Decal was the more friendly of the two and trundled right up. “Could I have the privilege of knowing your name, sir?”

“You can call me Max.”

“Thank you, Mr. Max. Your predecessor programmed me to generate large quantities of alcohol. A surplus has accumulated since his death. Should I make more, or wait for you to consume existing supplies first?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I won’t need as much as my predecessor did. Save what you have but don’t make any more.”

To the extent that a machine can look relieved, this one did, and rolled away. Picasso explained as we walked towards section two. “You made his day. Operating the still ran counter to his main mission and made him less efficient than specs called for. The result was an internal dissonance that had to be resolved. Yeah, nothing bothers a droid more than countervailing objectives, and we get ’em all the time. No offense intended.”

“And none taken,” I assured him. “Humans provide each other with countervailing objectives every day.”

Picasso turned a paint-splotched sensor in my direction. “Really? How strange. Well, it’s like I tell the others: ‘They were smart enough to invent us, so they must know what they’re doing.’“

I wasn’t so sure, but it didn’t seem appropriate to say so. The hatch slid open and we entered section two. The rich, almost sweet smell of animal feces filled the air. I decided to breathe through my mouth. Even though I knew what to expect, the reality of it surprised me. The aniforms saw us and started to moo, bleat, grunt, and cackle. Cubicles lined both sides of the corridor, and each one contained one or more biologically engineered life forms. The cows came first.

Like their distant ancestors many times removed, the cows had heads with ears, eyes, and mouths, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Necks that had been long were shorter now and connected to rectangular bodies that rested within identical stainless-steel boxes. Legs had been deemed unnecessary and eliminated, along with tails and carefully selected bones. They all looked alike, which wasn’t surprising, since they were clones. The aniforms had been designed for one thing and one thing only: meat. The mooing had grown to almost frantic intensity as nineteen pairs of big brown eyes stared into my face and begged me to make contact. It seemed as though something unexpected had occurred during the long process that created them.

Not only had each successive generation of cows become a little bit smarter, they had become more emotionally dependent as well, until ongoing social interaction had evolved from something they tolerated to something they couldn’t do without. And the same was true of the sheep, pigs, and chickens.

And that was my function, to visit them on a regular basis, and keep them happy. Failure to do so resulted in steady weight loss and tougher meat. Which explained why the captain and the cook were so concerned. “Go ahead,” Picasso shouted over the din, “pet them.”

Having never touched a farm animal before, I was scared. I reached out to the nearest cow and its head met my hand. The aniform’s hair felt short and wiry. I ran my hand up towards the top of its head and saw its eyes close in ecstasy. A shiver ran through its black-and-white-spotted body and reminded me of the moment when Sasha had kissed my cheek.

Was the cow feeling the same warmth I had? If so, I could understand the importance of the contact. But there was no way to tell, and I continued to stroke the cow’s head. The thought of killing, much less eating, the aniform made me sick.

Droids aren’t supposed to feel emotions, but I would have sworn that Picasso sounded wistful. “An android can pet them all day long without the slightest sign of pleasure. A human comes along and they go crazy. Why?”

I gave the first cow a final pat and moved to the next one. “Beats me. Some kind of evolutionary linkage or something?”

“Maybe,” Picasso said doubtfully, “but it still seems strange.”

Time passed, and Picasso turned his attention to shoveling shit. I was halfway through the cows and well on my way to the sheep when the captain called. Her voice came from a speaker mounted over my head. There was a vid cam as well but duct tape covered the lens. “Hey, Maxon, you there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. He’s actually doing some work for a change.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, get your ass to the bridge. We got trouble.”

There was a cacophony of disappointed moos, baas, grunts, and cackles as I turned towards the hatch and made my way forward. “What kind of trouble?”

“Bad trouble. It seems that Lester made a move on your skinny-assed friend and she put a dart through what was left of his brain.”

“He deserved it.”

The captain’s voice followed me through the hatch. “Probably…but that’s beside the point. Lester was our engineer and we needed him.”

“Give me a break. This ship has backups for its backups. I assume Lester was no exception.”

There was a long silence followed by the sound of the captain clearing her throat. “Well, Lester was supposed to have a fully qualified assistant, but I couldn’t find anyone to fill the position.”

I remembered the long lines outside every business office on Staros-3 and knew the captain was lying. The miserable bitch was using a phony identity to line her own pockets. I knew better than to say anything, however. “How unfortunate.”

“Exactly,” the captain agreed. “Now get your butt up here.”

I entered the “holy of holies” four minutes later. It was roomy and almost entirely automated. Banks of seldom-used manual controls glowed softly, air whispered through duct work, and the star field hung almost motionless on a curvilinear screen. The entire crew had gathered around the captain’s thronelike command chair. There was Wilson, the round-shouldered, gaunt-faced pilot; Killer, his whites stained with what looked like blood; Kreshenko, his carefully shaved face devoid of all expression, and the captain, who looked as she always did: fat.

I saw Sasha and hurried over. She had an angry-looking bump on her left temple and her clothes were ripped. The question sounded lame even as I asked it. “Are you alright?”

She gave me one of those “how could anyone be so stupid?” looks and shook her head. “Never felt better.”

But the size of her remaining pupil, the tightness around her mouth, and the quick, shallow breathing told a different story. It felt awkward to put an arm around her shoulders, but I did it anyway, and felt pleased when she made no attempt to escape.

The captain raised an imperious hand. Light glinted from her rings. “Now that chrome-dome has been kind enough to join us, we can begin.”

She pulled a pocket comp from her pajamas and read aloud. “Consistent with Comreg 6789.2 paragraph three, it is the captain’s duty to hold a formal inquest upon the death of a crew member, and take whatever steps he or she may deem necessary up to and including summary execution. Reports of the captain’s findings, plus physical evidence if any, shall be filed at the next port of call.”

The captain closed the pocket comp and put it away. A pair of piggy little eyes swung towards Sasha. “So, sweet buns, what happened? And remember, the bridge recorders are running, so this is for keeps.”

I felt Sasha shrug and allowed my arm to fall away. “Lester made sexual advances towards me from the moment I came aboard. I rejected them over and over again. So many times that I feared for my safety and carried a weapon.”

“Which I told you not to use.” the captain said sternly.

“True.” Sasha admitted calmly, “remembering that you warned me about Lester, and did so in front of a witness.”

The captain had forgotten about that, and she scowled accordingly. “Go on.”

Sasha nodded slowly. “I got up at the time I usually do, took a shower, dressed, and stepped out into the passageway. I was halfway to the galley when Lester stepped out of a hatch and punched me in the side of the head. I fell. He slapped my face, threatened to kill me, and ripped at my clothes. I reached for my gun…”