The problem with going where no one had gone before was that the folks back home demanded detailed reports.
“I could write them for you,” Ship offered, she was playing around with reverb affects and her voice rattled around the bulkheads.
“No you couldn’t,” Carson stared gloomily at the blank screen, absently counting cursor blinks. “They have algorithms to check for AI meddling.”
“Yeah, really.” He leaned back in the chair and rolled his shoulders, trying to work loose the knot he’d picked up on the last planet when he’d tried to lift the baby Large Red Thing What Eats Blue Grass. He was sort of hoping they’d keep the name, but the scientists would most likely write over his random suggestions with the traditional Latin babble. “Think about it, if they didn’t do you think any of us would ever write a report again?”
“No, meat is lazy.” Ship was still learning the concept of tact, and after two years he’d more or less given up hope of her every getting the hang of it. Carson made a mental note to remind her that calling people ‘meat’ was a personal in-joke, before they ran into another ship. The look on the face of the last crew they’d run into had kept him chuckling for weeks.
Still. If the Company found out they’d probably roll her computer back to before he took captaincy and that would spoil all the fun.