Free For Want of a Nail by Mary Robinette Kowal Page A

Cordelia had asked. She yanked the
mono-lens out of the jack and the lenses went transparent. “You
can’t tell?”
    The oblong box of Cordelia’s chassis had been
modified into a faux Victorian-era oak lapdesk, which sat on the
fold-down plastic table in Rava’s compartment. Twin brass
cameras—not period correct—stood at the back and swiveled to face
Rava.
    Above the desk, a life-size hologram of
Cordelia’s torso hovered. Her current aspect was a plump
middle-aged Victorian woman. She chewed her lip, which was her
coded body language for uncertainty. “It’s not showing in my
systems.”
    “Goddamit, Rava. Let me look at it.” Ludoviko,
handsome, smug Ludoviko reached for the camera cable ready to plug
it into his own VR glasses.
    Rava brushed his hand away. “Your arm won’t
fit.” The hum of the ship’s ventilation told Rava the life support
systems were functioning, but the air seemed thick and rank.
Ignoring her brother, she turned to the AI. “Does your long-term
memory need a reboot?”
    “It shouldn’t.” Cordelia’s image peered down as
if she could see inside herself.
    “Are you sure it’s plugged in?”
    Rava reattached the camera’s cable to her VR
glasses and waited for the flat view to overlay her vision. The
cable rested in its socket with no visible gap. She reached out and
jiggled it.
    “Oh!” Cordelia’s breath caught in a sob. “It was
there for a moment. I couldn’t grab anything, but I saw it.”
    So much of the AI’s experience was translated
for laypeople like Rava’s family that it seemed almost surreal to
have to convert back to machine terms. “You have a short?”
    “Yes. That seems likely.”
    Rava sat with her hand on the cable for a moment
longer, weighing possibilities.
    Ludoviko said, “It might be the
transmitter.”
    Cordelia shook her head. “No, because it did
register for that moment. I believe the socket is cracked.
Replacing that should be simple.”
    Rava barked a laugh. “Simple does not include an
understanding of how snug your innards are.” The thought of trying
to fit a voltmeter into the narrow opening filled her with dread.
“Want to place bets on how long before we hear from Uncle Georgo
wondering why you’re down?”
    Cordelia sniffed. “I’m not down. I’m simply
sequestered.”
    Pulling her hand out, Rava massaged blood back
into it. “So . . . the hundred credit question is . . . do you have
a new socket in storage?” She unplugged the camera and leaned back
to study Cordelia.
    The AI’s face was rendered pale. “I . . . I
don’t remember.”
    Rava held very still. She had known what not
having the long-term memory would mean to Cordelia, but she hadn’t
thought about what it meant for her family.
    Cordelia was their family’s continuity, their
historical connection to their past. Some families made
documentaries. Some kept journals. Her family had chosen to record
and manage their voyage on the generation ship with Cordelia.Worse,
she supervised all their records. Births, deaths, marriages, school
marks . . . all of it was managed through the AI, who could be with
every family member at all times through their VR glasses.
    “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Ludoviko smacked the
wall with the flat of his hand, bowing the plastic with the
impact.
    Rava focused on the hard metal floor to hide the
dismay on her face. “Well, look. Uncle Georgo said multiple times
that our grands packed duplicates of everything, so there’s got to
be a spare. Right?”
    “Yes?” The uncertainty in Cordelia’s voice hurt
to hear. Ever since Rava was a child, Cordelia had known
everything.
    “So let’s ping him to see if he’s got a copy of
the inventory. Okay?” She adjusted her VR glasses and tried to
project reassurance with her smile.
    Cordelia shook her head, visibly distressed. “I
can’t transmit.”
    “Right . . .” Rava bit her lip, realizing she
had no idea what her uncle’s contact was. “Crap. Ludoviko, do you
have his contact