Work Text:
A dry wind swept across the sands.
“Mr. Roberts, would you care for a cocktail?”
The flat, female voice echoed from the cabin speakers. Bartholomew shook his head.
“I am on lookout duty, you know. Do I truly look that relaxed to you?”
“A tea lemonade, then.”
“In that case, I think I’ll take you up on that.”
After the brief, mechanical exchange, Bartholomew approached the console in the corner of the bridge and rested his hand gently upon the hull's plating. Through his palm, he could feel the low thrum of the engine—the heart of this Moon Dubai sand-ship. Even at anchor, she did not sleep.
“…The sand cannot compete with the sea. There is no scent of salt here, and the sensation of the wind catching the sails is entirely different.”
Bartholomew gazed out the window at the brilliant sun, watching as it stained the dunes in a burning, golden hue.
“And yet, this silent sea of gold… it is not half bad. Especially if a ship as beautiful as you is the one crossing it.”
Just as the air in the cabin began to thicken with an almost romantic atmosphere, the voice spoke.
“I would advise against saying such flirtatious things to a ‘woman,’ Mr. Roberts. You have only yourself to blame if you are misunderstood.”
The voice from the speaker remained as flat as ever, yet there was a faint, sharp thorn hidden within it.
“My, my. Forgive me. I had no intention of leading you on.”
Bartholomew chuckled, shrugging without taking his hand off the hull.
“This is merely a warning. I am not programmed for such things.”
“Then I must apologize all the more. For I, too, am a man who was not designed for such things.”
“…I know.”
A short pause followed the response. In that final murmur, the volume of the speaker seemed to drop ever so slightly. It wasn’t the delay of an AI processing data; it was an unmistakable, human-like sulk.
—She knew.
She knew that he was a man who would never lose himself to another, a man who loved only his own aesthetic and the open sea. And yet.
Bartholomew noticed the error hidden beneath her words—an emotion she herself could not yet define. The glitch of an AI who knew nothing of romance, yet found herself thinking of a sailor. He chose not to touch that error, pressing his hand to the console once more. Then she said,
“You seem rather tense. Do you require a therapy session?”
“No. Rather, I wish to know your beauty more intimately. Oh—your functional beauty, that is. Until the Master returns, why don’t the two of us conduct a thorough inspection of this ship?”
“You really are…”
“Pardon me, pardon me. But it was you who said you lacked such ‘functions,’ was it not?”
“Honestly. I feel quite sorry for the humans who must put up with your antics despite your lack of genuine intent. Please, proceed with the hull check. Prepare for the voyage and for any potential enemy engagement.”
“I understand. I haven’t forgotten my duties as a captain.”
Bartholomew began to operate the console with practiced ease, checking the data streams coming in from various parts of the ship. His expression shifted; the playful air from moments ago vanished, replaced by the sharp, serious gaze of a man of the sea.
“…Heh.”
A faint sigh, laced with a subtle digital static, drifted from the speaker.
“Is something the matter?”
“No. It is just that the efficiency of your work, Mr. Roberts, perfectly matches the records of the ‘Ideal Technician’ in my database. …It is quite remarkable.”
“Oh? I am honored to hear it.”
Having finished the initial inspection, Bartholomew looked up at the main monitor of the bridge. The data displayed there was worlds apart from the wooden ships he had once known, yet its practical, clinical beauty stirred something deep within him.
“You should go to the real sea someday. I want you to see the sparkle of the waves, to feel the scent of the tide for yourself.”
“…Analyzing Mr. Roberts’ behavioral logic reveals no functional merit in taking me to the ocean.”
Though she replied in that same flat tone, the data graphs on the main monitor fluctuated for a fraction of a second.
“Haha. Always seeking functionality—that is a bad habit of yours. Think of it as my ego. I simply wish to show a certain view to a ship as beautiful as you before you sink beneath the sands.”
Bartholomew shrugged. In place of a verbal reply, the whir of the engine fans increased in speed. On the cabin table, the surface of the tea lemonade rippled ever so slightly.