Glian presses the commands into his tablet with steady claw tips. The signal reaches the bipedal device crouched on the floor in front of him. It resembles the previous model but looks almost a fifth larger. Much of the bulk is improved armor plating and stronger servos to move around the heavier armor. The chassis also contains additional processors to allow the device to react more quickly in an emergency.

  It more closely resembles an armored vacuum suit than the older iteration. It lacks a helmet, for now, but the rest of its surface is modeled after a standard mark five suit. Its lack of decoration clearly bothers Glian, from the way he keeps cocking his ears when he looks at the device, but that must wait until the design is finalized.

  Power surges through the automaton and it stands for the test run. Servos hum as they function perfectly.

  Beside him, Glia stands ready with a bucket of ground silicates, ready to extinguish any unwanted fires.

  The hum from the new machine grows louder. A light on its head activates, bright green. Autonomous systems run within it, programs functioning to animate the construct.

  The bipedal robot, acting on programs hardcoded into its systems, turns its head and scans the room with glass eyes. It stops when its visual receptors land upon the father and daughter. Power flows within the metal frame and it twitches, readying its limbs to coordinate movement.

  Glia crouches, tightening her grip upon the handles of the bucket. Her father glances down at her, then turns his rapt attention back to the robot. It takes a single step toward the pair.

  Metal foot meets stone floor and sparks fly. The machine is heavy. Heavier than the armored suits by at least a third.

  "Need to put some leather pads down there," comments Glian, gesturing with one claw to the construct's feet.

  Glia nods but remains vigilant. A stray spark could ignite a portion of the oil-slick garage floor. The area immediately around the robot is clean, but removing the oil from the entire garage floor is too great a task. Young Glia must remain watchful.

  The heavy construct stops at the sound of Glian's voice. It waits in place, ready to accept a voice command. Glian does not issue one, trusting instead to the automaton to determine its own actions. After a long pause it preforms another scan of the garage.

  Empty racks and neatly arranged toolboxes provide the artifice with no impetus. Another moment passes while it computes the data available. Decision reached, it resumes its slow march across the workspace.

  A delighted noise escapes from Glian which he immediately regrets. The machine halts again, waiting for a command that will not come. Glian's ears droop in defeat.

  "Alright, that's a failure," admits the mechanic. "Your turn, Mos."

  Electronic signals course through the station's comm network. Like an extension of myself, I take command of the mindless device. The circuitry that powers its minimal mental capabilities switches to assisting me in piloting the device.

  I make it turn slowly and walk back to its former position. Once there I have it crouch. Only the hum of its servos betrays that it is still active, so still is it. Despite its enhanced weight, the balance is without flaw.

  "You should program it only to stop to accept commands when it hears either its name or a specified command phrase," I advise the mechanic. My voice sounds deeper, issuing from the speakers of the bipedal device. "Simply recognizing your voice was too common of an occurrence to be a useful control mechanism. If you add others to the short list authorized to command it, it will never finish a single task."

  "True," admits Glian. He sets his data tablet down on one of the abundant toolboxes. "Do you have a name already chosen for it?"

  "I do not. The tradition is to name them after the dead, if you wish to honor anyone."

  One grease-stained claw scratches at the ruff below his chin. "Hmmm."

  "Grampa," mutters Glia as she sets her burden down. She smooths down her jumpsuit and turns to look up at her father.

  Her father looks at her, then nods sharply. "That's a good idea," he says decisively. "Howan."

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  "Howan," I repeat at low volume. It is not a bad name, but still I must inquire. "Was he a great warrior?"

  "He was!" Glia practically shouts at the still form of Howan. "The best!"

  Glian chuckles. Her enthusiasm is infectious, it seems. "My da was a hunter, not a warrior, but he could fight. Defended our village from five different raider tribes before," his voice fades to nothing.

  "The mountain clans?"

  The mechanic nods but appears lost in thought.

  "Then this device shall bear the name of the great warrior, Howan," I declare. "Would you also choose a command phrase for Howan?"

  "By the fast-flowing sky," intones Glian.

  A phrase from the Tserri religion? Acceptable. It is unlikely that any tribal would know such a sentence. If a local criminal attempts to override Howan's autonomy I can easily take command. One more addition is necessary, for added security.

  "One more request? Have it send an automated message to the Ship-Mother when it accepts the command phrase."

  Glian picks up his tablet, then turns to the no longer hidden camera. It now stands out, easily spotted by the orange paint on the decorative casing. He smiles at his work. At least it is tastefully done, lacking ornamentation beyond the reflective paint. A small green light at the base indicates that it is in operation. There's a red light that responds to my commands as well, for emergencies.

  "I can find time to do all that," admits Glian. "Same time tomorrow for another test?"

  "Assuming we're both available, yes."

  "Fine." He activates the tablet and begins tapping commands into it. "Open the door, Glia?"

  The youngster runs across the garage, skipping over skids of oil with the grace of a born hunter. She lets out a small laugh when she slaps her claw against the switch for the main garage door. It raises quickly, exposing the work floor to the street outside.

  I can just make out the smooth paving stones outside from the interior camera. Standing out there are a pair of gold and black armored boots. The armored figure walks inside, revealing himself to be Security Chief Dunc Wollen.

  Dunc lightly sets one gauntleted hand on Glia's head and gently ruffles her fur. She playfully swats at his hand but smiles while doing so. Dunc chuckles fondly before walking the rest of the way inside.

  "If this is about the temperature regulator again, I told you I had nothing to do with that," Glian says defensively when he sees the first customer of the day.

  Since I'm still piloting Howan, I have it walk to the back room.

  "Is that what I think it is?" Dunc's eyes track the robot as it moves.

  Glian crosses both pairs of arms across his chest. "Looks good, doesn't it?"

  Dunc nods without taking his eyes off Howan. "The suit's fine. Leta fixed whatever was wrong with it. You made that?" He points at Howan just as it escapes into the back.

  "Who else," answers Glian proudly. He puffs his chest up for a moment, before dropping his arms to his sides casually. "So what are you here for?"

  Glia runs outside, leaving the two adults alone, when she hears one of her friends calling from the street.

  "There's still some time before my shift starts, and I thought, well," Dunc awkwardly explains, pulling three paper packages from a storage compartment on his leg. "Hungry?"

  "Thanks. Gau wraps?"

  Dunc hands two of the paper wrapped meals to the mechanic, keeping one for himself. "Sba. Shipments are delayed while they rebuild groundside. We're eating local for a while."

  Dunc removes the paper, revealing a dark green leaf wrapped around cold hunks of roast sba and boiled roots. He takes a bite, revealing a light brown sauce inside made from boiling bivalves with Tserri herbs. The leaf crunches as he chews the soft contents.

  Glian sets one aside for Glia and unwraps his own. The two discuss the latest rumors while they eat.

  "Is it true, what they're saying about the blue scale?"

  "Nah. She just sits there, staring at the wall."

  "I heard she started speaking some alien language. Raving at the healers until they had to sedate her."

  "Nope," Dunc declares with a knowing smirk. "They watch her constantly. Never less than two nurses with her at once and she doesn't even move."

  "Do you think she remembers anything? From before?"

  Dunc shrugs. "Maybe. She's old enough, I think. Old tail could have been captured when she was young."

  "How old is she? Any guess?"

  "Twice as old as the Matron, at least. They live a long time and breed slowly," answers Dunc, wiping sauce from his face.

  Older than myself, then. She could possess many useful bits of knowledge about the inner workings of the Southern Tribals, if only she could reveal them. It is also highly likely that she is a masterful combatant. She would have to be, to survive so long among the tribals.

  "What started the rumor, I think," opines the security officer, "was Zra."

  "Zra? What did he do?"

  "He's been learning to speak the blue scale language. A bunch of hisses and growl-clicks. You Tserri are more apt with it then we are, but it's been scaring some of the nurses." He hisses in imitation of Zra before attempting a growl-click but instead ending with a choking cough.

  "Yes," laughs Glian. "That would scare me, too!"

  Retrieving the packages with a frown on his gray face, Dunc grunts a reply. The soiled paper goes into a waste chute that leads to the recycling plants.

  Glian, noticing an odd sound coming from Dunc's suit, frowns. "Come here, there's something wrong with your right leg's actuators."

  Dunc walks over to the mechanic. I strain to detect this noise. At the very edge of my system's range of detection I can hear a very subtle grinding noise when the officer walks.

  "Seems fine to me," objects Dunc.

  "It isn't," argues Glian. He retrieves a scanning device and runs the emissions over the leg in question. "According to the sonagraph, if we leave this alone you'll lock up within a few days. Get it off."

  "Mos," asks Dunc. "Can you let my team know I'm going to be late today?"

  Dunc removes his armor with Glian's assistance. Underneath he is still thin. The armor supports most of its own weight, so this isn't truly a problem, but it means that he is likely to tire more quickly than he once had.