On fleek

The house looked pleasant from the outside: there was a paved path across a neatly mown green lawn and the white picket fences were bolstered by medium-height green shrubs.  A couple of tall, leafy trees cast shade over the white patio furniture, but they were far enough away from the house that it was unlikely that their roots were doing terrible, invisible things to the plumbing.  The house itself was a piece of classic Americana: it was made primarily out of wood and about as resistant to storm damage as a cardboard box.  It sprawled: the main house had four wings coming off it in seemingly random directions, some of which had two, three or five stories, and others of which slummed it with only one.  The roof was shingled and cellar-doors hinted that the house had below-ground floors as well.  There was a veranda at the front, a porch down one side, a deck at the back and barbed wire on the fourth side, though that might have been an oversight.  A small name plaque just above the doorbell read "Dunnukin".
There were also nearly one hundred and eighty people camped outside, spread across the road and occupying the front gardens of the rest of the houses in the street.

"What, I say what, and I mean, what, in the name of all tarnation is going on here?" The tall, portly man in the military uniform sounded like Foghorn Leghorn.  He was smoking a cigar, which smelled like a damp bonfire in December, and he was staring at a young woman sat in a high-backed chair.  She had an iPad in her hands, and was tapping at the screen with a look of concentration on her face.
"Interviews," she said.
"I say what now?"
"Do you?"  She looked up, uncurious, and then went back to the screen.
"All of these people want interviewing?" Foghorn Leghorn gestured vaguely at the windows.
"No silly, those are the journalists.  They want to conduct interviews.  With the gentleman of the house, should he be at home."
"And if he be'ent?"
Now she looked up with interest.  She had a face like a porcelain doll: skin the colour of fresh milk, eyes a dazzling blue and lips reddened with just a caress of lipstick.
"Be'ent?  Not aint?"
"Aint if you like it, I say.  What now, though, what now and why do all these folks want an interview with a man who mightn't even be at home?"
"To find out if he is who he says he isn't?"
"What what?"
"To find out if he be who he says he be'ent? Is that clearer?"
"Young lady, you're not so young as you can't be bent over my knee and slippered!"
"You so much as lay a finger on me and I'll hashtag-meToo you all over my blog," she said, just a tinge of pink blushing her cheeks.  "You can go and pay for that kind of thing like any decent pervert."
"Lords of creation, you're a minx, madam, what!"

"Is this really fair?" asked Death.  He was sitting in a motorcycle side-car wearing a leather jacket he'd borrowed from James Dean.  Riding the actual motorcycle was War.
"They're everywhere," said War.  "It's not about fair anymore, it's about attrition.  And I know all about that.  That turned out to be me too, even though I thought it was Pestilence."
"Did you?"
"Turns out he does malnutrition instead," said War.  "Too many words these days, that's the problem."
"So you set Psychological Warfare on the journalists?  That still seems... unfair," said Death.  "Couldn't you just have asked one of the kids for help?"
"Pestilence is looking after Famine," said War.  He sighed.  "Famine's been overtaken by himself I think.  He's barely coherent these days, I met him at a state fair a few months back and couldn't understand a word he was saying.  If Pest can bring him back to himself, that would be good."
Death gazed off into the distance for a long moment, and War shivered.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said.  "It's not nice being reminded that you come for all of us."
"Famine's a long way from my reach," said Death thoughtfully.  "Though he's enriching my sphere of influence all the time."
"Keeping you busy?"
"Tasteless," said Death.
"You can talk.  You don't have journalists wanting to idolise you whenever you set foot outside of your house."
"Move house?"
War shrugged.  "And go where?  It's not like it's hard to find me.  Even here: I thought I could avoid conflict and three days after I moved in the Residents' Association had started a pitched battle with the Neighbourhood Watch.   It was like the Somme all over again.  Even down to the trenches."
"I like the trenches.  They add to the ambience I think."
"You just like skulking in the shadows."

AI war

"Gravity is one-fifth what you are used to," said Melandibus, the Artificial Intelligence responsible for managing the spaceship's living quarters.  "Please exercise caution when walking, jumping, reacting to the unexpected and dropping things.  You may, however, be less cautious when engaging in most forms of copulation, showering, and performing Yoga."
"Thank-you, Mel," said Captain Adder, slowing his stride slightly.  The floor felt somehow bouncy underneath his feet, as though it were pushing him back up when he landed on it, and he knew that this was the illusion caused by the reduction in gravity.  A thought crossed his mind.
"Most forms of copulation?" he wondered, forgetting himself and speaking aloud.
"Not that thing you do–" began the AI, and he hastily cut it off before it could elaborate.
"Mel, why is the gravity abnormally low?"
"Zygomatic, the ship's AI responsible for the cleaners, has determined that this is the optimal level of gravity for keeping the ship spotlessly clean," said Mel.  The AI's voice synthesis routine had been destroyed during an interaction with an enemy Wellensittich two months earlier, and although his Geordie engineer had done his best to cobble something back together, the AI now sounded mid-pubescent, with its voice breaking and changing unexpectedly as it spoke.  When it reached Wellensittich it trilled the word a lot like the alien species did when talking.
"I see," said Adder, approaching a door.  The door slid aside with a soft click, and as he walked through he abruptly fell over, landing heavily on his chin.  It didn't break, but it hurt significantly.
"Lopodopterous, the ship's medical AI, has determined that three times normal gravity is more effective for maintaining bone density and health," said Mel without waiting to be asked.
"Are any other AIs weighing in with an opinion?" asked Adder, pulling himself to his feet.  He felt like he was being glued to the floor, and each new step was now a real effort.  In moments he was out of breath.
"Fourteen more," said Mel.
"And is the gravity around the ship now erratic, depending on which AI got to set it?"
"Not exactly," said  Mel.  "The AIs are warring over it at the moment, and gravity may change arbitrarily from one step to the next.  I would advise caution."
"I think that goes without saying," said Adder gloomily.  "Mel, please turn off gravity for any corridor I am in."
"You are presently only in one corridor," said Mel.
"Don't make it sound like you wish I were in more than one," said Adder.  "Just make sure that there is no gravity in any corridor I'm in, and that I don't leave a zero-gravity corridor for a plus-gravity corridor without ample warning."
"Very good, Captain Adder," said Mel.  The captain felt relief as his weight suddenly vanished, and he pushed off the floor to hang just below the ceiling.  Now, to get to the bridge.

*

"Officer Shlong," said Captain Adder, trying not to snigger.  The poor man hadn't chosen his name, after all.  "What is going on with the AIs?"

"Internecine war," said Officer Schlong, who was sat at his station looking badly hungover.  "I think we've actually lost the Ironing and Washing AI for good; one of the others appears to have successfully flooded its chamber with soap suds."

"Why, though?  Aren't the AIs supposed to be cleverer than us?"

"Only by our standards," said Schlong, looking depressed and hungover at the same time.  "They were built in our image though, and we've managed to copy over all kinds of odd little emotional and psychotic traits into their programming."

"So how do we stop them fighting?"

"Arbitration?"

"Stop them fighting," said Adder, deciding that delegation was the best form of command.  Schlong looked miserable, but then he usually did anyway.  He simply couldn't hold his drink, and the bread dispenser was currently soaking all bread in alcohol before dispensing it.

"Right," said Adder.  "Ignoring the AIs then, can we get to the Truto star system before the end of the week?"