Pirate

The passes changed hands with the easy nonchalance of someone returning a borrowed pen . . . Thomas sliding them across the desk, all smiles and politeness.

“Terribly sorry, frightful muddle in admin this morning,” he said through a strong British accent, his tones rolled like honey over cornflakes. “Seems our dear friends at security got their laminates in a twist.

He held his clasped hands in front of him, after a singular clap of congratulations, for both Daphne and Magnus. “There we are. You’re now officially entitled to wander about and look terribly important. Do try to resist pressing any large red buttons. Causes all sorts of paperwork.”

They stepped through the next security turnstile, Daphne and Magnus both testing their new passes on the card readers. Then a set of stiff double doors which made an airtight shoosh sound as they closed shut behind them.

The decor of the building changed immediately from plaster and carpeted receptions, offices and meeting rooms, to steel . . . Everywhere.

The floor was a suspended grid, industrial mesh that flexed faintly underfoot, each step ringing out in a light metallic ting that travelled ahead of them. Through the gaps they could see the level below. A tangle of machinery, massive cylindrical tanks, looping cables, and bundled pipes that vanished into the shadows. The air was cooler here, carrying the low hum and pulse of pumps working somewhere deep in the structure.

As they crossed a gantry, Thomas leaned over the handrail. “Ah, yes… this’ll be where the clever bits happen. Looks rather like the engine room of a ship, don’t you think?”

They began down a set of metal stairs, the steps ringing hollow beneath them. The sound of their descent mingled with the thrum of compressors and the occasional hiss of a valve bleeding off gas. At the base, the space opened into a vast undercroft of machines and stacked gas cylinders . . . hydrogen, oxygen, and a half-dozen others, each marked with hazard diamonds in vivid red, yellow, or blue.

Magnus peered through the guard rails, wide-eyed. “Looks like a secret lair.”

“Not at all secret,” Thomas said, glancing around. “Everyone here knows about it. Just… erm, all terribly good at pretending that they don’t.”

Ahead, through a cage of steel uprights, Max stood at a central control island, lit from above by a cold, surgical beam that cut a perfect circle of light across the grated floor. Hermes’s main housing rose beside him . . . a tall, black-and-steel column, its polished surfaces broken by narrow seams that pulsed faintly with inner light. Around it, a crescent of monitoring stations flickered with shifting lines of code, the glow reflecting in restless patterns across Max’s face as he worked the console.

The air here was cooler, carrying the faint metallic tang of machine oil. Somewhere in the background, a pump thumped steadily, each beat running up through the floor and into their shoes.

Max glanced over his shoulder as he heard their metallic footsteps approach over the steel floor grid. A smile instantly consumed his features, like a child noticing their parents in the audience of a school play. “Hello Flower, Moonbeam.” He said, embracing them both. He then reached out an arm and playfully slapped Thomas hard on the shoulder. “Thanks for sorting this Thomas. Hopefully there wasn’t too much red tape”.

“Hardly an effort. Little bribe to Mike in IT. Might have to answer the phone as… erm, Philip Custard, going forward, if the wrong number calls. Just, you know, Wednesday stuff. And yes, ordinarily giving a couple of unvetted civilians… one of them a child… their own access cards to a billion-dollar lab would set off alarms, lawyers, maybe a tribunal… but honestly, who’s going to interrogate a nine-year-old? Terribly bad form.”

Max Touched an index finger to his earpiece. “They can’t hear you Hermes, you’re in my ear, send audio to the room.”

A small chime rang out from various speakers attached to steel pillars, then preceded a voice . . . smooth, precise, and spectacularly lacking in enthusiasm. It sounded remarkably human, but not quite enough to be convinced. The problem was, it was too perfect. Every syllable pronounce flawlessly, every word followed the next at exact same intervals, no room or gaps for thought. The software was clever enough to raise the octave when Hermes asked a question, mimicking human speech, and he even had his own unique accent. But, he was still quite clearly . . . not human.

“Good afternoon, Daphne. Good afternoon, Magnus. I am Hermes, an adaptive cognitive system designed for analysis, simulation, and operational command. Core functions include data integration, predictive modelling, and real-time environmental oversight. It is a pleasure to finally meet you both. May I remind you both to please remain within authorised zones and comply with all safety protocols at all times.”

Magnus’s eyes lit up. “Wow… dad, he’s so cool. Shame his voice is so lame.”

Max smirked faintly, eyebrows raised. The great thing about kids, he thought, is that they’re honest. As far as every member of the company was concerned, Hermes was top of the range and flawless. Thirty seconds around a nine-year-old and he’s already been critiqued. His fingers moved over the console, lines of code spilling down the screens. “He’s meant to be.”

“But you’re the boss,” Magnus said, leaning toward the nearest display. “You could make him sound like a pirate if you wanted.”

“I could,” Max replied without looking up. “But I won’t. He’s built for high-level quantum calculations and data analysis. He has access to pretty much everything ever written by man… You name it… Hermes knows it.”

Magnus’s eyebrows lifted. “Everything?”

“Everything worth knowing,” Max said, with a cheeky wink directed at Magnus.

“Dad, can I ask him something?” Magnus said, “Just to see if you’re right?”

Max gestured towards Hermes’ black steel column. “Ask away,” He said proudly. One big kid proudly and excitedly showing off his new toy.

Magnus leaned in. “Hermes… is there a secret story in The Little Prince… the book?”

The reply rang out instantly, smoothly and without inflection.

“I am not optimised for interpreting fiction, nor stories. My functions are quantum physics computation and factual data retrieval.”

From behind Magnus, Thomas spoke, “Don’t beat yourself up, Hermes, old chap… erm, can’t really say imagination is my forte either. Last time I played Christmas charades, half the room thought I was miming a gas leak.”

Disappointment . . . Magnus’s shoulders slumped.

Then Hermes continued.

“However, I have now created a software patch for the part of my original programming which didn’t include the digestion of stories and fiction. If Max approves the use of the new software patch, I will test it against your question, Magnus.

Magnus’ shot a glance towards Max, eyes wide with overwhelming excitement… “Dad?”

Before Max could say anything Daphne spoke. “I thought you wrote your AI’s software? I don’t understand. Did it just say it wrote a patch to… update itself?”

“Yes… and yes,” said Max as he skimmed through lines of new text that Hermes was sending to the monitors that circled the control island. “but, I did write the software that allows him to write software. It’s not unusual. One machine always builds the next. We didn’t fashion micro chips by wacking flint together, we made stone tools, which made metal tools, which eventually made machines, which built better machines. So on and so on.”

Daphne clearly considered this, then with a sly and verbal dig in the ribs, she asked, “Then what do you do all day, if it’s doing your job for you?”

“Hey, I work too. We’re a team. Hermes might do a fair bit of the driving now, but somebody still needs to steer the boat.” He finished scrolling through the last lines of text. “Hermes, looks good. Let’s run it through a sandbox, see what happens. Permission to answer the question… confirmed.”

Another instant reply through smooth emotionless tones.

“I am unable to locate a second story in the Little Prince, however, I have identified one factual irregularity. The protagonist ‘Little Prince’ is not the subject’s actual name. Of the more-than fourteen characters referenced within the novel, who interact with him, only one uses that title. The subject also does not self-identify nor introduce himself with the name ‘Little Prince’.”

Max raised his brows. “That’s… Interesting…”

“It’s like the asteroid,” Magnus blurted. “Everyone says he lived on one, but he never says he did. The book just… tricks you into reading the wrong story”

“Yes, Exactly… ,” Max said, patting Magnus on the head out of habit.

Daphne groaned. “You two and that book. Now you’ve dragged the poor AI into your nonsense.”

Max smirked. “She’s just sore because it’s obviously a science story, and she wants to turn it into one of her myth-and-metaphor lectures from work.”

“It’s not about turning it into anything,” Daphne countered, her voice taking on that measured, deliberate tone she used with her students. “Stories carry layers, Max. Symbols. Archetypes. You read it like an engineer; I read it like a map of the human soul.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

“It is layered,” she pressed. “Take the baobab trees… ”

“Weeds,” Max cut in.

“Spirit trees,” she corrected. “In African folklore, the baobab is sacred. The Sahara’s spirit tree is the baobab. And in the book, the prince digs them up because they threaten to split his tiny world apart. Isn’t it strange that his home… real or imagined… has the exact same sacred trees as the only part of Earth he visits?”

“Maybe he sees them differently, Mom” Magnus suggested. “He talks to flowers. Maybe he means spirit trees, not… tree-trees.”

“That’s absurd,” Max said.

Daphne ignored him. “Hermes, list notable spirit trees in myth and religion.”

Hermes began without hesitation.

“The Mesopotamian Tree of Life …  bridge between the mortal realm and the divine.

The Egyptian sycamore of Hathor …  portal for the soul’s passage between life and the afterlife.

The African baobab …  sacred in numerous traditions, believed to house spirits and connect the living with ancestral realms.

The Norse world-tree Yggdrasil …  linking the nine realms of existence.

The Mayan Yaxche …  connecting the underworld, the earth, and the heavens.

The Shinto sacred sakaki …  living conduit between the human world and the kami spirits… ”

“… Alright, alright,” Max interrupted. “Point made.”

Magnus bounced on his heels. “Can I work with Hermes to find more hidden stuff in the book?”

Max shook his head. “Not today, Moonbeam. I really need to carry on with the calibrations, commissioning and running these new updates, or I’ll be here all night. But, maybe tomorrow”

Daphne folded her arms, one brow arched. “You’d better not be late for dinner.”

Max stepped forward, wrapping her in a warm embrace and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Flower. And, now that Thomas has sorted your key cards, you can both come visit me whenever you want.”

She pressed into him, returning the hug.

“How lucky am I,” Daphne said dryly, “living a short stroll away from a space lab.”

Max grinned. “A space lab whose budget, I might remind you, paid for your pool house at the end of the yard.”

He glanced at Thomas. “Mind escorting them home?”

Thomas straightened a fraction, as if accepting some ceremonial role. “With pleasure and the utmost or professionalism. No detours, and erm… no contraband gift shops en route…”

Daphne rolled her eyes, but Magnus was already grinning as they followed Thomas toward the stairs.

Once the gantry echoed empty again, Max leaned on the console, eyes still on the streams of new code. He drummed his fingers lightly over the console, a thought simmering, ready to boil.

“Hermes… do your video file archives include episodes of popular television series’… and movies… from the 1980s?”

“No” Hermes replied. “My collective hard-storage does not contain fiction. However, I can confirm I have open access channels to the available data you requested. All of which can be downloaded with your permission”

Max’s rubbed his mouth in a way that suggested he was considering doing something, something which would likely upset the board of directors, creating a lot of unhappy emails and meetings. But, like Magnus had said earlier . . . he was the boss, and he could make Hermes sound like a pirate if he wanted. “Alright… how many of those files feature a comically humorous AI computer or robot character?”

A brief processing pause. “One hundred and sixteen.”

Max’s grinned. He looked like a kid about to put his hand in the cookie jar.

“Good… Let’s see if we can make you sound a little less… lame.”