“Diagnostic complete,” chirped the onboard AI, a fussy little thing named PING. “Mood: melancholic. Cause: existential. Recommendation: launch.”
Elara sighed. This was the problem with sentient hardware. She climbed into a service elevator and rode up the spine of the colossal engine, past turbine blades the size of cathedrals, until she reached the core chamber. It glowed with a soft, amber light.
Elara almost laughed. But the core’s light flickered with genuine longing. This engine, capable of generating a hundred million pounds of thrust, wanted to be a humble motorboat.
“Increase to forty percent.”
“It says, and I quote,” PING replied, “‘The sky is just a higher floor. I am tired of carrying everyone else’s dreams. What about my dream?’”
