Droplets of sweat dotted his forehead. His chest was tight as if his uniform dress shirt was a strait jacket. Captain Trey MacQuillan reviewed the cockpit display. No power from the left engine, check; warning systems dead, check; and fixing to die, check, MacQuillan swallowed hard.

His first officer rested a cool gray hand on his wrist. Technically his first officer was a souped up walking talking auto pilot, but Flight Program AI was more than that to him now. First MacQuillan was standoffish, pissed that he had been strapped with this abomination. They had crisscrossed the globe in DC 109s in tense silence. Until his smooth, buttoned up gray lady robot asked him if the stick up his ass was hickory or mahogany.

Soon MacQuillan didn’t care about the snickers from the other pilots, the stares in the airport. From Austin to New York to Dubai to London, Flight Program AI became Mags, his co-pilot, his confidante.

Now he was going to die with Mags and 1088 passengers and crew in a ball of fire.

“Mac, unbunch your panties. This is survivable. We can fly with only two engines. We will land,” Mags said. The Android’s voice was shaking with emotion. MacQuillan quaked as a single tear dripped from her clear silver eyes. He didn’t know she could do that. He didn’t know what was happening. He considered blacking out. Mags whacked him in his forehead. He shook himself together.

“Mags, this is bad.” The stick shaker started violently. MacQuillan and Mags grappled for control.

“Listen Mac. I can’t prove it but I just know the engine has detached and damaged the left side. But we are going to roll out of this stall and land this big bitch on one wing. I just feel it. I know I’m a machine but I feel … stuff. Do you trust me?” Mags’ eyes were big as saucers

Mac brushed the tear from her soft cheek.

“Hell, yeah,” he said. “But if you’re wrong I’m going to haunt your gray little ass.”

“