Chapter 2

Glad to receive your greetings, my friend. As you might have guessed, I still haven’t managed to return Mr. Planet to his orbit. If we were to sit down and calculate the distance, we’re actually farther away from the star sector where he was originally supposed to be than before.

What can I do? The planet I stole doesn’t want to go home yet, and neither I—nor the agent dispatched by the Department of Legal Affairs—can persuade him.

Yes, The Alliance sent a Department of Legal Affairs agent aboard my Cupid’s Arrow. That dumb—sorry, my mistake, I shouldn’t use such language. The AI special envoy who’s “visiting” my ship is very sensitive to such words. To ensure you receive my reply smoothly, I’ll watch my phrasing. Back to the topic—the AI special envoy from the Department of Legal Affairs gets along quite well with our Mr. Planet. If they maintain their current frequency of three arguments a day, our dear special envoy will probably suffer a complete algorithmic meltdown long before we manage to send Mr. Planet home.

Heaven knows why they have so many topics to debate every day.

Fortunately, the special envoy hasn’t forgotten that our ultimate goal is to return the planet home, and he isn’t entirely rigid when concessions are needed.

Just before I wrote this reply to you, they reached an agreement: Mr. Planet has consented to return to his orbit, but before that, the special envoy and I will fulfill his wish by taking him on a tour of The Alliance’s star sectors.

This agreement is somewhat heartrending: our Mr. Planet can freely aggregate or eject matter, but he cannot move autonomously through the cosmos. According to him, before I accidentally brought him aboard my ship, he had been revolving in the same orbit for billions of years—long enough for his primordial atmosphere to evolve into lifeforms scurrying across his surface. Had I visited him a little later, I might have found intelligent life capable of creating civilization on him, just as I’d hoped.

Of course, the more likely scenario is that he would’ve grown tired and ejected all his matter, turning himself into cosmic dust.

A sentient, emotional planet wanting to see the wider universe—such a wish is truly hard to refuse. Especially after he put on that despondent expression and said, “If you don’t agree, I’ll just turn into a planet right here, and you can drag me back yourselves.”

I think I understand now why The Alliance never disclosed the existence of that star sector. Dealing with a sentient, emotional planet is really a pain in the—er, beyond imagination. No wonder The Alliance’s punishment for me was so light. Penalizing a rogue Starfarer is a minor issue; offending the passenger aboard my ship would be a planetary-scale disaster.

This must count as another way to experience the notion that “individual life is but insignificant dust in the universe.”

Still, having such a passenger aboard isn’t all bad. Over this time, Mr. Planet and I have gotten along quite well—not in the same way as with the AI special envoy. When he noticed I’d been feeling down about recent events, he even comforted me on his own initiative.

“Your life is so short—why waste it on unhappiness?”

He was right. So we decided to go to the Azathoth Star Sector for the music festival.

The special envoy had some objections, but his opinions aboard Cupid’s Arrow are merely advisory. Once he accepted reality, the special envoy became our navigator. I must say, he’s much more likable in this role than before.

We’re still a long way from the next jump point, and there aren’t any particularly noteworthy planets along the way. Mr. Planet has little interest in barren celestial bodies, spending most of his time watching the vintage romance dramas I’ve collected—oh, did I forget to mention? His language lessons are complete. He now speaks fluent interstellar common tongue and has mastered most of the dialects from my homeworld. Talking to him often gives me the illusion of conversing with a fellow species member.

I don’t dislike this illusion. It’s far better than tedious silence.

From this perspective, I’m probably not cut out to be a Starfarer. Once we return our planet to his original position, I’ll give serious thought to my future.

I think I still love traveling through the cosmos—I love watching celestial bodies flash past my viewport, their colors and radiance. Maybe I could apply to be a chef on a tourist route? My cooking shouldn’t be too bad. Ever since we restocked ingredients at the Starport, Mr. Planet has refused the nutrient paste he used to tolerate just fine.

Yes, our planet needs to eat. He no longer has to constantly reconstitute his body—the form he’s using now is a complete simulation of our species, metabolism included. His taste preferences are almost identical to mine. I suspect he used my physiological data during the simulation, but he won’t admit it. Not only that, he puts on that innocent expression to make me drop the subject.

And it works.

That look suits him perfectly—I’m utterly defenseless against it.

Besides, he’s right. This world is strange and new to him. “If anything about me displeases you, it’s never my intention.”

I can sense his sincerity. I think, given more time together, we could become very good friends.

Maybe after he returns to his orbit and becomes a planet again, I can visit him.

A friendship between a fleeting individual life and a planet—sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?

On our way to the jump point, we often chat. His understanding of life is unique: cruel, yet tender. I once brought up the lifeforms that once existed on him. He doesn’t mourn their disappearance, nor does he regret the civilizations that never evolved: “I’m not a real planet—I can’t remain a safe refuge forever. To me, things that can only exist by clinging to me don’t qualify as equals.”

I argued back then. I said, “Life is life.”

His reply left me speechless: “Do you care about the survival of microbes on your skin when you bathe?”

“The ones on you could’ve evolved into intelligent life,” I tried salvaging my position.

And then he answered: “So could the ones on you, given enough time.”

That discussion left me utterly deflated, but he comforted me in the end: “I ejected the organic matter. If they’re lucky, they’ll reach another planet suitable for nurturing life.”

“And become ‘skin microbes’ on another planet?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Maybe they’ll be ‘washed away,’ or maybe they’ll keep evolving until they can visit me again. I’d like them—they can do things I can’t, freely exploring the universe. Even with short lifespans, they have independent wills. That’s the kind of life I’m willing to treat as equals—like you.”

What do you think? Quite an interesting perspective, isn’t it? I’m no good at philosophical debates like this. If you were here, you could discuss it with him more deeply. I really wish you two could meet before we send him back.

Looking forward to our reunion.