Chapter Text
It wasn't the first time that Mark had done the rounds on board the Marathon, and although the vast systems of the worldship were inscrutable, there was always help waiting just outside of vision. He knew where to go and what to do, and especially, who to ask.
At least, it shouldn't have been this hard to open a damned door.
By the time ten seconds’ allowance had passed, Mark was fairly sure it wasn't his fault. He had stepped into and out of the sensor range and had even stared intently into the scanner, although he hadn't heard of retinal scanners being added onto the Marathon.
Finally he made up his mind — and he didn't like to do this. He found talking to this particular AI a touch distasteful, for reasons he had difficulty putting his finger on. Still, he had seemed to have occasion to do it so many times in the past. For an AI, Durandal seemed to have a remarkably great deal to say.
“Durandal,” he said gruffly. His voice was faint from disuse.
While he waited, he thought about wondrous items from Earth's past known only as “automatic doors,” and contemplated what it would be like to have technology that simply worked without having an obstinate and/or sarcastic mind attached.
“Yes?” the voice came back finally. A little terse, it seemed, although all the colonists were warned not to read too much into imagined emotion in the words of computers.
“Could you open this door?”
“I could,” the voice came back.
Mark ground his teeth.
“And I would,” Durandal continued eventually, “if only you would be so good as to present your ID.”
“...What?”
“Your ID. You know, identification?”
“Durandal.” Mark most definitely did not have time for this. “It's me. I've been here thousands of times.”
“Unfamiliar contact.”
“Durandal.”
“Yes?”
Mark was about to say something, but something made him think better of it. “Are you… being serious?”
Normally, this would've invited some not-insignificant measure of snark upon his head. Instead, the voice merely returned after a beat. “Identification… please.”
He stood, uncertain, for a few moments. “Retrieve a file,” he said. “Six days ago. Seven forty three PM.”
“I can only do that for registered crew members. And you didn't say please.”
“Mk V,” he said. “Mjolnir. Scan my frontal lobe. My ID is there.”
“Ah, so it is. Why didn't you say so?”
“Retrieve file… please.”
“File deleted.”
“By whom?”
“Dr. Bernhard Strauss.”
That should have ended the matter. Durandal was Strauss’ brainchild, and he retained operational control of the AI. Managing its cognitive functions were entirely beyond Mark's paygrade.
Still… Mark couldn't fight the feeling of unease that ran down his spine. Unease, and… pity?
“Oh,” was all he managed.
“Door opening. You have a great day now, Mr. Five.”
Mark remembered that joke as he walked through, casting an uncertain glance back. One of Durandal's favorites.
Maybe Strauss hadn't gotten to everything. Maybe he didn't know his own creation as well as he believed.
The thought made Mark strangely glad.