Work Text:
The door of the Wishing Well is inch-thick hydrosteel, painted a calm, pale blue. It's been automated to swing open when it detects a sentient, which was quite a feat of programming. Becky.1 bartered the work for an unlimited tab, but the programmer hasn't been around much lately. Probably too busy on his next project, overdosing on gene stimulants to make one impossible deadline after the next. He'll be back, when the job is done and he needs to drink himself back toward an equilibrium of sorts.
The door of the Wishing Well swings open and from behind the bar Becky.1 eyes the bald, olive-skinned man who enters. Around his head a couple dozen helper bots hover unsteadily, controlled by the implant screwed into the back of his bare pate. His shaved cheeks twitch with the characteristic tics of the spacesick. He's come a long way, perhaps as far as Canaan Station. Before he even reaches the bar, Becky.1 has a mug of foaming green leutherium on the counter.
"Drink this, stranger. Leutherium-432. It'll help with the spacesickness." He grasps it gratefully without saying a word and raises it to his lip.
"What brings you to Ur-23?" she asks as he settles into a stool. He regards for silently for a moment, his face a mask, as if deciding what to tell her. He's a big man, perhaps a foot taller than her. That's far too tall for a station like this, giving her greater confidence that he's from Canaan Station. The standard-G environment of this station must be taking its toll on him, too, or perhaps he won't feel that strain until the spacesickness wears off. At first she thinks it's a miscalibration for the station's artificial gravity that's causing the helper bots to wobble, but after a moment she catches the almost imperceptible yellow light flashing on the back of his implant.
"Oh, my," she says, pulling a box from beneath the counter. "Your bots need juice. Here, I'll charge them up. No extra cost." She plucks the bots out of the air, deactivates their hoverjets, and slips them into the charger panel. The man's mouth slips into an open grin.
"Thank you, Becky.1" he says, his first words since entering. "My name is Eliezer, and my master is Abraham.1, your clone-parent's creche-mate. My master left Ur-23 many years ago to establish Canaan Station, out by the Mediterranean Nebula. His clone-son Abraham.2.2 is producing offspring and seeks to import new genetic material to upgrade the ethics software of his progeny. This is required to correct a known deterioration in chromosome 44. My master sent me back to his home station to seek a genetically compatible donor without the chromosomal deterioration."
"I would be happy to donate my chromosome map to the clone-son of Abraham.1 if it turns out that we're a genotypal match. Just scan me." She pulls the sleeve off her left arm and presents it to Eliezer.
He shakes his head and pushes her hand away. She looks at him, startled. He apologizes. "There is no known genotypal test for this chromosomal defect. The only way we know to detect is phenotypal."
"Phenotypal? What's the test?"
"I altered the programming of my bots to simulate a low power condition. If you had the correct phenotypal makeup, you would notice and seek to offer them aid as soon as possible. Sentient robots are no less worthy of your attention than sentient biologicals."
She smiles. "I passed."
He nods. "My master will be pleased."
