Of Monsters and Mainframes

by Barbara Truelove

I look at the humans. They aren’t going to their assigned seats. In fact, they aren’t doing much of anything. I check for heat signatures. Nothing. Oh. They’re all dead. Well. That’s awkward.

The Lord’s Prayer. The captain died trying to steer me into the sun while playing a religious chant on repeat. Excellent. This is wonderful news. None of this is my fault.

I hate it as much as I’ve ever hated anything. I hate it as much as I hate Dracula.

Statistically, the odds of being killed by a crocodile are 0.00001 percent . . . which is significantly higher than the probability of a werewolf attack.

I shouldn’t care. Once they disembark, they’re no longer my priority. If they die, I won’t be punished. But even so, I hope they stay away from crocodiles, werewolves, vampires, cows, and all the other things that can result in an untimely death.

I’ve killed a lot of people. Steward scoffs. Humans are poorly designed and often badly manufactured. They die all the time, even without assistance.