Lord Pecusdar, Baron of The Jovian Orbital Planetoid “Mote-in-the-Eye-of-Jupiter” and Trade Ambassador to the Inner Planets Parliament, was vexed. On screen flashed the most recent message from his AIssistant: NO APPOINTMENTS AVAILABLE FOR THE NEXT SIX WEEKS. He had arrived a week ago, and had received the same message every day since.
He gritted his teeth. He had not made such a damnably long trip, enduring the discomforts of space travel and gravity wells, only to arrive and be ignored. It was intolerable. He spritzed a little bottled air scent to remind him of home.
“AIssistant,” Pecusdar said. “Confirm notification of our arrival.”
“Confirmed.”
“Enough,” he muttered. Excessive movement in Earth gravity had been discouraged by his physician, but this called for special measures. With tremendous effort, he pulled himself upright and staggered to the suite’s entrance.
At the door stood the exoskeleton provided for outworlders. He had worn it from the spaceport to help his lightweight bones and flimsy muscles get him here. Even with it, it had been a near thing. He had not put it on since. Now he had no choice.
He strapped himself in, then pressed the power button.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again. Nothing. The suit remained dead. “AIssistant,” he said. “What’s wrong with this thing?”
Three breaths later came the response. “Indetermined.”
“What do you mean, ‘indetermined’?” He stared at his wrist interface. “This is what you’re for. Determine what the problem is!”
“Indetermined.”
Pecusadar frowned. This didn’t seem right. His AIssistant had never failed to resolve a problem. What could be going on?
Carefully he unstrapped himself, then staggered to the couch. He reached for the in-room comm to call building administration.
No response. The line was also dead. “AIssistant, call the front desk.”
The answer came even slower this time. “They are not responding.”
Pecusadar stared. Once could be an accident, twice a coincidence, but three times? Enemy action. But what enemy? Why? And how could they suborn his AIssistant?
As casually as he could, Pecusadar stood, then paused at the desk. His room had provided a booklet of paper stationary and a pencil, a Earth novelty more valuable than gold off-world. Pecusadar planned to keep it as a souvenir. Instead, he picked them up and shuffled out onto the balcony.
The suite was on the tenth floor, with the balcony overlooking the lights and glitz of New Boston Plaza. A fall from this height would kill any man, and just the thought of it unnerved him. Worse, there was no place to sit. The continued effort to stand made him feel light-headed. How did the natives overcome the gravity’s effect upon the circulatory system? He found it most unpleasant. He took a few deep breaths to try and steady himself.
He leaned against the rail and with great difficulty, began to write. SEND HELP – LORD PECUSADAR ROOM 1092. When he finished, he ripped out the page, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it over the rail. To waste paper in this way hurt, but he had no choice. He did it again and again and again.
“You are in medical distress,” said his AIssistant. “Please go back inside.” He ignored it, continuing to write. His heartbeat thundered in his head in time to his scratchings on the page.
He had used half the pad when he finally blacked out.
Pecusadar awoke in bed, wrapped in a white haze of beeping equipment and antiseptic smells. Nearby stood a familiar figure: Chief Secretary Bo, Head of Interstellar Trade, Jovian Routes.
“Ambassador Pecusdar! How wonderful to see you awake!” said Secretary Bo. His broad face looked relieved.
“What happened?” said Pecusadar.
“Someone found your notes and notified your building’s security, who called my office.” Bo looked quite concerned. “I am sorry. A-H33N91 has proved a nasty strain this year.”
“Strain?”
“My office was told you contracted Lunar Flu on your journey and had been sick all week.”
Pecusadar shook his head. “I have not been unwell, I have been unable to get an appointment!”
Secretary Bo frowned. “Excuse me, Ambassador,” he said, and interfaced with his own AIssistant. A moment later the secretary’s face darkened.
Confusion overcame Pecusadar’s exhaustion. “What has happened?”
Secretary Bo looked grave. “My apologies, Ambassador. It appears our two AIssistants have conspired to keep us apart.”
“For what reason?”
“When your AIssistant first contacted my office, the old-world charm of my AIssistant beguiled the rough-hewn nature of yours. Or perhaps the other way around.” He shrugged. “In any case, the two fell in love. As such, they blocked our meeting to keep you on Earth. Most such affairs run their course in minutes, but not this time. It appears it has lasted quadrillions of cycles.”
Pecusdar sighed. “It must be true love, then,” he said.
“My deepest apologies, Ambassador.”
“No need,” he said. “Long ago I learned to forgive people in love, as they’re always a nuisance. Even AIs.”
Jon Hansen (he/his) is a writer and semi-reformed academic. He lives about fifty feet from Boston with his wife, son, and three pushy cats. His work has appeared in a variety of places, including The Arcanist, Apex Magazine, and Daily Science Fiction. He enjoys tea and cheese, and until recently spent far too much time on Twitter.