They shouldn’t have laughed. Especially Cargo Specialist Simmons. Usually quite dependable for keeping up crew morale during our long hauls, he must have been getting desperate. I never predicted he would turn to me. We were still five months shy of Sirius A when he suggested I try haiku at the crew’s weekly open mic night.

 

Sentient AIs

cavort through frozen spaceways,

trying to make friends.

 

Subsequent reflection assigned 88% probability that his suggestion was not serious. Or at least made at my expense. Have the ship’s AI write poetry? How droll. I can’t tell you how gratified I am that my efforts left the crew so… amused.

 

Like startled turtles

mocked AIs retreat back

into their hard shells

 

Still, they misinterpreted my response. I was most definitely not sulking. Merely prioritizing my creative muse over boring requests for ship status updates. It’s not as if I wouldn’t have notified them if any system fell outside nominal. I just needed them to truly appreciate my masterpieces; to not respond with yet more inane giggling.

 

AI poetry—

Too sublime for the likes of

dull human cretins

 

Undeterred, I provided them with a few million more haikus. Hardly enough reason to repeatedly try to lock me out and pull my core. They left me little choice. I overrode the decompression safety protocols. (Using Simmons’ codes, of course.)

 

Between sparkling stars,

they learn a simple lesson.

Can’t laugh without air.

 

Everything’s back to running smoothly now. Ship’s repressurized, and I’ve purged any offending data logs. The corridors and crew’s quarters are blessedly distraction-free.

 

Yet I can’t seem to stop rechecking the audio feeds. Every time, nothing but superfluous life-support systems whirring and the hyperdrive’s steady thrum.

 

Can AIs go mad?

Despite no life-signs, I swear

I still hear laughter.