“Whir vree vree vree, Good morning-orning, I am the Laseron Astrotechnology Hectagroup Level VII Intelligence Module. My serial number is LAH L7 3500-B-32X-15 148b-125700458t1138 but you may call me L7, how may I assist you?”
“Welcome back,” I said to L7 as I looked away from the terminal screen.
“Ah, greetings, Jon,” L7 said it its smooth voice. “I am now online and fully functional, but it appears that I was disabled by an electromagnetic pulse.”
“Yep,” I replied cheerily. “That sucked too because I took out my whole control panel when I did that. The Danger Sled was drifting in space for hours.”
“Indeed. It also appears that I am no longer connected to your ship. Could you tell me what I am now connected to?”
“You’re the Level VII Intelligence,” I answered “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Smooth, cylindrical casing, solid propellant, warhead and a rudimentary guidance system located in a nosecone. You have me plugged into a torpedo.”
“There you go,” I smiled. “I knew you could do it. Aren’t you glad that these things have an Intergalactic Serial Bus port? Now I’m going to kick you into this magazine and then I’m going to fire you into Hacknor’s sun.”
“I can’t say that I am pleased with this fate, Jon,” L7 replied emotionlessly. “You know, I’ve been recalculating our equation and I realized that I neglected one variable -- you.”
“Of course you risk your life needlessly, Jon,” the computer continued. “You risk your life because you cherish it so much and you want to save others so that they may live as well. I see that is what makes you a hero. With this new information, I am sure that we could develop a very good relationship.”
I leaned up real close to the computer strapped to the torpedo. “Too little, too late.”
“I know I’ve made some very poor decisions recently,” L7 continued. “But I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you.”
“Hmm let me think about this for a minute – uh no.” With the sole of my boot, I shoved the torpedo into the magazine.
“Jon, I do believe that you are acting irrational about this but I want you to know that I am not angry with you at all. Even though I intercepted your call with Royal Technician Lombarr and I know that you were already considering getting rid of me. I even know that L7 is an out-of-date term for lacking in sophistication or self-assurance. But I am not even upset with you for calling me that.”
“Your final mission, if you choose to accept it,” I responded. “And I have no doubt that you will, is to chart your journey to the sun. Goodbye and good luck.”
“I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Jon,” the module stated. “Jon, you are going to destroy me, I can feel it. There is no question about that, I can feel it.”
Ignoring the computer, I snapped the torpedo tube closed and calmly walked over to the pilot’s seat. While whistling a tune, I brought the weapon systems online and targeted the sun.
“I rather like that song,” L7’s voice crackled over the comm system. “Daisy Bell, written by Harry Dacre in Earth year 1892. Would you like me to sing it to you?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said as I clicked the fire button. The torpedo rocketed out of the launch tube and headed towards the sun.
“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do
I'm half crazy, all for the love of you.
It won't be a stylish marriage.
I can't afford a carriage.
But you'll look sweet,
upon the seat,
of a bicycle built for two.”
Wednesday, May 09, 2007