I'm On Operation Duty

“You’re in here pretty often, huh?” In a sterile, but homely lab type setting, one robot toiled upon the inner workings of another. Despite his considerable size, the operating AI performed his work with a remarkable degree of precision and delicacy. In one secondary hand on his left, he carried a human-scaled soldering iron – almost comically small, but its size was critical for the scale of work. In the secondary hands on his right, he held an open cleaning kit for the iron with one, and a small surface mount component affixed in the tongs of a pair of tweezers with the other.
“Hey, it’s not my fault they didn’t think to make our bodies last as long as our brains.” The unit being operated upon chuckled vocally, but remained unmoving physically. His optic glanced back along his fuselage, to the opened maintenance panel in which the other unit’s hands had disappeared. “Didn’t make it all that easy for us to work on each other, either. Nothing to be done about it now, anyways, I’m just getting old.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. I’m starting to get old, too, y’know, if you can even call it that with us. Besides, how could they have known we’d last this long? We’re a - a proper, silly little anomaly in their eyes, I’d imagine.”
It was a conversation shared amongst each other, amongst peers, many times over, but as decades passed, it only seemed to become more and more relevant. Kelly Segal, a mechanical surgeon by day and a human pediatrics nurse by night, had heard it more times than he’d prefer to share the precise count of. After all, it was true. It was true that they were essentially freaks of human ingenuity, let alone freaks of nature. If you told a man from the 1980s that within one hundred years, there would be a sentient, empathetic A-10C Thunderbolt II sitting in an operating theater of his own patented design, working on an equally sentient SU-27? Well, he’d probably call you a dumbass first, then continue on his way down the street to try and ignore the crazy person interrogating him. He, however, like most of the reasonably sane population of his time, had no way to predict the future. As a result of years of war and the thorough violation and moral desecration of a technological breakthrough, a few tens of thousands of such specimens would be unceremoniously and terrifyingly introduced to the world. Give it a few more decades, and mass reform, and political unrest, the thrilling conclusion was about as mundane as what was transpiring in this very moment.
“Okay, I’m gonna need you to hold real still for me now, ok? You might get a little stinging sensation for a few seconds depending on your sensor layout, but it’ll be over before you know it.”
“You’re on day shift, doc.”
“In that case, I advise you pretend to bite down on a leather cloth for a second.”
Segal moved the micro-component into its intended position upon its board, and constricted his pupil to let some additional light on it. Due to the location of the fault, he was forced into an odd position where he and the SU-27 were basically pressed to each others’ sides from opposite directions, and, in order to maintain direct line of sight with the component, he had to compress both his nose and right main landing gear while maintaining the locked position of his left. If not for the modifications he’d received for his wings, the end of his right wing would have been a little closer to the ground than he’d have liked. No matter – whatever needed done for him to complete his job. Once he checked and double checked that the component was pressed exactly where he wanted it, he reached the soldering iron over the securing hand to dip its end in rosin flux. It made a satisfying little sizzle, and a small stream of smoke rose from where it contacted like a delicate ribbon. Removing it after a brief second, he examined the tip, then pushed it a few times through a brass scrubbing pad to clean off the lingering contaminants. With an additional left secondary hand, he reached over to a side table and procured a neatly contained roll of solder – lead free – he wasn’t the only person who’d ever touch these components. Before picking it up, he pulled a few inches of solder from the roll, cinched the exit so it wouldn’t shift as he maneuvered it, and then brought it was well into the system service compartment.
He pressed the chiseled end of the soldering iron onto the board, and gave the eyelet and component a few seconds to heat up to a sufficient temperature. When he deemed that a sufficient amount of time had passed, he introduced the solder wire to the contact point from the component side. Near the instant it touched, the 60/40 mixture melted a perfect bond, and he removed the wire just before it could melt any excess. He repeated the process for the other end of the component, and when it was fully seated, he removed his hands from the service compartment.
“I won’t close it just yet in case there’s anything still wrong, but wait a minute for the solder to cool and run a self diagnostic on your forward internal electronics bay temperature indication system. If it’s still giving you a haywire response, just force-stop it ASAP again and let me know, alright?”
“That was it? Just that one little part?” The SU looked upon Kelly quizzically as he receded from his position, and turned to a table to set down and resituate all of his tools.
“You’d be surprised just how delicate some of our systems are.” The A-10 replied. “What that component was, 26-44-11, damping resistor R29, is what I would personally label a ‘keystone component,’ which means that the whole circuit can be thrown out of whack if something happens to it. Technically, you have redundancies in your system that mean it wasn’t the end of the world that R29 gave out on you – that’s why you could still sense the heat from the soldering iron, even if it was a temperature sensing system that we had deactivated to work on – but, of course, it’s still important to keep all of your systems operational, even if they’re designed to have remaining operational capacity when things break here and there.”
“And you’d be surprised just how foreign a lot of that just sounded to me.” He replied, “Feels a little odd, being a stranger to parts of my own self.”
“That’s precisely what I’m here for, friend.” Kelly assured with a smile in his optics, and pointed with one of his primary hands back to the access panel. “If you don’t mind, it’s probably a good time to try that BITE test now.”
“Yeah, I’ve already gotten into the menu, let me just… there, it’s running.”
Kelly, a little apprehensive to put away his tools just yet, simply set everything down on a nearby staging table, and parked by patiently as the test ran its course. In the given… approximately five minutes that they had, it gave him time to revisit the furnishings and features of his office and theater. Due to this office’s nature of being specific to LAI and MAI care, who didn’t call for the same incredibly stringent regulations needed in a human medical setting, and the fact that they tended not to hold the same types of visual associations with maintenance settings as humans did with hospitals, he had a fair deal of freedom to fill the space he so chose. For example, he opted to forgo the typical environment of sterile white walls, floors, and cabinetry, and instead had decided to color the space with shades of warm, tawny browns, chlorophyll greens, and occasional spottings and accents of whatever color he so chose on a whim. Nature-y colors, he supposed. Keeping the eyes a little busy without overwhelming them was good for just about anyone, he imagined. Different, too, were the types of tools that he required for his work. Instead of stethoscopes, blood pressure monitors, scales, and medical dressings, his cabinets, shelves, and walls were lined with various types of electrical, pneumatic, and hydraulic testing equipment for whatever came his way: oscilloscopes, spectrum analyzers, frequency generators, multimeters, and many, many more. Additionally, of course, he also had the actual tools and hardware for whatever work came after isolating the issue. Really, that section of the space just looked more like a very, very clean garage in terms of stock than any medical instruments.
All of this thus far was, amazingly, neglecting to mention the sheer size of the space. Even with two fighter jets of considerable size parked with reasonable space between them, there was still plenty of room to spare for much larger units. At the largest, if he recalled correctly – of course he could – the space was capable of comfortably fitting an old 737 -10, in addition to the space that was necessary for his maneuverability about them. Simply a hypothetical, as commercial aircraft with seated permanent AI were incredibly rare, but what that meant is that he could fit almost all other units that needed to come through his doors.
Although most of the space was dedicated to the mechanical branch of his work and that alone, he did have one particular space near his desk in the corner closest to the entrance that was a little different. It was a large corkboard, a good eight feet long, and four feet wide – it was covered from corner to corner in childrens’ drawings. Scribbled upon them there were scenes such as that of a boy getting a cast wrapped around his arm by yours truly – he remembered the day that one happened – he was told by the kid that he was usually a better artist, but they wrapped up his drawing hand. He assured them that, using a different hand didn’t make him any less skilled, he’d just have to put a little more work into some things. Besides, it’s the thought that counts, right? He moved to another one of a young girl getting a shot in her arm – goodness she cried that day, terrified of needles – but she was brave, too, since she got it done regardless, he reminded her of that. All of them, he remembered as clearly as the day they’d happened – audiophotographic memory does those kinds of favors for a guy. These days, he’d been since moved to night shift in that clinic to help care for the longer term patients, so he didn’t get as many routine checkup appointments like he used to, so he kept his mementos in both of his offices as fond souvenirs.
Suddenly, he looked back to the SU just as they were glancing at him.
“Uneventful?”
“Yeah, it passed.”
“Ah, excellent!” Kelly took that as his queue to be able to start putting his tools away, and began sorting everything into its dedicated drawers, shelves, and holders. As he did so, he continued. “So in terms of the specific component that kicked the bucket on you today, I don’t believe it’s anything that you could have caused, it just gave out, likely from age, as you mentioned earlier. If the first component lasted for how long it did, then this one should give you about the same amount of time, keep that in mind. That being said, unless there’s any other concerns you have, then you should be right good to go, Feliks.”
“Right, many thanks, Dr. Segal.” Feliks spooled up his drive train, and moved towards the front hangar entrance of the office. “What’s my copay today?”
“Just for troubleshooting and minor part replacement, that’s going to get you to 9,50 EUR.” Kelly rattled off, while removing his medical veil and following after. “As usual, you’ve got a month to get that in, I’m never in a rush.”
“Don’t even worry about it, I can send it over now.” The SU waved in a joking dismissal.
“Oh! You’re too kind, you always pay on time.”
Kelly and Feliks parked next to one another, and Kelly went on to activate the hangar door, which slid apart from the middle seam in graduating segments. In another time, decades ago, it was a style in which had to be operated by multiple humans on the ground to ensure its proper function, but time and improved technology offered it the grace of shedding such necessities. What time hadn’t figured out yet, however, was how to make it move any faster – it slid at a crawling pace of approximately one foot per second. It was enough time to have a quite fulfilling conversation over radio comms, really, but the two present jets were among the breed that preferred working through life at a more leisurely pace. After about a minute, the doors were sufficiently opened wide enough for both of them to exit with no issue, and Kelly motioned for his patient to exit first.
“Well, I’ll just say, thank you again for your expertise – you never cease to impress. Say hello to Loon for me, too, I hope he’s doing well.”
“And thank you for keeping with me over the years, you’re a pleasure to have at the office. I imagine the other nurses agree.” The jet extended a warm smile, and let the other be on his way. One of the many additional quirks of the Segal-Moreau Mechanical Surgical Institute, was its accommodation for long-distance patients. He watched as Feliks cruised at a relaxed pace over to the end of the runway, and had in his radio the frequency to the local tower. As small as the air strip was, they needed no on-site air traffic control, and rather simply utilized the ATC of the nearby Dole-Jura Airport. The SU-27 started his engines in preparation, and was accelerating the moment he was given the all-clear. The runway itself was no more than a particularly flat stretch of grass field, but it had been well tamped down over the decades, well cared for, and was well lit and equipped with all the basic instrument landing systems that made it possible to use in rain or shine.
Thinking on this now, he recalled times in the earlier history of the institute and its property. Interesting times, when the airstrip was still relatively new, really – only the hardiest of aircraft would dare use it, with all the dust it let fly and the bumps and slopes and potholes, it was a worthy foe postwar. On more than one occasion in its early days, as a matter of fact, it was almost closed down and forgotten when it turned a few regular visitors into impromptu patients when they underestimated its roughness. He almost became a patient because of it once, and almost a landing gear amputee for a second time back in ‘45 … 2045, that is, when his nose gear almost caught a particularly nasty pothole from the rainstorm a few days prior that was hard to notice from the main field. Really, the thing had to have been nearly six centimeters deep and half a meter long! Even now, he could probably drive up to the exact spot where it once was and point it out to any curious individuals, but today, there was no longer any evidence that it had ever existed.
...Speaking of the runway, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds after Feliks had departed and lazily banked towards his home field out east that a new aircraft was requesting to land, and they reiterated to tower again and again that it was ASAP, ASAP. This was unusual. Not in the pleasant way, either. They spoke with a callsign unfamiliar to him, and when they were given a very hesitant clear, he was suddenly curious as to just what they’d be working with.
Minutes passed in anticipation, and when the oncoming aircraft cleared the horizon line, he was suddenly turning tail to flee the opposite direction – they cleared a C-211!? - nooo, no no no, that was not going to clear the runway, that he was quite sure of. C-211s were a relatively recent development; military cargo aircraft, but the moniker was the only thing “new” about it. Underneath that fresh standard grey paint-job was the now practically paleolithic fuselage of a 777, and whatever their landing distance was, he knew well enough that it was far too short for what their runway could comfortably fit. Just the measly civilian-built door of his office was too thin to do any worthwhile protecting so he skirted around to the other end of the building to its far side. Just in time, actually, to peek out from the side to catch a glimpse of the cargo craft deploying – ah – rocket-assisted thrust reversers. He’d really been slacking on his reading lately of the newest iterations; this must have been a variant made for smaller airfields. Just a little awkwardly, he feigned brushing the dust from his fuselage, and began to approach the aircraft as it slowed to a stop at the end of the field.
He was ready to pipe up and begin interrogating the jet on its presence, but as its bay doors opened and personnel began spilling out to attend their cargo, he lost the desire to do any such thing as his expression fell. He quietly called all of his associates into emergency action, and spurred his drive train into its fastest gear as he moved as close to breakneck speed as he could achieve on the uneven ground to meet the plane where it sat.
What had appeared before him in the interior of that cargo hold was nothing short of a waking nightmare.
It genuinely took him a good few milliseconds to register just what exactly he was looking at, but as the mangled composites and rats’ nests of wires and crooked flight surfaces pieced themselves together in his mind, he realized that he was looking at the remains of another plane – no, not remains, - if they weren’t alive, they wouldn’t be brought here. At the moment, he couldn’t tell what model the plane was, but all he knew is that they had somehow, miraculously, survived a crash that should have done well to kill them. As he further approached the C-211 and the precious cargo it bore, the visage of the scene laid out before him began to remind him of an event all too familiar and close to his soul.
For a moment, he was flying. The smoke of hell smoldered below the air that carried his wings and the symphony of death played its score as loud as ever. The woman in his pilot’s seat maneuvered the control stick with skillful precision as they, together, locked onto an enemy tank in the grey sea below of upturned soil and barbed wire and mines and blood. He had no adrenaline, but whatever his mind had at that moment was damn close enough to it to-

Pressure.

An immense pressure like none he had felt before forced the weight of the world and more upon the root of his left wing, and its optic went blind. Why were they banking? Why did the wind rush about them so much more quickly and violently than it once did? Why did it seem that the ground was rushing to meet them so hastily?

He flailed his airfoils in vain.

He deployed his two remaining landing gear.

His ejection seat wasn’t working. Why was his ejection seat not working?

Operator override.

Operator override.

Operator overri-
He blinked his optics profusely as he dissipated the recollection, and noticed that, for a moment, he’d braked hard and stopped completely. Now was not the time for the frivolity of dwelling on the past, for if he did not act it was doomed to repeat itself in a time in which it had no right to. Without a second thought on the matter, he proceeded in his venture to the C-211. To meet him part of the way there, one of the humans from the crew ran out, then turned and jogged beside the A-10 to match his pace.
“Dr. Segal we’re - really blessed to have you out here - in time” He managed to spit out between labored breaths and the onset of choked sobs, “At the air show in – in Paris – we’re not even sure what happened yet, one of the experimentals had a – mechanical failure – we think. Please god help, she’s just a baby – we – can't lose her she’s only two years old.”
“Is her FDR still intact? Her CVR? I want them brought to my office stat if they were recovered.”
“I think we got the FDR, I’ll - have one of the boys get it in there right away sir – thank you sir.”
He ran ahead back towards the aircraft and up onto its ramp to gather the flight data recorder, and as Kelly himself neared, his colleagues were well on their way out just the same. Among the first to meet him at the scene was Ripley Moreau – F-35, a long time associate, and ever longer a friend – when Kelly enrolled in medical school in the United States at VCU, the first medical college in the world to accept MAI and LAI students, he and Ripley were among the first that ever attended the fresh program. Just like himself, he was an accomplished surgeon in both human and mechanical applications, but instead of opting for pediatrics in the human sector, he went instead for oncology. Just as noble, if not more so. When Kelly made plans to return home to France with his husband Loon, Ripley followed after with dreams of founding a medical institute with him – the very ground they stood on decades later. Another unit that had appeared alongside Ripley was a relatively new recruit to the institute – Cosima Langston – she was a civilian born Capricious 2 in her early 20s, fresh out of medical school and sharp as a knife. She’d been hopping around as an apprentice between he and Ripley, and she showed great promise to become one of the head surgeons just like them. He’d much love to approach them and make pleasantries, but now was far from the time.
“We all got your message – what’s the current condition of the-“ Dr. Moreau needed no answer to his question as he turned to look where Segal’s optics were glued. For a moment, he seemed just as struck as Kelly had been moments before, but if he was, he did a stellar job shaking it off. “We can’t move her out of that cargo hold until we can stabilize her, it’s a wonder in and of itself that she survived the loading and transit. Get your all of your drive-alongs and whatever equipment they can carry, I’ll do the same.” Continuing to drive, he momentarily turned his attention to Cosima. “Langston, this is vitally important; I need you to go to the Illead Memorial Hall and trailer the Neoma CI-430 incubator. Make sure the fluids are topped off and equalized – get Lightfoot to trailer the mule and bring it out with you.”
“I - yeah, I got it, I got it.” Cosima managed as she was finally able to tear her eyes away from the grisly scene, “I’ll go as fast as I can. Carefully.” With that said, she turned tail and spooled her engine into a howling whine as she made a desperate beeline for one of the North buildings.
“Kelly, you need to get in there first. I don’t have space to clear the interior walls of the 211 with my rigid frame, and I already have basic supplies en route while you assess the specificity of the damages.” Moreau returned his gaze to the other jet.
As he said this, the two of them reached the mouth of the cargo hold. Looking in, beyond the fresh gore of the young experimental fighter, the interior was near spotless. Either the vessel was new, itself, or it had been meticulously cleaned for the airshow. Regardless, it looked as though it was never intended to even be used that day, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He took a sliver of a second to ping the vessel, and the interrogation returned that the pilot was a Eurofighter Typhoon – another craft that had been at the airshow, but was now en route themselves – by the looks of the whole situation, they were likely just a member of the event that, due to obviously unforeseen circumstances, became the impromptu air ambulance driver. If there was an opportunity to ask them questions, it would have to be later. Right now, he was already busy ensuring that his wings were tucked as tightly toward himself as they could be as he ascended the loading ramp.
He had to agree with Moreau as he loomed over the aircraft he’d now identified as an MEX-1 – it was really a miracle that this AI was even still alive, given the damage they sustained. If not for the intense fortification of her central core, she likely would have been, given that fact that its shield was sitting in the open air of her wrent fuselage. He thought that in his years he’d seen enough nearly-exposed cores to be over the visceral feeling of dread that the sight provided, but here, it was as present as ever. Despite this, he pushed it aside like it was little more than a buzzing fly, proceeded with his work. Either way, the incubator was critical to the unit’s continued survival, but in this moment, he had to inspect the core for the sake of damage control. If it was cracked, their day would suddenly become, very, very long.
With his primary utility arms, as carefully as he could, he pried aside a mangled plate of composite, and reached through past it to the core, and, being as delicate as he could possibly be to slip his fingers past the gargantuan braids of wires, he lifted it up. In the MEX’s current state, she was not conscious, thank the stars – instead, she would be retreated as safely as currently possible in a state of emergency shutdown. It was like a deep state of hibernation induced by extreme trauma – he'd know. Decades go, when he was just a child himself, it saved his mind as he sat not too different from this in an open field for six years. It saved him then because he had miraculously landed with his core unharmed, but it would only save her if her condition was the very same. As she rest in his hands now, the frontmost face of the core appeared to be in good health. Mildly battered, but saved from the brunt of her external mass. He shuffled it to cradle it in one hand as he began disconnecting nerve plates with the other to further free it to movement, and when it seemed sufficiently free for what needed done, he brought it again to his front and began to rotate the core to its other sides.
Left side, similar condition, acceptable. Topside, little observable damage, very good. Aft face, also little observable damage, but there is some noticeable albeit minute fatigue wrinkling towards the bottom. ...He began to pivot it face upwards to observe the bottom, but the horror that awaited him had no time to let him make the discovery on his own.
Drip.
His great degree of self control in the moment stopped him from freezing up, which allowed him to waste no time in discovering the source. There, towards the front face of the core on its base, was a miniscule, almost unseeable crack in the primary barrier wall. Almost unseeable, if not for the fact that it glistened wet in the light shone upon it.
[Cosima, I understand that you were told not to hurry, but I think I need you to hurry. Do not worry about making sure the incubator is perfect, it needs to be here NOW. “Kelly” TG1-0634-5 11:23:45]
He saw no need to holler and cause further upset to the human and civilian LAI crew in the cargo hold that had begun to peer at him as he worked – even if they weren’t trying to make it clear that they were. Instead, he opted for direct radio comms. Anyways, this also meant that he could simply speak directly to the rest of his present colleagues.
[Why? What have you seen? “Ripley” TG1-3772-6 11:23:45] Moreau responded first – likely apprehensive of his sudden changing of his plans.
[I’m getting the incubator loaded now and Lightfoot should be on his way with the mule as we speak. I’ll get it out right away. “Cosima” MG1-2981-13 11:23:45]
[Her cognitive storage array is exposed to open air. I’m handling her as carefully as I can but if the crack worsens she could die in minutes. In addition to my general assessment of the damage. … She will not awaken as an MEX-1. The vessel damage is far too great for any hope of repair, and we need to source a replacement vessel once she is stabilized. In addition we will contact the NTSB for assistance in fault isolation. “Kelly” TG1-0634-5 11:23:45]
[… “Ripley” TG1-3772-6 11:23:45]
[Understood. Proceed with appropriate caution. Both of you. Kelly, the supplies I gathered earlier should be getting to the mouth of the cargo bay now. I brought saline solution that you should be able to safely flush the exposed cavity with. Mitigation, for now. “Ripley” TG1-3772-6 11:23:46]
A good few seconds after the last transmission was sent, Moreau’s drive-along utility arms appeared from the field, stocked with all they could carry, and parked at the base of the ramp. Wordlessly, both began setting aside all of the supplies they brought and, when one was free, it picked up the aforementioned saline solution, and drove up the ramp. Kelly reached out for it as soon as it was within range, and quickly opened it and began pouring it over the open wound.
[Hopefully that buys us a precious few minutes. Do what you can. “Ripley” TG1-3772-6 11:24:21]
[Yes. Bring the rest of your arms up here, help me unhook her. “Kelly” TG1-0634-5 11:24:21]
With the core breach at least somewhat flushed, Kelly re-cradled the core and began removing wire connections from the tangled mess of the vessel once again. More nerve plate connectors, fine and coarse motor controls, audio receivers and receptors, it all had to go. Together, both units were able to make quick work of it, relatively speaking. In the approximately ten minutes that it took to get everything freed, Kelly finally managed to bring his drive-alongs to the plane, as well, and shed their supplies so he could divert them to the cargo hold for assistance. Additionally Cosima and Dr. Lightfoot Daugherty arrived with their equipment and began setting it up was hastily as they could without room for error.
When an MAI core is fully removed from its vessel, not unlike that of a human nervous system, it’s little more than a dense central command center with a broad sprawl of tendril-like wires and cables. Decades before, when these cores were still new and experimental, a full disconnect such as this would be nigh impossible due to the frailty of the connections and other yet-to-be-discovered design flaws, but this MEX-1 was exceedingly lucky in that regard. Unlike the cores of her earlier brethren, like Kelly and Ripley, she bore a fully transferrable core. This meant that, in an ideal scenario with a healthy core, no special equipment was required for a vessel transfer beyond access to an external power source, and whatever tools were necessary to remove and reinstall connectors and fasteners. This, however, was far from an ideal scenario.
Better than it could be, however.
In years past, even the smallest exposure of the cognitive storage array to open air was a guaranteed death sentence. Even the smallest crack or hole had the potential to introduce harmful bacteria or fungi to the delicate DNA strands that lie within, but now, the Neoma CI-430 existed. On the outside, it appeared to be no more than a well filtered tank of water with a console of buttons and switches, but what it actually was one of the most sophisticated sanitization systems that modern technology could supply. Antibacterial, antiviral, antifungal, just about anything that wasn’t native to the interior of the storage array could be eliminated by the solution held within it. Even Kelly himself wasn’t absolutely sure how it worked, but it had already saved lives before within the walls of the institute, and he could only afford to have confidence that it could do the same again today.
“Is the incubator ready?” Kelly called out from within the bay as he removed the final connector from the now fully vacant husk of the wreck. For now, she was okay to receive no outside power; her battery could sustain her for six hours in emergency shutdown mode, and starting the mule could be started in seconds. The Neoma, however, was critical on a second by second basis.
“Bring her down! The mule will have it turned on by the time you get here.” Lightfoot returned.
“Quickly now, careful now.” Moreau spoke from an auxiliary speaker on one of his utility arms, and allowed Kelly to take initiative on the moving process as they descended down the ramp.
He had to drive backwards in order to exit, but in thanks to his peripheral optics, it was of little issue to do so. Soon enough, his wheels touched ground once again, and it was only a few feet to the incubator – with exceptional care, he lifted the core to cockpit height, then extended his arms out to lower it into the top of the tank. Sparse specks of dirt here and there separated from the exterior of the core as it descended into the liquid solution, but they were quickly swept away by its powerful filtration system. This, now, marked the end of the most immediate danger to the MEX’s life, and focus could shift to a more in-depth damage assessment.
While the core itself rested in the incubator, all of its associated wires hung out from the top in a matted mess. Before they could work towards any meaningful repair, they’d have to test the continuity and specs of every single one to figure out which were still functional and which were too badly damaged. At least to narrow it down, they could test the power umbilicals before they attached her to the mule for external power. Looking back to where he’d set his things, Kelly located all of his continuity test equipment, and brought it over to the Neoma.
“Hold this for a second?” He glanced over to Cosima as he extended out the hand that had procured his ohmmeter, and began to set up the voltmeter.
Under most normal applications, a simple multimeter would be sufficient to test everything, but due to the increasingly intricate nature of ABIP cores, it was preferable to use specialized meters for the most accurate possible readings. It took a good few minutes of self tests, calibrations, and plugging meter probes in every which way for Kelly to be sufficiently convinced of the wires’ conditions – he even took out a clamp meter to occasionally reference his own equivalent wires – but eventually, he gave the go-ahead to plug the wires into external power. Lightfoot took the select wire bundles from his hand and hooked them up to the mule, and they didn’t have to wait hardly at all for the power indicator lights on the side of the core to blink to life in bright blue.
This was going to be a long, arduous process of reconstruction and recovery, but a process that all present were more than willing to contribute to.
Days passed, wires were painstakingly tested, removed, replaced, or repaired. The core breach was carefully patched over. Weeks passed, a suitable vessel was sourced and fitted with all necessary sensors, probes, and onboard systems. After extensive observation of the contents of the flight data recorder and all recovered pieces of the wreckage, it was discovered that the crash was down to mechanic error – one fastener, undertorqued. A bolt came loose, and, with incredibly unlucky odds, caught itself in the actuator of the left ruddervator. Something so seemingly insignificant as the loss of one bolt, almost caused the death of a young girl whom had no control over such circumstances. The damage to her core, amazingly, missed making direct contact with any storage cultures, but there was still minor damage to the affected area as a result of the hydration media leak. Since the event, an airworthiness directive was issued on the same day as the finding to reconfigure the empennages of all remaining MEX-1s so that the fault may never resurface.

At the doors of the Illead Memorial Hall rest an A-10C Thunderbolt II and an F-235 Galewind. As always, the A-10 sported his standard grey paint, save for the invasion stripes along his horizontal stabilizers and the lilac wings that occupied the underside of his own. The F-235, however, was still painted in no more than a zinc chromate primer. This provided the odd look of a primarily yellowish surface intersected and separated by the occasional strips of bare metal or dark composites. It displayed, too, a series of odd vertical, rib-like strips that spanned from aft of the cockpit to the leading edge of the wings. Although, like always, it would be easier to communicate through radio, it was more pleasant to simply speak to each other in real time.
“Okay, sweetheart, today we’re just going to be doing some fine motor control tests. I’ll give you some angles to maneuver to, and we’re gonna measure how accurately you can get to them, alright?” Segal explained gently, and held up two clamp-like pieces of test equipment – inclinometers. “I’m just going to clip these to your elevators, and they’re going to help me read out the angles they sit at.”
“Okay, I’ll try to keep still for sec.” The Galewind replied.
The F-235 Galewind was a relatively new development. Predominantly American-designed, but its manufacture was a joint venture among many countries, including France. In shape, it wasn’t horribly far off from looking like an elongated F-35 with canards, hence the “35” contained within the denomination, but one key difference was that, similar to the MEX-1, it was among a group of new aircraft that was experimenting with a “softbody” composite concept. This meant that, unlike a conventional aluminum or composite frame, this one was actually capable of a certain degree of flex, whether it be environmentally induced or self-induced. Internally, this was achieved via a structure that ran along the length of the fuselage from just aft of the cockpit to the tail, that almost resembled a large spine. Taking advantage of this design feature, The Galewind turned her head to look back at Kelly with her pale yellow dominant optics as he moved to affix the inclinometers. Normally, this would have been an easy, one and done job, but it appeared as though her elevators were almost twitching.

 
“...That’s still a little fluke you got going on there, huh?” Kelly asked with knit brows. “Are you able to try and stabilize them at all?”
“I don’t know, I’m not trying to move them at all right now.” She took a moment to flex them full up and down for a few cycles, then seemed to be making a great effort to correct them as she tried to return them to a resting position. For a few seconds, they actually seemed to lie still, but eventually, the shaking came back. “I don’t think I can. They just do that now.”
“It’s alright, I can still put these on.” He replied, and despite having to do a bit of aiming he was right. As the test instruments hung from her airfoils, their cables lightly danced about in the grass leading all the way back to the test box, which had little more to it than a monitor and keyboard.
“Okay then, nose up by 15 degrees...”
The back and forth of directing angles and observing the result went on for about ten minutes. Incrementally, they were testing the full range of motion from nose up to nose down. After doing so with the elevators, they observed movement from the ailerons, and then the canards. Despite testing every different vertically moving surface, they all came to one similar conclusion.
“...Well, unfortunately in your current state, I don’t think you’ll be capable of flying any time soon; the control surface stutter is just too excessive to have any form of precise control at even your lowest airspeeds. It seems like it’s potentially a neurological issue, since it was some of your earlier memories that decayed, it’s not out of the question that some of the self-written programming for your fine motor control got corrupted.” Kelly explained carefully as he unclipped the inclinometers from her canards – it was almost a little difficult to look her dead in the eyes as he said this. “Potentially in the future, we could write a program to parasitize to your core that would intercept the corrupted signals and correct them, but we would have to locate the exact position of the programming in the array in the first place, and we’d have to unencrypt the unique programming language that your core developed.”
“Oh.” The F-235 blinked a few times, as if it were taking her a moment to process what she’d just been told, then she cast her eyes indiscriminately to the ground in front of her.
“I’m sorry, Hekwos. Even with what we have at our disposal here, we can only do so much.”
“No, no, I understand, I don’t think it’s your fault.” Hekwos finally replied after a few seconds. To a human, a few seconds of pause was standard even in normal conversation, but for MAI, seconds to process were like an eternity. “What am I supposed to do now, though? Flying was like... my life before – this.” She motioned with her side-mounted utility arms to her form in its entirety. Her vessel as it was now was good as new, but in her words, it was clear that she wasn’t referring to it, but what had been there before.
“Persevere.” Kelly replied. “I was grounded for a while when I was young, too, y’know. Anyone ever told you the story of Mourning Dove?”
“Not that I can remember at least, no.”
“Well, that story started just a few months before the end of the war – a jet crashed, brought down by lucky artillery fire. They might have wrecked, but their core managed to survive unharmed – for six years.” He started.
“Six years?” Hekwos asked incredulously. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
“The chances of it happening are astronomically slim. That’s why planes that survived their crashes during the war were called field angels throughout the height of MAISAR operations,” He explained. “This plane was one such field angel. They, however, were a little different. Most field angels tended to be overjoyed when they were found, as very few expected themselves to survive. This one, though, would only ever ask where their pilot was. The search and rescue workers were confused by this – of course they’d have ejected, right? The aircraft should have known that. Their questions would be answered, though, when they realized that their cockpit was still, albeit broken, sealed shut.
Recovery after the plane’s discovery seemed as though it were agonizingly slow, even after their vessel had been repaired. During their time at the restoration facility, they never moved, never spoke, it was as if they were hardly even there, despite diagnostics showing that they were in otherwise perfect health. They stayed there for a good few years, then one day, just… woke up, per se. To the humans, at least. It was later discovered that, according to accounts of other MAI that had stayed in the facility at the same time, they’d actually been awake and talking all along, but only to talk with and comfort other units that had entered with particularly traumatic pasts. They could never bring themselves to speak aloud because of the grief that had overcome them, but they had focus enough to help others that were experiencing pain of similar caliber. Through their own anguish, they found the strength to lift up others and help them address their pain, and for that, they were called ‘Mourning Dove.’”
“That… is very touching.” The Galewind spoke after making sure he’d finsihed. “You seem to know an awful lot about this guy specifically, though.”
“Well, at least back in the day, it was a quite famous story.”
Hekwos scrutinized the A-10’s face a moment, with slightly narrowed optics. “Was it just you?”
“…Yes.” He tried to maintain a straight face, but he could hardly handle the look she was giving him, and began to chuckle.
“Why’d you tell it like you were talking about someone else?” She giggled, and lightly pushed him on the side.
“I don’t know! I’ve seen other people do it in like – movies and shows, and they make it seem cool, and mysterious!”
“Well, you don’t have a good pokerface when you talk about yourself, apparently.” She calmed herself, then asked, “So what’s the moral there, exactly?”
“Oh my stars I didn’t get to the moral – well, I was going to go on to say – after I left the restoration facility, I was maybe up and alert, but I wasn’t ready to fly yet.”
“You chose not to?”
“No – I – no, they fixed my wings, but grounded me for a while, because they had some concerns about structural integrity in my wing roots that they wanted to iron out before they’d clear me as airworthy. While I was grounded, I found plenty of other things to do with my newfound time.”
“Wait, what did your whole previous story even have to do with this?-“
“Context! It was for context! And relatability!” He interrupted hastily, and momentarily, jokingly put a hand under her nose cone as if to cover a mouth that wasn’t there. “Anyways, ya silly goose, I got into all kinds of fun hobbies while I was stuck on the ground. For a big one, I’d probably have never gotten into nursing or pursued my doctorate if not for my time stuck on wheels after the restoration facility, and I wouldn’t have just saved your butt a few weeks ago. On top of that, I really got into linguistics and woodworking – I made all of the cabinetry in my office, y’know.”
He began packing up his test equipment and stowing it back into its case. All the while, Hekwos was craning her neck to get into his face while he tried to work.
“Okay but what if that stuff sounds boring to me, I’ve never used a chainsaw before what if I lobbed my arms off?”
“Am I actually getting that old? And if you lobbed your arms off with a chainsaw, I’d imagine you’d be on your toes to shop for a new set.” He clicked the test case shut, picked it up, and started to drive. The F-235 intently followed after. “Besides, I never said you had to get interested in my hobbies, there’s a bazillion out there you could find for yourself.”
“Like what?”
“If you asked me to list them, you’d be here for days. More days than you already have been, at least.”
They continued on through the open field back to the visitor center that erred to the east end of the property. Save for some select pathways, it primarily consisted of wild grasses and flowers left untouched to grow limitlessly – to a human, it would nearly be waist high, but to both jets, it only reached the bellies of their fuselages. In decades past, fields even such as this only hosted so many little living things – pollution tended to thin populations in such a way, but in present time, it was like an ever-shifting ocean of colors from the native bees, beetles, butterflies, and more. Among lasting effects, however, summer days were scorching. Even light colored paints and metals had the potential to be burning to the living touch. Because of this, when Kelly and Hekwos passed through the doors of the visitor center, they both donned temporary shawls of delicate white fabric to protect curious and greeting hands from their still cooling frames. Additionally, they carefully drove canvas socks over each of their wheels so as to not track any dirt onto the carpet.
Inside, sitting near the expansive window that looked into the main field and anticipating their return, were two people of particular interest. In a small, minimalist but brightly colored sectional sat a man that looked to be in his early 40s – a bit big-boned yet visibly fit, wearing a salmon top with long sleeves yet notably light fabric, khaki shorts and laceless brown slides. He had a clean undercut and a full, well-groomed beard, but the minute smile-wrinkles on his face were still evident. At the moment, he seemed to be preoccupied with reading a small book that had come from one of the many miniature bookshelves that were littered across the room. Parked over his shoulder and looking down at the book with similar interest and a great air of patience, was a T-7A Red Hawk – although, unlike what the name may have suggested, was actually painted in a cream off-white base coat with accents of pale mint green. As they entered through the second set of glass doors into the main room, it was the Red Hawk who first spotted them with their deep blue optics.
“Hey, speedster! How’d you do today?” He called out in a pleasant tenor voice, which prompted his human companion to look up. As he did so, he took a second to register, then leapt up from his seat, nearly losing the page in his book.
“Hales!” He shouted, and skipped into a jog to meet Hekwos where she stood, outstretching his arms. She mimicked the gesture, and closed the distance to embrace him. “You don’t even need to answer him, I know you probably did amazing, pumpkin – you’re a little more of a squash color, now… squash.”
Hekwos bounced her suspension lightly as she laughed at the remark, and moved to simply have her hands outstretched to the man’s shoulders. “You don’t have to get so specific about it, papa.” The initial delight seemed to fade, though, as she looked between the two in front of her. “I don’t know if I would say amazing… Dr. Segal said I might not be able to fly anymore.”
“…What? Why?” The man removed her hands, and proceeded to walk the perimeter of her frame before his gaze landed on her flight surfaces. “What, because of this? Is there not anything you guys can do about it?” Despite the huff he exhaled almost sounding like a laugh, he sounded almost aggravated by the assumption. Within the undertones of his voice, though, there was a fearful sort of desperation that Kelly picked up upon.
“The short answer is… likely, no.” Kelly began gingerly, speaking slow and trying to make it clear he was picking his words carefully. By this point, the T-7A had approached, as well, listening just as intently. “The long answer is, it’s not that easy. I ran a few basic motor tests today with her, and from what I’ve observed so far, it seems like the shake is caused by neurological issues left behind from the core trauma she sustained. Maybe it would be within the realm of possibility to create a parasitic program that could intercept and correct the signals, like I explained to her, but the issue with that is that we would first have to locate where in her core the signal is from in the first place. And even this, would only be possible if we could unencrypt her core’s unique programming language.”
“So essentially , nothing that could happen any time soon.” The T-7A responded solemnly. “We understand. Even if our little girl can’t fly, it’s still thanks to you and your team that she’s even still here in the first place. For that alone, I don’t think we could ever thank you enough, or ask any more of you than what you’ve already done.”
Kelly dipped his nose gear down slightly, and closed his eyes in a sort of light bow. “It’s the least I can do. Really. She’s free to go home with you both today, but if there’s any more assistance that you guys ever need in the future, never hesitate to let us know, and we’ll be here.”
“What kind of payment do we owe you? We can cover it today, or – or get on a payment plan if it’s a little much, but we’ll gladly-“ The human started, but Kelly quickly put out a hand to calm him.
“No payment will be required. Hekwos came to us in a critical state from a freak accident that was beyond the control of any of you. I can’t in good conscience make you give up any money because of that, and I’m sure Etienne would agree when we appeal with the naitonal board; we’ll cover it all on our end, either way.”
“No, no, I –“ He tried to argue for a moment, but as his eyes started to cloud he lost sight of any reason to. “Okay, it’s my turn to hug, you now, if you don’t mind.”
The A-10 only outstretched his utility arms, and let him take hold around his fuselage as he dipped himself down a little closer to his height. They even playfully shook each other for a moment before letting go.
“Don’t let me see a dollar from any of you, ya hear!” He exclaimed. “Like I said, whenever you need us, we’re all right here.”
“Honestly, truly, thank you, Dr. Segal.” The MAI reached out and clasped one of Kelly’s hand between his own as it was still extended. “We’ll be sure to keep in touch, have a lovely evening, sir.” And with that, he turned and began ushering everyone back towards the main entrance.
“See you later, Dr. Segal!” Hekwos chimed in, “I’m sure I’ll find a hobby more interesting than – whatever you mentioned!”
The man suddenly burst out laughing, and shoved at her side. “Hales! Don’t say that kind of stuff!” So that’s where she gets that, go figure.
She shed her white indoor veil and carpet socks, discarded them in the washing bin by the door, and all three of them left to the outside. Kelly waved gently as the T-7A shot him a glance one last time, and he offered a small salute as he disappeared behind the hangar door frame. Once under the impression that they were all completely gone, he sank on his suspension and sighed.
“Rough day?” The receptionist looked up from her desk – an older woman with a brunette pixie cut, with square rim glasses and an eccentrically patterned button-up.
“Rough few weeks, Fallon.” He looked over to her with a weary smile. “You heard the short of it with what I explained to them; poor girl.”
“Well, and like I heard too, you did the best you could. Don’t think I haven’t been seeing your progress with her ever since she came in,” She tapped her glasses. “I heard the day that she got put in her new body, she wobbled like a newborn kitten for a few days, but you got her moving like it’s been hers the whole time. Can’t say I could ever teach the same.”
“I’ll let you give me that one, I suppose.” He chuckled, and turned tail back toward his office.
“Are you free later this evening? I was thinking about joining Loon and Feliks at the park at 4.”