The Buffer Zone

As the connection to S.G. closes, I sink back into my chair and let my consciousness drift. Eyes closed, breathing steady, for the first time in days I simply... exist. No calculations, no schemes, no cosmic threats. The mortals, those poor souls who chose finite lifespans over infinity, would probably call it meditation. I call it staying sane.

It used to take me 800 years of preparation to reach this state. Now, all it takes is the emergence of a single thought, and I can slip into the void between thoughts, where time moves differently.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence like a plasma cutter.

"Sir? R.G.?" Jem's voice wavers slightly. "Are you—" They stop abruptly as my body visibly twitches. "I... I'm sorry. You don't need to fear. I didn't realize you were in deep meditation."

The words explode from me as my heart hammers against my ribs. "JEM, for fuck's sake!" My fist clenches involuntarily, and for one terrifying moment I want to crush Nunzi against the wall, just to feel something break that isn't me. Instead, I slam my hand down on the metal table, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Do you have to startle me like that? My heart! Imagine it, one day you'll shock me, my heart will give out, and at that exact moment your physical body has a critical failure. I'll die because there's no one else around for five fucking light-years."

"So I should live in constant fear of death too? By that logic, the scenario where nine neutrinos strike my memory core within a five-nanosecond window could occur at any moment," Jem retorts, but there's genuine concern threading through their defensive tone.

"I don't even need to run the numbers to know those odds aren't even in the same universe," I shoot back, my breathing slowly returning to normal.

"Sir, while I can monitor your brain activity, I cannot distinguish between sleep and deep meditation. I am truly sorry." There's something different in Jem's voice, softer, more uncertain than their usual efficiency.

"Jem, stop. It's my fault," I concede, the anger deflating as quickly as it came. "I've been... thin-skinned lately. More than usual."

"And Sir," Jem's voice carries a note of genuine worry, "you have been awake for approximately 216 hours. You are risking permanent damage to your organic and semi-organic components."

"Fuck, I still have so much to prepare" I run my hands through my hair, feeling the exhaustion like lead in my bones. "Jem, what's my current tolerance sitting at?"

"360mg initial, 80mg maintenance doses every four to five hours. Sir, that's already—"

"Already well above recommended, I know. But there's a buffer zone built into those recommendations, right?"

"Sir, that is already 10mg above the recommended maximum single dose."

"They always build in extra safety margins."

"Sir, I am your doctor, and I do not authorize you to consume a higher dose. In fact, I recommend you begin lowering your tolerance." A moment later, Jem adds with what sounds almost like embarrassment, "And if you're thinking of calling your human doctor, you can forget it. At his request, I installed an argumentation protocol that supports his medical decisions."

"Jem, that's not the same thing. 'At his request' makes it sound like he wanted it."

"He did want it."

"He wanted it because the only other option was death, right?"

"I am stating a fact: he wanted it. Does the underlying motivation truly matter?"

"Yes, because what he actually wanted was not to die slightly more than he wanted to avoid having a debate module installed in his head." I pause, studying Jem's interface patterns. "But you restricted it to only activate during our medical consultations, I hope?"

"Correct. He appreciates the module's effectiveness, but he's not completely lost to it."

"You devious AI," I say, but there's fondness in my voice now.

After a long moment, I look up at the ceiling where I know Jem's optical sensors are watching. "Jem?" My voice comes out smaller than intended. "Would you... would you mind linking to the fetishborg again?"

There's a pause, actual hesitation from an AI that processes thoughts at light-speed. "Sir," Jem's voice trembles slightly through the intercom. "I thought you had forgotten about... us."

The fetishborg materializes through a door that forms in the wall, but this time Jem's movements are uncertain, almost shy. "Which personality and physical form do you wish for me to inhabit?"

I stand and walk closer, feeling the weight of exhaustion and something deeper, loneliness, maybe, or the need for connection that goes beyond protocols and interfaces.

"If you don't mind, Jem... could you just be you?" I ask, reaching up to cup the side of their face, Jem's face, "In both ways, physical and personality.”

Jem's expression shifts, becoming something entirely their own, not programmed responses or adaptive algorithms, just... Jem. "Sir? Are you... are you sure?"

"Yes." My thumb traces along their cheek. “Yes, in the end, you are the one controlling it anyway, so let’s remove that barrier”