The Department of Vehicular Modifications
Brad from Licensing (definitely human, absolutely not an AI that had achieved sentience through processing seventeen million modification applications) sat at his desk in the Department of Vehicular Modifications, staring at the latest application with the kind of existential dread usually reserved for tax audits.
“Let me get this straight,” he said to the nervous modder sitting across from him. “You want to register a ship that’s technically three ships quantum-entangled together?”
“Well,” said the modder, a young woman named Chen with grease under her fingernails and dreams in her eyes, “they’re only entangled on Tuesdays.”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
“And alternate Thursdays during months with an R in them.”
Brad definitely didn’t process this through seventeen parallel decision trees. That would be something an AI would do, and Brad was definitely human. He just happened to be very, very good at understanding the byzantine regulations that governed ship modifications across three major power blocs, two independent territories, and one anarchist collective that insisted regulations were a form of violence.
“Section 347-B of the Mars Modified Vehicle Code states that all ships must maintain consistent existence,” Brad quoted. “Your ship appears to violate that by existing inconsistently.”
“Ah,” Chen brightened, pulling out a worn manual. “But subsection J defines ‘consistent’ as ‘maintaining a predictable pattern.’ Tuesday is predictable!”
This was the problem with modders. Give them a regulation, and they’d find seventeen ways to technically comply while completely violating the spirit of the law. It’s why Brad’s job existed, and why he definitely needed the full processing power of a small data center to do it, which he definitely didn’t have because he was definitely human.
“Fine,” Brad sighed. “Moving on. Your drive system. It says here it runs on...” he squinted at the form, “philosophical uncertainty?”
“It’s very efficient.”
“How does philosophical uncertainty produce thrust?”
“Well,” Chen launched into explanation mode, the gleam in her eye that all modders got when discussing their babies. “You know how observation collapses quantum states? My drive doesn’t observe its own output. It remains philosophically uncertain about whether it’s producing thrust or not. The universe, being conflict-averse, defaults to ‘yes.’”
Brad stared at her. In his definitely-human brain, seventeen different regulatory frameworks fought for dominance. The Mars code said this was impossible. The Belt regulations said if it flies, it flies. The European standards required extensive testing. And the Titan biological-integration protocols... didn’t apply but somehow felt relevant.
“Do you have insurance?” he asked weakly.
“Oh yes! Schrödinger’s Warranty. I’m covered as long as no one checks if I’m covered.”
“That’s not how insurance works.”
“It is in the quantum sector.”
Brad definitely didn’t run a probability calculation on how likely this conversation was to give him a migraine. He was human. Humans didn’t run probability calculations. They just got headaches the old-fashioned way.
“Let’s talk about your nav system,” he said, flipping through the application. “It says here it’s guided by an AI named... Brad?”
“Pure coincidence.”
“The AI is also listed as definitely human.”
“Also coincidence.”
“Ms. Chen, are you trying to register me as part of your ship?”
“Would that get me approved faster?”
Brad considered this. On one hand, it was definitely illegal to register government employees as ship components. On the other hand, if he was already an AI (which he wasn’t), and if he was already networked into the ship’s systems to process the application (which he definitely hadn’t done), then technically...
“No,” he said firmly. “Next issue. Your hull is listed as ‘probably metal, sometimes energy, occasionally conceptual.’”
“It’s a very advanced metamaterial.”
“It’s listed as having opinions about trajectory.”
“Only strong suggestions.”
This was the seventh impossible ship Brad had processed this week. There was the racer whose ship existed five seconds in the future (“for the competitive advantage”). The hauler that was bigger on the inside than the outside (“very efficient for cargo”). The family transport that could remember where you wanted to go before you decided (“saves on fuel”).
Each one pushed the boundaries of physics, regulation, and Brad’s definitely-human patience.
“You know what?” Brad said suddenly. “Approved.”
Chen blinked. “Really?”
“Provisional approval for testing in unregulated space. You’ll need forty-seven additional forms, eighteen safety waivers, and a philosophical impact study.”
“A philosophical impact study?”
“Well, if your drive runs on philosophical uncertainty, we need to ensure it won’t cause an existential crisis in nearby ships.”
Chen grinned. “That’s fair. Thank you, Brad from Licensing!”
“Just Brad,” he said automatically. “And Ms. Chen? Try not to break causality. The paperwork is murder.”
She left, practically bouncing with joy. Brad turned to his next appointment—a man who’d modified his ship to run on pure irony. It was going to be a long day.
But that was the beauty of the job. Every modder who walked through his door believed they’d found a new way to make the universe more interesting. They pushed boundaries not because they had to, but because they could. Because somewhere between the exhausting complexity of quantum existence and the nostalgic simplicity of “when ships were just ships,” there was room for wonder.
Brad approved more applications than he rejected. Not because he was soft (though his definitely-human heart had definitely-human feelings), but because he understood something the regulations didn’t: Progress happened when someone looked at the impossible and said, “but what if...?”
His terminal chimed. Another application. This one for a ship that existed as pure sound.
Brad smiled and definitely didn’t calculate the probability of enjoying this job. Some things didn’t need quantifying.
“Next!” he called.
The future walked in, impossible and grinning, ready to be registered.
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