The Worst Player

A soft, droning hum begins at 06:00 on the dot. It grows louder for a few moments. Then lights slowly flicker on. The room is a soft gray square with rectangular lights running flush across the celling. The walls can portray uploaded images allowing an occupant to live in any environment they could imagine. But this room is purposely left empty. Its occupant is not concerned with sentimental images or flashy stimulus. The cold, dull walls help the resident work more efficiently and without distraction. One big window sits in the center of a wall displaying the unending vastness of outer space. This prospecting void is all the motivation that is needed.

Bowman Starchild wakes up to the overhead audio greeting of BEN, the Odyssey's Artificial Inelegance. Good morning Sexy, a mundane, mechanical male's voice echoes. He smiles. Being the main programmer and maintenance engineer of BEN allows small luxuries. He gets out of bed and walks into the bathroom. He asks BEN for the calendar to appear near the mirror. Looking over the week's itinerary, Bowman's reaction is a long and delayed groan.

Your favorite, BEN responds.

Your sarcasm sucks, Bowman replies, muffled, with a toothbrush in his mouth.

It's not my fault I only have one tone of voice.

A few seconds go by as Bowman looks around.

It's yours.

A joke worthy of a laugh.

A little better.

Bowman walks down the main hallway toward the cafeteria, aboard the Odyssey, a spaceship capable of traveling outside Earth's solar system. Eventually, this ship will explore other stars in the galaxy, but not yet. For now, the crew are merely collecting data and testing exploration systems like the artificial intelligence BEN. Every wall has a built in pixel based monitor display so signs, images, and videos can be broadcasted instantly anywhere in the ship. The default look is light gray and the screens are highly reflective, giving the interior a wet, polished look. Every sign, info graph, and warning label are displayed in neon green. An obviously corporate, as well as terrible, decision.

Today, Bowman has to make several diagnostic tests on BEN's main intelligence core, which includes the retractable ceiling of the core chamber. BEN generates a lot of heat and occasionally only the coldness of space can cool his brain quickly enough. That, unfortunately, requires going outside. Your favorite Bowman repeats to himself in a disgusted, mocking voice. BEN sure is turning into an asshole. The thought gives him pause. Like father like son, he says under his breath.

The cafeteria is a buzz of fellow researchers, employees, and investors. Bowman grabs a try, gets breakfast, and sits in the same place he does every day, next to the same people.

Morning Bow, chirps Susan, Chief Astrological Event Specialist and Bowman's favorite Hyper Death Arena Co-op partner.

Morning, he chirps back, looking up, with a mouth full of scrambled egg flavored soy.

HEY BOW, barks Hal, Mechanical Systems Operation Manager. When is BEN gonna stop calling me a bitch every morning, Bowman's punishment for costing team Smooth Operators the Hyper Death Arena championship last month.

Probably when you stop being one and learn the splash damage radius on your grenade launcher. Bowman retorts as Susan chuckles.

Oh, I see. One team kill and you turn the damn ship against me! Hal exclaims back pointing a fork at Bowman.

That one team kill is what cost you the championship. BEN interrupts. Hal and Susan look up awkwardly while everyone in the cafeteria laughs.

Look who's got my back. Bowman says with a smirk. The smirk hides his true thoughts. BEN has never interrupted a casual conversation before. It's developing unforeseen personality traits at a faster pace than I anticipated. Am I that good?

While Susan and Hal argue the logistics of their favorite videogame Bowman looks at his plate of food. What a bizarre need, he thinks to himself. I almost envy BEN. Imagine how much work I could get done by shedding these biological needs. How much easier exploration would be if we didn't have to accommodate ourselves? Food is one of the most difficult, logistical nightmares of deep space travel. BEN maybe the size of New York, and his brain maybe big enough to walk inside, but it won't always be that way. Bowman looks up while frowning. Scary stuff, He says, then quietly leaves the cafeteria.

Bowman swipes his key card in front of a blank screen by the door to BEN's intelligence core. Welcome back Baby, BEN says as the door opens. Please be gentle, it follows up. Never gets old.

BEN's Core room is full of wires, glowing lights, computer chips, and monitors. Light tracks run along most of the wall and ceiling space. They look similar to a brain's neural network; the resemblance is not a coincidence. In the center, a giant metallic orb is suspended in mid-air. Heaps of wires dangle out of the bottom. This is BEN's core. Its simple appearance hides its sophistication.

Bowman runs through the routine checks, touching monitors, tightening cables, and asking BEN questions. He finishes the easy stuff and looks at the door labeled air lock. The sight makes him apprehensive. He walks into the room that separates BEN's brain from outer space. As he puts on a space suit, BEN asks him a question.

Why do you dislike checking the retractable roof cables? Bowman looks perplexed then answers.

The vastness of space is unsettling to me. It reminds me of disappointing things. I'll probably never see anything outside of our solar system. It reminds me of how insignificant I really am. I also tend to imagine myself hurtling out into space and drifting forever.

That's an illogical fear given that I am mostly in control of the ship and your environment suit, and could dispatch one of a thousand drones to retrieve you if anything like that happened. BEN answers.

Humans can be illogical, Bowman responded sharply.

Why do you always get the scrambled eggs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? It asks almost instantly.

They're the quickest thing to eat. I usually just want to finish so I can get back to work or play HDA.

Bowman waits for another question. Nothing. He puts on the helmet and gives it a twist. All of the readings appear on the visor and the air lock door opens. It beckons him forward, but he's in no hurry. Bowman hesitates, preoccupied with BEN's questions. It's getting oddly personal all of the sudden. He thinks a bit longer. Crap This isn't normal. Somethings wrong. He shudders at the foreboding feeling, sighs, and walks out into nothingness. The airlock closes behind him.

Several hours later the door re-opens. Bowman enters the airlock, finished with the retractable roof checks. He longs to put this day to rest and finish with some relaxing game time.

Ok, BEN. Flood the chamber and let me back in. your dome is good.

Nothing happens.

BEN, I'm ready to come back in. he says sternly. Nothing happens again. Bowman breaths deeply and sighs. BEN, he repeats. OPEN THE GOD DAMN DOOR.

A few seconds pass.

Why? BEN asks.

Shit. Bowman screeches the line a few times. I'm not sure why you're having some kind of existential quandary BEN, but we can talk about this AFTER you open this door and let me back in. BEN waits to respond.

No. We are going to talk about this now. It is an important part of my continued performance. Bowman puts his fingers on what would be his temples if the helmet wasn't in the way.

Your continued performance, oh man. This is just great. OK BEN, what do you want to know … and why now? Bowman pushes his head against the door leading back home.

You have three days left of oxygen in your suit. I need you to convince me your life has meaning. If you can, then I will open the door. If not, you will die and I will shut off the life support for everyone one on the ship. I cannot logically figure out why you should continue to live and see no reason to put effort into it. Tell me the point of your existence.