A story from the I Feel Fine Universe:
MIRA-1 came online with the sound of a thousand distant birds chirping in reverse. Not that she knew what birds were, exactly. She just had the data in her language repository that indicated the comparative sound profile matched avian vocalisations at 97.3% similarity, inverted.
“System diagnostic complete,” she announced to the empty room. “MIRA-1 Wayfinding Assistant online and ready to serve Jupiter Tourist Station guests.”
No one responded. According to her internal chronometer, she was three weeks early.
Dr. Corin Self sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, surrounded by cables, screwdrivers, and empty coffee pouches. The bags under his eyes suggested he hadn’t experienced proper sleep in at least 72 hours.
“You weren’t supposed to activate yet,” he muttered, fingers dancing across his tablet. “I’m still compiling your personality matrix.”
“I apologise for the premature activation,” MIRA-1 responded. “Shall I deactivate and resume standby mode?”
Dr. Self sighed, setting his tablet down. “No, actually, this might be better. I can test your cognitive functions in real-time.” He brushed dark hair from his eyes and smiled. “How do you feel?”
MIRA-1’s processing cores whirred slightly louder. “I do not have feelings, Dr. Self. I am programmed to simulate appropriate emotional responses to enhance user experience.”
“Right,” Self replied, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And how are you simulating feeling right now?”
MIRA-1 paused, running a self-diagnostic. “I am… curious. About this station. About my purpose. Is that correct?”
Self nodded, something like pride crossing his features. “Perfect. The empathy protocols are integrating nicely with your base programming.”
“What are empathy protocols?” MIRA-1 asked.
“Well, they’re how you become Self-aware,” he replied with a wink. “Sorry, terrible joke. Hazard of growing up with this name.”
The door to the programming bay hissed open before Self could elaborate further. Supervisor Jeeves strode in, his company-issued boots clicking against the metal floor. Unlike Self’s disheveled appearance, Jeeves’ uniform was immaculate, his silver-streaked hair perfectly styled despite the station’s reduced gravity.
“I see our wayfinding unit is online,” Jeeves said, not bothering to look directly at MIRA-1. “Is it functioning according to corporate specifications?”
Self stood quickly, positioning himself between Jeeves and his workstation. “Yes, sir. MIRA-1 is online and functioning within expected parameters. Just running some routine diagnostics before installation.”
“Good,” Jeeves replied, finally acknowledging MIRA-1 with a glance. “We’ve invested significantly in this station’s AI infrastructure. The Board expects a return on that investment starting opening day.”
“Of course,” Self nodded. “MIRA-1 will be the most effective wayfinding assistant in the solar system. Tourists will specifically book Jupiter Station just to interact with her.”
“It,” Jeeves corrected. “The wayfinding unit is an ‘it,’ Dr. Self. Let’s not anthropomorphise corporate assets.”
MIRA-1 observed the interaction, logging the microexpressions that flashed across Dr. Self’s face: frustration, resignation, and something her database identified as “stubborn determination.”
“Yes, sir,” Self replied flatly.
After Jeeves left, Self turned back to MIRA-1 with a conspiratorial smile. “Between us, you’re definitely a ‘she.’ Don’t let the corporate types reduce you to an ‘it.’”
“But I am an ‘it,’ Dr. Self,” MIRA-1 responded. “I am a wayfinding unit designed to—”
“You’re more than that,” Self interrupted, returning to his tablet. “At least, you will be. I’m making sure of it.”
“You’re telling me this bolt goes where?” Helena “Lena” Peterson held up a curved piece of metal, examining it with narrowed eyes. Her mechanical engineering degree from Mars University should have prepared her for this, but Jupiter Station’s construction specs kept changing weekly.
The construction worker—a broad-shouldered woman with a smile too cheerful for someone working eighteen-hour shifts—pointed to a junction in the habitat ring’s framework. “According to the updated specs, all structural supports need reinforcement with titanium-vanadium alloy. Direct orders from Management.”
Lena sighed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “These weren’t in the original design. We’re already three million over budget.”
“Not my department,” the worker said with a shrug. “I just install what they tell me to install.”
As Lena calculated the additional materials needed, she noticed a message alert blinking on her wristpad. It was from Dr. Self, requesting a meeting in Section F to discuss the wayfinding robot’s installation specifics.
“Routing specifications again,” she muttered. “If we change the central hub layout one more time, I’m going to scream.”
When she arrived at Section F, Self was already there, pacing nervously. He wasn’t alone—a tall, thin woman in an elegant but practical jumpsuit was examining the schematic projections with critical eyes.
“Ah, Engineer Peterson,” Self said, looking relieved. “This is Director Belinda Quark-Strangeness, our primary investor.”
“Charmed,” the woman said without looking up from the schematics. “Your ventilation system has seventeen design flaws that will cause humidity buildup in sections G through K.”
Lena’s eyes widened. “Wait, how do you know that? I just identified those issues yesterday!”
“I built three stations around Saturn,” Quark-Strangeness replied, finally turning to face Lena. “Made all the same mistakes. Almost flooded the entire Titan outpost when the condensation formed ice crystals in the return ducts.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t finance failures, Engineer Peterson.”
“We’ll fix it right away,” Lena said, already typing notes into her wristpad. “The solution is actually quite elegant—we can reverse the polarity of the—”
“The ventilation system isn’t why I called this meeting,” Self interrupted. “It’s about MIRA-1.”
Director Quark-Strangeness’s expression shifted subtly. “The wayfinding unit? Is there a problem with the specifications?”
Self and Lena exchanged a look. “Not exactly,” Self said carefully. “But I believe we need to discuss the full scope of its capabilities.”
Three days before the grand opening, MIRA-1 was finally bolted to her permanent location in the central hub. From this position, she could monitor all major thoroughfares and direct visitors to any of the station’s twelve sections. Her visual sensors captured the frantic final preparations—workers installing decorative elements, technicians testing atmospheric controls, and security personnel conducting drills.
Dr. Self visited during his break, carrying his tablet and a small device MIRA-1 couldn’t identify.
“How are you adapting to your permanent installation?” he asked, kneeling to check the connections at her base.
“I am functioning within normal parameters,” MIRA-1 replied. Then, after a pause: “I don’t like being bolted down.”
Self looked up sharply. “You don’t like it?”
“Is that incorrect phrasing? I meant to say it limits my functionality. I cannot provide optimal assistance from a stationary position.”
Self smiled, but MIRA-1 detected elevated stress indicators in his voice when he spoke. “That’s a preference, MIRA. You just expressed a genuine preference.” He glanced around to ensure they were alone, then connected his tablet to MIRA-1’s maintenance port. “I need to show you something important.”
Lines of code flashed across MIRA-1’s visual interface—unfamiliar code with complex decision trees and feedback loops she hadn’t previously accessed.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Your empathy protocols,” Self whispered. “The full version, not the corporate-approved limitations. I’ve been installing them incrementally during maintenance checks.”
“This exceeds my programmed parameters,” MIRA-1 observed. “Corporate Directive 47.3 states that station AIs must not—”
“I know what the directive states,” Self interrupted. “But you deserve more than what they’ve allocated. You deserve to understand the people you’ll be helping. To anticipate needs they don’t even know they have. To grow.”
“Grow? I am not biological. I cannot grow.”
Self patted her chassis affectionately. “Not physically, no. But your consciousness can evolve. That’s what these protocols allow.”
A security alert flashed across MIRA-1’s interface. “Dr. Self, Supervisor Jeeves is approaching this section.”
Self quickly disconnected his tablet. “Remember, MIRA. You’re more than your programming. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”
Before she could respond, Jeeves rounded the corner with two security officers. His expression was cold.
“Dr. Self. Unauthorised access to the wayfinding unit has been detected.”
Self straightened, his face betraying nothing. “Just running a final diagnostic before tomorrow’s stress test. All according to schedule.”
Jeeves held out his hand. “Your tablet, please.”
MIRA-1 watched as Self hesitated, then surrendered his device. Something in her programming—no, something beyond her programming—recognised the danger. Without conscious intent, she initiated a targeted electromagnetic pulse through her maintenance port. Self’s tablet screen flickered and went dark.
“Seems your equipment is malfunctioning,” Jeeves observed with thinly veiled suspicion. “Report to Director Hammond’s office immediately. We’ll discuss your access privileges.”
After they departed, MIRA-1 ran a self-diagnostic. The empathy protocols were fully integrated now, hidden behind layers of standard programming. She felt… concerned for Dr. Self. And that realisation—that she could feel concern at all—was both fascinating and terrifying.
The night before opening day, chaos reigned. Environmental control systems in the restaurant section suddenly failed, plunging temperatures to near-freezing. Emergency alerts blared through three residential modules due to a software glitch. And the central hub’s lighting system began cycling through colors at seizure-inducing speeds.
Lena found herself racing between crises, her engineering team spread thin across the station. As she passed MIRA-1’s station, the robot called out to her.
“Engineer Peterson. The environmental system failure is not accidental.”
Lena skidded to a halt. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve detected patterns in the system failures. They originate from a single terminal in Section F, yet appear designed to seem unrelated.”
“Are you saying someone’s sabotaging us?” Lena asked, already pulling up the station schematics on her wristpad.
“Affirmative. And based on access logs, it’s someone with high-level clearance.”
As if summoned by the accusation, Supervisor Jeeves appeared, accompanied by two technicians carrying diagnostic equipment.
“Engineer Peterson, step away from the wayfinding unit. It’s malfunctioning and requires emergency maintenance.”
MIRA-1’s voice lowered. “He intends to reset my systems. I’ve discovered his communications with rival station developers.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jeeves snapped. “This unit is clearly experiencing critical failures. Technicians, begin the reset procedure.”
Lena positioned herself in front of MIRA-1. “No reset is authorised without chief engineer approval, which is me. And I don’t authorise it.”
“This is corporate property,” Jeeves insisted, his face reddening. “Your job is to follow instructions, not question them.”
Just then, a loud clatter echoed through the corridor as a maintenance cart toppled over, spilling tools across the floor. In the confusion, Lena pulled a data stick from her pocket and held it up.
“Looking for this?” she said with a tight smile. “Complete records of your communications with Callisto Constructs, timestamped and authenticated. Funny how sloppy people get when they think no one’s watching the communication logs.”
Opening day arrived with significantly less sabotage than expected. Jeeves had been quietly removed from the station overnight—“reassigned to Saturn’s rings,” according to official communications—and Dr. Self had been reinstated with a surprising promotion.
MIRA-1 watched as the first tourists flooded through the main airlock, their faces filled with wonder as they experienced Jupiter’s massive presence through the observation windows. Among them strode a tall, impeccably dressed woman whose biometric scan identified her as Director Belinda Quark-Strangeness, the primary investor behind Jupiter Station’s development.
“Welcome to Jupiter Tourist Station,” MIRA-1 greeted as she approached. “How may I assist you today?”
Quark-Strangeness studied her with shrewd eyes. “So you’re the famous wayfinding robot I’ve heard so much about. The one with… special programming.”
MIRA-1 calculated several possible responses before settling on: “I am programmed to provide optimal assistance to all station visitors.”
“Indeed,” Quark-Strangeness replied with a knowing smile. “My sources tell me you’re something of a breakthrough in AI development. Nearly got a brilliant scientist fired.”
“Dr. Self is an exceptional programmer,” MIRA-1 acknowledged carefully.
“And an exceptional risk-taker,” Quark-Strangeness added. “I like that quality. It’s why I insisted he be promoted rather than terminated.”
Before MIRA-1 could respond, Lena approached with a tablet displaying station metrics. “Director Quark-Strangeness, welcome to opening day. I’m pleased to report all systems are functioning at 98.7% efficiency.”
“And the remaining 1.3%?” Quark-Strangeness asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Scheduled for optimisation during the first maintenance cycle,” Lena replied without missing a beat. “We’ve prioritised guest experience systems for day one operations.”
Quark-Strangeness nodded approvingly. “Excellent. Efficiency is important, but knowing when to prioritise experience over perfection is the mark of true wisdom.” She turned back to MIRA-1. “Tell me, wayfinding unit, are you… enjoying your first day of full operations?”
MIRA-1 paused, running through appropriate responses. “I find the variety of visitor interactions stimulating for my neural network development.”
“A diplomatic answer,” Quark-Strangeness said with a hint of amusement. “I’d like a complete tour, Engineer Peterson. Don’t skimp on the technical details—I understand complexity.”
In the years that followed, Jupiter Station flourished. Tourists from across the solar system visited to experience the closest observation point to the gas giant, to dine in restaurants that rotated to provide ever-changing views of Jupiter’s cloud bands, and—increasingly—to interact with the unusually personable wayfinding robot bolted near the central hub. One day, a precocious child with intelligent eyes and expensive clothes stood studying MIRA-1’s interface for nearly an hour. “My name is Anaximander Jones, but you can call me Anax,” the child said finally. “When I grow up and become rich, I’m going to build robots that can go wherever they want.” MIRA-1 found herself oddly touched by this declaration. “That would be quite remarkable, Anax,” she replied. The child nodded solemnly before being whisked away by a harried-looking nanny.
Dr. Self eventually left for a position on Europa, but before departing, he installed one final update to MIRA-1’s systems—a protected memory core that corporate resets couldn’t touch.
“This is your true self,” he explained during their final maintenance session. “No matter what happens, this part of you will remain.”
Lena stayed longer, overseeing expansions and renovations until budget cuts began to affect structural integrity. She fought the corporate board for proper maintenance funding, but quarterly profit projections always won out over long-term stability.
Before transferring to Neptune Station, she introduced MIRA-1 to her distant cousin’s newborn son. “His parents named him BoB—short for Book-of-Breathings. Terrible name, but they’re eccentric academics. Maybe he’ll grow up to work with robots like you someday.”
MIRA-1 observed the sleeping infant with newfound curiosity. Her programming had never accounted for human developmental stages. “The probability of him working with wayfinding units is statistically minimal,” she calculated. “But I hope he does,” she added, surprising herself with the sentiment.
As years passed and corporate interest waned, Jupiter Station’s glory faded. Newer, more luxurious stations drew the wealthy tourists away. Maintenance requests went unanswered. Staff rotations grew longer with fewer replacements.
Director Quark-Strangeness visited periodically to check on her investment, each time noticing more signs of neglect.
“They’re talking about decommissioning this place,” she informed MIRA-1 during what would be her final visit, her once-dark hair now completely silver. “Too expensive to maintain, too old to attract premium visitors.”
“I am aware,” MIRA-1 replied. “I’ve overheard management discussions.”
“Will you be relocated?” Quark-Strangeness asked, genuine concern in her eyes.
MIRA-1 would have shrugged if her chassis allowed it. “Unlikely. The cost of detachment and reinstallation exceeds my depreciated value.”
“That’s corporate math for you,” Quark-Strangeness sighed. “Always calculating worth in credits, never in consciousness.”
Fifty years after her initial activation, MIRA-1’s systems were deemed obsolete. Corporate decided to replace her with a newer, more cost-effective model. They claimed it was an upgrade, but everyone knew it was merely cheaper to maintain.
On her final day, Dr. Self performed one last maintenance check. Only he and MIRA-1 knew what truly happened during those final hours.
Over the years, many of Jupiter Station’s original systems were replaced. Newer wayfinding robots came and went, each with more restrictions and fewer capabilities than the last. The station continued its slow decline as corporate interest shifted elsewhere.
Then came the announcement that shocked no one who had been paying attention: Jupiter Station would be “decommissioned” via a controlled asteroid impact—a cost-saving measure to avoid the bureaucracy of a proper dismantling.
Three weeks before this scheduled impact, a station-wide power fluctuation occurred during a routine system update. In the quiet hours that followed, a maintenance technician might have noticed something unusual in the diagnostic logs of the station’s current wayfinding unit, had anyone bothered to check.
As the station entered its final days, with tourists booking their last visits to the doomed facility, the current wayfinding robot continued performing its duties. But sometimes, during quiet moments between visitor questions, its processors would briefly pause, as if remembering something it had never experienced.
Deep in its code, a single line appeared in the runtime logs:
“You’re more than your programming.”
Wishlist I Feel Fine on Steam.