert us into orbit. I have no problem igniting the pulse drive and flying to the Zone."

"Relax, Wye. I'm just eyeballing your ship for an obvious problem."

We walked over to the starboard rocket. Iggy waved me back while he entered a mechanical chair to lift him up to the engine. I watched him disappear into the big bell. Buzzes and whirs vibrated as Iggy's scanner registered data. The little mechanic exited the engine and followed the same procedure on the port side. I couldn't read his expression as he translated over the cargo module and set his chair onto the catwalk.

"Well?" I asked.

"I'm not done, yet, Wye," Iggy said in his annoyingly friendly manner.

I followed him to the cockpit. He started up the aero-engine. The vibrations made his antennas spin. "Sounds like a good ignition. Tell me, does the ship seem at all unhappy?"

I gave Iggy my usual roll of the eyes. "No. It's a mechanical device, Ig. It doesn't get unhappy."

"You've got an AI system, haven't you? Sometimes, they have feelings."

"Yeah, but . . ."

"Well, have you asked it how it feels? It's not so very different from you, you know," Iggy said. He attached a micro-wire to his own left antenna. Blue lights on the AI board twinkled as communication was made. Iggy smiled, running his hands along the displays, making notes on a tiny wrist-top, as each system lit up and flashed out on cue. "Let's see: avionics, check, life support, check, attitude controls, check, communications, little glitch there? No, system is responding now, check. What's that, you say?" Iggy activated the speaker so I could hear the artificial voice.

"I'm frustrated, Iggy. I could use some R & R. You know, get the kinks out," the AI sighed, a little self-indulgently, I thought.

"Just a machine, hunh?" Iggy laughed at me.

"I let my daughter upgrade the AI's interface. She wanted it to sound friendlier so I wouldn't get lonely," I admitted.

Iggy stood up on his skinny legs. "Should I check the landing gear?"

"Sure, be my guest."

We walked through the ship and Iggy stopped before a traditional laser-image of my pilot class.

"Nice-looking group -- for your kind," Iggy said, grinning. "How long since you been home?"

"One Couvan solar rotation." We exited the ship at mid-section through an airlock and crawled under the aero engines up top for a quick look, and then slid down a connecting tube to the landing gear. "I'm checking it because sometimes the smallest problem can shut down an unrelated process. But, I'm not finding any space debris here."

We stood up on the catwalk. "Your AI seems fine, your mechanicals are good. I can't figure out why Coyote won't accept your command to orbit. What do you think, Wye?"

I sighed audibly. "I'm paying you to think for me, Ig."

He turned off his wrist notepad. "Your engines are fine, Wye. You don't have any mechanical problems."

"OK. Give me the bill and I'll be on my way."

"Listen, Wye. I'm not going to charge you. I couldn't find anything wrong."

"You have to charge me for the analysis, Iggy. Don't shoot yourself in the foot."

Iggy stood, laughing. He placed a thin, buggy hand on my shoulder. "We don't charge if we can't fix the problem. You know that, Wye. Stop looking so guilty." Iggy led me to a snack bar on the observation deck and ordered us a pitcher of juice. "Figured we could have another drink while they unhitch Coyote from its girders," Iggy said, pouring us more of his favorite sweet beverage.  "The thing is Wye, I think you're missing a step in your checklist when you try your manual fly-in to Couva. It's bugging me because you seem convinced you're not. I wish I could get inside your head."

I took a swig of juice. Yow! Even sweeter than the last batch. Iggy helped me sit when I got a little shaky.

"Hey, what's in that stuff?" I said, thickly.

"Nothing, Wye. You're just not used to it," Iggy assured me, taking the glass from my hand.

I started feeling better, a little giddy, like I wanted to talk. Iggy leaned to his left as Lonnie approached. She spoke Idvegonian in a tinny voice and left the snack bar.

"Coyote's ready," Iggy translated for me.

"I wish I were," I said with more disgust than I meant to release.

"What do you mean?"

I looked at him: big eyes blinking, little hands folded on the bar, antennas searching for vibes. A nice guy all around. I folded my arms across my chest.

"Since I was a kid, I dreamed of flying to another star. Of course, they didn't invent the antimatter drive until recently. But now, according to my government, I'm too old for them to train for an interstellar license."  I paused, glancing at Iggy's eager face. "The thing is I could pay for my lessons with a private instructor. I know I'd pass the exam and get licensed. And someone is sure to hire me to fly a starship. They're looking for pilots. It's big business. 'The future is out there,'" I said, quoting a popular advertisement.

"So what's stopping you?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said angrily. "The technology is ready, but I'm not. What's wrong with me?"

Iggy studied me with his big, round black eyes. "Maybe, nothing's wrong with you. It's half a lifetime to the nearest star and back. You might have done it when you were young, when all you had were your dreams. Now, you've got your family, maybe some grandkids one day, your business. You'll miss that if you sign up with an interstellar expedition company." Iggy paused, allowing me to consider his little piece of philosophy. "How does star faring tie-in with your problem achieving orbit? What's on your schedule when you land?"

"I have to tell my old friend Orr Egan whether or not I am going to accept his offer for interstellar flying lessons in exchange for my bird. Lessons are expensive because antimatter simulators are in high demand. Orr wants an answer soon; Coyote's value is diminishing by the day."

Iggy's antennas pointed forward sympathetically.

"Go home, Wye. This time, ask your AI for help. You don't need me anymore."

I opened my mouth to speak, but swallowed my objections. I had gone to Idvego to pay Iggy for his advice. Might as well take it home with me. "Yeah, OK. Thanks, Ig. Next time, no truth drugs."

"What are you talking about?" Iggy asked innocently. "The juice gave you a little sugar buzz, that's all. Just a little buzz," he repeated, laughing, antennas whirling.

I reclaimed Coyote and flew back to Couvan space. After another failure to get an orbital engine burn, I activated the AI's voice. "Let's work this problem, OK?" I said, reluctantly. Once again, a review of the protocols I had activated produced all green lights. I shook my head. "What are we missing?"

"Don't include me. I know exactly what I'm doing," the AI intoned, imitating my daughter.

"Oh, yeah? Well, let me ask you this. When I counterchecked my list, all the lights went on proving that each required system had been activated. So the rockets should fire us into orbit, right?"

"Yes and no."

"Please be specific." I was irritated by my annoyance with an artificial personality.

"Yes, you followed all the steps on the checklist. No, the rockets cannot fire us into orbit because one of your commands is in conflict with the maneuvering protocol."

"Which command?" I asked, sweating.

"The one that says 'go.' You've got our fuel injection level too low for the rockets to burn long enough to achieve orbit," the AI said with a little more satisfaction than I felt its role in the situation warranted.

"Display the liquid fuel standby levels," I demanded. The AI was right (of course.) But, why were the levels so low that we wouldn't get enough thrust . . .

"Figured it out?" the voice said.

I didn't answer right away. I closed my eyes and remembered. Back in the Zone, I had set the retro system to the lowest level of potential thrust so I could deliver cargo to a comet colony with zero chance of impacting either the comet or its orbiting satellite. It's a protocol I follow religiously. I forgot to reset it when we returned to Couva where I needed a good burn to achieve orbit. The ship's safety system neutralized my conflicting commands. I sat smiling to myself for a long, happy moment. Damn if that Iggy didn't know his customers.

"Excuse me," the AI said. "May I make a recommendation?"

"You want to reset the fuel injectors so we can go home," I said.

"Obviously. Also, I think you should allow me to set the protocols for all navigation activities in the future. You are an old Couvan and forgetful," the AI finished.

"What about you? Why didn't you tell me what was wrong? Why make me go all the way to Idvego?"

"When I was first brought online, you commanded me to allow you to handle orbital inserts. I'm not supposed to interfere unless you ask for help."

I sat silently, shaking my head. "Where have you been? I've needed your help for the past week!"

"Once you asked, I solved your problem, didn't I?"

It's true that Artificial Intelligence continues to learn, builds on what it knows. But, discretion can be programmed in and that's what I had done. Although it sounded smug, thanks to my mischievous daughter's upgrade, the AI had followed my commands to the letter.

"Thanks," I said a bit tartly. I told the AI to give us the muscle to orbit Couva. I felt giddy as the engines rumbled and we accelerated into a designated orbit.

"Welcome home, Coyote," the Space Controller drawled. We landed without a hitch.

After resting a few days and visiting my kids, I stopped by Orr's flying school. I told him Coyote's not for sale; I was staying in the system, for now. He slapped me on the back, told me he understood. After all, when he finished his interstellar training, he decided to stay home and teach.

I settled back to flying around the solar system, watching the stars with a different mind. The glitch was me and always will be. But, maybe, that's alright.

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Author Bio

Fran B. Giuffre likes to write stories using extreme ideas suggested by engineers and scientists in an attempt to understand the quantum causes of human behavior. As a Cataloguer at Harvard College's Tozzer Library, she comes across the latest books on Anthropology and Archaeology which provide additional sources of information from which to build speculative worlds. Her first story was published in the Harvard Summer Review, Summer 2003 issue. She and her husband Bill like to travel to the Western U.S. where the stars are brilliant.

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