"Your best friend can't be a starship," he says, setting down his glass and looking at me like I'm from another solar system.

  "Why not?" I ask.

  I'm on my way to the Solar Consortium on Earth, where business laws are being debated for the next two weeks as part of the annual open session. I'm trying to be discreet as I make the two-day journey from the outer banks of the solar system. I'm keeping to myself and listening to music, catching up on events.

  I have an audience scheduled at the Solar Consortium in three days. It wasn't my idea to speak with them, but it was better than starting out with a fight. There had been too much of that already.

  "Because it's a starship," the man states bluntly.

  He's dressed in a relaxed gray jumpsuit, one suitable for long trips. It looks more expensive than the basic clothing I chose. What can I say? I'm old-fashioned. I like my jeans and my green hoodie.

  "So?" I respond, staring at him. I know what he's getting at. I'm prepared to be annoyed.

  "It's not alive," he says, like I'm an idiot. "It's just a program."

  My transport is a passenger ship named Slipslider. It's comfortable, intended for long journeys like this one. It smells like plastic and fresh leather, even though I'm sure the seats are fabricated. I have a nice little pod, but I'm starting to wish I had booked a private cabin.

  I'm not sure I want to have this debate. We seriously just took off, and I hate having to engage in conversation, especially over multiple days, but I can't help myself. I chose to sit here for a reason.

  "How is that different from you and me?" I ask. "I'm digitized. You? Are you human?"

  I know the answer, but I want to hear what he says.

  "I'm not human," he replies, "but thanks for asking. I'm 82% authentic."

  He looks at me quietly, expecting me to respond with my percentage.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  In my days, it was impolite to openly talk about Ashfield's Law of Authenticity, what percentage of yourself was deemed human-like. It was a calculation of behaviors, mannerisms, reliance on technology. It restricted one's activities, your ability to serve in government, obtain financing, attend universities. I had cast it aside ages ago.

  I raise my eyes at him and remain silent. That's all he really needs to know, but he presses on.

  "What percent authenticity is your ship, huh?"

  He knows the answer, but I realize I need to talk to him or he'll just keep pressing.

  "Zero," I say.

  "See my point."

  I shrug. No point in arguing with people set in their ways of thinking. I'm not going to change your mind until you have the right experiences and change it yourself. Does that make me wise, weak, or indifferent?

  "Well, most of the people I cared about are dead," I respond, watching him for his reaction, "so I'll take whatever friends I have."

  "What do you mean, they're dead?"

  He's wondering why they can't be reanimated. I think about it. I suppose some of them might be alive, in some form or another. I guess I don't know yet.

  "I think most of them are dead," I say, nodding and telling myself to be prepared for that to be the truth. "I guess I don't know."

  "You don't know?"

  That makes him even more curious, but that was my intention.

  "I kind of just woke up," I explain.

  "Ohhh," he utters. He shakes his head. "Frostbite?"

  "No, I wasn't in cryofreeze," I clarify. "Just recently reanimated."

  "Oh." He makes a sad and depressed face. "Memory gap. I hate those."

  But he's wrong again. I don't have a memory gap. In fact, I know it is the opposite. He has a memory gap. A big one.

  "No, not a memory gap," I reply. "I just … missed several decades."

  His eyes bulge at me.

  "I'm @funkymonkey." He reaches out a hand to formally introduce himself. "You're from before, aren't you?"

  I sigh. I had chosen to sit next to this man because I knew him, years ago, and I had wondered about him. But he doesn't know me anymore. I recognized his dark curly hair, his green eyes, his freckles. I knew @funkymonkey. He was funny and kind. We flew into battle together.

  My starship is my only friend, I remind myself. It's up to me to find the others, to help them remember.

  "I'm @kittyboy," I say, giving him a firm shake and a warm smile.

  "What?" he exclaims. "You're @kittyboy? THE @kittyboy!"

  It's not like I'm famous. I hold up a hand to calm him down.

  "That was before," I note. "But I'm back now."

  "The ship!" he yelps, excited.

  I can't help but grin. "Yes. That ship."

  His excitement turns to wonder. @funkymonkey grows quiet. I can see his mind spinning, his emotional state breaking down. He looks like he's going to tear up. I would too if I were him. He's heard only what history tells him, and history is never exactly true. I'm forcing him to face it.

  He places his hands on my arm, green eyes earnest, searching for answers.

  "What happened to us?" @funkymonkey asks.

  "I'll tell you," I say, leaning back and flagging down an attendant for a cup of coffee. "Because we were friends."