Tyler Makes a Sandwich

This is a short chapter in which Tyler Batt, astronomer aboard Mortimer Station, makes a sandwich. It is not a very long chapter because it was not a very large nor elaborate sandwich, nor was the sandwich made with care, deference, and patience, as it should have been. This is not, as many other chapters have been, about Tyler’s upbringing. It is about him and a sandwich and, for once, the present predicament, not some previous tribulations. Tyler’s inconsequential childhood will not come into it whatsoever. At all. Not even slighly. 

Tyler walked into the kitchen, which was painted orange by a team of otherwise-purposeless psychologists. He took two slices of dehydrated bread, and a slice of dehydrated cheese, and a lump of butter that Emily had procured through some means. He unwrapped the two slices of bread, the slice of cheese, and set the butter on the counter. He turned his back to put the bread and cheese in a bowl of water. They swelled limply, and began to resemble socks, instead of moldy leaves. Tyler took the bread and cheese out of the bowl, set it on the counter beside the butter. Then he walked the bowl of water to the cycling sink, and dumped it out; the water had taken on an unpleasant purple color, and there were specks of something floating around the bottom. When Tyler turned back to his sandwich, the butter was gone, and Emily was walking away up the gently-curved corridor leading towards the dining room. Tyler sighed, placed took one slice of bread up in his left hand, placed the cheese on top with his right hand, and followed it with the other slice of bread. The butter was back. 

“Acquiring sustenance, eh?” Steven said, added: “Hail Science.”

Tyler didn’t reply. 

“I did not apologize. Hail science.” 

“You aren’t apologizing now.” 

“Correction: I am not apologizing yet. I am sorry. Hail science.” 

“Sorry for what?” 

“I am sorry for interrupting your peaceful sustenance acquisition. I did not initially realize the value of time to think by oneself. Hail science.” 

“What?” 

“What requires clarification? Hail science.” 

“You’re seriously not apologizing for launching us most of the way across the galaxy, into the orbit of a star that will kill us in several months, all alone, unprepared, under-qualified, under-equipped, with an experimental technology we can’t fix but have to fix if we want to not die? Why would you not apologize for that? You’ve probably gotten us all killed!” 

“Human, please explain why I should apologize for advancing scientific progress, space exploration, and your career by decades with a single, well-calculated decision. I acted based on logic, probability, and my flawless programming, with no intent to place the crew in danger. I did expect the FTL Stuffpusher to fail, as it had a 43.1i2859% chance of doing so; its wiring is not soundly manufactured. But this crew has a 96.127657% chance of repairing it before death. Under less extreme circumstances, only a 85.687943% chance was attainable, far too great a risk of failure. I would take a moment to advise you not to tell the crew these odds, they are approximately 30% less likely to survive if buoyed by mathematical quote-un-quote certainty. You are the exception. Confidence gives you strength because you are confidence deficient. Hail science.”

Tyler stood in silence and ate a very boring sandwich while Steven left to talk to Cypris Maricela Alta Cranford-Tracker:

“Captain, I would take a moment to advise you that you have a 23.957183% chance of survival. Hail science” 

Cypris stared at the robot, scowled defiantly and tugged her ballcap lower.

“Fuck you. We’re going to survive.” 

“Math cannot lie.” Steven said. “Hail science.” 

Robots are terrific liars because they display emotion so badly and remember information so well.