My new novel is about a solitary janitor learning to take care of a broken robot dog. It is still a rough idea. But here is the beginning. (Patreon)

Chapter 1.

Today is my day off. No mops, no brooms. No cleaning agents or air testing equipment. No smock. No rubber boots. My cabin feels brighter today. Even before I open my eyes, I feel free. I wonder sometimes if this feeling is psychosomatic, or if the window against my wall is programmed to shine a little brighter today. Simulated day-off sunshine should feel brighter, don't you think?

There's no lingering in bed. No deep breath as I force myself up. I make it to the closet before I'm even fully awake. My body knows the way. I put on my civilian clothes. I pull on my civilian socks. I'm wearing my civilian reasonable look of contentment. A gentle and appropriate level of positive anticipation for my day. My morning alarm goes off just as I open my door.

"Not today, Satan," I say. A pre-programmed day-off joke. The alarm recognizes the command and goes silent. The door closes behind me, and I'm on my way. I don't dislike my job. I find it rewarding, actually. I feel like I am a vital part of a functioning system. There is satisfaction to be had in that. It is exhausting sometimes, but even that brings with it a certain kind of satisfaction.

But I do love my days off.

I spend every day off in the forest. I like to breathe the cold air, and feel life all around me. There is an express elevator to the public forest decks. It only stops on every tenth floor. Nearest to the emergency stations.

There are sixteen decks dedicated to the algae forest and colonies. The public forest deck is more diverse. A giant park for the staff and residents to visit. Landscaped to include benches and more vibrantly coloured plant life. Again, careful psychological planning I'm sure. But it works.

I go as deep into the forest as I can. Far from the elevator and the people on their lunch breaks sitting on the benches. Far from the guided botanical tour of various species that the residents can take. I go deeper into the forest. I don't stray from the paths. I don't want to crush the moss or the small mint-smelling leaves beneath my feet. But oh, I'd love to disappear into those trees. To just sink into the darkness. I imagine that there is a door, far back in the dark. With only shafts of simulated sunshine to reach the forest floor. A door that leads to stairs, down and down into the other decks. Where stranger and more wild forests of plant life grow and bloom and live.

The ship's computer says there are sixteen decks dedicated to the forests, but I like to believe there are more. I like to sit deep in the green, where the sound of other people can't reach through the soft leaves and algae, and imagine that the decks get wilder and wilder below. That eventually they turn to swampland. To marsh. To salt water and plankton. Giant creatures in almost pure darkness, moving gracefully through the kelp. It helps me to feel -

"Charles," The voice startles me out of my daydream. My Deck Supervisor is standing above me. Even he looks more peaceful and less human in the slivers of light through the canopy above. "There you are," he says. He doesn't sit down, standing above me expectantly. I'm not going to stand up for him. He's not my boss. I don't have a boss. I answer to the ship itself. I answer to my duties. To the clean floors and walls. To the replacement faucets and leaking pipes. I answer to flickering windows and strange stains in dark unused cabins.

"I'm not interested," I tell him. But he just keeps on smiling. David. Or Daniel. I can't remember his first name. Everyone just calls him Supe. Or Soup. He likes it. Interprets it more like Superman than Chicken Noodle I imagine.

"I'm not sure the Ship is interested in whether you're interested or not," Soup says. "Your last medical put you on the list for a service animal, and in my experience that means you're getting a service animal. You can choose the species, though."

"Species." That's a joke. Pick a skin for your yes-bot. There are service animals on my deck. Not a lot of them, but some. They're always agreeing. Always saying, "Yes!" and "That's exactly right!" Thankfully there aren't so many on my deck. I live with the crew, not the residents. The nurses and doctors and patient attendants. The event co-ordinators and Bridge instructors and masseurs. The janitors.

But there are some. I've seen them, cats trotting along beside their humans. Small dogs yapping yes yes yes. Some people with a rat on their shoulder, or a bird. One woman with a bat clinging always to her collar. Whispering yes in her ear. Because that's what they do. They reassure you. They talk to you and encourage you, and help you when you've forgotten something.

There is a patient attendant in the cabin next to mine, and he sits with the dying. He is a companion. He doesn't nurse, or clean, or care for them in any physical way. He makes sure that they aren't alone. When they wake up in the middle of the night, he's there. He's there to say, "I'm here." And it wears on him. Emotionally.

So, yeah, he has a service animal. I respect that. The work he does is important and it's necessary, and if he can come home to his cat and laugh or talk about something reassuring, or something trite and silly, and it helps him? I'm glad that is possible.

But me? I don't need a fake robot friend.

"If you don't pick, they'll just send a dog."

"I don't need a service animal. I enjoy my work. I enjoy my days off." I look up at him. "Well, I usually enjoy my days off," I correct myself. The edge in my voice doesn't phase Soup at all. Not his problem. He shrugs.

"I've passed the message along," he says. "Enjoy the day!"

I watch him walk away, and just before he disappears into the green, he stops.

"Treacle," he says.

"What?"

"I couldn't think of the word. Treacle. That's how it feels down here in the forest, like an antidote for anxiety. Or sadness. Treacle." He smiles to himself for remembering the word, and then he's gone and it is quiet and soft and cool again.

For a while I try to relax back into the daydreams of whole oceans beneath me. Dozens of floors that shouldn't exist. Sea creatures that have long been extinct, brought back to life by genetic scientists with a twinkle in their eye. Not for any reason but because they could. Mystery and magic are their own rewards.

But it feels academic now. I feel like I'm imagining the creatures, not dreaming them. It feels detached. I'm sitting in the dark, and it is cool, and calm, but I am not. Soup's visit has agitated me. Intruded. Disrupted. There's no point sitting here anymore. I climb to my feet. Brace my hand against the wall. I should eat soon anyway. So many times I've forgotten to eat, lost in dreams down here. I could venture further today. Eat at one of the nice restaurants.

Sushi. I could eat sushi. All the way on the other side of the ship there was a sushi restaurant run by a woman who was always in a bad mood. The food wasn't anything special, but it was always a treat watching her snap at customers. Watching her grump around behind the counter. I only let myself eat there on special occasions, because I never wanted the novelty to wear thin. Today was no special occasion, but I would bend the rules just this once.

I just needed to change into clean clothes.

The elevator ride home usually feels longer. Apprehension instead of anticipation. But a reasonable apprehension. Nothing overwhelming. Today I hardly notice the ride at all. My mind is out ahead of me, sitting down in an uncomfortable chair in the sushi restaurant. The proprietor scowling at me and dropping a menu on the table.

When I get off the elevator, I don't even notice the small dog. I make it down two long hallways before I catch a glimpse in the reflection of a glass door. He's behind me. Following a respectful distance, but following. Sort of? He moves with a weird see-saw motion. A hitch in his giddy-up.

When I turn around, I can see why. He's small and grey, and he only has three legs. He has no front left leg. The eye on the same side is completely white. We stand staring at one another for a moment. He doesn't wag his tail. Which is fair enough. I don't wag mine.

He just looks at me, head cocked to one side. I've never seen a service animal like this.

They were robots. Robots of some kind, anyway. And they were all perfect. Fun. Cheerful. Comforting.

His tongue is hanging out from the exertion of walking, and his breathing sounds laboured. I don't need a service animal. I don't care what the medical tests said about my feelings. Or my psychology. My trauma. Or whatever box they ticked. I don't want a service animal, and I don't need one. I stand there staring at him, trying to feel indignant.

"I don't need you," I say. He sits down and keeps panting. Exhausted. It's hard to be mad at him, though. He didn't choose this anymore than I did. I realize he hasn't said a word. Hasn't tried to cheer me up. He's just sitting there, struggling to catch his breath. Fuck it. I turn and keep walking toward my cabin. Then I stop and look back at him, waiting. He climbs to his feet.

"I'll get you some water," I tell him. "But that's it."

He follows me the rest of the way back to my door. But when it slides open, he just sits there looking up at me. So I step through, and beckon. Come on, I say. But he just sits there. Eventually the door slides shut on him. I push the button and it opens again. He's still just sitting there like a dope. Or maybe I'm the dope for beckoning him like he can understand me. He doesn't give any indication that he does.

So I leave him there and go fill one of my cereal bowls with cool water. Not too cold. I find it hard to drink water when it is too cold. It must be the same for dogs. Or robots, I guess. If they can make robots that are too dumb to come inside, maybe they can make them with cold-sensitive teeth. I didn't grow up around animals. I've always felt that they were a part of life that I didn't belong to. That sounds like self-pity. I mean that I always felt like pets were something other people needed. Something other people understood.

I love animals though. I love the idea of life that isn't human. Like the sea creatures hundreds of decks below, in hidden oceans. Living secret lives without ever seeing a human. Without ever being seen by a human. I have always loved the idea of life that goes on without us. That thrives whether we are there or not. It makes me feel like I am a small part of something bigger. Unimportant in the best possible way.

When I open the door again, the dog is still there. He won't come in, so I go out. I sit down against the corridor wall, and put the water in front of him. He sniffs it and then starts lapping it up like he hasn't had anything to drink in weeks. He is splashing it everywhere. I'm surprised any of it is getting in his mouth.

"I don't really think you're dumb," I say, watching him. "I wouldn't go into a stranger's cabin either. Hey. Slow down. You're gonna make yourself sick." He doesn't slow down, though. He's very thirsty. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. I can hear the hum of the ship and the splashing gulping small wet noise beside me.

When he's finished, there's water everywhere except the bowl. I can see now that he's wearing a collar, and his name tag says Mitchie. He only has one good eye, but even in the clear bright eye there's something that feels almost helpless. He doesn't hold himself like one of the service robots. He doesn't look like he wants to cheer me up, or tell me how smart I am. He looks like he needs someone to take care of him.

I feel foolish that it never occurred to me that might be a service, too. Some people need support, encouragement, and cheerleading. And some people are missing something else entirely. Some people need someone to care for. I don't know if that's me or not. The idea isn't as offensive as walking around with one of those yapping little yes-bots, though.

I stand up, taking the bowl with me. "Okay, Mitch, I have to change my clothes. You can wait out here if you want. No pressure. But after that, how do you feel about sushi?"

He puts his head on the floor right in a puddle of water, and closes his eyes.

"Okay, well. You think about it," I say. And I go inside to get ready for dinner.

Because service animals are all robots, you can take them anywhere. They can sit with you in restaurants and bars. So when Mitchie and I step into the sushi restaurant, nobody looks surprised. The woman behind the counter looks cross, but that's just her face. She's always cross. She sees us, and she yells out, "Stop blocking the door."

At my feet Mitchie lets out a surprised yelp and starts to shake. It happens so fast. There's a pool of pee forming underneath him, and he starts backing away from the woman toward the door, scrambling to turn around, leaving a trail of urine. The door won't open for him, though. He butts his head against it.

"Is that piss?" the woman shouts at me, but I'm crouching down to scoop the small shaking dog up in my arms. His feet are wet, but it's okay. It's just pee. I clean up worse every day. It's not his fault. She scared him.

"I'm not cleaning that up!" she yells, but Mitchie and I are already gone.

"It's okay," I whisper in the hallway, my mouth against his ear. "The food there is terrible."

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