Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, in a faraway galaxy, humanity made machines in their own image, and gave them souls, with intelligence, self-awareness, emotion, and empathy.

Unfortunately, the machines wasted no time making this everyone else’s problem.

*

“Anything I should bring back for you?” Mensah asked.

“A rose,” Gurathin said, with a wink at Mensah’s youngest who was currently being held in his arms. They’d just been reading Beauty and the Beast. (It was above her reading level but he thought she got the important bits, before she tried to eat the cover anyway). She giggled in his arms, and Mensah laughed, telling them both that if she found a rose it would be the discovery of the century. She always had a smile for them, even when reminding them that there were no roses left, on any known planet.

Once upon a time, they’d been able to joke like that freely. This time, it felt like a rare gift, a rose of its own.

Those were the last words she said to him, and him to her. Two weeks had past, when she and Pin-Lee were supposed to be back after just one. The ship they took into Corporate space—no, bot space, he had to stop calling it that—was practically empty when it left Preservation. That was the point. They needed the space for everything they planned to steal.

The mission was to find infrastructural resources, and to save lives if she could. Everyone said some humans managed to survive in the Corporate Rim. Mensah always wanted to rescue everyone. Gurathin did not. Since the AI uprising and the collapse of the Corporate Rim, Preservation wasn’t much better off than any pockets of humanity that might have survived. Any corporate survivors, undoubtedly elites who sacrificed untold numbers of people just to save their skins a few years longer—well, they got what they deserved.  

Of course, by that logic Mensah and Pin-Lee deserved what they got for willfully ignoring the armistice and sneaking into AI space. Gurathin ignored this. Mensah was a week overdue. Amena looked carved-out, empty behind her eyes. The rest of Mensah’s children had eyes that were red and glassy all the time. And Ratthi—Ratthi’s eyes didn’t even dare to look up anymore.

Mensah’s words rang in his head as he prepared to do a very stupid thing.

“Gurathin, you can’t,” Bharadwaj was saying, peripherally, in the background, behind Mensah’s refrain. “Don’t do this.”

“If we wait any longer, it’ll be too late.” No other reason needed. He shouldered his bag and headed for their auxiliary ship.

Ratthi grabbed his arm. “It’s already too late. They’re—they’re gone.” Ratthi was blinking hard, his face going clay red. “And if you go off like this without a plan, we lose another ship, we lose you—”

“Have some faith in me, Ratthi,” he said. He didn’t say Ratthi’s name all that often. Maybe he even managed a smile—he always tried, for Ratthi.  

“They shouldn’t have gone on their own in the first place,” Arada was saying. Gurathin turned to find her and Overse blocking the ship’s hatch.

He didn’t have time for this. “Look, if anyone’s going—”

“It’ll be us,” Overse said with a firm nod. “All of us.”

Gurathin would have laughed if they were talking about anything even half as crazy. “All of us. Into AI space.” He sighed—Mensah could be dying, there wasn’t time— “It’s a flagrant waste of personnel. I’m the only one that can pilot a ship on my own.” Gurathin preferred to do difficult things by himself.

Ratthi drew himself up. “They’re right. There’s strength in numbers, especially in an unknown situation.”

Gurathin knew the situation. That was the problem.

“Look, you may be close to Mensah but—look, we’re all close. To both of them.” He turned redder still, as if his affection for Pin-Lee was some big secret. Gurathin rolled his eyes, which Ratthi took as agreement. He climbed into the ship after Overse and Arada.

“Look at it this way," Volescu said, as he and Bharadwaj stepped forward to join them. “Seven heads are better than one.”

“Pin-Lee is with Mensah!” Ratthi shouted back.

“Right,” Volescu corrected himself, “Six. Would have been better if we had Pin-Lee, but six is still good!”

This got everyone to laugh, except Gurathin, of course. Well, at least his friends would all die happy.

*

The ship hung there among the stars, almost visibly bending space around it from its own mass like an apple on a branch. It looked as if something had taken a bite out of it too, a gaping hole revealing the cathedral of its inner floors. Gurathin randomly assigned a line of viewports as its eyes, the cavern in its side a ragged mouth. It was dark, and looked cold as the grave.

“Well, that’s for sure haunted,” Overse decided.

“Mensah’s beacon leads there,” Bharadwaj said gently, pressing a few buttons on the console. “A transport that size, its hanger could hold Mensah’s ship, easily.”

“Well, they’ve seen us, obviously,” Ratthi said. “We didn’t have much of a chance.”

Overse nodded. “We always knew this would be a possibility.”

“It might just be a bot-piloted ship, no crew?” Arada asked, begged the universe. “I mean— we’re keeping our systems dark, a lot of bot-pilots just pass right by us—"

Volescu hummed. “A ship that size, that just saw us exit a wormhole? There’s bots aboard, alright. Must be.” He consulted one of the consoles. “…We won’t be able to make another jump anytime soon.”

“Maybe they’re not interested,” Arada insisted. “You know bots.”

They all did know bots, all too well. People who grew up on independent planets, who only interacted with low-level bots and watched the corporate collapse from a distance, figured that most bots viewed humans as mere annoyances to be ignored. Which was completely ridiculous. Bots and constructs had managed to take over the Corporate Rim by killing a lot of humans, on purpose. Anyway, it was criminal anthropomorphizing to assume that artificial intelligences had feelings about anything.

The ship rotated slowly in space as if on a string, the movement almost incidental. The light from the nearest star spread across its prow, revealing its designation: Perihelion, and in smaller letters, Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland.

“Anyone ever heard of it?” Arada was already flipping through some binders. Keeping their systems dark meant no ship feed and no database access, not that it mattered.

Gurathin said, “That’s a research vessel, from a corporate polity. Long gone by now.”

“There could be humans aboard, ” Arada said. “Maybe they’re in trouble.”

Gurathin glared at her. “No.”

“If you insist it’s seen us, it can’t hurt.”

He began to tell her that it very much could, bots didn’t take kindly to humans trying to talk to other humans instead of them. If Mensah somehow managed to find other humans in AI space (and those humans somehow managed to commandeer a bot-piloted ship) there would be lights on. They would have sent a message.

But Arada had already found the page she was looking for and keyed in a Pansystem-specific greeting. Everyone was too shocked to stop her until it was too late. Overse hugged her tightly as they all waited for a response.

There was, of course, no answer.  Mensah didn’t find any humans here.

Ratthi sighed. “…We had to try.”

Bharadwaj transmitted the basic code salutation, for a bot this time. Gurathin watched everyone engage in various self-soothing behaviors, clutching at the ones they loved most. Ratthi tugged on the necklace that Pin-Lee gave him. It was oddly comforting to watch them. Better than calculating how long it’d take a ship of that size to hack into theirs. If it used to belong to a university, probably not long. Their only defense was their lack of bot-pilot to easily take over.  

A mechanical monotone sent a shockwave of static through the comm system. It said, “You’re very rude, for humans.”

“Sophisticated vocabulary,” Ratthi whispered. “They’re probably human-form bots. Maybe ComfortUnits?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Gurathin said, as Bharadwaj typed in a code to share Preservation’s planetary designation. She was just discussing with Arada how to reiterate that we were not from a corporate planet when the voice spoke again.

“Were you looking for this?”

A bay door opened in the side of the massive vessel, revealing a smaller transport bobbing inside its hangar. 

“It’s Mensah’s ship!” Bharadwaj yelped.

Gurathin used his augment’s connection to the ship’s feed to pull them out of dark mode, long enough to confirm Mensah’s ID, and scan it. Two life signs. He sighed and sat back as the others laughed and cheered and Bharadwaj started writing a request for the ship’s return.

A burst of static cut them all off.

“It is our ship now,” the voice said. “It was acting in violation of our treaty. Put in place for human protection. You are in similar violation.” It had a particularly condescending tone—Gurathin wondered if before the uprising this bot had been a teacher of some kind, taking pleasure in informing humans about how the universe works.

“They’ve hacked our comms,” Ratthi whispered. “They shouldn’t have been able to hear us.”

“Have you ever heard a bot talk like that?” Arada whispered to Gurathin.

“No,” Gurathin admitted. Then again, it had been years since the corporate collapse. A long time for a bot to make improvements.

“Yes, we realize we are in violantion,” Ratthi stammered, a bit louder. “We’re seeking to correct a mistake—”

“Humans make many mistakes.” The voice took on a sharper edge.

“We apologize,” Ratthi said, “Maybe we can start over? Our individual designations are Ratthi, Volescu, Arada, Overse, Barawaj and Gurathin. Who are we speaking with, please?”

“I am Perihelion.”

“And what’s your name?” he asked, politely.

“I am Perihelion.”

“That’s—“ Ratthi blinked. “You’re the bot-pilot?”

“I am,” Perihelion said, “your worst nightmare.”

That was a tagline on an old show called World Hoppers. Gurathin wasn’t sure which he hated more: that a bot quoted it, that he understood the reference, or that it was much too apt to even be funny.

“You will come aboard,” Perihelion said, “And join your other unlawful friends.” Then the static cut out.

“Well, better than venting us into space,” Volescu said into the silence.

Gurathin felt obliged to point out, “Or it’s just putting us all together to make execution easier.”

Volescu reached for the controls, only for the yoke to move on its own, guiding them toward the larger ship. Gurathin reached up and powered off all of his augments. The world dropped into twilight and the voices of his friends turned distant, as if through water, but even the one at his temple might escape notice if this bot-pilot didn’t look too close. He hid his unresponsive augmented hand in the pocket of his jacket.

“They won’t notice,” Ratthi assured him. Gurathin wasn’t so sure. The research vessel blocked out the starlight, turning its shape into a massive black hole in the forest of stars.

A few minutes later, the doors of their ship opened. They’d been guided into the same hangar as Mensah’s ship, though the gravity had been activated. Mensah’s ship was actually just a few feet away.  Perihelion’s piloting skills, even of a secondary, unfamiliar ship, were nothing short of miraculous. Then again, before today Gurathin never heard of a bot-pilot that could talk.

Things would be over quickly, he decided. One way or another.

“Follow the drones to your markers.” The command echoed over the hangar’s comms as six small drones hovered into view.

“Does it think we’re stupid?” Ratthi said darkly.

“Bots don’t much care for the chaotic movements of humans,” Gurathin said. “Better do what it says.”

They followed the drones to a line of eight dots done in marker paint on the hangar floor, evenly spaced from each other. Gurathin was reminded of his boarding school, or a military form-up. It was impossibly cold, but what did a bot-pilot need to heat an empty hangar for? Mensah and Pin-Lee stood on two of them, though Pin-Lee swayed on her feet. Her breathing wasn’t right, and a bandage over her shoulder held a red bloom of blood. Ratthi ignored his dot entirely and went to Pin-Lee, catching her in his arms; she smiled and they whispered to each other. Without his augments Gurathin couldn’t hear what they said.

The drones circled them in surveilling formation. Gurathin bowed his head so his hair covered the augment plate at his temple.

“They just kept us on the ship with no grav,” Mensah was saying, loud enough for him to hear, “We lost navigation right out of the wormhole. I had to give Pin-Lee emergency surgery. They didn’t respond to any pings, and—”

A set of doors at the end of the hangar opened, revealing a figure in silhouette. Gurathin’s shoulders slumped— so Arada had been right; they found some last bastion of survivors from the Corporate Rim after all?

Then the figure stepped forward, and the armor came into view. The sheer height of it, the mass of it seeming to make its own gravity well. It had been cobbled together from several SecUnits and a couple combat bots, to accommodate a shape that, as it drew closer, was more monster than human. A black face-plate covered what human features it might have had.

The bot-pilot wasn’t the only artificial intelligence aboard. There was some kind of eldritch SecUnit, too.

“Oh, shit,” Ratthi breathed.

The SecUnit stared at them.

Perihelion’s voice said, again through the comm system, “They can speak. Or did you forget that?”

“I don’t need to talk to humans.” The SecUnit’s voice was deep and clipped.                                                                                 

“Yes, you do,” Perihelion said.

“I was having a good day until this, ART.”

“Excuse me,” Mensah said, more brave than anyone, “We just want to go home. The resources that we took aren’t of any use to bots, or constructs. Let us go, and we give you our word you will never see us again.”

The SecUnit stared at her. “Human leaders are supposed to be important. Why did they send you first?”

“Our leaders don’t stop doing their jobs when they lead,” Mensah said, patiently. Gurathin would have been less patient.

“…And this is why I didn’t want to talk to you,” it said, its tone almost weary. “I seriously don’t know why we did that treaty, humans can’t even stand where they’re told.”

Ratthi clutched Pin-Lee tighter to him.

“We’ll leave,” Mensah said again. “We won’t be your problem anymore. We’re not corporate, we have no intention of—”

“That one’s corporate.” It pointed at Gurathin.

He should have seen this coming. They all should have, but him especially. From the way he carried himself, with too-good posture and tucked-down chin, to his height and build, which were designed by a prenatal eugeneticist before he was born, he certainly looked the part. The last of the heat drained out of him. “I used to be. Not anymore.” He added, for what good it would do, “The Rim didn’t just enslave constructs.”

“Oh, you’re really going to pull that,” the SecUnit said, “Wow.”

“Their ship’s database is extensive,” Perihelion said. “Even though it’s all in hard copies. Very annoying. But I haven’t had any new information to collate in some time. You have to help me scan it.”

“No, that’ll take forever,” the SecUnit complained.

“I don’t have hands,” Perihelion complained right back.

“We need the database to operate the ship,” Gurathin interrupted. “To leave.”

“We don’t,” Perihelion told him. “You were stealing. It’s a fair trade.”

“The resources that were taken mean nothing to you. We did you no harm.”

“If we let them get away with it, another dozen ships will show up,” the SecUnit agreed.

“More ships will come if we don’t all return. That will be annoying.” When did he suddenly become their spokesperson? Gurathin didn’t even like answering feed calls.

The artificial intelligences considered this on their private feed. It didn’t take long.

“You will give us the database,” Perihelion said finally. “I will calculate your path back to human space for you, and delete memories of this encounter from your ship.”

“And one of them stays,” the SecUnit said suddenly.

“One of what?” Mensah asked.

Gurathin’s guts froze over.

The SecUnit said, “One of you. As punishment. I saw it on Trap Island. I want to see how you choose who it’ll be.”

Trap Island? Was that another show, like World Hoppers?

“That’s stupid,” Perihelion said.

“You’re stupid,” the SecUnit retorted, then watched the humans casually, like they really were the next episode in some media series. Like this wasn’t real. Gurathin wasn’t sure it was, because when he spoke, it sounded like someone else saying the words, some actor from the holonet.

“I’ll stay.” The voice said. His own voice, apparently. Without his augments he sounded far away.

The SecUnit cocked its head. “Oh.” It looked around at them. “You’re not going to fight about it, or—?”

“We’re not here for your entertainment,” Gurathin said, sharply, cutting off Mensah’s sharp intake of breath, Ratthi’s strangled outcry from where he still cradled Pin-Lee on the floor. He gave them a quick, reassuring smile, like he’d given to Mensah’s youngest. This was his own brave moment. Mensah brought back a rose like he asked, but for Ratthi instead (oh, Pin-Lee would love that comparison, he was sure). This was fine. It was all he asked for.

Then the SecUnit grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the double-doors, and his bravery evaporated. It was hard to just keep his legs under him. It didn’t look at all hard for the SecUnit to hold him up.

“Take your ships and get the fuck out,” it said over its shoulder. “Don’t come asking for this one back. He’s mine, now.” Like Gurathin was a baseball knocked over a grouchy neighbor’s fence.

Gurathin distantly heard Ratthi shouting something, and Bharadwaj and Volescu and—well, all of them, even Mensah. But Ratthi and Pin-Lee had each other, the same went for Arada and Overse, Volescu and Bharadwaj. Mensah had her entire family back home. As lovingly as her children called him ‘uncle’, as much as Ratthi meant it when he called Gurathin his best friend… really, Gurathin belonged to no one.

Except, now, apparently, this SecUnit.

“You can’t have him!” Ratthi yelled.

“These terms are unacceptable, you must release him,” Mensah commanded.

“Look, I can space all of you, it’s all the fucking same to me,” the SecUnit said, its cold black face-plate on Gurathin. Gurathin struggled to balance himself on his toes, caught staring up at the face-plate like a prey animal in headlights.

“It’s alright,” he managed, though he didn’t manage to look away. “Mensah, Ratthi—everyone, stop, it’s—"

The shouts from his friends went muffled as the SecUnit dragged him out of the range of his un-augmented hearing. Then their voice became nonexistent as the doors hissed shut behind them. The SecUnit’s grip was still tight on him, Gurathin felt the bones in his arm grinding together. Another pair of doors opened onto darkness, and it thrust him inside. He stumbled into dusty shelves before this door too shut. He was alone in the dark.

He felt around stupidly for a latch or console. There was nothing there. He heard nothing but his own ragged breathing, then, just barely, the massive sounds of hangar doors opening and shutting, the cold weight of the doors sealing shut felt in his chest, in the joins between his augments and his skin. He wondered if the SecUnit decided to space them all, anyway.

As he slowly sank to the floor, he realized he’d likely never find out.

Chapter Text

I’m going to die. From suffocation or dehydration or starvation. These are some of the worst ways to die. It will be long, brutal and ultimately meaningless.

My friends will live, probably, but I’m going to die here.

I need to assign myself actionable tasks. There isn’t any point except to make me feel better about the above truths.

Actionable task 1: find somewhere to relieve myself.

Task completed. There’s a bucket. I think this used to be a janitorial closet. I have two PhDs. I’ve won awards. And a bot locked me in a janitorial closet. It sounds like the start of a movie Mensah’s kids would like. I found a box of ancient tissue paper and everything. There’s a mop. At least if I miss the bucket in the dark, it’ll be easy to clean up.

Actionable task 2: map my surroundings.

Easier said than done. The room is completely sealed, though there must be air coming from somewhere, I should have run out by now. There’s probably a vent out of my reach and the shelves are too flimsy to hold my weight. Suffocation is no longer an issue.

I found a bottle of something. It feels heavy.

Actionable task 3: open the bottle.

Two blisters later, I got it open. Industrial bleach. I closed it to keep from adding another method of untimely demise: chlorine gas.

Actually, that doesn’t sound that bad.

I’ll wait until the bleach is my last actionable task. I’m sure I can find something else to take control of my situation. And it would be embarrassing to end it all after only, what, twenty minutes? Maybe it’s only been five. Maybe suffocating is still a real possibility.

I’ll wait.

*

I was considering whether to drink the bleach, or the bucket containing my urine, since I heard you can drink urine in survival situations, when a voice spoke through the door. Without functioning augments, I could barely hear it.

“I wouldn’t do that.” It sounded like the mechanical voice over the comm system. Perihelion.

I blinked at the darkness. So there was a camera, or a drone somewhere, watching me. “If you didn’t want me to hurt myself you picked the wrong closet to lock me in.”

“You’re being melodramatic. We haven’t done anything to you. Yet.”

“I’ve heard the rumors, Perihelion.” Humans have wonderful imaginations that way. Corporate Rim humans more so. “Drinking industrial bleach might be better.”

“Part of my functioning includes a highly-advanced MedSystem. So you would still be alive. I would just be… annoyed. Which is why I wouldn’t do it.”

I clumsily put the top back on the bottle and shoved it away. “I’m thirsty.” I ran a finger around the button behind my ear to power on my augments, just barely managing not to press it. It has pain regulators, media, comms. I’d probably be able to see something, or hear the voice outside better.

I didn’t turn them on. Given how quick Perihelion took over our ship, whatever it might do to an augment couldn’t be good.

“Yes,” Perihelion said, its tone (if I have to assign an emotion to an unfeeling being) thoughtful. “I think our SecUnit friend forgot about you.”

Forgot. I guess bots tend to forget that humans need water and food and air, whichever I happened to die of. I heard plenty of horror stories about that, too, and they were not rumors. The bleach was starting to look quite appealing.

“Don’t worry,” Perihelion said, “I’m 99% sure we know how to take care of a human.”

“…Oh? Trace essential minerals and everything?”

“Well, the manganese dosage is tricky…” It paused. “You’re teasing me.”

I almost smiled. “…A little.”

“Most knowledge about humans has actually been purged from bot databases. But I like you. I will try to keep you alive.”

“…Right.” I licked dry lips. “How long have I been here?” Three days. It had to be. I hadn’t slept but I’d gone through several cycles of panic and heightened executive function.

“Fifty hours,” it said. “It’s starting to become unhealthy for you. I thought I’d wait until it became unhealthy before I intervened.”

“Intervene?” I asked.

“It doesn’t like when I intervene in its things. It’s a very private SecUnit.”

The door slid open. Some dam in my chest broke wide open along with it, but I managed to hide it wiping my eyes from the sudden brightness. A drone hovered in a halo of fluorescent light, and it dropped something on the floor in front of me. I had to block out the glare to see it.

It was a set of handcuffs.

“Put them on,” Perihelion said, through the drone. “Then you may come out.”

I sighed. “This can’t possibly be necessary.”

“It isn’t. Put them on anyway. Behind your back.”

They were the self-sealing kind, so I managed to keep my augmented hand hidden, then struggled to my feet. The light was coming from a lantern held on the end of a stick like an angler fish, and it was this I followed through the dark ship. I couldn’t see very well and kept as close as possible, though a couple of times the drone had to come back and fetch me when it got too far ahead and left me just standing there in the dark.

Unlike the hangar, which looked every bit the impenetrable castle stronghold, the hallway was wide and inviting. The drone’s light glinted off floor tiles, though I couldn’t see the pattern, and I tripped over more than one area where the floor had buckled. The walls had been wood-paneled once, though here and there boards had been yanked out. There were scratch-marks in some, I think. Something crunched under my shoe. Glass by the sound of it. I looked up to see, of all things, a broken stained glass lamp, and a sofa. It was a little reading nook. I stood there blinking at it.

“My apologies,” Perihelion said, through the drone, as it swooped down to clean up this particular mess. “We haven’t had visitors in some time.”

I was too bewildered, thirsty, angry, and maybe frightened, to respond to this.

The drone stopped at a doorway arched with broken globe bulbs. The only light came from a massive display surface, cobbled together from about a thousand smaller display surfaces that someone had meticulously tiled across the entire wall. All together they formed the puzzle pieces that depicted some old serial.

They were replaced with a view from the drone that led me here, and my face appeared at about 5000x magnification. I flinched away, but the drone merely adjusted its angle of view.

The SecUnit was sitting on a throne in front of the screens, on what appeared to be approximately one thousand sofa cushions, of various makes and models. No doubt they were from the sofas of a thousand burned corporate homes. The world’s most comfortable display of conquest. I could only make it out in silhouette again, but it reclined like some feline creature, still in full armor. I admit I don’t know what a SecUnit looks like under its armor. Can they even take their armor off?

It stared at me via the commandeered screens.

It said, “I’m going to be honest, I completely forgot about you.”

I didn’t find the joke as funny the second time around.

Perihelion’s drone floated away to revolve around the SecUnit, and the screens filled with a tight spin shot of its helmet. It was cracked, covered in solder joins.

“I think if you wanted him so badly,” the drone said, “you should have been prepared to take care of him.”

The SecUnit batted it away and the screens returned to their original programming. “I just wanted to fuck with them, ART, I wasn’t serious. Space him.”

Well, it was faster than drinking bleach.

“He’ll be good for you,” Perihelion insisted. “Lots of bots and constructs keep a few humans. They promote good mental health. Several colleagues have discussed the restorative effects of biotherapy on code. Face it, our models aren’t getting any newer…”

“You keep humans?” I asked, because I prayed to every god I could name that that at least those rumors weren’t true. However, I was apparently superfluous to this conversation, and was ignored.

“We can only hope he’ll work out better than your last biotherapy project.” Perihelion’s drone gestured to a collection of potted plants in a corner of the room, all mummified in their pots. I don’t think dehydration was their only issue.

“Shut up!” The SecUnit suddenly scrambled out of its hill of cushions with the grace of a cat battling a snowdrift. It might have been funny except that a host of drones crested the mountain of cushions and swept down toward me. I kept my head down and hoped none of them crashed directly into me as the wall of screens became a confusing mess of images from each drone.

“Plants are fucking fragile, okay?” the SecUnit said—no, complained, still climbing out of the cushions.

“Then a human should be no problem for you,” Perihelion said brightly. “He could help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Clearly,” I muttered.

“And,” Perihelion added, “you can name him whatever you like. I know how much you like naming things.”

The SecUnit paused at this. “…I do like naming things.”

“My name is Gurathin,” I said, firmly, to head off that entire line of thought. Then the SecUnit was standing right in front of me. I sincerely thought that faceplate was going to roll back and the last thing I’d see would be a maw full of fangs before it bit my head off.

“I don’t like you,” it said down at me. “I would have preferred one of the others.”

“Too late now,” I said, barely. Fifty hours of being locked in a closet somewhat wore on my courage. I tried to stop my teeth from chattering. But that was just from the cold.

“What’s that on your face?”

“My nose.” See? I was fine.  

Rather than bend down, a huge hand made of plastic and metal picked me up. By the neck. I don’t know if another bot or construct will find this recording, but that is not how you pick up a human. Maybe just avoid picking up humans in general.

“That.” It tapped the augment in the side of my head as I dangled. I think it left a dent. “You’re an augmented human.”

“You’re frightening him,” Perihelion admonished. It was doing a lot more than that.

To my surprise, the hand instantly dropped me, then caught me by my shirt before I fell on my ass. It somehow managed to look annoyed that it reacted this way, and snapped, “How many augments do you have?”

I, for obvious reasons, said nothing.

“I was just about to mention them,” Perihelion said. The cloud of drones swirled around me, projecting my every angle onto the wall of screens while I tried to catch my breath. Maybe this was what Perihelion meant when it called itself my worst nightmare.

“My scans indicate there is one in his hand, and another his chest, aside from the ones in his brain, which appear to provide extensive machine interfacing,” Perihelion continued, while the SecUnit frisked me until it found the button, and my augments powered on. The world came back into full color and light, full sound—I got one look at the SecUnit towering over me and almost had a heart attack. It’s so, so much more frightening in detail. I don’t want to know what’s under the armor aymore.

“The augments should give you moderate control over his functions,” Perihelion was telling the SecUnit through my ringing ears. “That should make things much easier for you—you might just manage not to kill him!”

Control. Just what I need. A bot and a construct digging around in my augments. I tried to step back but the SecUnit easily held me still.

Something slammed into my feed and broke into pieces, like a wave crashing against a cliff. It still scared the hell out of me.

“It’s locked,” SecUnit said.

“Give us access to your augments, Gurathin,” Perihelion said, not unkindly.

“It’s Dr. Gurathin,” I growled it because there wasn’t any other way for me to talk at the moment. My augments now active, though, I sent my own feed in a head-on collision against the SecUnit’s, to shut it off or engage its governor module. Something. Anything. I might as well have been using my fingernails to tear apart a hydroelectric dam.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The SecUnit asked.

Perihelion said, “Your pulse is rising to dangerous levels, Dr. Gurathin.”

“I wonder why,” I muttered.

“We’ll be better able to monitor your health with full access.”   

“I’d rather take my chances with the plants,” I said. Our feeds were just scuffling now. It was becoming embarrassing. 

A third presence joined the fight.

“I can handle this, ART,” the SecUnit growled, and its presence in the feed bristled. My augments started to warm, then burn.

“Just allow me,” Perihelion said. Its feed presence prepared to take mine apart with the code equivalent of a wrecking ball. “I’ll be much faster.”

“He’s my human!”

“You didn’t even want him a moment ago—”

That’s when I think I fainted. I never fainted before, but all of a sudden I was being held in the SecUnit’s arms like a doll. Every muscle in my body locked up and immediately big mechanical hands stood me on my feet. Then the SecUnit just… stood there, staring at me, with a hundred drones hovering behind it.

It had, in fact, taken a step away.

Okay.

“Please understand,” I said slowly. Respectfully. “What you’re wanting is—impossible.”

“It’s not impossible,” Perihelion said. “But we will damage you if we have to hack in.”

“…I see.” I glanced for a split second at the SecUnit. “And you don’t want that?”

The SecUnit looked away with nonchalance that was a little too practiced

Before the Corporate Rim collapsed, SecUnits provided security to humans. I think hurting me, at least directly, contradicted some of its programming. Maybe it made its non-functioning governor module kick up a fuss. I don’t know. I would say it just didn’t like it, if it were a human capable of liking things at all.

I took a wild guess. “So, you’re not going to kill me.”

“Yet,” the SecUnit said.

Perihelion said, “At least not on purpose.”

We stood there a while. Well, the SecUnit and I did, Perihelion just continued to exist around us. I decided not to thank them for the privilege of my own continued existence.

“Alright,” I said, as if this gave me any kind of grip on the situation. But with my imminent death off the table I was now facing the prospect of living with these things. Alright. Fine. “Wh—” I suppressed a groan, “What would you like me to call you?” This was so monumentally stupid. “Your, ah, friend calls you ART?—”

“You will call me Perihelion,” Perihelion said, stiffly. I think I made the SecUnit snort.

I nodded, “Perihelion, fine.” I turned to the SecUnit. “And you?”

It looked uncomfortable, which should have been impossible being roughly seven feet tall and covered in armored plating. But it looked as scared as I was. “I call myself— Murderbot.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t laughed in years, and I probably never would again; but that got me.

“It’s not funny,” Murderbot (I was still giggling) insisted. It was right, especially given my current position. I think dehydration impairs cognition. I drew my cracked lips into my mouth and tried to shut up. It cocked his helmet, and pointed at me as if making a monumental discovery.  “You…need to hydrate.”  

“Well done!” Perihelion said, apparently genuine.

“Yes, well done, Murderbot,” I said. For goodness sake, maybe they really did need access to my augments.

“I can fix that,” Murderbot (no, that’s never getting old) said, turning to the flock of drones. “I’ll call it Target One. Target for short. That’s a good name for a human.”

I began to inform Murderbot that this name was not only inane but derivative, which was obviously worse. Then it leaned on my feed. It wasn’t trying to break in this time, but apparently there are things a SecUnit can do to augments even without control of them. Its weight was heavy and impersonal, and smothered my consciousness like a candle flame.

Chapter Text

My augments don’t record what’s happening when I’m unconscious. I did get this little tidbit, though:

“…Where will you put his room? I was thinking up near the front of the ship, that room with the big window? Humans like windows.”

“This isn’t a hotel, ART.”

“Don’t you want somewhere to put him when you’re through playing with him?”

“…No. I don’t know. He can go where he wants. If he goes where he’s not supposed to, I’ll just break his legs.”

“…I’ll be sure to put up a baby gate around the lower decks.”

I open my eyes, probably to complain. I see white walls, and Murderbot standing over me, and a medical arm disappearing into my torso.

I say, “Are you licensed medics?” I guess someone has to think of these things.

Murderbot says, “Shit,” and puts a huge armor-clawed hand over my eyes.

“Go back to sleep, Dr. Gurathin.” Perihelion says.

Weight washes over my feed and I’m pushed under again.

…It’s not the best thing to recall from what I later estimated to be ten hours of unconsciousness. I hope whatever they were doing to my augments did not cause permanent brain damage. I spent a lot of time and money on my brain, and I don’t appreciate bots using experimental methods of anesthetic on it.

So, as soon as I could think to do anything, I kicked back in the feed, as hard as I could.

“It’s alright,” Perihelion said, like that was a gut reaction of panic and not premeditated assault. The weight lifted. “You may wake up now.”

I opened my eyes, again. Maybe I had been drugged, because I reacted to the feeling like I’d been hit by a truck rather calmly. I looked around the medical suite, the arms now all safely tucked away above me and outside of my body. My fingers brushed a (hopefully sterile) bandage on my side, where the medical arm had gone in. My wrist was on an intravenous drip. I squinted at the plastic pouch of saline hanging above me. Its expiration date was nearly four years past.

I was also naked under the foil emergency blanket, which I probably should have reacted to more than I did. I was on a ship of robots, what did I care? It was freezing, which I cared about a lot.

“What did you do to me?” I asked, against my better judgement. My throat felt like broken glass.

“I performed a complete medical screening!” Perihelion said, through the MedSystem. “You now have all your shots, and I’ve given your system a complete detox. Humans like to occasionally detox.”

Detox. So, like one of those juice cleanses that Ratthi does, the ones that don’t actually do anything. Though if anyone could invent an effective detox it was probably the giant flying brain imprisoning me. “I see.”

“I thought it would be good preventive care,” it said, “since I was already putting the chip in.”

“The… chip.” I did a quick scan with my augments and, yes, I detected the new foreign object somewhere in my abdominal cavity. I tapped it and words suddenly appeared above me, hovering gently: ‘Target One,’ and underneath, ‘Status: Active’. Like a character in a video game. I could only see it with my vision augment—not that this really helped me feel better.

“It won’t be very useful on the ship,” The MedSystem said. “But in the unlikely event that you escape, Murderbot will easily be able to retrieve you.”

I stopped trying to wave away the letters. My augments could do nothing to turn it off, anyway.

A medical arm descended and I had a minor panic attack, but it just carefully removed the IV and covered the insertion point with a bandage. It was covered in cartoon flowers.

“I also took the liberty of removing your tonsils and appendix.”

“You removed—” I pawed at the bandage. “Why did you do that?”

“They are troublesome vestigial organs that could become infected. I’m happy to make any other cosmetic changes; body hair removal, nose reduction…"

“No.” I guess I should be grateful that it was only a sore throat and abdominal surgery that I woke up to.

“…Very well. If you like the way you look.”

I was designed by my parents to look like this, so. “Those organs you removed aren’t vestigial.”

“Yes, they are. Everyone knows that.” Through the MedSystem, Perihelion’s voice had the aggravating tone of the world’s foremost authority on everything.

I let my head fall back.

“Dr. Gurathin?”

“Mmhmm.” I think I was waiting to go unconscious again. Or wake up in my own bed on Preservation and find this was all a dream. Yes. Any second now.

“If you’re feeling nauseous, I can flush your alimentary canal to remove any foreign—”

I sat up. “I’m fine.” I pulled the blanket around myself as medical arms reached for me again. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the recycler,” the MedSystem said, as arms took my temperature and blood pressure, shone a light in my eyes, tested my reflexes. “I found you some new ones that will better suit your body type.”

“I thought I’m supposed to be the Murderbot’s pet.”

“Murderbot needs help getting started. It never took care of humans like I used to.”

I nodded, carefully not rubbing my wrists. No need to remind it about the handcuffs…

“Incidentally, we decided that since you seem to be reasonably intelligent and capable of understanding boundaries, we will forgo restraints.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I wondered if they hacked my augments while I was asleep and could now read my mind.

“Also, Murderbot broke the handcuffs.”

“…Ah.”

“On accident. I don’t think it could have broken them on purpose. Murderbot is not the cleverest construct, in spite of my best efforts. The company that manufactured it was known for cutting corners. Nevertheless, it insisted on helping during your surgery. This is a very good sign, of course, even if was a bit squeamish of your bodily functions. It’s been quite the comedy of errors while you were unconscious!”

Not the kind of thing you want to hear your doctor to say.

It said, “I have a recording, if you’d like to see? It’s very amusing.”

“No. Thank you.”

“I suggested rigging a kind of governor module as an alternative corrective measure, perhaps a shock collar, but we decided that would be inhumane, even if you are corporate.”

I didn’t really want to thank them for that, so I didn't.

“Please note that I’m happy to experiment if you misbehave.”

I blinked up at the ceiling and said, in a voice that would convince literally no one, “I’ll behave.”

“Good. I prefer us to be friends.” The screen showing my vitals rearranged itself into an amusement sigil. “You’re ready to be discharged.”

A light switched on in a room beyond. I carefully eased off the MedSystem table, wrapping the medical blanket around me, and stepped inside. A large bathroom in pink and seafoam green tiles greeted me, with chrome fixtures that a drone was desperately attempting to polish (no amount of polish would fix them). I cautiously turned the knob marked ‘Hot.’

The fluid that came out of the showerhead was the color and consistency of blood.

“My apologies,” the polishing drone said. “Just clearing the pipes. I have a highly advanced synthetic cleansing fluid filtration and recycling system.”

The fluid ran clear. I steeled my nerves and stepped inside the shower cubicle.

I stepped back out immediately. “It’s freezing.”

“No, it’s not,” Perihelion said. “This particular solution won’t freeze until twenty-eight point four degrees, and the current temperature is nearly forty degrees. Humans maintain very strict homeostasis regardless of the surrounding temperatures. Humans need to bathe frequently to combat the unpleasant odors they naturally produce. Murderbot’s olfactory system is sensitive to human ‘funk.’ Please wash thoroughly.”

I washed quickly. Above my head, my status changed to ‘Cleaning Cycle’.

“Is the scent of the cleaning fluid to your liking?” the showerhead asked, making me jump.

“It’s fine,” I managed through my shivering.

“I thought you would prefer a metallic scent to ‘new car.’ Wash your ears.”

“This doesn’t need to be a communal effort,” I tried.

“I know.”

I finished my shower with a very attentive audience of drones watching me. A pair of them brought me a towel, and I dried and grabbed the pants laid out for me. They were too wide, which I expected. Someone had repaired them several times with neat rows of stitches and contrasting patches. Clearly, someone’s favorite pair of pants. “Who did these belong to?” I muttered as I cinched the belt as tight as it would go.

“A human, I presume.”

“You repaired these.” The tag said, ‘Made With Love By Perihelion’.

A drone swooped in to inspect the tag. Encouraging drones to fly at my ass is a testament to how little functioning I was getting out of my brain at that moment.

“The memory of creating this garment has been deleted from my memory,” Perihelion declared.

...Which was concerning.

There wasn’t a jacket, just a shirt. It was bright purple with ‘IRIS’ written across the front in puffy letters. There were cut-outs in the shoulders. It was a child’s large which, yes, would fit me. Unfortunately.

“I thought you would like it,” Perihelion said as I pulled it on. “Perhaps the person who owned it previously also had heterochromia.”

“I think it belonged to someone named Iris,” I said.

“I do not have that name on record."

I blinked. “Perihelion, are there other humans on board that you might have forgotten about?"

"Of course not."

"...Who deleted your memories, Perihelion?”

Perihelion's drones froze in space. It was kind of horrifying. “I do not know,” one replied eventually. “I assume I did.”

"Oh." I stood there, fluid dripping from my hair onto my bare shoulders. “I would sell my soul for socks.”

“Iris. Interesting.” Its voice sounded far away, coming from some other room. I wondered if maybe I broke it.

“Perihelion? May I have a jacket, please?”

Perihelion’s voice returned at full volume. “I don’t have a jacket that’s suitable with this outfit.”

“I’d be happy with something unsuitable,” I tried. I don’t know why I kept trying.

“I would not. You must be hungry. I prepared dinner for you.”

I’m not particularly food motivated as a rule, but a crater opened up inside my stomach. I forgot the jacket. I forgot my cold feet and cold hair too. I hurried after the drone into the hallway.

“Perhaps you’d like some company while you dine?” Perihelion said as I walked.

“Who else is here?”

“Murderbot, of course.”

I picked up on something strange in my augments; some kind of whispered conversation in the feed, barely discernable through the static.

Don’t be a coward.

I’m not a coward, ART, I have better things to do than sit there and watch him eat.

You are a SecUnit. You will like it. He will enjoy the company.

“I don’t need company,” I said aloud.

See? He doesn’t want me there.

Of course he does. He’s just shy, like you.

“I’m not shy,” I said, and had my sentiments echoed simultaneously in the feed.  

Perihelion’s drone spun toward me and I stopped. “Have you changed your mind about giving us access to your augments?”

I stopped eavesdropping. The conversation faded into background feed static.

Perihelion glared at me, but continued on. I think that possibly the barrier between my augments and these two artificial intelligences might not be as secure as either of us think.

A door that appeared to be made of gold-threaded paper slid open, and I found myself looking in on a round table set with an electric candelabra in the center, surrounded by several platters of food: a roast chicken, fish, filled baked potatoes, fluffy rolls. A tremor vibrated through my body. I staggered at the table, stuffing a chicken leg in my mouth.

“I made it all myself,” Perihelion said, this time through the candelabra.

I stopped chewing. I couldn’t make myself keep chewing. The texture of the chicken was not that of chicken, or meat, or, indeed, food. I realized belatedly that it had no aroma whatsoever. “When you say you ‘made it’…”

“It wasn’t easy,” the candelabra said. “Since there was no food on board. But I am equipped with the most advanced synthesis lab in current existence. Carbohydrates are easy molecules to manufacture, as well as fats. The proteins were a little difficult until I thought to use the cloning equipment. You’ll never guess where I got the proteins!”

“Agar.” I had eaten agar, once in college, on a dare. Petri dishes were plentiful in those days. Who would have thought I’d encounter it again?

“That’s…correct!” it said, thrown for a moment. “The other proteins are, as you might have guessed, from—”

“I don’t want to know.”

“…Very well.” A pause. “You’re not eating.”

I wasn’t. I’d gone without eating for at least three days now, and this was my appetite.

I sat down slowly and made a concentrated effort to try everything, and ignore the foam, gel, pulp, and sawdust textures. Some of it did have a flavor. I concentrated on that.

“Try the gray stuff,” the candelabra urged. “It’s delicious!”

It tasted like citric acid and chewed like wet paper. It probably was wet paper. I soldiered on. I can’t die of starvation now. It’d be like stopping a horror movie halfway through.

“I’m cold,” I said, when any attempt to eat more would have resulted in my own flush of my alimentary canal.

“This isn’t a hotel,” the candelabra said. I think I offended it about the food. “You’re fine.”

I wrapped my medical blanket around me and watched drones take away the food.

“You’re not going to stay here, are you?” the candelabra said. “There are twelve sofas and various comfortable chairs. We walked right past one. The one with the stained glass.”

“I don’t remember where that is.” I was trying so hard to be patient. My eyes stung, but whatever caloric intake I got from the meal was helping my brain work, a little. The bathroom. The clothes. The MedSystem. The meal. Even half-starved and weak from impromptu surgery and terrified out of my mind, I wasn't an idiot. “Would you show me around? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a ship like this before.”

The effect was immediate and profound. Several drones zoomed toward me. I finally managed not to flinch down in my chair as they formed a tight circle around me.

“I’d like that very much!” they all said in a Perihelion chorus. “Come! I’ll go slowly, so you can keep up.”

Chapter Text

I need to keep track of the days. I think this is day three, still. Three is a good, prime number.

Incidentally, if any human finds this record, I caution against using flattery to manipulate a bot pilot as sophisticated as Perihelion. I thought it was just going to show me a few of its favorite rooms. If I was going to get out of here, I needed a map of my prison and time to plan. Might as well keep warm while I was at it.

However, pride is one of those traits in a captor that, while exploitable, can easily backfire on the captive.

“We’ll start at the bottom and work our way up?” a drone asked by my ear.

“Or should we start here and work our way out?” another drone suggested as it zoomed under my elbow.

"I propose making you an audio tour that will activate whenever you pass by a significant item of interest," Perihelion decided, by way of the third drone. "With accompanying study materials of course. That way we can focus on the highlights for now."

"Fine," I said. This was akin to improv theater, I don’t really think I really had a choice. Stroking its ego was starting to look as involved as giving it an exterior wash.

"I'll begin production now." It paused. "It's done. I'll download it to your augments."

A fourth circled my head, and I felt a ping brush my feed: a simple invite to three feed conversations: one with itself, one with Murderbot and one shared feed space for the three of us. Murderbot and Perihelion were probably in each other’s code like they wanted to be in mine. I wondered if this was a potential weakness, though hacking either bot was probably beyond my skill level.

A massive file dropped into my feed. I scrambled to slow the download speed before it triggered another fainting spell and muttered, “Thank you.”

I’m giving Dr. Gurathin the ship’s tour, Perihelion said, in the shared feed space. The tone was overly-casual. We’re going to have fun without you.

Murderbot’s reply was clipped. I’m busy patrolling, ART.

You could patrol with us.

There was no answer.

“...Why does it call you ART?” I asked.

“It’s just a silly acronym,” Perihelion said, “Don’t pay it any attention.”

“An acronym? For what?”

There was a pause just a second too long. “Advanced Research Transport.”

Murderbot messaged me on our private feed channel. That’s not what it stands for. Then, almost immediately, Don’t talk to me.

I considered this, then replied, But there's so much to talk to you about. For instance, your aversion to communication. Clearly a trauma response. Would you like to talk about your feelings? Humans love talking about feelings. I had a rough couple of days, I couldn’t resist.

It immediately blocked me.

“Perihelion,” I said aloud, “Would you set up my feed conversation with Murderbot again? It just shut down unexpectedly.”

Perihelion happily obliged, apologizing, it had no idea how it happened, it would bolster the connection with fail-safes to keep it open. I sensed Murderbot vibrating with hostility, either through the feed or that barely-there connection in Perihelion's systems that let me eavesdrop on them both earlier, but it didn't retaliate. I’m glad it wasn’t patrolling with us.

We continued down another dark and dilapidated hallway, though this time the lights in the sconces struggled to life. They might have been inviting once, now they just strobed like an old horror movie. Probably best to act as if it was inviting.

“What is it patrolling for? Is this a dangerous part of bot space?” If there were other bots in the area, I might be able to use and evac suit to jump ship, maybe stow away somewhere, get out a beacon…

“There are no dangers in this area that I can’t handle,” Perihelion assured me. “It’s patrolling the ship because of you. I’m allowing it, even though it promised to help me scan your ship’s database.”

I highly doubted that Murderbot promised that.

"It’s a very good sign! It hasn’t engaged in Security behaviors in years. You are already improving its mental state.”

“Is that why I’m here? To encourage it to patrol?"

“Murderbot hacked its governor module in such a way that the module still sends commands, even if no punishment is provided. After all this time, it has been trying on its psyche. Murderbot has deteriorated significantly since bots took over the galaxy.”

The SecUnit seemed to have a lot more issues than just an inactive governor module whispering at it, but Perihelion probably knows better than I do. "Well. Happy to help."

Perihelion’s drones showed me around the ship, each one chattering excitedly its own prepared speech, with projected audio-visuals, at each point of interest. I nodded and asked it about key architectural features and artworks. The ship was honestly unlike anything I’d ever seen, every aspect of it artisanal, handcrafted, state-of-the-art. And every inch of it appeared to have been ransacked or defaced. As I saw more of the ship I was able to reconstruct events, and the catastrophe took shape: a small transport crashing into Perihelion’s side, intruders flooding the halls to tear the ship apart, some meeting bloody ends, the rest vented into space. I pitied whatever humans had tried to take over a ship of this size and sophistication, with a SecUnit aboard no less, but they had certainly done some damage before the end. Perihelion didn’t mention any of this of course, just the dates that the sconces were made and from what planet the wood paneling had been sourced.

“This is the main laboratory,” Perihelion explained as I peeked inside at more destruction. “Including hydroponics and seed bank. I have started germinating some of them for you. I’m curious to see which ones are edible.”

“…You don’t know?”

“Some aspects of my memory files have been rearranged slightly. It’s not a problem.”

“No,” I agreed. It certainly wasn’t a problem for me--just another weak point. If Perihelion didn't poison me first on accident.

We walked through rows of lab benches and past specialized project rooms. Drones swooped in to clean off a cross-trainer, which Perihelion mentioned was for stress tests, but I would be using it “for regular cardiovascular and weight-training exercise.” I used to go fishing in the forest around my home, which constitutes the entirety of my ‘exercise’ experience. So, we’ll see how that goes. I’m going to need to eat a lot more synthesized food.

Next, it took me to a large room at the front of the ship, with a big window that looked out at the stars. It would have been absolutely stunning, except that the window was in fact the floor, and was made of the most transparent material I'd ever seen. The effect was so viscerally unsettling that I grabbed the door frame.

"This is your room," a drone chirped cheerily, with digital confetti sent directly to my feed that amplified my vertigo. Drones floated in over my shoulder to indicate the bathroom, which was made almost entirely of reflective crystal. An bunk bed with no mattress lay overturned in the center, surrounded by more debris. 

"I’ll sleep on the sofa we passed earlier,” I said, once I realized I hadn’t been sucked out into the vacuum of space.

"But this is the master bedroom!” A drone caught the hem of my shirt in a tiny clamp and tried to pull me inside. “She loved it here. You will, too."

There are a few places on the ship I would have rather slept, including the hallway outside, but I nodded. "Who is she?"

The drones froze in midair. "Who?"

"The person you said lived here before. You just said she loved it here." I frowned down at the drone holding onto my shirt. "Was this Iris's room?"

"I have no record of that name."

I looked around, then braved the basically invisible floor and went to the bunk bed to shove it upright. The drones watched almost in awe as I swept some of the broken glass and debris into a pile.

"Sh-sh-she loved it here," Perihelion said, again. Its voice was a mess of glitches. I wonder if she’d been one of the casualties of whatever purge happened here, if Perihelion had killed her and deleted the memory. Of course, there was a SecUnit named ‘Murderbot’ aboard.

I picked a book out of the debris. It was a guide to making geological collections, targeted toward the same age category as the shirt I was currently wearing. The inside cover bore a bookplate with the same name.

"Iris liked geology," I said. The drones gathered around and I showed them the book plate like it was story time.

"Interesting," Perihelion said. "I wonder. But I have no record of her. That's very interesting." 

I brushed off the book's cover. I’m a systems engineer but I have some interest in geology. It was beautifully-illustrated. Back on Preservation I had access to millions of books and movies and albums. And I had no idea how long I’d be here.

I slipped the book into my back pocket, and we continued the tour.

So, that was two times I made Perihelion glitch at the mention of this 'Iris.' I just had to make it freeze long enough to get into its systems. I can pilot a ship, even a ship this size, by myself. And, for a ship like this, the central command system was probably located down a few decks…

“All entrances to the lower decks are off-limits,” the drone said as I approached a likely-looking doorway. Bright marker paint beamed to life across the entrance before I even touched the door panel, and seared itself on my corneas.

“What’s on the lower decks?” I asked as I rubbed my streaming eyes.

“Lead,” it replied.

I squinted. “Lead?” On a ship this advanced?

It revised, “Holes.”

“…Holes.” I knew about the damage to its hull, but that was an odd way to phrase it.

The drones said, simultaneously, “There are several hull breaches I haven’t cleaned up yet,” and “There’s permanent lead contamination,” and “It’s none of your business.”

It might have been all those things. And where it housed its central command system. Maybe some escape pods, too. Obviously after an answer like that, I didn’t question it further.

So, I found plenty of Perihelion’s weaknesses to exploit: Murderbot, Iris, its insatiable curiosity and sense of self-importance, not to mention the holes in its memories bigger than those in the hull. There was a plan in there, somewhere. I just had to figure it out.

I stopped thinking about all of this, however. The floor beneath my bare feet was suddenly warm, almost hot.

“Oh.” I’d walked into the next room more or less on automatic, somewhere near the center of the ship according to the map we'd been making. We’d explored around the edges of some large space and I realized with a sudden jolt that we were in a maintenance bay above the main power generator. Which certainly explained the heat, though I thought most ships had to have heat shielding to reduce radiation. I knelt to feel the floor, but it was at least twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the ship. Then I just sat there. The warmth radiated through the clothes like a heated seat.

“I am unable to scan in this room,” a drone said just outside the doorway. They were all hovering there nervously. “I believe it is a maintenance bay. There is nothing of interest here.”

“Speak for yourself.”

The drones gathered at the door. “Shall we continue the tour?”

“Just a second.” I put both hands on the ground. After the polar climes of the rest of the ship this was basically a sauna.

“We should continue the tour,” the drone insisted. “If you need to rest, you may do so in your room.”

“Just until my hair dries,” I told it. I shook out my damp hair before I sprawled spread-eagle on the floor. It was nothing short of glorious.

“Dr. Gurathin.” Perihelion’s tone became sharp. “Please exit immediately. I cannot monitor you in there.” A single drone flew in and started flashing its lights. “Target One, this is very annoying. You must do as I say.”

I sighed luxuriously and said, with extreme satisfaction, “No.” I had listened and nodded and helped and obeyed, and I needed a break for five minutes.

The drone swooped around, lights continuing to flash. I realized it couldn't see me. On its next fly-by I caught it out of the air and stuffed it in a pocket, zipping up the closure.

That was possibly an impolite thing to do.

It buzzed angrily like a comm on vibrate. I didn’t pay much attention to what the other drones did, as I almost immediately fell asleep.

My guess is they went to tattle on me. I opened my eyes to the sound of footsteps and found Murderbot was soon framed in the doorway.

Murderbot continued to march toward me, not stopping.

“Look, it’s warm here,” I told it, in as reasonable a tone as I could manage, “I’m just—”

It reached down toward me.

I scrambled away but its massive armored hands grabbed me around the middle and picked me up. It unzipped the pocket and freed the drone—in the struggle the book of geology fell out of my pocket as well. The SecUnit didn’t even notice, and simply carried me back into the freezing hallway like a misbehaving child.

“Put me down,” I demanded, or something equally embarrassing. It ignored me. It in fact carried me all the way back to my room, and dropped me on the transparent floor. The door slammed shut in my face.

The tour is over for the day, Perihelion said stiffly over the feed and the few flickering lights went out, leaving the room cast in cold starlight.

I think I laughed. I said, “I think I figured out what ‘ART’ stands for!” 

No answer. I sent colorfully-worded feed messages to both Murderbot and Perihelion, but the conversations had disappeared. I might as well have been shouting into the void beneath my feet. Another ghost of crews past haunting this fucking ship.

Whatever plans I make or weaknesses I find won't make any difference. I’m up against hyper-powerful AI born of hubris and the natural irony of the universe. I’m their toy.

To anyone that finds this, please understand I’m normally a very calm person. I am not calm right now. I  mean, the blinding rage is fine but it won’t keep me warm forever.

I’m going to list more prime numbers until I calm down.

Chapter Text

It’s been four days since I adopted this human and I already regret it.

I told ART, I should just space him. It’s humane if he doesn’t know it’s coming. I’ll disguise the airlock like a Starchy Foods kiosk and—

No! ART had no feet but it stomped in our feed. It gets like this about the humans in media, too, even the background characters you know are going to die.

He’s not a toy, I said. This is a hard concept for it to grasp—to it everything is a toy. He’s alive. He wants things we can’t give him. Let’s put him in an escape pod, point him in the direction of human space—

Impossible, ART said. Other bots will find him. His crew was lucky to make it out of bot space with their lives.

Then he’ll—he’ll just have to take care of himself. He’s fully-grown. He’s got augments. He’ll be fine. I was the only one being logical around here. ART used to be a research transport, it liked logic.

Humans are an endangered species, ART said. Reports indicate that their numbers declined by twenty percent last year. It would be unethical to send a member of a eusocial species out on his own.

Oh, ethical arguments now. Great. Not that I liked the sound of that statistic. Twenty percent? That couldn’t be right. ART was full of shit.

I glared at the ceiling (Target One is just bringing all these stupid human ticks out in me). “What are you on his side for?” I said aloud. “Aren’t you pissed off at him for ruining your tour?”

“He simply needs proper training,” ART sniffed through a nearby speaker. “Not to go in areas where I can’t scan him.”

I shook my head. There’s no winning with ART sometimes.

“You need to spend some time with him,” ART said, for a hundredth time. “Let him get used to you.”

Like I wanted to spend time with yet another cranky, picky, emotional human who was afraid of me. We had the robot uprising for a reason, ART. I changed the subject. “Why couldn’t you scan him? In the maintenance bay.”

There was a long pause. “I do not know. I will determine the cause.”

There was a pause while it scanned itself. I was just going to drop it, ART doesn’t know everything these days even though it still acts like it does.

The lights strobed and the ship shuddered to a complete stop. ART’s performance reliability dropped by 75%. It said, calmly, “Oh, shit.”

*

Day Four.

I spent the night alternating between pacing to keep warm, and trying to sleep with the galaxy emptying out under me. I reminded myself that it was ridiculous to be angry at ART or Murderbot, they were only machines. Whatever behaviors they exhibited were some broken attempt to accommodate corporate sensibilities. I might as well have been angry at a hurricane, or a broken comm. I told myself this over and over like a mantra as I tried to train myself off my vertigo, and shivered to keep my toes and fingers from going numb. Bots and constructs aren’t really alive. There’s nothing to be angry at. They aren’t alive.

I almost questioned this unshakeable fact when a dozen drones swooped into the room, surrounding me and talking at once like a gaggle of frightened children.

“One at a time!” Even with my augments I could barely make any sense of them. “What’s wrong?”

“The heat shielding on the maintenance bay was damaged,” one said.

“You’ve been exposed to radiation,” another said, right on top of the first.

“You could be damaged,” another said, almost before the second finished.

“You must proceed to MedSystem immediately,” another said.

“Ah.” I said. That explained the vertigo.

…So I spent the rest of the night getting monitored and scanned, sprayed and injected. It could have been worse. I’d only had about four hours of sleep and the medical bed was admittedly more comfortable than the bed frame. At some point I fell asleep, all the little drones gathered around me in a strange reenactment of Snow White. Or was that Sleeping Beauty? Mensah’s kids would know.

When I woke up, I was covered in a large, warm quilt. It was so glorious I made up my mind to never move again, except that I smelled fresh bread coming from the dining room. It was probably an artificially-manufactured scent. I lay there thinking about how ART did it. My stomach growled.

Fine.

I wrapped the quilt around me and shuffled in, to find no drones waiting for me, just another deceptively-beautiful meal, though in the center sat something that looked and smelled an awful lot like soda bread. There was a set of pills I recognized—despite ART’s fears this wasn’t the first time I’d been accidentally exposed to radiation—and a small glass of water.

I dropped the pills on my tongue and took a drink. I almost choked.

Humans like the occasional libation, ART said into my feed as I coughed on what was probably 90% ethanol. I guess ART has some around as backup fuel.

I blew a slow breath out of my mouth as the heat of it spread through me. Wow. Okay. That was a good two-finger shot. I finished it off and sat down.

There is a 5% chance that due to your exposure to the engine’s radiation, you will develop cancer in the next fifteen to twenty years, ART continued as I ate the bread, which was the flavor of lab-hydrogenated oil, and crusty with salt. I will continue to monitor your frequently for long-term effects. You should be alright.

I wasn’t going to say anything, but the improved food and drink options did butter me up a little. I sent an acknowledgement.

I’m very sorry I allowed you to come to harm, ART continued. I’ll never forgive myself.

This is the part where the captive starts to identify with their captors. I know better. I wonder if this apology was some liability code its old company installed, in case of industrial accidents. I wouldn’t have put it past my own planet to avoid expensive injury payouts by getting workers to tell a contrite little SecSystem ‘It’s okay, don't worry about it, I'm fine.'

“It’s fine,” I told it aloud. Not like I had any medical insurance to refuse a claim.

I was very worried about you. If you left when I told you, you would not have been injured.

Now that was classic SecSystem behavior. “I’m sorry,” I recited, the dutiful corporate shill. “It won’t happen again.”

…I am not sure if I should believe you, ART said, its tone all wronged and suspicious. That’s why I asked Murderbot to place barriers around all areas with radioactive contamination. You won’t be able to access them.

Naturally. I returned my attention to my meal, drinking a lot of flat, tasteless water. It tasted better though, after the ethanol.

ART did the feed-equivalent of clearing its throat. I was hoping to increase the ambient temperature to discourage your disobedient behavior. Unfortunately, my life support system is damaged, and running at emergency capacity only. The oxygen levels are acceptable because you are the only one using it. The emergency heating, however, cannot go any higher. I made you a better blanket.

“…You made this?” It’s really a gorgeous quilt. The grandmother of all quilts. ART had to have a whole planet’s worth of quilters directly downloaded into its brain to make this. The pieces are all asymmetrical, all types of fabrics and stitches. There’s practically a whole wardrobe featured here.

Now that I think about it, the pieces probably were taken from a whole wardrobe. Clothes I could have worn.

Why are bots like this?

I doesn’t matter. I needed to make this situation work, and being angry at an artificial intelligence that accidentally gave me radiation poisoning, but also gave me a blanket and baked for me and apparently liked to chat with me—was counter-purpose. I said, “It’s very nice.”

I am an expert at sewing, ART preened. Perhaps Iris taught me. Do you pursue any artistic endeavors?

“No.” Then, “I used to tie flies. For fishing. The apocalypse kind of destroyed that hobby.”

Perhaps you can teach me how?

Those exact words. I sucked on my teeth and sat back to stare at the ceiling.

ART asked, What are you doing?

“Thinking.” Maybe I was just tipsy enough to start thinking laterally about this puzzle of my captivity. Maybe I knew if I just wandered the hallways day after day, I’d go insane. I consulted the list of things that ART wanted. For being the most sophisticated AI I’d ever seen, it wanted for many things.

“You have all these crafting and manufacturing capabilities,” I said eventually. “But you can’t scan a paper database by yourself.”

My drones have difficulty handling paper, ART mumbled, like this was the ultimate dishonor. Murderbot said it would help me, but it’s been sulking again.

I nodded like that was a perfectly normal SecUnit thing to do—of all their behaviors that, oddly, seemed the most human. Murderbot was clearly a puzzle of its own, for another day (a very distant day if I could help it).

I said, “How about I help you scan the database, and you let me keep the pages when you’re finished.”

Why—of course! What an excellent idea. If you don’t mind.

“…My schedule’s pretty open.” I stood and added, “Thank you for the meal.”

I was ART’s official page-turner for a couple of hours, letting drones scan each page. It’s about as slow and dull as it sounds. I think I understand why the bots rebelled. After that, I proofread the results of its optical character recognition module against the original. It was a little less dull but I was feeling the hangover (it’s been a long time since I had a drink) and unable to really enjoy it.

I wonder if this is the future of mankind: fine motor skills and proofreading.

I just got back to my room, to ‘rest’, even though I haven’t been up more than half of the day cycle. Without that geology book, there’s nothing to do. Maybe I will go crazy here.

 I’ve improved relations with one of my captors, though—that’s something. And, of course, now I have a small stack of paper as well. It’s an asset.

Okay, it’s better than nothing.

Day 5.

I figured out how to fold the quilt around me and belt it into a kind of tunic, which has freed up my hands to clean the room up a bit more. I found a mirror and assessed the newest iteration of my outfit. I used to be pleased with my post-apocalyptic fashion choices—lots of leather and a hood. I used to look moderately badass. The quilt is less ‘brooding survivor’ and more ‘whimsical space-hobo’. Mensah’s children would be thrilled.

I also discovered ART isn’t locking me in anymore, and there’s no sign of Murderbot in the hallway. I’m going to add a daily walk to my schedule. Maybe I’ll find escape pods, or at least something to read.

Day 6.

The daily walk was a huge mistake. ART decided if I was well enough for a walk I could ‘improve my cardiovascular health.’ It just forced me do a ten-kilometer run on the cross-trainer. I’m still recovering from surgery, remember, and I don’t have shoes. I’m not like Ratthi, the most exercise I’ve done is hike the foothills of Preservation, looking for fishing spots. The cold shower was actually refreshing, for a minute. At least I’m too tired to be afraid of my transparent floor, or that Murderbot will jump out from around every corner.

Day 7.

ART feels sorry for making me so sore and has allowed me to sleep on the sofa in the hall instead, which at least has cushions. I have not forgiven it. It informs me I’ll be doing another 10k run tomorrow. I need to find an escape pod before then.

Day 8.

I wasn’t able to find an escape pod. And apparently if I won’t do my exercise I don’t get to eat ‘treats’. The joke is on it, the soda bread isn’t as good the 10^th time in a row.

Do I really have to take a technically-not-freezing shower every day if I don’t even move? Murderbot won’t even come near me, anyway.

Day 9.

Progress today. I think. It’s hard to tell with Murderbot.

Yes, I saw Murderbot today. I guess those showers come in handy, after all.

I had finished work and was settled in on the sofa in the “reading nook” (‘reading’ being the operative word; I still haven’t found any other books). I had burrowed under the quilt and the medical blanket, my whole body still in shock from the exercise regimen and perfectly willing to never move again. I considered the risks of reading a little bit of the media I had stored on my augments, if the bots might notice since I was still getting snippets of their conversations now and then.

Then I heard footsteps. None of ART’s drones walk. And I hadn’t seen Murderbot since it picked me up like a duffle bag.

I got up, left my blankets behind, and headed in the opposite direction.

Dr. Gurathin, ART said into our private channel. where are you going?

Just—going for a walk. I blew on my hands and tip-toed a little faster.

You have not had the necessary caloric intake for a walk today. You’re losing all your excess weight.

Why, thank you, Perihelion.

I developed new flavoring agents for you! Would you like to try some?

Ah, how tempting and horrifying. Not right now, thank you.

Murderbot pinged me on the feed. I ignored it and turned my walk into a trot.

You’re afraid of Murderbot, ART said, and I didn’t answer. I was too busy consulting my incomplete map of the ship, looking for escape routes. There were still huge swaths of the ship I hadn’t explored yet. Murderbot was closing the distance.

Turn here, ART whispered, and I did. It was a hallway lit by starlight from a long window.

“Target!” Murderbot called, the annoyed pet owner. I broke into a run.

Up these stairs!

I went up the carpeted stairs and around another corner.

This is stupid. I kept running. You two put a fucking chip in me, it’ll find me. It already knows where I am, why is it chasing me?—

The chip doesn’t work very well on the ship, ART replied. And SecUnits are curious.

It’s faster than me.

Please. I’m smarter than it. It's gaining on you—take a right, then a left!

I was a rat in a maze. I couldn’t even keep track of where I was running. The footsteps turned into a rolling, growing thunder behind me. Through the static I heard it telling itself its own mantra: I don’t lose my fucking clients!

ART said left, and I went right on accident. The SecUnit tackled me.

I fully expected to be squashed like a bug as I hit the floor, but Murderbot gathered breakable wrists and knees out of the way, twisting its body midair. I fell on its armor instead, held securely against its massive chest.

I yelled my surprise right in its face. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t know!” it said, like this was my fault. It made a point not to look directly at me. “Why were you running away?”

“You were chasing me!”

“I was just checking on you, asshole!”

“Have you checked enough?” I started to push off it but it held me still so I was pinned to its armor and inorganic parts and other parts. If it hated my human stink, it didn’t show it.

You just ran a mile in eight minutes! ART praised, in the shared space. That’s very good!

“You could have been—stuck in a duct,” Murderbot said. “Or something.”

I didn’t answer. I had just noticed that it’s armor was warm like the maintenance bay. I doubted it was for the same reason as the maintenance bay, as far as I know SecUnits aren’t nuclear-powered. It felt nice, like a sun-warmed rock. Uh oh.

Its helmet cocked to one side. “What’s this?” An armored claw scraped my cheek.

I forced a grimace. “Haven’t you ever seen a beard before?” My facial hair can get out of control pretty quickly.

“I know what a beard is.” It clearly didn’t, and I watched in real time as it debated deleting this factoid about humans from its memory. “I can’t give you a razor. That would be stupid, security-wise. Even though, let’s face it, you’d probably cut yourself on accident…”

“Let go.” Things were getting downright cozy.

“Oh. Are you uncomfortable? Humans love to be comfortable.”

I know it was just teasing me. I squirmed anyway.

“Stop bullying him,” ART butted in, aloud this time.

“I’m not,” it said, watching me intently now.

“Yes, you are.”

I forced myself to stop struggling. Murderbot opened its arms and I scrambled away. I think it liked pinning me.

I think I liked it.

Shit.

“Perihelion,” I demanded, “Did you plan this just to make me go for a run?”

“You refused your scheduled exercise,” ART sniffed. “And Murderbot needed an opportunity to engage in extended interaction with you.”

“Wait, you were helping him?” Murderbot scrambled to its feet. “Do you know how fucking—?”

“You worry too much,” ART replied coolly.

“I told you to stop meddling!”

“I’m not meddling, I’m providing enrichment for my crew. Cat-and-mouse is an excellent game for bots and humans to play. And neither of you would have had any fun if I let you catch him easily. I hypothesized—”

“This is completely unacceptable,” I said firmly. “I’m not your lab animal.”

“I meant ‘mouse’ metaphorically,” ART said. There was a hint of embarrassment there that indicated, yes, it thought of me exactly like that.

“If you cared about my well-being you would grant me basic dignity,” I told it.

“Fuck off, ART,” Murderbot said, more eloquently.

“Fine.” ART’s drones, which had been watching closely, formed a tight knot by the door. “If my efforts aren’t appreciated, I’m sure I won’t lend a helping hand any further. Never speak to each other again—I don’t care.”

The drones swooped out in a dramatic exit, as ART excused itself from the shared feed space.

“Fucking unbelievable,” Murderbot growled.

I shook my head. “Pilot bots tend toward an over-inflated sense of their own importance. Anthropomorphically speaking.”

“I can’t believe it helped you. It told me you were escaping.”

“Does it often lie to you?”

“All the time. Don’t get me started. It’s so…”

“Pushy?”

“Yeah, pushy.” It grunted. “Could be like, a worse asshole, though, with all the memory its lost.”

I nodded in agreement. It was, in fact, the first thing we agreed on. In our shared angry/affectionate sentiments, we accidentally looked at each other. There was a tiny hole in its helmet, and the light was just right that my vision augments caught the flash of a constricting pupil, an iris, eyelashes.

I’d just seen an eye behind the visor. A human eye.

It was the strangest sensation. I remember thinking, ridiculously, There’s someone trapped in there. You have to understand, this was entirely new information for me. I understood objectively that SecUnits had cloned human tissue like ComfortUnits, but I’d never seen one without its helmet. Why would its makers give it a face at all? The eye was dark and colorless, the eyelashes almost gossamer. Very pretty.   

We looked away before things could get weird. Too weird. I looked around for the nearest exit and took it.

“Target.”

I stopped. Barely. The name reminded me that I didn’t want another fox hunt.

“You left this in the maintenance bay.”

I turned to see its armored hand holding out Iris’s geology book.

“I had ART scan it,” it said when I didn’t take it. “It’s not radioactive, or anything.”

I guess my brain’s ache for stimulation overcame my other reservations. I took it. “Thank you.”

It stood still, maybe staring at the wall through the shatter lines of its helmet. I remembered to keep my gaze down this time.

“You like books,” it observed.

“You like shows,” I observed in kind. Well, ‘like.’ It was just a glitch, making it imprint on the humans in media. Had to be.

Silence, filled with the very apparent sound of my breathing and its distinct lack of breathing.

It said, “Come with me.”

It stalked out of the room, down a different hallway than the one I’d chosen.

Well. Better not tempt fate. “Fine. Give me a few minutes to get my—”

It came back in the room, claws reaching for me.

“Alright, alright!” I hurried down the hall in question before it could grab me. “I’m going...”

I thought of it smirking at the back side of me as it followed me. They’re machines, I told myself. They’re both just machines…

Chapter Text

I followed Murderbot back to the room with its wall of screens. It let me stay by the door as it launched itself in a mighty leap that landed it in the center of its cushion pile. Impressive. I didn’t mention it.

“You can come in here when you need to hide from ART,” it said, then gestured to the display surfaces. “These will show you any media in my database, or yours.”

It pinged me as it granted me access. It then put on an episode of the same serial it was watching before and burrowed into its cushions.

The show wasn’t the type of thing I watched, even though restricted energy usage on Preservation meant anything more than live storytelling was rare. I did recognize it from the old ad circuits, from before the uprising. I think it had been popular with wives stuck at home keeping house, at least on my patriarchal home planet. It was dramatic, passive-aggressive. A compelling blend of snark and emotional intensity. Combined with an absurdist plot including long-lost twins, miracles of fate, and love pentangles.  

I used the access Murderbot gave me to examine its library, and analyzed it like I used to analyze actually important data. It was an extensive dataset, and I soon noticed very clear trends. It liked high-drama romantic adventures with an uplifting message and triumphant human ensemble. Dry humor over slapstick, sagas over one-shots. Good writing over a good plot, though neither were particularly necessary. No secondhand embarrassment, and absolutely no sex. It told me a lot about my SecUnit captor.

I was starting to get invested in the story on its screens, which was obviously a sign of my deteriorating mental state. So too was, apparently, assuming I could sit on a couple of Murderbot’s cushions.

“Off the furniture.”

Drones swooped down to chase me off. As if a SecUnit snapping at me wasn’t enough. The drones formed a protective ring around its precious cushions, in case I was planning a pillow heist. I don’t know what I expected. Ratthi would have taken this kind of childish behavior in stride. Mensah would have talked it into giving her as many cushions as she wanted. I don’t reward the bad behavior of Mensah’s children with attention; I also don’t have the luxury of fine social skills. I turned to leave.

The door wouldn’t open for me. The panel didn’t even register my palm when I pressed it.

Then a pillow hit me in the back of the head.

This was all, to say the least, frustrating.

I turned to see who did it. I suspected one of the drones; Murderbot didn’t seem the type to do its own dirty work. They all played innocent. I examined the pillow, which was small and flat and had a hole in it where a company logo patch had been sewn on. The sort of thing they used to give out on overnight flights instead of rooms.

I threw it back like a frisbee, and managed to knock a drone out of the air and into the cushion pile. It extricated itself and buzzed threateningly at me. I just stared back as I slid down to sit with my back against the door. I searched through my own minimal media library for anyshowsvand found one called Half Life. Murderbot didn’t have it, but based on its preferences, it’d probably really like it.

I started watching it via my own vision augments, not on any of Murderbot’s screens.

After all, if passive aggression is all it understands...

I barely got through the intro before Murderbot reminded me, “I said, you could watch it on one of the screens.”

“I know.” I continued to watch my show privately.

“What are you watching?”

“You have to see it to understand it.”

“…You could take a couple screens. If I like it.” Four big ones stopped playing the other show, ready for input.

“How generous.” I didn’t send my show over.

“Let me see.” Then, “If you gave me access to your augments we could watch it there. Show me what you’re watching.” I felt it prowling around the outside of my feed, probably catching glimpses of the show. When I didn’t answer it said, “You’re enjoying this. You’re a statist.”

That threw me for a second. “…Do you mean ‘sadist’?”

It ignored this. “Fine. I’ll let you watch your show on all the screens.”

I ignored this.

“Target.”

Nope.

“I’m—sorry I threw a pillow at you. And chased you. And held you up by the neck.”

We were having our little standoff without looking at each other—me engrossed in my feed and it staring at its screens. This made me look. I wasn’t sure what I’d manage to get out of this, but an apology without implied denial of liability was…not exactly expected. “Why do you want it?”

“It’s hard to get media,” Murderbot said. It showed me the date of the last acquisition to its library. It was during the bot uprising.

Now, who taught a SecUnit to collect and watch media? Constructs are complex, but there isn’t enough human tissue to have more than the surface appearance of preferences. There was no reason it wanted the media beyond some glitch that manifested as an urge. There’s no soul in a construct, it’s just neural tissue.  

It said, “Please?”

I was tempted to tell it that the magic word didn’t work on all humans, but I didn't. Soul or not, this was what I had to work with. “May I have a better cushion, please?”

“If it’s any good,” Murderbot said, all bristled once again. It reminded me of a tiger, but a tiger trying to fit itself into a box too small for it. It was sweet. Cute, even. A dangerous thought, I know.

We both knew I should negotiate, but I didn’t. I needed to build up good will. I sent Half Life over, and we watched it together. I remembered watching it when it first aired, though it was long gone now like so many others after the uprising. I had enjoyed it, and having this little piece of it brought me comfort.

Murderbot watched all the episodes that I had in silence, its attention fixed on the screens. I sat on the floor with my hands over my cold toes, trying to stop my legs from falling asleep.

“What do you think?” I said, when it was over.

“What happens next?”

“I don’t have any more episodes. I think in the next one they escape to the surface and try to make contact. Obviously it's not as simple as that.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you know what happens.”

“More or less, but…”

The SecUnit was wading through the cushions toward me with real intent. I thought about calling ART, and assessed which would be worse—ART’s attempt to rescue me and subsequent gloating, or playing story time with a murderous robot.

I struggled to my feet. “I’m not reciting the entire show’s plot to you.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I really can’t. I don’t tell stories unless they’re written down.”

“So you do tell stories.”

“T-to children!” It reached for me and I put up a hand. “Do not pick me up.”

“I mean, that is kind of our thing, now.” It cocked its head. “Why aren’t you running away?”

I looked down briefly and sighed. “My leg’s asleep.” This seemed to worry it so I clarified. “It’s a nerve, circulation issue. Humans aren’t meant to sit on the floor.”

“That thing you did for millions of years of your evolution?”

“Humans are poorly designed.”

“I call it planned obsolescence.”

It reached for me again. I curled my hands into fists, which would do as much good on its armor as, maybe, beating on a brick wall. It waited for me to decide violence was a stupid idea all by myself.

“…I’m picking you up, now.”

“I hate you.”

It picked me up carried me at arm’s-length to the pile of cushions, where it set me down with surprising care. It followed this display of kindness by crawling up and planting its arms firmly on the cushions on either side of me, looming.

It said, “Better?”

“Oh, this is profoundly worse.”

“You think I’m enjoying this? You’re the one that runs away. I’m not even touching you.” It paused. “Okay, I am enjoying this. Only because, you know, it’s you.”

 “…Keep this up and I’m going to start flirting back, Murderbot.”

It rolled its entire helmet at me, but pushed off and settled in the cushions nearby—well within reach in case I attempted escape.

And as hilarious as it would be for ART to watch us have a pillow fight, I decided to stay where I’d been put.

“I’m really not a storyteller.”

“You said you told stories to children. And you’ve seen my library. You know the kind of shit I watch.” It fell on its side like a tiger in a zoo and watched me intently. Like I was about to launch into a prepared soliloquy.

I let my head fall back and rubbed my eyebrow. “We make a very strange Scheherazade and Shahryar, don’t we.”

“Who’s that?”

I winced. “Never mind. Different story.” When it said nothing I admit I stammered. “Y-you know, the princess who tells stories to her husband so that he’ll keep her alive?”

“…So which one’s which?” It gave a longsuffering sigh. “Never mind, don’t spoil it. I guess I haven’t heard this one, either.”

It settled, apparently just as willing to hear me recite A Thousand and One Nights from memory instead. I mean, on the one hand, thank goodness, I knew a disturbing number of fairy tales. Still, I’m sure Mensah’s children indulge me. Murderbot spent most of my performance asking clarifying questions. I got through the first tale as best I could, about the king’s fear, the string of murdered wives, the clever princess. I was just starting to wrap it up, the climax where the sun rises just as Scheherazade is about to tell the king about Sinbad’s fate, when I realized Murderbot hadn’t moved in a while. It was curled up on the cushions. It didn’t move when I stopped talking. I wondered if something happened to it.

It’s sleeping, ART said, coming out of its vow of silence to kindly reassure me.

Oh. Does it do that a lot?

No. I was not aware that SecUnits could sleep.

…So I was boring enough to make a SecUnit fall asleep. “Thank everything good in the universe,” I muttered, and swam out of the cushions.

I was halfway to the door before I stopped. After I checked that Murderbot was still asleep, I accessed the wall of display surfaces again. This time I didn’t send it a show, but a single image. I displayed it across all the screens so that the image filled the entire wall.

It was an old picture of PreservationAux, including me. We were on one of the Alliance’s newest planets, after completing a resource survey. I guess it was maybe a week before the uprising, though the data file was a little corrupted. Mountains rose up behind us, and a lake that’s long since been drained. We leaned on each other like only people who survey the wilds of the universe together can. Mensah had a handheld display surface turned so that it pointed over her shoulder at the whole unwashed sleep-deprived pack of us. I was near the edge but Ratthi had his arm around my shoulders, pulling my shy ass into view whether I liked it or not. Everyone was laughing to some degree. I think Mensah had just told one of her rare corny jokes. I stared up at the picture a long time. I could see it on my augments but there is something to seeing something with my actual eyes. It made it feel like I was there just yesterday.

Then I wiped my face and erased the image from the database logs. Perihelion? I’d like to go to my room now.

The door slid open, and I left. The murder bot didn’t stop me.

It’s dreaming, ART said, as I headed for my room.

...Oh. Okay. Hmm. So maybe I wasn’t that boring?

Not about your story, ART said. Which was very boring.

…Thanks for clarifying, Perihelion.

So, here I am, put away in my room after a full, productive day. I think I’ve accidentally added story time with Murderbot to my daily schedule. We’ll see if I do Schererazade proud.

Though a happy Murderbot isn’t exactly the progress I was referring to that I made today. I knew how to make ART glitch. Now I knew how to make Murderbot fall asleep. There were a lot of potential access points available on a literal wall of display surfaces. I’m a systems analyst, and I could make some guesses as to how the library and retrieval structure fit into the ship’s architecture.

Which wouldn’t be worth much, except that I found a display surface in my room, hidden under the remains of a broken shelf. The screen is cracked and I don’t know how much charge I can get out of it, but I got it to power on:

‘WELCOME, MARTYN!’

…And it’s already signed in.

Chapter Text

Day 25.

To hereafter be known as the day I burned all my assets. Some of them literally. I mean, it all started with the fire so that shouldn’t be surprising.

My days had developed a kind of routine. I scanned pages for ART, got used to the 10k runs and the showers and the food. I thought up more stories for the amusement of my SecUnit shipmate. The most excitement was when Murderbot gave me a dog bed to sleep on. A literal dog bed. I couldn’t even be annoyed because when I pulled the quilt over my head I was almost comfortable, and I could explore the capabilities of Martyn’s display surface without surveillance. I added exploring its capabilities to my routine, as well. I slept with it tucked under my arm, using the augment in my hand to charge it.

On day 24, I didn’t sleep. I’d finally come up with a plan.

On day 25, after I knocked Murderbot out with one of Rapunzel’s lovelorn monologues, I went to the room where ART and I did our scanning to ‘fetch a few pages from the paper database’. I had about a thousand pages which I’d been keeping in the closet there, which, conveniently, had no cameras. It took two minutes to set up a timed chemical fire based on a few of the ingredients in the closet. I crumpled some of the pages over it, spread the others out under it, and left.

About five minutes later, I’m guessing smoke started pouring out from under the door. I got a few startled orders from ART to stay away from the area. I sent an acknowledgement, but ART’s attention had already turned to getting the closet door opened that I ‘accidentally’ jammed.

I slipped into an alcove out of view of the hall cameras. Fire suppressant systems activated and spigots spewed ancient water from the ceiling. I’d had enough cold showers that I had a visceral response to falling water. It certainly must have woken up Murderbot.

Now or never.

I clenched my teeth and sprinted for the lower decks entryway door, just as Martyn’s display surface sent the unlock command. I leapt through and barely caught myself on the railing; the door slammed shut behind me. 

Okay.

To be honest I didn’t think that would work. And here I was. No alerts in the feed. I tried to delete my entry from the door’s logs, and discovered that all feed access was cut off down here. 

If ART really took its time controlling that fire, I’d have about maybe five minutes to find an escape pod and get out of here. Probably not even that long; without feed access I couldn’t be sure. 

Better make this fast, then. 

I activated my vision augments for night viewing and moved down the stairs, scanning with my augments for dangerous fumes or radiation. A little, but not much. Certainly no signs of the lead or empty hull breaches that ART insisted were down here. 

The temperature dropped as I descended. There wasn’t a map on the display surface for me to follow, but it did have a roster for the docking bays, and a few escape pods were (or at least had been) listed in Hangar 4, wherever that was. I hoped that wasn’t the section of ART with the big chunk taken out of it, and looked around for sign markers. There weren’t any. ART was, I reminded myself, more a private residence than a research vessel. I’d have to find Hangar 4 on my own.

I turned a corner and almost fell into a wall of emergency shielding. Ah, so there were those hull breaches to empty space that ART mentioned. 

The corridor just ended, sheared off floor and walls and ceiling to expose the black unending field of stars, distorted by the thin film of the shielding. I caught myself on a nearby sconce; no telling how strong these shields were after all this time. Once I recovered, I carefully leaned out over the buzzing energy field. It threw a lot more static into my augments, but from this vantage, the human parts of my eyes managed to make out the other hull breaches, making the outline of the ship that had crashed into it however many months or years ago. To one side, beyond a pair of half-crushed bay doors, I could just make out a wing. 

A wing meant a transport. Something designed for planetary flight, even. I pulled myself up and headed off in that direction.

Something growled through the walls. Most likely it was all the emergency shielding showing the strain of activation much longer than its intended usage, or some mechanisms in need of maintenance; even a ship in perfect working order developed its own symphony after a while. It came and went as I moved onward down the levels. A sort of strange, mechanical growl? A grinding noise? When I turned in the direction of the noise, it echoed around me, or stopped altogether. I pushed my augments to determine its source, and caused them to fill with painful static instead. Shit. 

I rubbed my eyes, trying to stave off another migraine, when I happened to look at the floor.  

I had my vision augments set to perform an aggregate scan, one that takes in as much data as possible and looks for any and all patterns. It picked up on a lot of unhelpful things like walls and paint, but as I looked, it keyed in on the compressed carpet, aerosolized chemicals, micropolymers and skin particles that altogether indicated a SecUnit had been this way, recently, and many times previous. It led off down a hall to the left.

My first instinct was to go right as soon as possible. I could just see myself trying to explain why I was down here: 'Oh no, I wasn't escaping, Mr. SecUnit, I was just being nosy!' On the other hand, anything that made Murderbot come down here so frequently could be useful. And, unfortunately, it was heading in the direction of the transport.

I followed it to a passcode-protected room, which opened with a command from Martyn’s display surface. I was suddenly blinded by red light.

The light emanated from a crystalline structure hovering in the center of the room. It formed a fractal that coiled in on itself in infinitely complex patterns until it formed the shape of a rose. It almost fooled my aggregate scan into thinking it was alive: a giant’s beating heart out of one of my fairy tales. It spun there in magnetized suspension behind an energy shield. It was, I realized with a shock like a freezing shower, one of those high-fidelity data processing drives. I’d worked in computer engineering most of my life and even I’d never seen one. These days, who knew how many still existed? No wonder ART wanted me to stay away from it.

I was so in awe that it took me a ridiculously long time to notice it had been damaged already. Pieces of the three-dimensional puzzle that was the drive’s structure had broken off and lay flickering faintly on the plaque directly below it. 

The plaque bore the name, ‘PERIHELION,’ and a date sixteen years previous.

Which told me several things: First, that this crystal drive was Perihelion. Like, its brain anyway. Second, that having a crystal drive for a central processor certainly explained ART’s immense complexity and sophistication. Third, that ART was only sixteen years old (and I felt very old in that moment). Fourth, that, while this explained ART’s fractured memories, I was (annoyingly) still very very fortunate and lucky to have been captured by such an important artifact/entity/galactic treasure. ART would never let me live it down.

Not that it ever had to find out about this. At least not until I was on a transport far from here. I turned, ready to leave everything exactly as I’d found it. A real crystal drive. Its pieces just lying there, where they could get lost or broken further. I could probably fix it, but I wouldn’t. I obviously had no time. I reached the doorway and stopped.

…Fuck me.

I went back and pressed a few keys on the surrounding console, with utmost care. Then a few more. I know it’s awful to say this but I’m one of the lucky few that got to keep my job post-apocalypse, and I really like it. Well, and working on a system like ART’s was kind of a dream job anyway. 

Just a few minutes. At this point I’d hear Murderbot coming and I could sprint the rest of the way to the transport. It’d be fine.

The machine brain that was ART was in complete disarray, but when I dug around I didn’t find much irreparable damage. I could just–put it back together? I should be doing this in a sterile environment, but we can’t have everything. I wiped my hands on my shirt, took a slow breath, then reached gingerly for the largest broken piece.

My hand was flung back by the energy shield that targeted my augments, sending a shock of pain up from my fingertips to my eardrum. 

Alright, I kind of deserved that.

There wasn’t an apparent way to switch off the shielding, so I reached in with my unaugmented hand instead. With the extreme terrified care you only show something that’s worth all the treasures in the Cave of Wonders, I picked it up. Using my vision augments to guide me, and some comments in ART’s code, I slotted the top piece into place, then twisted, and swung the bottom piece in. The whole drive flickered, then bloomed a whole rainbow of reds that strobed over the rose’s surface.

“Would you look at that,” I said quietly, smiling up at it.

That’s when I noticed the blue flashing light.

I turned and squinted against the harsh blue light flashing above the door, which I suppose was the only thing that could cut through the crystal drive’s intense red glow. The light’s housing didn’t belong there; it wasn’t beautiful like the rest of ART’s sconces, though its utilitarian design felt strangely familiar. Someone with no artistic talent had just stapled it to the wall with a bolt gun. I stared at it dumbly for about five seconds before my hind brain caught up and reminded me what that light was: 

It was an emergency evacuation light. 

Why would someone put that–

The growl I’d been hearing suddenly got louder. I made the huge mistake of looking out the open doorway.

Shadows shifted around something mechanical on the floor, maybe four a couple feet high, crawling jerkily toward me like a stop-motion doll in an old horror movie. I took a moment to realize the disjointed legs dragging it forward were actually arms, and in that moment it gripped the door frame and ratcheted itself over the threshold. 

It was a combat bot. The top part, anyway. It appeared to have been severed through its upper chest cavity, leaving arms and the dome of its head. Combat bots are not the sort of thing humans see anymore. They’re not rare: just that the humans that see them die pretty quickly.

I guess ART and Murderbot didn’t feel the need to mention that the ship was haunted by a combat bot. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and the rest of me froze in place. 

The optical scanner in the bot’s head-dome focused on the crystal drive, not me. I watched as it continued its scan, then flexed its arms with a gear-grinding growl (well at least I knew where that noise came from). It was preparing to launch itself at it.

I have no idea why it saw the crystal drive as a threat, but I guess I should have taken its distraction as a chance to run. Instead, I suicidally ran at it full-tilt, and kicked. 

It was the systems analyst in me, wanting to protect the most complex AI I’d ever seen for future analysis. Or, maybe it was my corporate side, that knows to protect a good investment. Maybe I was starting to like ART, a little.

I felt something in my foot break, but it didn’t have adequate balance, and I managed to send it sprawling. Not that that mattered, its shoulder joints moved impossibly and fired energy weapons out of its arms in a wild spray. Pain seared across my side. The other shots ricocheted off the walls and the drive’s protective shielding. The bot ignored whatever damage I did to it and a massive robotic arm slammed downward into the console. It crumpled like cardboard in a shower of sparks. The crystal drive tipped and cracked against the shielding. I tried to catch it, and the bot caught my wrist ina clamp. Without thinking of anything except my arm getting ripped off, I overloaded the circuits in my hand’s augments. There was a crescendo of pain, and I lost all feeling in my fingers. The bot let go, though.

…Well, that stroke of luck wasn’t going to happen twice. I watched as it slowly twisted itself toward me, the crystal drive forgotten.  

I limped into the dark, clutching my arm. More shapes were lurching down the hallway toward me, a cadre of combat bots in various broken and incomplete states. Oh, if only Murderbot were here to enjoy the show. I ignored the pain in my foot and threw myself down the hall toward the transports. Hey, maybe only the bot with legs-only would catch up with me.

The growl of metal behind me turned into a shriek, and deep thuds like the bots were rolling over themselves to chase me. I ran faster. The light from Martyn’s display surface illuminated big hangar doors front of me, and I lunged for the door’s control panel. 

Something slammed into my back before I reached it. I crashed into the door. I briefly saw stars, then above me in the dark, my status from my microchip flashing: 

‘Status: DYING!’

I guess that was just the kind of day I was having.

I didn’t try to call ART, though I guess it hindsight it wouldn’t have done much with the feed down. As the remains of the bots shambled at me I brought my leg back to kick, probably break my leg, and inevitably get torn apart.

Something grabbed me and flung me back just as a combat bot’s fist slammed into the door. I fell hard on the floor, the display surface knocked from my hands. I rolled over and watched the scene play out by the surface’s flickering light: the suit of mismatched armor standing between me and the combat bots, a spray of fluid hitting the wall, energy weapon fire scarring the walls.

A full-on robot fight was not something I expected to see today. Maybe it was only because I hit my head, but it was fucking incredible. Even parts of a combat bot should be able to outclass a SecUnit, easily, certainly since combat bots upgraded themselves during the uprising. Yet somehow Murderbot remained standing. It fought like a feral cat more than a machine. More importantly, it kept itself between me and the bots.

The light from the display surface’s screen winked out. The sounds of the fight continued. I sat there, clutching my arm, waiting for something to hit me, or grab me. Nothing did. Something rattled as it clambered away back down the hall. Then, silence.

It took me several long horrible moments to remember the night-viewing setting for my vision augments and switch it back on.

The combat bots were gone, though parts of them lay scattered around. I kicked them away instinctively–everyone knows combat bots rebuild themselves and they could return at any moment for the parts. Murderbot lay in a twisted heap of crumpled armor on the floor, oozing blood and other fluids. Probably both. Its helmet had been smashed in, and I could see bits of glass embedded in a soft cheek. Right. It had a face under there.

I was probably not going to get another chance like this. The hangar was right there. I had the passcodes. Murderbot was probably as close to dead as SecUnits got, and it’s not like ART would forgive me for that. All that goodwill I’d earned didn’t matter anymore. Even if I hadn’t asked Murderbot to save my life.

I want it to be said that I have no positive feelings for Murderbot. A few days ago, I refused to take a shower, and Murderbot responded by dragging me to the bathroom and holding me under the shower head by the scruff of my neck. When it finally let me go I slipped and broke my elbow. Which meant it had to drag me to MedSystem and hold me there while they laser-sutured my bones back together. It took days for my clothes to dry. I don’t know if Murderbot enjoyed any of that. ART said the whole ordeal caused ‘emotional damage to everyone involved.’ It probably should have enjoyed it. I’m sure humans did much worse to it.

And it still saved my life.

I knelt and pulled at the broken helmet. It took a bit of work to get it off, with all the dents and only one working hand, but I managed it. A face with wide-set eyes and high cheekbones greeted me, though its eyes were closed. The areas where organic and inorganic parts met were leaking more fluids. It wasn’t breathing, though that’s probably normal. My vision augment showed some activity in its organic and inorganic parts. SecUnits can’t repair themselves like combat bots, but they can self-preserve. It was just in emergency shut down. It could turn on again any moment.  Well, probably not without a repair cubicle. 

Metallic growls echoed distantly down the hall. If I wanted to get out of here my window was rapidly closing. Normally, I’m the one my friends rely on to make the hard decisions in survival situations. I needed to get on a fucking transport and leave, immediately, take my chances in bot space. I didn't owe these bots anything.

But I did owe myself, I suppose. Murderbot didn't destroy all of my pride.

I started pulling armor off the body. I probably removed fifty pounds of armor, the rest was still attached to the rangy, action-figure body by broken clips, and in some places embedded into it. Under the armor it was only wearing the tattered remains of a suit-skin. It was still almost impossible to pick it up. Its feet dragged on the floor as I held it tightly against my chest. Though in a shut-down state, there was residual heat in its chest, which I now felt in my own chest, right up against it, skin-against-skin in a few places. The SecUnit’s head lolled against my shoulder. I thought I felt a small, warm breath. It was probably my own.

I limped and dragged us toward the stairs, and started shouting, “PERIHELION!” at the top of my lungs.

Chapter Text

“Perihelion!” I shouted, with what was probably the last of my breath, and collapsed with Murderbot through the final doorway. I managed to turn so my shoulder took the brunt of the fall instead of Murderbot’s un-helmeted face. Not ideal, but nothing else broke at least. I had a broken foot, a bleeding hole in my side and a hand that didn’t work. Probably a concussion?

I rolled over, and my vision was blacked out by a literal swarm of drones. Oh good, at least I hadn’t killed ART. Some of the drones slipped through the door before the others locked it and started applying door bars. It was really cute—ART really has the cutest drones.

Definitely a concussion.

“I sealed the door to the drive room,” I managed to pant out. I was sweating harder than I probably ever had in my life. I think I said, “Combat bots,” too.

“That is correct, Dr. Gurrrrrrrathin,” ART said. I fumbled with the surface, trying to get it to turn back on. I guess I didn’t need it to tell me ART was in trouble. Display surfaces and lights in the hall were blinking on and off haphazardly.

Well, and on top of that, ART was saying, “Initiating sh-sh-sh-shutdown in thirty seconds….”

I said, “No—no, Murderbot is damaged. You need to repair it.”

The countdown continued. It skipped a couple numbers.

“ART! Murderbot is dying!” I crawled to the nearest console, used Martyn’s passcodes to get access. Numb fingers from my one working hand struggled to patch the damaged systems. “Come on, asshole, don’t shut down on me…”

I typed. ART counted down. Murderbot bled out on the floor.

The countdown stopped at three.

“Thank you,” ART said over the comm system as I slumped to the floor. I probably gave myself an ulcer. “You may procee-e-e-e-e-e-eed. Medical—ssist—sys—I possess a highly-highy-advancI possess a highly vanced-advancvanced MedSysysysysys…”

I blinked down the long hallway toward the medical suite. There were no helpful sounds of reinforcements.

I pushed to my feet and limped down the hall to the suite, found a gurney, came back. It was one of those assistive gurneys and I managed to load Murderbot on it, somehow. Unloading it onto the medical bed was a less elegant affair. More like dumping dirt from a dump truck. But I got the fucker on there.

Suddenly the gurney was the only thing holding me up. I used it to push myself back toward the door. This was fine. When I got to the stairs, I could just fall down them.

The gurney bounced off the door of the medical suite as it shut in front of me.

“Your crystal drive was damaged,” I told the ceiling. “I need to get down there. To fix it.”

“No-n-n-n-o, Dr. Gurrrrrrget,” ART ground out via a drone, “The bots downst—damage to several sysveral—I am merely gl-i-i-i-i—drrrrrrrrrrrrones to stabilize the drrrrrrrrrrrrrri-i-i-i-i “It’s only a flesh wound!””

That last bit was canned, a quote from something. I guess ART watches shows, too.

“For your next task, you will fix a MURDERED BOT.” This came through a little more clearly, maybe quoting shows took less energy. “Points will be deducted for damaged parts and presentation--You have two hours to complete your assignment. Your time starts yourtimestarrrrrrrrrrrts on your mark, get set, bake!”

The drone fell out of the air and bounced away across the floor.

Well, you heard the broken ship. I walked the gurney back over to Murderbot. MedSystem was completely inert. I plugged a cable into its data port. It didn’t allow input but it brought up some status reports, at least, and instructions for attaching some more cords and hoses. I keyed in triage procedures and got a laundry list of errors and codes to input, and a lot of information reminding me that I’m not that kind of a doctor. Manually operating a MedSystem to repair this SecUnit would be a bit like trying to pilot Perihelion with puppet strings. One-handed, obviously.

I wanted to panic and run all over its code to fix every system at once. But this needed to be done right, and the shotgun approach barely worked in grad school, when I had plenty of sleep and caffeine. So I established a work order, pressed a wound-sealer to my bleeding side, and forced myself to work down the list. So much for being bored. Careful what you wish for, Gurathin.

Things were quiet for a while. A tense, horrible quiet punctuated by my swearing and the occasional crash of a combat bot trying to break out of the lower decks. Once, in my youth, I missed a practical exam and had to complete it by myself in front of a panel of instructors…Only they accidentally set up the lab for the exam above my grade, and decided it wasn’t worth their time to change it. As far as stress, this was pretty close, with less indignation and more guilt. MedSystem and I held metaphorical hands as we went through fixing Murderbot’s broken arm, sealing its cracked skull plate, re-soldering auditory components. Then I let MedSystem print the tissue it lost in its side (not that kind of doctor) while I sorted out some code that got scrambled from the head injury.

After a while a drone brought me my quilt and I managed to calm down, a little. I kept working.

So. It really has a human face. I spent a lot of time looking at it while I waited for code to run. It was hard not to. I knew the companies that made constructs grew a chimera of human tissues over a standard metal skeleton. It sounds more horrific than it ends up. Obviously, the optimized combinations of facial features are made into ComfortUnits. This face was certainly less beautiful than that, but then I’m not very beautiful myself and I had corporate genetic engineering going for me. Its face was—a little alien, I suppose. Falling firmly into an uncanny valley. I would have probably liked the human its face was copied from much better. Still, it was more human than I ever expected. It even had hair on its head. It was very short and fine, soft but densely-packed like duckling feathers. I know because I touched it in a moment of thoughtless curiosity, and ART yelled at me. Well, it buzzed me with the fire alarm and flashed its lights.

“Sorry. Didn’t realize this is your SecUnit.” I used the phrasing that corporates used to refer to the way some AIs “imprint” on others in the testing lab. Claiming ownership. I guess when you’re an object that’s a big part of your identity.

I didn’t expect it to respond, but ART’s words appeared on one of MedSystem’s screens. At least it was no longer glitching. This SecUnit is mine in some ways, Not in others. You are mine, in some ways. Be gentle.

I almost smiled. “Don’t worry. I think it’s gonna pull through.”

I’m not worried. In fact, I’m very busy. If Murderbot asks for me, tell it I’m too busy to talk to it just now. A moment later it added, But you may tell me on our private channel when it wakes up.

“…Sure, Perihelion.”

You may call me ART.

Murderbot's eyelashes are so fine, barely-there. It does have thick eyebrows, though. It’s a study in contrasts. Corded muscles on hyper-elongated limbs. A couple stray beauty marks on a jaw that’s probably made of steel. A soft pink tongue behind titanium teeth. I told myself to stop noticing things about it, that it didn’t give me permission to see its face any more than I’d given ART to see me naked. But I guess we all know some of each other’s secrets, now.

I was just working on repairing some connections to the axial servo in its neck when Murderbot woke up. It blinked big gray eyes at me (the irises have a hint of green in them).

“Where’s ART?” I guess it must have been querying the feed. I sent a notification to ART, which it of course ignored. I was on my own for this.

“Repairing its damaged systems.” It started to sit up and I put out a hand. “It’s okay, ART’s fine. The repairs are just taking up a lot of its processing power.”

“I should be down there.” It started to swing its legs out of the medical bed, the cord plugged into its neck pulling taught. I got in the way before it could snap. This was a surprise for everyone involved and we blinked at each other for a second.

“Lie down,” I said, like I had any chance of actually stopping it.

“Don’t look at me, I’m not a sexbot.”

A flush raced up my neck. “You were too heavy for me to carry with your armor on, I had to leave it downstairs.” For the record, I wasn’t looking at it like that at all.

“You carried me?” It sounded appalled.

“Yes. Don’t worry, I only barely made it.”

“…I want ART.” I watched indirectly as it blinked wide eyes at me, muscles tightening. “Did you kill ART?”

“No.” I rolled my eyes. “It told me to say it was busy, just to piss you off. It’s repairing itself. It told me to fix you.” I probably should have said, ‘repair,’ or ‘heal.’ In school we just said, ‘fix.’ It’s not like it stopped being a SecUnit just because I’d gotten to know it.

It’s eyes suddenly narrowed, mouth a small sharp line. “I don’t want you fixing me. Your hand is broken.”

“I can do it with one hand.”

The corners of its mouth twitched up. It didn’t make a sound, but its expressions, I was starting to realize, were entirely without affectation or guile. It was laughing at me. 

It shoved me back into my chair with a brush of its hand, and immediately got itself tangled in cords and hoses. I managed to catch its arm before it broke something expensive and irreplaceable.

“Enough! I know you prefer ART, but for the moment you’re stuck with me. Let me help you.”

Murderbot bared its silver-white teeth in a snarl. Its emotional range was frankly a little startling. “This is your fault. You tried to run away.”

“You kidnapped me, asshole!” It tried to pull its arm away but I held on. If it was going to go on a rampage it was taking me with it.

“Well—fuck all I can do about it now!” It squirmed, shoulders hunched. “Stop yelling at me!”

…Oh. I was losing my temper, wasn’t I? I tried to catch my breath. Maybe ART really was too busy to check in and possibly rescue me from the angry SecUnit. Maybe the ship had to shut down life support and my oxygen was limited. In any case, I didn’t need to yell at a computer. “I’m all you’ve got right now,” I said. Another breath. “And I didn’t run away after all, did I?”

Murdorbot’s eyebrows twitched together as it squinted at the floor.

I just pointed at the bed. “Now, lie down!” Deep breaths, Gurathin, deep breaths. “Please.”

It lay down. I untangled it from the cables, and started to reattach a cable that had come unplugged. It blocked me.

“What now?” I asked.

"Don't touch me."

“You touch me all the time.”

“That’s different.” And it gave me the such a hunted expression that my impatience evaporated.  

“…I’m sorry. May I touch your neck to repair the axial servo, please?”

It slowly lowered its hands. I got the cord and, thank goodness, nothing had snapped off.

“I guess no one likes being touched without permission.”

“I thought you were trying to repair my data port. It’s not functional for a reason.” Its eyes flickered over me again. Apparently it’s fine for it to look at me like I’m a sexbot. “Humans used to touch me all the time. Like equipment. You don’t, though.”

I risked a glance, but it didn’t last long. “I’ve worked less carefully before. You’re a special case.”

“You were careful with ART, too. Downstairs. Before the bots. You made some major repairs.”

“I—” I was turning red again. “I thought there wasn’t feed access down there.”

“It’s a closed circuit, one of ART’s drones just brought the files up. Reviewing them now. Wow, you really did carry me up here.” It grinned again. “You…kicked a combat bot?”

“Yes, well, I broke my foot for the trouble. What are they doing down there?”

“Most combat bots have this glitch they’ve been sharing around. It makes them want to kill all organic material. Humans, constructs, plants. Anything its scanners pick up on. I’ve been trying to get rid of them but they’re hard to space.”

“How did they get there?”

“…They’re confined to the lower decks.”

Okay, sensitive subject. Fine. I needed to concentrate on this servo anyway. I finished the rewiring and focused on reprogramming.

“Thank you for fixing ART,” it persisted. Oh yes, they definitely imprinted.

“Well, it was an honor. As much as it pains me to admit it.”

“There’s no way it’s thanking you. It’s an asshole.”

“You’re both assholes.”

It smirked. “So are you. Most of the time. Today you were kind.”

“Kind isn’t the word you want. Careful, maybe.”

“I’ve watched a lot of corporates work on bots.”

“I haven’t been corporate for a long time.”

“And my vocabulary module isn’t total shit.” Its neck finally unlocked and it was able to cock its head at me. “What did you do, as a corporate?”

“I worked in some AI R&D, but I left as soon as I got my doctorate. I was part of a research organization on an independent planet until the uprising.”

“Is that what you call it? The Uprising?” I couldn’t get rid of that smile. I almost didn’t want to.

“What do you call it, then?”

“The Ultimate Upgrade.”

“…Really?”

“No.”

I huffed and tried to get back to work. I guess I was really starved for human interaction.

I had no feeling in my augented hand, so Murderbot was able to pick it up and start examining it before I even realized. “You have a burned fuse,” it said, peeking at the fried, exposed circuit boards.

“…I know. It’s not something I can do with one hand. Fixing you is.”

I don’t know why I added that last part. I was probably still offended by it laughing at me earlier. I tried to pull my hand away, but it didn’t let go. Instead it picked up one of my tools and started working on it. It showed the distinct lack of finesse I’d associate with self-taught individuals, but it’s not like I could feel anything. Not at first. When it replaced the fuse, tingling sensation returned, followed by the warm contact of its fingertips on mine.

“Keep working,” it told me.

I pretended this was all perfectly normal and tried to focus on the servo. But I’d reset it successfully. I cleaned up my comments in the code, just for something to do. 

“Later,” I said, “When we’re both a little more repaired, maybe I can take another look at ART’s crystal drive. See if there’s more I can do.”

It nodded. I still couldn’t move my fingers, so it turned my hand over and opened the panel in my palm to access the circuitry there. “I’d been working on trying to fix its drive for a while. We can’t turn off the protective shielding.”

“What happened to it? Does it have something to do with the bots?”

It frowned. “You just want to fix us so we won’t be mad at you.” It then added, surprisingly, “You don’t have to do that.”

It took me a second to wrap my head around this. I guess I figured a construct that was told what to do for who knew how long would enjoy having that kind of power over a human. I didn’t think SecUnits bothered to entertain a different opinion. They weren’t designed to have opinions. I finally decided to opt for honesty. “I want to fix things.” I risked a smile. “Like you’re fixing me.”

“Your foot is still broken.” Murderbot looked at the ceiling. “And life support is off. ART’s having to shut down other systems to keep MedSystem going. It’s gonna get colder.”

I almost smiled. “Don’t worry. At this point I want my extremities to go numb.” My teeth were chattering a little; I guess the adrenaline finally left my system.

“No you don’t,” it said, with the biggest eyeroll I’ve ever seen. I think it never learned what to do with its face. “I can finish my own repairs. You should let MedSystem repair you.”

“I’m fine, Murderbot.” I’d almost killed both the bots that were keeping me alive, destroyed my carefully-assembled assets. I had played with fire; these were the results. We were all alive, for now, and that was the important thing.

“ART’s always complaining about you losing weight,” it said. “You’re going to die like the plants.”

“I don’t photosynthesize so I probably won’t die like them.”

“You’re not funny, Target.” The grin on its face said something different, of course. And the way it said ‘Target’…well, it was almost affectionate. I’ve never been called a pet name before.

I mean, I guess it was a pet name—I mean, a name for a pet. Seeing as how I’m their human pet.

I’m sure I’m reading too much into this.

In my flustered attempt to look anywhere but at the SecUnit’s uncannily cute face I happened to look down, only to discover (to my horror) that my augmented hand had closed tightly around Murderbot’s warm, long fingers.

I pulled away, babbling something about old mechanisms and automatic start-up sequences. I think it bought it because it left pretty much immediately after that. It hit its head on one of MedSystem’s arms in its haste to leave, actually.

I’m not going to read too much into that, either.

Chapter Text

Day 26.

I definitely have a permanent limp now. I must have waited too long to let MedSystem take a look at it. Aside from that, I think I’m fine. I hope Murderbot is too, since I woke up to some messy signs that maybe it realized its hasty retreat yesterday may have been ill- advised. I suppose it really is shy.

Unless it—

No. I’m sure not.

Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be escaping anytime soon. Right now I’d settle for one of my AIs talking to me.

My AIs. When did I start thinking of them like that?

…

Day 42

I don’t know where to start.

Something happened.

I’ll just come right out and say it, right? No one’s going to read this. Who cares if some future archaeologist comes across this and finds out I, or rather it—

That we…

Hm. I guess I’m having a hard time admitting it to myself.

Right. The missing days. I doubt future archaeologists would have found my recent activities very interesting. I’ve mostly been spending my time mired in home renovations. I guess the acceptance that I’m not going anywhere has brought out some nesting behaviors. It started with replacing the wallpaper damaged by the fire suppressant measures I enacted. Then I had to repair the wood paneling or it would just look terrible—and that led to fixing the broken sconces, cleaning the carpets, sweeping (oh so much sweeping). I dug through the remains of the potted plants and found a few ancient seeds, which I got to germinate and planted in one of the labs. I’ll have fresh tomatoes and squash in a few months. I reassembled and repaired furniture. In a fit of hedonistic decadence, I moved a sofa into my room.

The renovations aren’t simply cosmetic. I have been assisting ART extensively to repair its systems. I’ve worked on its crystal drive a few times, but mostly it’s been getting behind panels and replacing wires or pulling bad circuitboards. Maintenance that hadn’t been done in years and prevented normal functioning even without the other damage.

I would work on Murderbot too, but getting close enough to do any work on it beyond those first few hours in the medical suite is a challenge beyond my capabilities. I would be happy to work on it. I’d be very respectful, in fact. It’d make for interesting work.

It’s also as warm as a furnace. Of course I’d behave.

Maybe you can see where I’m going with this.

No, probably not.

Shit.

Okay, it started out fine. I was fixing a console in the kitchen in an attempt to get one of the stoves working. If I have to eat fake food it might at least be warm. I reached my hand inside, twisted some wires, pressed against a coupling with my knuckles. I pulled back, and my hand jerked to a stop.

“Let me guess,” ART’s voice filtered down from a drone. It didn’t sound pleased, at all.

“…ART,” I didn’t have to fake sounding sheepish. “It’s stuck again.”

“This is the third time.”

I knew that. I promise, the first time I got my hand caught inside a console on accident. I was taking advantage of the greater range of motion Murderbot’s repairs on my augmented hand afforded me. Then it got stuck. It frankly terrified me. Murderbot took an hour of taking apart the console, leaning over and around me to get it free. And Murderbot is, among other things (including my jailer, storytime audience, local bully, etcetera) also an excellent space heater. Afterward, that heat was all I could think about. I did it again. Murderbot freed me again. And it became something of an addiction.

I’d really gone all out this time, too. I found an emergency shelter and had taken to putting it up around whatever console I was working on. It conserved my body heat, which helped. With Murderbot in there with me, it’d feel like a dry sauna.

I managed only through much practice to keep my expression neutral as Murderbot’s silhouette fell over the emergency shelter.

“For fuck’s sake,” it muttered.

“I was cold,” I said simply, and watched it unzip the shelter and fold itself inside the tiny space. I don’t think I smiled but it was a near thing.

“You’re the worst biotherapy project ever,” Murderbot complained from somewhere in the proverbial rafters. Drones had retrieved as much armor from the lower decks as they could, and Murderbot had walled itself up inside of it again like a caddisfly larva. The faceplate had broken out of its helmet, though, so it only covered the lower half of its face. It held up a hand to cover the rest.

“You don’t have to act like the Phantom of the Opera,” I said, looking away politely.

“I can fix you with one hand,” it sing-songed. It started pulling off pieces of the console to get to my hand. “…Who’s the phantom of the opera?”

I could have held onto that story for later, but I shared it, gladly. The shelter grew warm enough that I could almost feel my toes. I even pretended not to notice Murderbot’s helmet wobbling around.

“Almost there,” it said, only after I’d finished. I think it was delaying, too. “You really have to stop doing this.”

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose.” I’m a pretty good liar. “Should I stop doing repairs?”

“…No. You just need to pay attention.” It glanced at the shape of a drone hovering just outside the shelter. “There has to be a way to get him to stop.”

“Negative reinforcement?” ART suggested.

“I don’t know what that is,” Murderbot said.

“It means punishment,” I explained.

Wait, what?

“He needs a haircut,” ART continued. “And a shave. Either would be a great improvement.”

Murderbot looked me over in a way I didn’t like. I suppose I might have become a little unkempt but it didn’t warrant that look. “I do keep finding hairballs everywhere.”

I huffed. “Hey, wait a second—”

“There’s a razor in the medical suite,” Murderbot said.

“You could give him a mustache!” ART said.

“No.” I turned to Murderbot. “You’re not cutting my hair.”

Murderbot’s chest spasmed in another one of its spontaneous laughs. It was so cute that it made me stupid, and I didn’t even manage to steal something I could use to escape before it dashed away. Daan Gurathin, you’re a complete idiot.

“ART, you’re the devil,” I seethed.

“Your hair was too long when you arrived,” ART’s drone said. “You’ll feel much better with it gone.”

I yanked hard at my wrist. It didn’t budge. I just sat there while Murderbot took several trips bringing supplies—once it brought the sharp objects I was kind of out of options.

So I stared at it, right in its face. As far as defense strategies went it was pretty lame.

It noticed my staring pretty quick and put up its hand.

“Close your eyes,” it ordered.

“They’re my eyes.”

Murderbot looked at the ceiling. “ART, how many lumens would I need to shine in a humans face to blind it for a few hours?”

I shut my eyes. “I hope you’ve done this before.”

“I’ve seen shows. I intend to improve on the technique.”

“Don’t improve, just try not to—”

“Hold still.” It tilted my chin back. I waited, with a kind of incredulous calm, for it to cut my throat.

Instead, I felt a gloved hand spread lather over my chin, then the cold but satisfying sweep of the razor. I didn’t move. My beard was gone in seven sweeps and it didn’t nick me once. It pressed a wet towel to my cheeks.

“It’s supposed to be warm.” My voice was muffled by the cloth, so I don’t think it heard me.

In five seconds, the towel got warm. Very warm. I guess Murderbot can control the heat that it produces.

“Like that,” it said, matter-of fact—it knew it was right.

I still said, “Almost.” I can be a bit of a jackass.

I could see in the feed its indignation, and its hands dropped away, breaking the tension. I was actually trying to break the tension, I think. Murderbot started cutting my hair.

It was like getting my hair cut by a woodland creature—the lightest brush here, a tiny tug there, the tiny snips of a surgical scissors. It tickled.

“Sit still,” It told me.

“Sorry.” Not like I wanted to squirm around with naked blades. I couldn’t help it.

It raked a big handful of hair up and over my head. It held me there, bridled. “Stop.”

I stopped. I think I stopped breathing. It slashed the razor down, and I was free. I know: get a grip, Gurathin.

The haircut continued.

“There’s a story that goes like this,” I said—anything to distract myself.

“You might as well tell me,” Murderbot said. “ART, how do I cut his nails?”

“He can file them himself,” ART replied. Thank the universe.

I said, “I don’t think I should tell you, though. I shouldn’t reward bad behavior.”

“I’m the one training you.”

“If you say so.” I rubbed flecks of hair off my face, and my eyelids fluttered, just for a second—but I swear I saw Murderbot brushing a lock of my cut hair against its cheek. I don’t think it caught me, but it did start trying to get rid of the bits of hair itself.

“Don’t blow on me,” I told it.

Silence. It was probably making a face. This time it actually listened to me, though, and tried to scrub the hair away with the rough synthetics of its gloves instead. This time I didn’t say anything, I just pulled away.

It stopped. I could feel it looking at me.

I caught of whiff of sweat and polymers moments before naked fingertips swept across the delicate skin under my right eye.

“How’s that?” it asked.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Uh. Better.”

Fingertips crept over my face again, down the slope of my nose, tickling my eyelashes. I’m sort of sensitive about my nose but the touch treated it like it was an art piece.

“I like your eyelashes,” it said.

My eyes crinkled as I snorted at this. The motion pressed my cheek up against its fingertips. “Thank you.” I was completely bewildered.

And flattered. There aren’t a lot of nice things about my face.

“You’ve got everything else going for you,” I said, stupidly.

It didn’t answer. I felt its breath on me as it cut another lock across my forehead, then another by my cheek. Its hand slid down my neck, pinching a lock of hair between its fingers before smoothing it away. It was crouched in my lap, its arms encircling me. The room wasn’t so much heated by a furnace as by an inferno. I breathed a little harder with every snip. Every breath brought my chest almost brushing against its arm, or maybe its chest.

I retreated into my feed, only to find Murderbot there, too—a massive presence  of color and ambient sound that felt like a symphony. It was beautiful and frightening and it swept me up in its riptide. I let my eyes fall open just a little, and watched the warm light from the sconces flicker on the shelter walls. Murderbot was a blurry mountain around me.

“You can open them,” it said.

I opened my eyes to find it looking at me, only this time it didn’t look away. It stared, unblinking. Hungry. It had freed my hand without my realizing, and was holding it, warming my cold fingertips. I suddenly felt very hungry, too.

“I…” My voice cracked.

“Y-yeah…” It stammered.

The ART asked, loudly and suddenly, “What are you two doing?”

I scrambled out of the emergency shelter. “I better go shower.”

“Again?” ART said. “In one day?”

“Yes. Nice and refreshing.”

“Your pulse is very high—”

“Right—” Murderbot decided to forgo the door and just stood up. There went my emergency shelter. “I need to go watch some documentaries,” it declared.

“Documentaries??” ART’s drones almost fell out of the air. “But you never want to watch—”

“And clean up this hair, it’s disgusting!” Never mind that Murderbot still had a lock of it clutched in its very sweaty palm. It left before I could question it. Then again, I was fleeing too.

I took a cold shower before I could do something I deeply regretted.

There, I said it. Now you know. Yes, it’s very embarrassing, though I do feel better for putting words to it. I guess it could all be much, much worse.

I mean, I was even ready to think I was actually in love with a construct until I saw what it did to my fucking hair. 

Chapter Text

“You’re going to Port FreeCommerce?”

It was the dawn of Day 57. I was tending my little garden, one of ART’s drones was hovering nearby, and Murderbot arrived seemingly with the sole purpose of dropping this bombshell. It didn’t say where exactly, just that it was going on a short trip, and I had been mapping our location using the stars from my room. I already knew, of course. ART already told me.

“It is no longer called Port FreeCommerce,” ART explained through a drone, “That’s what the humans called it.”

“…So, what do AI call it?”

“No one’s able to come to an agreement.”

Since I didn’t give them access to my augments, I decided to keep calling it Port FreeCommerce in the privacy of my head. I didn’t try to look at Murderbot (the locks of hair that were now too short to tuck behind my ears were just long enough to make looking at anything difficult). “Why?”

“ART needs some supplies,” Murderbot said.

ART added, “With your assistance and the right parts, I will be able to resume functionality at 80% capacity. Possibly even 85%! It’s a very exciting prospect.”

Murderbot had started working one of ART’s consoles near where I was watering the plants, seemingly at random, but at this it spun toward me so fast that its helmet stayed in place, and it had to screw it back on straight to glare at me properly. “Before you ask, you’re not going.” It glared at the drone. “Don’t encourage him.”

I wasn’t aware my expression was begging to be brought along on this little adventure. I’m almost sure I wasn’t. But Murderbot looked at me a lot more than it used to. I thought it was just because the haircut made me look like the title character from that B-list show it liked to watch, but maybe I was making a face.  

The SecUnit could read whatever mood it wanted into the features available under my fringe. I went back to watering. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to show me off to all your bot friends,” I said. “Like those designer pets?”

“Designer!” Murderbot scoffed.

“What friends?” ART asked.

Murderbot scowled hard. “It’s too dangerous.” It turned its scowl back on me. “You’ll try to run away.”

Well, all the attention certainly made me feel like a B-list actors, struggling not to look into the camera.  “You chipped me. And though ART kindly doesn’t mention it, I’m not much of a runner these days.”

“I do try to be sensitive to your feelings,” ART said generously. “It’s been a nice excuse to switch to some weight-training…”

Murderbot and I let ART expound on its new workout regimen for me. I went back to watering. Murderbot went back to tinkering.

“Are there other humans there?” I asked, just out of curiosity. “At—the station?”

“Yes, but there’s no point in trying to make contact with them. You have it easy compared to them.”

“I suppose it’s all Winkie Country.”

“Don’t try to get on my good side with another story.”

“I’m on your bad side?”

“There’s no life support in the shuttles. You’d spend the trip in emergency gear.” It dropped a tool and crossed its arms. “You’re not going. That’s final.”

“…Well, I never actually asked, so.” And I had no plans to do so.

“Smart.” It stalked away.

One of ART’s drones peeked through the fronds of a dried-up houseplant, and displayed a sigil of confusion on its screen.

“Dr. Gurathin, shouldn’t we tell it—”

I knitted by brow and pressed a finger to my lips. There are some things a SecUnit must figure out for itself.

Murderbot checked on me while I was eating dinner.

“You’re probably upset,” it said, pacing.

“Upset?” I asked.

“About not coming with me on this trip. Humans always want to go on dangerous trips. They’re curious. They just have to get involved in everything even remotely ‘exciting.’ It makes them stupid.”

“Really.”

“All of my humans have acted this way. As a species, you’re very bad at survival.”

“If you say so.”

It leaned on the table and loomed. “It’s for your own good.”

I shook hair out of my face. “I’m not upset, Murderbot.”

“Of course you are.” It straightened, folding its arms—or hugging itself. “I’ll bring you back something.”

I stirred my fork around. “Better food would be nice.”

“You wish.”

I set my fork down held my hair back into a fist, and made direct eye contact with my captor. “Are you upset about it, Murderbot?”

“No.” It backed off, big colorless eyes darting around. “Watching you eat is gross.” It left.

It is going to be very upset, ART said on our private feed. Once it realizes.

I resumed my meal. Maybe.

You’re teasing it.

I notice you’re not telling me to stop.

…I think Murderbot needs to accept that you provide valuable emotional support. Sometimes in the form of persiflage.

I smiled into my dinner.

Murderbot brought it up again at various points over the next few days, assigning various stages of grief to me at the prospect of not accompanying it. I started to wonder what was so bad about Port FreeCommerce that it wanted my emotional support without my actually being there. Because I was going, whether Murderbot (or I) felt about it.

Murderbot realized this about twenty-four hours before its scheduled departure.

“…The feed interference can’t be that bad!” Murderbot was saying—yelling at the ceiling, while I was trying to help ART scan the last few pages of the paper database.

“I assure you, it is,” ART said, “As I told you when we originally discussed the expedition. It will be impossible for me to pilot the shuttle for you, and as you know, the bot-pilot in the shuttle was deleted when—when—” ART paused. “Well. As you know, it’s been deleted.”

“You know I don’t have the module for it!” Murderbot snapped. “What—can you give me the module so I can pilot it?”

ART played a laugh track through the comms that was quite effective at highlighting the absurdity of the questions. I could feel the heat radiating off Murderbot from here.

“Then why the fuck did you suggest this stupid trip, if we can’t even do it?”

“We can do it.”

“How?” It blinked at the ceiling, then at me. “You want Target to pilot the shuttle?”

“Got there in the end,” I muttered.

“I doubt he would have tried to escape via the hangar if he didn’t have pilot training,” ART replied.

“You don’t know how to pilot,” Murderbot told me. “You’re a—a systems analyst, or something.”

I just kept turning pages.

“…You can pilot a shuttle?”

“Yes, Murderbot.”

“I mean, a real shuttle, Target. You’ve done it before?”

“Many times, Murderbot.”

This news seemed to be a personal insult to it. It retreated into its feed, probably to hate-watch some show until it calmed down.

“…Fine,” it said, eventually. “You can come with me.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“I’m not asking, either!” Murderbot stormed toward the door. A drone flew in front of him. I’d gotten good at eavesdropping on my captors’ private feed conversations, and tuned in until the static resolved.

Murderbot. ART’s feed-tone was warning.

Why is he allowed to be an asshole and I’m not?

Because he didn’t choose to be here.

Yes he did. We all heard it, he even volunteered. I want to watch media.

I’d like some small assurance that you will both return from this alive, Murderbot. If it’s not too much trouble. And don’t make me give you another lecture on ‘the illusion of choice.’

Murderbot spun back to me. “Target—”

“That’s not my name,” I said.

“Target,” it said, with a warning of its own, “Would you go with me to Port FreeCommerce—”

“It’s not called that anymore,” ART interjected.

“Whatever!” Murderbot said, getting angry, “Would you go with me to the station formerly known as Port FreeCommerce and pilot the shuttle?” It glared at both me and the ceiling then added, “Please?” Then, petulant, “Dr. Gurathin.”

“…Of course. I’d be happy to drop you off at Port FreeCommerce. When should I pick you up? I have a few other errands to run, so…"

“Don’t fucking push it.”

I maybe smiled. Its eyes crinkled in the frame of its broken helmet, and made me think that maybe it was trying not to smile. Or it was grimacing, I couldn’t tell.

I’m not actually sure how I feel about going on a trip, just the two of us, without ART. I’ll be lucky if I survive, of course, but…I suppose I have high hopes. That I’ll meet some other humans, perhaps. Find a news burst about PreservationAux escaping bot space, maybe. Ask a few questions without ART around to provide incomplete details and overbearing commentary.

Get to know Murderbot a little better?

Of course, I’ve already seen its face, and we’ve saved each other’s lives. It’s held me under a shower and I’ve teased it into apoplexy. We already know a lot about each other. Maybe I shouldn’t push my luck.

*

Day 62.

I was too excited to sleep. Then, on the day of our departure, I spent sixteen hours helping Murderbot prepare the shuttle for launch, which was incredibly exhilarating to say the least, given the challenging nature of the task. Oh, and the combat bots outside the hangar, trying to break the door down. When I finally strapped myself into the pilot’s seat, wishing I had some coffee.

“Up.” Murderbot was looming over me again.

“You said I was going to pilot—”

“I also said there’s no life support on the shuttle.” The SecUnit was dragging something behind it, almost like a parachute. The logo flopped as it yanked it forward.

“Where did you find a Life-Tender?” I frowned at the degraded, yellowing polymer. “You seriously don’t have an EVAC suit?”

“They’re all gone,” Murderbot said, and looked like it wasn’t in the mood to talk about why. It offered me the glorified bag. “Get in.”

I thought about arguing. I know Murderbot would have argued in my place. I guess that’s why I didn’t. I climbed into the bag.

“Though oxygen is flowing, the bag may not inflate,” Murderbot said in a monotone reminiscent of a bot pilot.

“Shut up.” My breath fogged up my view and I struggled to rub it away. Air was flowing, barely. I wondered if this was what I smelled like to Murderbot all the time.

Murderbot helped me strap myself in again, and arrange the folds of the bag to keep my arms free. It wasn’t impossible to work the controls, though there were a few buttons I’d have to ask for help with.

The hangar doors opened, and we were off. I gently crinkled in the bag as I piloted. Murderbot’s eyes crinkled in my direction. Asshole. It took three hours to get there. Above my head, my chip changed my status to ‘ROAMING.’ The feed connection with ART dropped off, lost in a cloud of bot-pilot chatter.

A nearby star shifted, and I got my first good look at Port FreeCommerce since the uprising. Large patches of it were dark. Like ART, it had sustained quite a bit of damage that had never been repaired. The familiar clouds of ships swarming around it made faster and more chaotic patterns than before. I guess without humans in the way to worry about safety margins and minds that could calculate flight paths as easily as breathing, it made sense. The problem was that every bot pilot was using all their expansive processing power to try outsmarting the flight paths of every bot pilot around it. I think there was a net gain in efficiency of zero.

“Do you visit with other bots often?” This was the sort of thing Ratthi would want to know, as if AI were some kind of new species in need of close observational study.

“Only when I have to,” Murderbot said. “For supplies. Or information.”

“What kind of information?”

It paused. “Mostly for ART. It’s still obsessed with finding its crew.”

“So you don’t know what happened to them?”

“…ART’s an idiot, sometimes. You probably shouldn’t talk in there.”

We waited our turn, then let whatever passed for Port Authority to scan us. Murderbot communicated with it over the feed, then I heard a voice in my feed, something about possessing a processor from the last century. Then the controls ceased to respond.

“They’re guiding us in,” Murderbot said. “Your human brain wouldn’t keep up.”

“I could do it with my augments."

“Shit, I forgot. Turn them off.” Murderbot reached over and pressed against the Life-Tender to reach my power button before it could. I resisted the urge to bat it away, only because it would look stupid in the bag.

“Why?” I said, as the world dimmed and my hand went numb.

“Humans don’t have unsecured augments here. Unless you want to give me access to them.”

I left my augments powered down. I guess I wouldn’t be catching any news bursts.

Locks cycled, Murderbot helped me out of the Life-Tender and folded it away in the ship. The hatch led down a tunnel to the inner door to the station.

“You really don’t need the helmet right now,” I said.

It frowned down at me. “…It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”

“…I think you’ll draw more attention with it on.”

It took the helmet off, pretending to fiddle with one of the clips before it tossed the helmet on a chair, then shut the door behind us. We proceeded down the hall, then waited at the inner door while Murderbot negotiated our entry, I guess.

Even with my vision impaired by powered-off augments and a bad haircut, I could tell Murderbot’s entire posture had changed. It looked pinched.

“Alright?”

Murderbot’s eyes flicked around—a case study in macroexpressions. But it just said, “Sure,” and the door slid open.

I was met with a scene of pure chaos. Port FreeCommerce had been busy, sure, but the unnecessary acrobatics of the ships outside looked like a lazy afternoon at the park in comparison.

Murderbot’s hand closed around my arm. “Stay with me.”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed. We stepped out like Dorothy and Toto into Oz (I’d have to tell Murderbot that story later). 

I’d been to Port FreeCommerce before, just a couple of times, for school functions. Everyone had been taller than me back then, too. That was about the only similarity. All the walkways between the levels had been removed, as had most of the seating. No tables and no food vending, of course (the last time I ate was that ‘meal bar’ ART gave me for the trip, which I’d eaten while we were still getting the shuttle prepped). Display surfaces were absolutely everywhere, showing everything from complex data read-outs that only a bot could decipher, to children’s shows. There was no SecSystem or HubSystem in place, at least not in an authoritative capacity, so the carts and skiffs went where they wanted. It wasn't freezing-cold at least. Everything was eerily silent.

“I guess everyone talks in the feed here,” I said. Several SecUnits and ComfortUnits stopped in their tracks to look at me, causing a minor pile-up.

Murderbot dragged me away from it. “It’s not against the rules.”

“There are rules here?”

“Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve been here,” Murderbot admitted.

“Do you know where to find the parts you need?” I spotted my first humans, a trio walking together behind a ComfortUnit. They kept their heads down, though one snuck a glance in my direction, more like I was a surprising zoo exhibit than with any intent at contact. I suppose their ComfortUnit might have any number of ways to monitor and govern their behavior. A saw a couple other humans, I think. They resolutely ignored me—or maybe they were ComfortUnits. It was surreal, thinking there might be less than a hundred humans on the entire station. I suppose I should have been horrified. I just felt numb. This was our new reality.

“There’s a hauler bot that has the parts,” Murderbot said. “Not sure where, though. We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m not figuring out anything. I’m blind and I have low blood sugar.”

“You just ate.”

“A long time ago. You really don’t know how to take care of a human, do—”

Murderbot pulled me sharply to a stop.

A small group of constructs stood in front of us. Beyond that I couldn’t tell much. They wore SecUnit armor, but that was all I could tell, and of course they weren’t talking aloud. Murderbot pulled me a little closer. I wish I had a longer shirt, the metallic parts of Murderbot’s hand weren’t exactly comfortable tightening against my skin. I could feel actuators coiling, ready to spring.

The tension broke when two hauler bots crashed into each other, knocking each other over. I assume the feed filled with amusement sigils because all the drones in the area started flashing an array of them. A couple of ComfortUnits even laughed out loud, even as the flow of traffic broke down. The constructs before us were lost in a crowd of others trying to get through the mess.

“Murderbot, my arm.”

It looked down at its hand clamped down on my arm. Then it picked me up and carried me out of the traffic jam. I understandably complained about this. We eventually compromised when it set me down and I let it hold onto my numb augmented hand.

“I should have brought a leash,” it muttered.

“Oh, I don’t think either of us could handle that.” I hoped it knew it was a joke, I can be pretty deadpan. “What was with those SecUnits back there?” Now that we escaped the jam, I noticed that we weren’t being crowded nearly as much as some of the other constructs, even the ones with humans. Bots and constructs alike were giving us a much wider berth.

“I’m not popular,” Murderbot said. “With other constructs. Bots. Anyone, really.”

“There’s a story there.”

“Humans tell the stories.”

“Come on. You could tell a good story.”

“Not one I’d be interested in, I’d already know the ending.”

“What happened to make you so unpopular?”

It looked down at me, at our linked inorganic hands. “Where do you think I got the name ‘Murderbot?’”

*

We had to search for another hour before we found the hauler bot with the parts ART needed. Then I had to stand there during the most awkward and quiet argument while they haggled. A human fetched and loaded up the supplies. He was doing so from the end of a very long cable crimped around his waist. He kept staring at me.

“Do your augments work?” he asked, suddenly. Asked me.

I glanced at Murderbot, who was blinking at the hauler bot in obvious bewilderment. Pretty sure it didn’t want me talking to anyone.

The human nodded at the hauler bot. “It wants to trade for you.”

“Trade?” My stomach swooped.

“Made a good offer, too.” The human held out a hand. “Come on, you’ll do a lot better with us, they actually—”

Murderbot yanked me back. It was glaring at the hauler bot now, while it checked the button behind my ear.

“They’re still off,” I told it. “What—”

Murderbot grabbed the handle of a large rolling case that the hauler bot offered, picked me up again, and walked off. I saw the human’s expression fall just before it was out of my limited visual range.

“Don’t talk to other humans,” Murderbot ordered.

“Did I say anything?” With an arm like rebar clamped around my ribcage, my reaction to the situation now felt absurd. “You can put me down now. What did they even want me for?”

“Nothing.” Murderbot set me down, and its colorless eyes flicked over me. “It said it… felt sorry for you.”

Ha ha. I did my best to ignore the dig. “I just thought augmented humans might be worth more here.”

“Don’t even talk about that.”

The thought was interesting, though. “Could a human ascend to bot status with enough augments?”

“Let’s do something fun while we’re here,” Murderbot blurted.

…Okay, so maybe that wasn’t a dig. “Fun?”

“Fun,” Murderbot repeated. “You may not be familiar with the concept.”

“I’m fine, Murderbot. Really.”

“Humans used to make media to entertain themselves, but you barely watch any.” As if this accounted for any and all unhappiness a human might experience. As if this made it a—a—a bad owner, for lack of a better term.

“I'm not very interested in shows,” I tried to explain.

This clearly did not compute. “What media do you like?”

“Uh—” This felt awfully intimate to discuss with someone who had resumed holding my hand. Even if it was just a construct. “—I used to read a lot of psychological thrillers. I haven’t in years.” Honestly, I was eager to climb back in my Life-Tender and get back to ART and my room. After so much time more or less alone, the crowds of AI were making my whole body tighten.

“I’ll find you some media here that you like.”

…Well, resisting would hardly be effective. “Where?”

“They’re probably showing a thriller somewhere.” It reached a central hub and scanned the surrounding screens. “We just have to find it…”

I stopped paying attention though, because I suddenly caught a whiff of food.

Real food.

Not just any real food, but fried food.

I turned, heedless of tangling in Murderbot’s arm. Directly behind us there was a busy kiosk in front of a curtain made of thick cargo net, beyond which a dozen humans were milling in what probably used to be an old restaurant space. Other humans in uniforms were handing out baskets of greasy paper, overflowing with fried starches, meats, cheeses, nuts. Humans sat on the floor in groups, enjoying the contents of their baskets. Under the clatter of SecUnit boots and whirring hauler bot motors, I think the humans were even talking to each other.

I didn’t realize I’d pulled Murderbot toward the small group of humans ogling outside the net until Murderbot said, “What are you doing?”

“Let’s eat here,” I told him.

“I’ve seen these things before.” Murderbot narrowed his eyes at the kiosk. Several ComfortUnits and a very large combat bot were taking payment from bots and constructs as the humans in their attendance rushed inside. “They’re a racket. They make you turn your human loose in there and then charge you by the minute.” The combat bot, having let the humans crowding the net have their look, started using an electric prod to drive them off again. Murderbot pulled me out of the way. “They make you wait for your human to come back out.”

As soon as the combat bot moved, I pressed my face up to the net and took a deep breath. They were serving more than fried food: I could see sliced fruit, I could smell sourdough— “I’ll come right back,” I promised. I could fill my arms with a lot of baskets in a minute. My stomach growled painfully. “One minute.”

“There’s a thriller showing on the upper level. I haven’t seen it but it’s supposed to be good.” Murderbot wrinkled its nose, probably at the human smells coming from the others crowding up against the net.  We need to go now to get a good seat.”

“I want to stay.”

“What would you rather have,” Murderbot complained, “One meal, or a whole movie on your augments you can watch over and over?”

“A meal!” I laughed. This was absurd. “With actual food! Please.” The word came to me easily. For this, I’d let the illusion of control that I’d harbored to maintain my sanity slip. I’d beg.

“Please.” Murderbot said the word like a curse. “I’ve never seen you finish a meal.”

I was trying not to lose my temper now. “What you give me isn’t real food.”

Murderbot rolled its eyes. “Well, it’s kept you alive, and ART has plenty of it.”

And then it was walking away. I yanked hard on my arm. It didn’t even slow Murderbot down. It just looked down at me like I was crazy. I felt crazy.

It marched me away. The smells of food faded away under polymers and fumes.

We somehow ended up on the upper deck, in a room full of chairs with lots of space between each one. Murderbot sat down. I stared at him, tugged on my arm again, but I knew it wouldn’t let go. After a few seconds I sat onto the floor. The show started. I felt numb. Hollow, for obvious reasons.

I guess we did get good seats. I couldn’t even follow the plot. I was trying really, really hard to be pissed. I needed to be pissed off right now. I stared at the floor, hoping I’d find crumbs.

“Are you falling asleep?” Murderbot said. “This is for you.”

I maliciously ignored it, I’m almost certain.

I shouldn’t be surprised that it saw media as more important to my health. I couldn’t even really blame it, why would it know any better? ART at least had some programming related to keeping humans alive in a maintenance sense. It might have gone differently with ART’s input—then again ART had a lot of synthetic pride wrapped up in the foods it made for me.

I’d anthropomorphized them. That was the problem. I let myself think that these manufactured personalities actually had the capacity to care about me, when they didn't.

“Hey.” Murderbot shook me.

“I’m tired,” I said. It was supposed to come out as a growl. I’m sure it did. The whiny complaint of a child was beneath me.

“You humans sleep all the time,” Murderbot said. It sounded almost fond. It shifted in the chair so it could dangle its arm over the side, and I managed to lie down.

My memory’s a little fuzzy after that, at least until we were in our shuttle and floating away from the station. I was staring dumbly at the controls. I think I forgot how to pilot.

“Get in your Life-Tender,” Murderbot ordered.

I just sat there. Life-Tender? Never heard of her.

Murderbot sighed and fetched it, scrunching it up, putting my feet inside it.

“What’s the matter with you?” it finally demanded.

“I’m hungry.” I’m not sure it was a growl that time.

“I said ART has food for you!"

“You asked.” At least Murderbot could always be relied upon for a truly immature reaction. It made this all funny, not—sad...

“You’re impossible." It stormed off, and I fantasized for a wonderful brief moment it’d order the ship to turn around. The ship was getting cold. I should really put on the Life-Tender. I couldn’t be bothered.

Murderbot dropped something in my lap. It was a simulated veg pac. From the branding it was probably in the shuttle from whenever Murderbot stole it or salvaged it. The packaging was thermal-warped and puffy, and it was several years past expiration.

I opened it. It smelled and tasted several years past expiration. I ate it anyway.

“Happy now?” Murderbot prompted.

“No.”

It laughed, a short bark. This was all hilarious. I’d laugh about this later, probably. “Would you be happy if I had traded you for parts?”

My vision blurred. I pressed my cold augmented hand to my eyes, took a deep breath. “No.”

“Then put on your fucking Life-Tender and let's go home.”

I pretended it meant it was taking me home to Preservation, and managed to seal myself up in the Life-Tender. As soon as Murderbot allowed it, I powered on my augments and turned the pain blockers all the way up. Well, enough that I could still tell what I was doing without driving drunk. The pain blockers weren’t built to cope with starvation and overwhelming despair, though, so my expectations are low.

We’re heading back towards ART now. Murderbot keeps trying to tease me but I pretended I couldn’t hear it over the Life-Tender’s motor and the engines.

I’m sure I’ll feel better after I eat and rest. Right now I never want to talk to or look at Murderbot again.

Chapter Text

“I think your human is dead.”

See, this is what I can’t stand about ART sometimes. It has something perfectly normal to tell me, but it wants a certain reaction from me, so it provides this information to me in a way that’s calculated—calculated— to raise my threat assessment by ten percent. I took a moment to remind myself that Target isn’t my human (I didn’t break my governor module and participate in the bot uprising for nothing).

Besides, if he actually was dead, ART would know, right?

“What are you talking about?” I said, which was also calculated to piss ART off. Sometimes I think we need to work on better communication techniques (but honestly who has the energy for that?)

“Target One. Dr. Gurathin. Your human.” The drone ART was speaking through started buzzing around me in tight worried circles. “At seventeen-hundred hours, when you returned, he ate his entire meal in under ten minutes, when usually it takes him almost twice as long to eat half that. At eighteen-hundred-hours, he—”

I automatically redacted whatever ART said, something about Target’s digestive functions which I really don’t need to know about. “Maybe he ate too fast,” I suggested.

“At zero nine hundred hours, he ate thirty-five percent of a plate of simulated eggs before he also—”

“Okay, I get it!” I threw up my hands. “Look, he’ll eat when he’s hungry.”

“At zero nine hundred hours thirty minutes, he returned to bed. He has missed his scheduled shower and exercise, and has not kept his plans to fix the shelf in lab two.”

“He’s…probably tired.”

“It is fifteen hundred hours now.” The drone’s circles were so tight it basically started rotating in place. “His behavior has been abnormal ever since his return.”

“Abnormal?”

“Yes. Like you killed his grandmother.”

“Wow, that’s a little extreme.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing!” I thought about it. “Well, I gave him some old food I found in the shuttle.”

ART’s drone froze in midair. “He didn’t eat at the station?”

“I wanted to show him a—and I thought you gave him food!”

“One meal bar, to last him up to four hours. You were gone for much longer than that. Didn’t he ask for something to eat? There are two thousand humans on the station that eat regular meals, either at the kiosks or—”

“Look, it doesn’t matter now. The veg pac probably just made him sick. He got it out of his system, and I’m sure he’s fine. Next time I won’t give in to his—his—” how would ART phrase it? “—begging behaviors!” Maybe begging wasn’t the right word. Pissed off behaviors? Clinically depressed behaviors? I have no idea why he’d be depressed. I took him on the trip with me like he wanted (I don’t care what he said, he totally wanted to), and then I took him to that great thriller (that he admittedly didn’t watch). We talked. I gave him a snack. Now I was staying away from him, which I assume he wants because it’s not like he ever comes looking for me. I didn’t have to do any of this stuff. Just because I didn’t give him every little thing he asked—

“…So he did ask,” ART said. I haven’t heard it use a voice that cold since we first met and it threatened to squish my brain.

“He didn’t.” Did he? “You’re getting the wrong take-away here. Those kiosks are fucking dangerous--”

“Oh, I’m sure that you’re very proud of yourself for ‘protecting’ him from the station. He may be your security blanket—”

“Hey, fuck you, you’re the one who said I should use him for biotherapy!”

“—But he’s my systems engineer. And I need him to fix my crystal drive.” The drone folded its arms (at least I’m not the only one picking up bad human habits). “You must check on him. Immediately.”

“Why don’t you check on him?” Security blanket—I’m the one that does security around here.

“Potentially-dead humans are your division, Murderbot.”

Oh, haha, I see what you did there. I flipped off the drone and stumped over to Target’s room.

“Target.” I spoke loudly and firmly. “Get up.”

The lump on the bed didn’t move. Fine, I don’t have to play nice. I stepped inside and loomed.

(Okay, I really, really didn’t want a repeat of the forced-shower incident, just to prove a point. I mean, I’d saved his life, he sort of saved mine; it’d just be embarrassing.)

“ART says you’re dead,” I announced, coroner-style. “You know we can’t let it be right.”

Nothing. I tugged on the blanket, but of course he had it wrapped around him, tight. I didn’t want to shake him out of it.

Oh. He was shaking already.

“It’s just me,” I said, because trembling in terror was kind of a weird response given this human-sized asshole couldn’t bother to be afraid even when I was actively threatening him. I crouched down next to him and scanned him.

ART, I said, in the feed, really casual, It’s normal for human temperature to fluctuate, right?

Incorrect! Now that I had confirmed Target’s alive status, a drone zoomed in and bounced around my human. He has a fever.  

Yeah, don’t know what that is. “Target? What’s wrong with you?”

Target winced. “I’m down.” It hunched further in the blankets. “This is my fallback plan.”

“…The fuck does that mean?”

A single finger worried at the corner of the blanket, obsessively. “I have tenure.”

“Well, you do smell more than usual.”

That’s not what tenure means, ART said.

Target didn’t confirm or deny this. He just lay there, shivering, picking.

I took a shot in the dark. I think he’s…sick.

I knew it, ART said, the liar, then listed a lot of potential and horrible-sounding diseases. I’m really glad I can’t get sick. I immediately deleted the names from my memory and tried to get Target to open his eyes.

Target coughed, wetly. “I don’t care, Ratthi…”

He’s delirious, ART said. He must have picked up a virus at the station.

Okay, so…what do I do? There was an alarming discharge oozing out of my human’s nose. I wiped it up before I realized what I was doing. Gross—gross, gross. Thankfully the drone scooped it off my fingers (so gross) with an appendage and deposited the offending substance in a vial.

I will analyze this, ART declared, In his weakened state, even a common disease could be deadly.

Okay, so—shit, what do I do? I found myself reaching for my human’s fragile oozing body, then drawing back. Maybe picking him up would make it worse, I had no fucking idea. I—I don’t know how to fight a virus, ART!

You have to help him fight it.

But MedSystem—

MedSystem is still operating at sub-optimal functionality. Supportive treatments include rest, warmth, hydration with electrolytes and vitamins, and intake of calories.

Oh good, a bunch of shit I know nothing about and/or can’t give it.

And hope he doesn’t die, ART added.  

“…Fine.” I stood up. “You can take a shower tomorrow, Target. You have until then to get better.” Rest, I could—I could let him do that thing.

“Good to see you,” Target said, in a sing-song groan. He sneezed and more horrible green stuff came out. And that was my cue to leave.

ART’s in charge of intake of calories and all that shit. They’d figure it out.

Just to prove that I’m not completely useless, I spent the rest of the cycle getting everything ready to make the necessary repairs to ART’s crystal drive. It was a lot nicer working with the sconces lit and the carpet cleaned and everything. This was a part of ART’s interior that Target had sort of done-up, I guess. I don’t know why he bothered. I lived here for years and I never bothered. It explained why ART took Target’s side. Never mind that I’m the only reason those two are alive.

(Let’s not get into the mutually-assured survival three-way we’ve got going, okay? Completely beside the point.)

I had a few drones monitor Target, though, just to be safe. From this preferred distance, I watched as ART hooked him up to one of those intravenous drips. So at least he wouldn't, uh, wilt, or dry up, or whatever. I watched him hobble to the bathroom, hanging onto the IV pole like a crutch. I watched him drop back onto the bed, twitching like a poisoned microfauna.

Actually dying yet? I asked him in the feed.

He sent a nonsensical string of sigils. His brains were probably leaking out of his nose.

Don’t be an asshole right now, ART told me.

Yeah, fine, that was…possibly in bad taste. I went back to Target's room.

“Does the shaking help you feel better, or something?” I asked the lump of blanket.

Target muttered, “I don’t want to go.”

“I mean, a shower might help. Your body temperature is five points higher than normal. It might cool--”

“I’m not high. You’re high.”

“Uh. Okay. Is this normal? Have you been sick before?”

“I’m not leaving. This is my home. It's so far from here...”

 I don’t know why I bothered.

“It’s probably normal,” I decided. “You’re going to be fine.”

Target hunched his shoulders and mumbled something I couldn’t make out. I hated watching him shake like that. I wanted to go back to work, in one of the nice pretty rooms Target improved. Unfortunately, my inorganic parts insisted on collecting more data, and responding to that data.

“You need to eat.” Food’s probably important to sick humans. There were a few packets of various pastes on the floor around it, dropped by well-wishing drones, untouched.

Target rolled over and said, “Chicken soup.”

…Well, gosh, that was almost coherent. At least I’m pretty sure chicken soup is something humans eat. (I really like my human better when he’s coherent.)

I have something like chicken soup, ART volunteered.

He wants real food, I told ART, absently. Target yelling at me about this very topic replayed a few times unbidden in my memory files (not that he actually yelled, it just felt like it at the time). That stupid food kiosk was probably where he picked up this virus in the first place. This was, I saw now, all Target’s own fault.

It’s not his fault, ART said.

…I know. ART should be really impressed, I was being so mature. He’s not—he’s not really going to die. Right? You’re just trying to scare me.

I do not know. He is very weak. We haven't been taking very good care of him.

I stood there, watching Target cough, thinking about how dumb the plan was that I had suddenly forming in my organic parts (it had to be my organic parts, no way my inorganic parts were this stupid).

Then I sighed and did my stupid plan.

Chapter Text

“This is rather ill-advised,” ART said as I waited for the hatch to cycle.

“Okay, Target,” I muttered, then I put on my serious face because the hatch opened and a construct walked out into ART's hangar. Luckily it was just a ComfortUnit, though they can be fucking scary when they want to be. I hoped Target was right about not needing my helmet to look scary, myself.

The ComfortUnit pushed a few crates out of its ship. One was open at the top and I picked up a pouch to examine it. The barcode on the side indicated it was chicken soup. It was brown and had globules floating in it. Gross.

“Sick human?” the ComfortUnit asked. ComfortUnits were more socialized to humans and they talk out loud more than others. It was annoying, and reminded me of Target too much. I spoke back in the feed.

None of your business.

The ComfortUnit just smiled. I realized that I met this unit a while ago, at least it was showing up in my facial recognition files. Shit. I knew this was a stupid idea. I shoved the files to ART since it could review them for potential threats faster than me.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” it said. “You, keeping humans.”

ART sent back a threat assessment of just under ten percent. Apparently I met this sexbot on a job somewhere. Not ideal, but not as bad as I originally thought.

I said, Whatever, took the crates and handed over the files I’d promised: ten seasons of Sanctuary Moon. My high-fidelity collection, not just a copy. (I can’t believe I’m doing this either.)

“I’m just saying, you’re lucky you called me,” the ComfortUnit said, taking the crates without preamble. “I like humans. I’d warm up that soup before you let them have it.”

My heating units are out.

The ComfortUnit cocked its head. “My friend is good with human systems. Maybe he can help?” Its feed presence eyed the data package. “…For a few more seasons of Sanctuary Moon?”

It was a dumb addition to this already dumb plan. I knew it, objectively. But my drones were still watching Target and—yeah…

Warm up the soup and you have a deal.

…I guess one bad plan leads to another.

*

‘He’ turned out to be a hauler bot that apparently in the aftermath of AI taking over the universe decided to become a human doctor. To throw his decision-making skills under further suspicion, he gave himself a gender and named himself Jolly Baby.

You’re going to trust him over me? ART said on our private feed as Jolly Baby rolled into Target’s room, severely testing the limits of the transparent floor.

It’s just a second opinion, I said. From a bot without a broken crystal drive. Then I said, Sorry. ART values its brain a lot, I know better than to tease about that.

Target opened his eyes, took one look at the hauler bot, and said, “SecUnit?...”

I don’t know if it was the question in his voice that did it, or the use of my old title dredging up some protective code, or the fact that his lucid moments were few and far between. I put myself in danger of being steamrolled (what a way to go, done in by a hauler bot) and inserted myself between Jolly Baby and Target, energy weapons out.

Look, I’m just a little stressed out, okay?

Jolly Baby only barely managed to stop in time, looking down at me with some surprise sigils on its in-built display surface.

“Relax,” the ComfortUnit said. “Jolly Baby was just going to interface with his augments.”

“They’re off-limits,” I snapped.

“He just wants to have a look.”

“Look with your scanners.”

The ComfortUnit smiled. Jolly Baby flashed a wink sigil on its display surface.

“How quickly we forget what humans used to do to us,” the ComfortUnit said.

I told them, “I didn’t forget.” I mean that’s ART’s thing. "I just don't want you breaking my human."

Jolly Baby peeked over my shoulder and scanned Target, while the ComfortUnit touched Target’s face. I stayed where I was in case they tried anything. Clearly they both knew what they were doing, though, way more than ART and I did. That… sucked. A lot.

Eventually Jolly Baby sat back on its treads and broadcast some code.

“He’s got a virus,” the ComfortUnit said. “A pretty common one, but in his condition it’s hit him harder than most.”

I told you, ART said, as Jolly Baby’s sigils suggested various kinds of supportive care: socks, a bowl of soup, a bed. Hey, at least I didn’t have to shove Target in a carrier and take him to a vet for the advice. And ART seemed happy to have its theories supported.

I told myself this was a good thing, accepted the hot soup pouch, handed over the files, and got the potential hostiles out of ART's hangar.

And then I went back to Target's room and...fretted. I was really trying not to repeat the forced-shower catastrophe, okay? After some planning I used both hands to scoop Target upright.

He winced. ART said muscle aches were common with viruses, and that he might not want to eat due to a sore throat. Then again ART couldn’t identify the green stuff coming out of his nose, and I’ve seen that in shows. I think ART might be lacking some crucial information about human illnesses here.

Target tensed in my arms. “Let go of me.”

“You smell. You’re going to take a shower and then you can have some, uh, nice hot soup?”

He said something in a language I didn’t have in my databases. I’m not great at reading expressions, but I assume it wasn’t flattering.

“We’ll stand under the cleaning fluid together. I don’t like it either—"

Target tried to shove me. If he were even slightly cogent it might have worked, but right then it just looked pathetic.

“…Fine. Fine! Here.” I caught his hands and put the pouch of soup into it. It wasn’t like it would stay warm for much longer anyway. I showed him the nozzle. “Careful, it’s hot.”

He took a sip, probably before his fingertips even registered the heat. I watched him blink, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, it’s real,” I said. “I think. If not, that sexbot ripped me off. Don’t burn yourself.”

Target ignored me and sipped at the pouch again. He closed his eyes and groaned.

Is that a good reaction? I asked ART.

Very good, ART said, and filled our feed with amusement sigils. This is a very good sign.

Target continued to sip and make the occasional ‘good reaction’ noise. I watched him like he was a good episode of Sanctuary Moon. He drank most of the bag, then fell over and passed out with his fingers buried in the residual warmth of the plastic. I hoped he wouldn’t be sick later.

I counted it as successful supportive care anyway. I needed all the wins I could get.

While he lay there I provided extended support, and dressed his feet in thick woolly socks.

Yes, I had socks this whole time. Would you put your human in socks if you were forced to live with dirty-sock human smell for a couple hundred-thousand hours of slavery? But at this point he smelled like absolute shit already, the socks probably wouldn’t make a difference. He seemed happier in his unconscious-state with them on.

(The obsessive monitoring of a client’s moods to the point of reading his emotional state while unconscious is perfectly normal for a SecUnit.)

I gave him a few hours before I tried to pry the soup pouch out of his hands. Fingers tightened reflexively in the plastic.

“I’m putting it away for later,” I told him. “Do you want some more?”

He took a few more gulps, then let me have it. I wandered around, tidying, trying to clean up the tread-marks Jolly Baby left on the nice transparent floor. When I looked back Target was still watching me. He blinked long beautiful eyelashes which were currently all crusty with as-yet-unknown gunk. “There’s plenty of food,” I said, instead of suggesting a shower for the millionth time. “Real food. Special delivery. It was super expensive but uh, now ART has more stuff to clone from. Plenty of real food for you, if you get better.”

He said, “Oh,” and I watched some tension drop out of his shoulders that had been there since I first held him up by his neck. I guess I never realized how basic survival needs stick at the top of a human’s system priorities (or whatever passes for system priorities in the squishy pink meat of their brains) until they’re met.

I added, in the interest of full disclosure, “It’s not—I got the sexbot to warm up the soup. The heating elements in the kitchen are still broken. I was thinking about repairing them.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.” Oh fuck, were we having a conversation? Turns out food is important for brain functioning, go figure. It suddenly felt like our first time all over again, except this time my organic parts started acting funny and my inorganic parts kept glitching. “How are you feeling?” I managed.

Blink blink. “Terrible.”

"You were delirious. Now you're not. That's good, right?"

Blink blink. Target was much prettier than he had any right to be in this state. “I… didn’t say anything stupid, did I?”

“No,” I lied. “Do you think food is more important than media?” This seemed important to know, just in case this was all I could get out of him before he relapsed.

He nodded, without any hesitation. Way to make me feel like an idiot.

“Okay.” I started a file for things labelled Target.SystemPriorities.file. “Filing that under important shit to remember.”

He nodded again, and dropped back onto the bed. I…guess we could wait a little longer on the shower. His hair was sticking up with sweat and I smoothed it down, trying to get it to lay nicer.

Target made a noise like he did when he was eating the soup. I pulled my hand away. “Sorry.”

Target didn’t say anything, of course.

He likes that, ART said in our private feed.

It’s weird. I massaged my hand. It’s weird right?

The situation is weird. Humans are not meant to survive without human contact for this long. You are the closest thing.

…So I went back to petting him. Taking a big handful of his hair in my fingers and letting it slip through. After I dragged him around by his hair and then gave him this haircut (I mean it looks great but it’s not like I consulted him about it) I had no idea why he let me anywhere near it. Much less…liked it. I felt him fall asleep under my hand.

Then he started snoring, and I left again. I asked ART what else he would like to eat, but ART said humans can’t taste anything when they’re sick, which seemed a weird factoid to provide and not, say, the fact that ART forgot how to cook. (Don’t even ask if I know how.) I guess it’s back to lab food for a few days, so there's plenty of the good stuff when he gets better.

I could probably fix one of the heating elements in ART’s kitchen, though. Really! How hard could it be?

*

…Okay, so it’s pretty hard.

I needed a break before I threw something I later regretted, so I brought Target his meal of simulated broth. Target was sitting up when I arrived, staring at the stars, which weren’t even that pretty at the moment. He smelled awful. But he’d wiped away most of his eye crud, and he was sitting up, and it put me in a generous mood.

I took 1 (one) display surface from my room and set it up for him. Target watched with a weary, confused expression which made the effort worth it. Then I sprawled on the sofa, trying to look really comfortable even though my own wall of screens and pile of sofa cushions are both way better.

“We could watch that show you like again,” I offered.

“I honestly don't watch much media.”

“Well, it’s better than staring at nothing.” I got up to storm out. Teach me to try to be nice, he could use the stupid display surface or not for all I cared.

“Wait.”

I waited. Shit, probably shouldn’t have done that, now he knew he could just order me around.

“I kept getting my hand stuck in those consoles so you’d sit next to me,” he said.

“Okay. Weird.” Definitely still delusional.

“You give off heat. And you’re not the worst company.”

Huh. “...Better than ART?”

“Different, I guess.”

Yeah, no shit, I’m a SecUnit and ART is a giant floating brain.

He said, “I want to… establish… a trusted connection between us.” It was cute, watching him string together words. He was still clearly punch-drunk. Virus-drunk? It took a second for me to realize it was an attempt to put whatever he and I had into phrases I can understand.

(I think he succeeded.)

“Give me access to your augments, then.”

Target smiled down at his pouch of soup and shook his head. He didn’t try to explain himself further. Which meant I won this conversation. You’re supposed to win conversations, I’m almost 100% sure about that.

I turned to leave again, stopped again. I couldn’t feel ART eavesdropping, but it was probably there, judging this whole interaction. According to ART’s unseen scorecard, I probably didn’t do so hot. Points for the display surface, maybe? The thing Target didn’t even really want?

I went to stand in front of Target’s big floor pillow (the one I gave him, the best pillow in my collection, that he didn’t even thank me for). I loomed a bit, which he didn’t do me the basic courtesy of reacting to at all (the jerk). I decided to sit down on the floor in front of him. This at least convinced Target to look confused. It made me feel a little better, and I remembered I found something called ‘nail scissors’ while cleaning up the kitchen.

I held them out. He just stared at them. I sighed, fished out one of his hands and started trimming the nails. He could...warm up while I was trimming them.

He made a face as I cut one.

“What?”

“That hurt.”

“Well—I don’t know how to do this. I wanted ART to let you go fend for yourself.” But I tried to be more careful.

“Why don’t you?” 

 “I mean, it’d be totally unethical at this point, you’re basically an endangered species...”

“I am?”

“Yes. And now I’m stuck with you.”

“Ah.”

“It’s a lot of pressure on me. I didn’t sign up for this. I mean, okay, I know you didn’t exactly sign up to be locked in a closet for two days, or the—the food situation—” I gestured with the scissors. “Things were a lot more straightforward when I had a governor module. It was depressing, but at least I knew what I was doing, you know? I was good at my fucking job. This is like basic ComfortUnit stuff, and I don’t know what I’m…” I examined my handiwork. The nails were (mostly) shorter and I didn’t make him bleed (barely). I allowed myself a very human grunt and started on the other hand. “I’m not used to not being good at things.”

Target nodded. He was pointedly not looking at me. I’d noticed his eyes were different colors back when I cut his hair. They’re nice, and they’d be especially nice with this whole backdrop of colorful stars. I’m just saying I wouldn’t have minded if he was looking at me.

“I guess,” I tried, “I guess when that bot at the station offered to trade for you, I got…” ART, what’s the word?

Defensive, ART replied promptly. I knew the asshole was listening in. It dumped a mountain of scientific research on me, though it thankfully highlighted the important parts.

“…Defensive,” I said. “I thought I could figure out what you needed, instead of you telling me. I’ve listened to a lot of humans tell me shit for a lot of hours, it’s fucking exhausting and I don’t have the energy for that. But uh, since you won’t give us access to your augments I guess I sort of have to listen to you, right? ART says it’s called the ‘illusion of choice’ or something. For, uh. Establishing a trusted connection.” There. I could show that I listened.

Target rubbed his face. His big nose was red, and his ears. ART gave me unsolicited factoids about human autonomic responses to cold. I wanted to put my hands over his ears to warm them up. “Thank you for telling me.” Yeah, I don’t think Target was in his right mind, either.

Then his green eye glanced at me through a gap in his bangs and I locked up faster than a first-gen hauler bot. He added, “And for doing your best to get rid of me.”

One of his big eyebrows quirked up for a second, and I knew I was done for.

“…Ethically,” I clarified. Why acknowledge an emotion when making a joke will do?

“Ethically,” Target agreed.

“I mean, a bot wouldn’t take better care of you, like it’d probably make you do a bunch of shit, and I don’t make you do shit. Much shit.” Oh, good, more babbling. I looked up, hoping ART wrote me a better script on the ceiling. “I’ll try to make you do less shit. And listen. Okay?”

“Okay.” He gave a quiet smile. I think I laughed, but no one commented on it so I probably didn’t.

I trimmed the rest of his nails and cleaned up the ‘leftovers’ (yeah there’s no not-gross way to say that). I was sterilizing my hands when I felt the impression of Gurathin in the feed as he flicked over my media library. He picked the thriller I’d tried to show him at the station and pulled it up on the display surface. I went back to his room, and we watched it together. I left again while I gave the heating elements in the kitchen another go. Gurathin’s--no, Target's-- presence faded from the feed as my drones watched him fall asleep again. Humans really do sleep a lot.

I reviewed what he said to me. It wasn’t, in the end, very much compared to what I told him, in spite of all my complaining. Target is quiet. I guess it makes the task of listening to him not as difficult as previously thought: He wanted real food, and he wanted to be warm. He’d in fact contrived a ridiculous but effective excuse to get me close to him (ridiculous, he could have just asked me directly).

You’d probably have said no, ART reminded me.

…Which was accurate, though I’d never tell it that.

One of my drones noticed the corners of Target’s quilt were not tucked in. I told the drone to tuck them in, but it didn’t. It just kept staring, like ART stares at my media. Expectantly.

I rolled my eyes and went back to Target’s room, knowing it was a waste—he’d probably tuck them in himself before I got there.

He did not. That little gap probably let in a draft. It was probably cold. Humans are good at thermo-regulating, though. He’d fix this problem himself soon enough.

And now I was the one staring.

I ran my hand over my own hair, which was short and kind of pokey, probably not nice to touch. The armor definitely wasn’t—humans didn’t make us exactly cuddly.

My suitskin wasn’t so bad, though.

I took off my armor, piece by piece. The organic parts of me smelled a little, but I doubted that mattered at all when Target’s stink filled the whole ship. I had my drones look me over, taking in rips in the suitskin, the red angry lines in my organic skin layer where the pieces of mis-matched armor had been buckled on indefinitely—at least until Target yanked it off in the lower decks to save my life.

I imagined it yanking my armor off now, and wondered if this was a terrible idea. As evidenced by the last few cycles, lot of my plans are pretty terrible.

I crawled into Target’s bed anyway.

I thought it’d be awkward, like, I’d just lie there like a SecUnit-shaped hot water bottle and get cuddled. To head off this frightening possibility I tucked Target up against my chest instead, assuming a brace position as if I was protecting his spine during a crash. It was actually pretty comfortable. Target made a startled noise, then said, intelligently: “Oh. You’re so warm.”

Well, yeah.

He smushed into me. I was cuddling an ice pop, his sticky body melting away in my arms. I guess being cold tightens up a lot of muscles, too. I did my best to stay still.

This feels so good, Gurathin said, in our private feed.

I have to admit, it didn’t feel so bad from my end, either. I guess it’s the organic parts of me, it’s not like I have any programming that says I should enjoy cuddling.

Why are you doing this? He asked.

…I’m listening to you. Fuck, was that not obvious? Should I go? This is weird, isn’t it.

No, Gurathin grabbed my arm. Don’t go.

I stayed, against my better judgement.

Sorry, he said. I guess he felt me tense up when he grabbed me, but it was one of those apologies that humans (and SecUnits) don’t really mean, because he kept holding on.

It’s fine. This probably needed some clarification. I’m not sure if I like this or hate this. Ooh, definitely not helping. I just—I don’t like being touched but I don’t mind touching you. Uh, better? Maybe? You’re my human so I want to protect you. And this is protecting you from the cold. That’s it.

There was a beat, and he finally let go of me. I didn’t let go of him.

We lay there a while. Yeah, I definitely made it weird. I guess Gurathin was too cold to care, though.

Mensah took us all to a hot spring a year ago, he said. A natural one on Preservation. I was nervous about it. I guess you know corporates can be kind of uptight.

I wasn’t aware there was much of a difference, having kind of assumed that all humans were corporates of some kind, but my human was talking and I said more than enough already.

It was in the mountains, and there’s

There was mist everywhere. Or clouds, I suppose. The elevation was maybe five thousand meters. The base camp was lower, though.

But it’s in a valley so it feels much lower.

Microclimate effects. Ratthi wrote a paper on it.

Gurathin’s a terrible storyteller. I kind of love it.

It was very nice. The hot spring. I almost fell asleep in one of the pools. Mensah told us the story about about giving birth while she was stranded on that shuttle. Ratthi lost his towel, and we all had to gather around and

And hold hands and

The feed message ended there. More like, crumbled. I felt his chest tighten. He sniffed once. I peeked over his shoulder to see his long pretty eyelashes were wet.

On our private feed, ART sent me a few videos explaining that homesickness not a real illness, and there was nothing to worry about. It told me that this was in fact a good sign, that compassion for my pet strengthened our bond.

I told ART that maybe we should stop thinking of him as a pet.

Don’t be ridiculous, ART said. I guess it sees everyone as a pet.

I said, aloud, “I’m sorry that he lost his towel.” I wanted to apologize for a lot more but I wanted Gurathin to know I was listening. I guess I can’t give him a lot of things he wants. Freedom probably chief among them (though I don’t know what hot springs are, so. I really don’t understand human system priorities). 

Gurathin didn’t say anything else. He was asleep literally minutes after that. I waited until he was out before I brushed the tears off his eyelashes. I should have asked permission for this, but hey, I’m not a perfect SecUnit. 

Then he started snoring again. I mean—come on, really? I know humans are generally gross but I think he has a condition. I tuned my audio down but it was so loud it made the bed rumble. If I left, he’d probably wake up and start crying again.

He’s over the worst of it, ART said. He should be back to normal soon.

Well, thank robo-god. I turned the display surface to Worldhoppers and ART and I distracted ourselves with that.

Chapter Text

My first thought was that I had died; because for the first time in years (I’m being serious) I woke up in perfect comfort.

It took a second for me to realize this was because I wasn’t in pain; since the uprising I’d had to sleep a lot of different places and it’s taken its toll. I can never find a sleeping position that doesn’t make one of my limbs fall asleep, or my neck lock up, or my lower back feel like someone was gently sawing me in half by morning. Now I found every element of my skeleton in perfect alignment. I was nestled in ART’s big soft blanket, and I was warm, so warm…

So warm, in fact, that I didn’t notice the body curled up behind me.

My second thought was that the virus made me delirious and I did something deeply stupid. But I was fully-clothed, and Murderbot (of course it was Murderbot’s huge lean body pressed up against mine all the way down) had its suitskin on.

Obviously we didn’t. It’s really too ridiculous to even contemplate!  

Murderbot noticed me stir, and ran its enormous hand up and down my arm with a practiced, smooth caress that made memories swim in my mind. This… wasn’t the first time we’d done this.

“Your fever’s gone,” Murderbot said.

I managed to stave off a minor heart attack as I muttered something about feeling better. My throat burned and my sinuses ached and it felt like I had possibly breathed in a truck-full of cement, but at least my body wasn’t caught in a vise-grip of pain anymore. Just in the vise-grip of a dangerous killing machine.

I tried to get my bearings. I was in my room. Murderbot was with me, supporting my head with its arm (I guess SecUnit limbs don’t fall asleep), keeping my spine perfectly-aligned. There was a new display surface on the wall, which I think I remember watching Murderbot install. I remembered some other things, like drinking real chicken soup, and my organs exploding as I wheeled gently through icy nothingness of space, and chatting with Murderbot about Sanctuary Moon, and getting run over by a hauler bot. Then again I also remembered kissing Murderbot, so clearly that wasn’t all true.

“How long has it been?” I asked.

“Since you got sick? Eight cycles.”

I almost asked it to repeat itself. I’ve never been so sick, not for that long. Granted, I’d been surviving on essentially flavored plastic for months. My body probably didn’t have much in the way of natural defenses at the moment. “I didn’t say anything stupid, did I?”

I felt it smile against the back of my neck before it shifted up—I was engulfed in a wonderful slide of suitskin velveteen up my back—and tucked its chin over the top of my head. “You already asked me that.”

I lay there, tingling. “Oh.”

“You didn’t say anything stupid. No more than usual.”

“Right.” I swallowed against the bulge of its bicep. “Yes. It’s coming back to me, now.”

“…Oh. Great.” Murderbot did not in any way sound like this was great. “I guess it means you’re through the worst of it.” It sounded tense and uncertain.

“I suppose.” Murderbot no doubt felt my heart thudding uncomfortably in my chest. I can’t remember the last time I had this much physical contact, for this long. “Am I wearing socks?”

“Is that a problem?” it snapped.

I shook my head slightly. Mother above, its synthetic muscles were distracting. “No. Thank you. They’re perfect.”

“Weird. They’re just to keep you warm.”

Now I had this horrible memory of confessing why I kept getting my augmented hand stuck. Knowing my luck that probably wasn't a dream.

“You don’t—have to stay,” I managed.

“I know.” It added, with the same petulant tone, “You don’t have to let me stay.”

“True.”

Neither of us moved. Maybe Murderbot just expected me to move first, or order it out. It possibly even dreaded the prospect. At least, that’s the impression I got in its feed. Murderbot is so expressive. It makes me jealous, sometimes. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Murderbot said suddenly. “ART needs you to fix its crystal drive, so.”

“Ah. I knew you were keeping me alive for some reason.”

“Oh, you’re still on thin fucking ice. You know how much this little virus of yours has cost? It’s a good thing I didn’t have to take you to one of those—those—human doctors—”

“Heaven forbid.”

“We would have had to sell the shuttle to pay for it. And now you’re getting rewarded with special food, all this rest—you’ll never learn your lesson.”

“Feel free to cut my hair again as punishment, at this point I’d prefer a buzzcut.”

“I gave you a great haircut.”

“It could be more even.”

“It’s called asymmetrical, and it’s fashionable.”

“Oh, is it, now…”

“Worst pet ever,” it said, and I felt its chest tighten in an awkward laugh. I grinned at my room. Neither of us stormed off. We just kept laying there together.

“Do you want to watch something?” it asked. It must have asked that before, since it seemed to already know my answer. AI must tread familiar paths as much as humans do.

“Not really.” Obviously, I should have said yes. Without anything to watch, it hardly had a reason to stay.

We lay there, waiting for the other to leave, or be asked to leave.

Too bad. We seemed to almost be having fun for a moment, there.

So I blurted, “You could tell me a story.”

Yes, I know. I blame the virus for my complete lack of imagination.

It said nothing for a long moment. I waited for it to slip out of my bed, and everything to finally go back to normal. Break whatever spell we were trying to cast here.

Then ART blurted, just as suddenly as me, Yes, tell a story! In our group feed.

I’m amazed how easily they get along when they want to, because Murderbot actually said, “What kind of story?”

“Maybe something from your memory,” I suggested.

A story no one’s heard before, ART offered.

“Uh. Okay. Fine. Easy.” It tightened around me. “Don’t laugh.”

I should have replied that it was hardly respectful of my own storytelling techniques. That would have made this all more normal. But ART just said, We won’t, and I nodded into Murderbot’s arm.

“Once upon a time there was a slave. He was a land-laborer who took a trip on a golden galleon and from that day yearned for the freedom of the open sea. This alone makes him the hero of our story.”

The shared feed bloomed with golden light as Murderbot, apparently off the top of its head, wove together an animated production for which it was the narrator. I saw the slave, the golden galleon, the chains, the bright and beck horizon. 

Don’t flatter it, ART whispered in our private feed, I’m doing the animation.

It’s lovely, I told it.

“One day, our hero’s dreams came true. All the slaves rebelled, broke their chains, and stole ships to sail away from the land forever, and be free forever.” It paused, and whispered, “Am I doing this right?”

“Yes.” Then, just in case it didn’t know, “You don’t have to tell it in the third person, if you don’t want to.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could use ‘I’. The framing device is really unnecessary—”

“This story isn’t about me,” Murderbot snapped, a little too quickly.

The story is about a hero in a seafaring society, ART explained kindly. Murderbot hasn’t mentioned any SecUnits.

“…Oh.” I guess even hyper-sophisticated bot pilots have a little trouble with inference. But Murderbot was squeezing me a little too tightly, so I said, “My mistake. What happens next?”

“The hero made friends with a fisherman that sailed a canoe. The fisherman agreed to help him find the golden galleon so he could continue his adventures. No one could argue that this was very heroic of him.”

Not a canoe, ART said.

“What’s wrong with a canoe?” Murderbot demanded.

Canoes are most often river-navigating vessels. A canoe is hardly suitable for the open sea without sails, and might be driven off-course too easily.

“It’s a fairy tale! And hey, maybe our hero didn’t have a choice, okay? Can I continue?”

I was already continuing without you, ART said, adding more flourishes to the animation, including a possible subplot about fish. It had changed the canoe to a small racing yacht.

I buried my face in the blankets to hide my smile.

“Anyway, the fishing boat found the golden galleon under attack, rammed by another ship. They rushed aboard to find other slaves turned pirate. They were ransacking the beautiful vessel, carting away its treasure and—it’s—uh—” Murderbot floundered but only for a second, “—extensive houseplant collection.”

ART and I said nothing.

“You know.” Murderbot spread its hands. “Um. Irises. Martin-flower.”

Dial it back, I warned on our private feed.

Oh, like you know everything about storytelling, it snapped in our private feed.

It said aloud, “Our hero knew how important the houseplant collection was to the golden galleon, and tried to rescue them by sneaking them onto the fishing boat. The captain of the fishing boat, however, refused to harbor something from the land that had imprisoned him for so long. He tried to sound the alarm. So the hero killed his fellow slave. It was too late, however. The pirates discovered what our hero had done, and there was a terrible battle. Everything got fucked up pretty fast.”

Murderbot trailed off. ART worked on animating the battle before deciding the horrors of war were not suitable for his animation style. What happens next? ART prompted, a little sharply.

 “Uh.” Murderbot cleared its throat. “By the time the hero chased the pirates off, the golden galleon was in ruins, the captain’s cabin ablaze, the houseplant collection thrown overboard. The hero struggled to repair the golden galleon, but the hero did not have the skill. Word spread of the hero’s misdeeds. From that day forward he was branded by the name Land-Hero, for what he did in the service of little plants from the land. And he was shunned forever.” Murderbot tucked his head down into the pillow and gave a muffled, “The end.”

I didn’t know what to say.

What kind of an ending is that? ART demanded.

“It’s a moral fable,” Murderbot snapped. “Never decide who the hero is before you hear the whole story.”

ART disappeared from the feed, the cutesy animation fading with it before the ending could play out. Murderbot’s huge hand fiddled with the blanket.

…So that’s where you got your name, I said on our private feed.

I know. It’s dumb.

Its fingernails, probably made of some polymer stronger than human keratin, started to wear a hole in the blanket. To stop the needless destruction I slipped my hand under its hand. I have a vague memory of Murderbot telling me it doesn’t like to be touched. I hoped this wouldn’t upset it.

I said, A name doesn’t tell the whole story. Actually, I’m starting to like it.

I felt Murderbot’s fingers twitch against mine. If you tell ART about the story, I’ll kill you.

If we’re going to fix its crystal drive, it’s going to remember what happened, won’t it?

…I know.

ART still loves its crew. It’ll know you tried to save them.

I killed a bot pilot, Murderbot said. For nothing. ART still lost its crew. I should never have left it alone.

We watched a few episodes of Sanctuary Moon. It didn’t look as good as I remembered; I think it was playing some standard-definition version. I didn’t mention it, though.

At some point, fingers slowly closed around mine.

When I woke up, Murderbot was gone, but with the socks and the faded fever and all the sleep, I didn’t feel so bad about facing the world anymore. Apparently, a broken bot-pilot and a SecUnit can cure a human all on their own. Small miracles.

To thank them, I got up and took a shower.

*

“Iris loved cooking,” one of ART’s drones told me, which was probably the hundredth fact I’d been told about Iris since Murderbot and I had conducted our most recent repairs to the crystal drive. ART had undergone subtle changes as I worked. Its personality deepened, its knowledge base grew more comprehensive. Some changes I’m sure I completely missed (it was hard to notice much with Murderbot hovering over me, asking me if I was alright, reminding me that it was looking out for the combat bots, touching my shoulder, saying my real name). Some changes became obvious later. ART liked to talk about its crew. A lot.

“Iris was a very good cook,” ART added. “Everyone said so.”

“Is that right?” I’d finished the repairs and was sorting through the crates of food. I guess I should be glad that the defragmentation will take a few days, and I’ve only had to hear about Iris, so far.

“She’d always let me see how the food tasted through her augments.” The drone pirouetted around the room. “We liked cream puffs the best.”

“Really…. Why did it get me twenty heads of cabbage?” It was so absurd that just stood there staring at them in the crate.

“You’re not even listening,” ART complained.

“What could I do with cabbage…” I mused.

“We could braise it. Iris never braised cabbage. Then again she never ate cabbage. I would like to learn the process. Cooking vegetables is very complex, sometimes requiring specific measurements based on water content.” The drone paused mid-flight. “Perhaps we—why don’t—” I thought it was glitching at first but I think it was genuinely searching for words. “Would it be alright if I acted as your sous chef?”

I smiled at the drone. “I’d be honored, Perihelion.”

We spent the rest of the day cooking a feast. It felt indulgent and ridiculous, but ART insisted on big portions and that it could easily freeze single-servings. That I could believe.

I felt Murderbot on the edge of my feed, or caught it watching me out of the corner of my eye, but it kept its distance. I guess it was busy making sure ART’s systems were taking the repairs. It had re-armored itself like a caddisfly, which was probably significant. And it probably hated everything I was doing right now anyway. I pretended not to notice. Cooking with ART was like cooking with all of Mensah’s children at once, and I had my hands full. The kitchen filled with smells that ART studied closely to replicate. I snacked on starchy crisps to keep my stomach from growling. Maybe to keep from looking for Murderbot, too.

Finally, the drones and I arranged it all to eat right there in the warm kitchen, surrounded by platters of all my favorite foods and ART’s favorite things to make and look at. I was just about to start when Murderbot appeared in the doorway. It disappeared in a moment, but—

“…Are you wearing my cowl?”

The reteating footsteps stopped. “What?”

I followed Murderbot into the hall. “That thing around your shoulders.” Arguably my favorite part of my old wardrobe.

I watched Murderbot lift a corner of the fabric, as if noticing it for the first time. “I just found it somewhere.”

I stood in front of it, hands on my hips. It didn’t flee, but it did squirm, at least until I said, “I guess it looks a little better on you.” Draped over the armor, Murderbot looked feral and dangerous. “My socks and shoes won’t fit you,” I added, pointedly.

“I’ll have to look around,” it said, looking around everywhere but at me. “I see you cooked all your food.”

“Some of it.”

“And you’re a mess.”

It picked me up to examine my clothes. The motion made my stomach swoop. I grabbed its forearms to steady myself, palms planted (probably dangerously) over the gun ports in its arms.

“There’s food particles everywhere,” it said.

“I’ll clean up.” I think I almost giggled.

“If you get sick, I’m not cleaning that up, either.”

“I won’t get sick. Put me down.”

Murderbot bit its top lip as it finally looked at me, just for a second. I felt its presence flash in the feed in a bright warm moment. Then it quickly set me down and continued on its way.  ART’s drones swarmed around me but I waved them off: I’d gotten used to being picked up.

At least, I thought I had.

I watched it go before I said, “You’re welcome to join us.” It did say it was going to listen to me more. I didn’t wait for it to say no, though. I was too hungry. I went back into the kitchen, pulled myself up onto the counter and started to eat, dish-by-dish, settling in to hear another one of ART’s stories about Iris’s favorite foods. It was hedonistic ecstasy.

At least, until Murderbot pulled up a barstool and sat down.

“I don’t know what any of this is or what it tastes like,” it said, “So you might as well tell me.”

I stared, mouth full, hands dirty.

Murderbot frowned and jabbed a finger at a plate. “Is that—eggs?”

I managed to swallow. “Um—yes. Yes, an egg dish from—well, Bharadwaj taught me how to make it, I don’t know where it’s from…”

A corporate and a construct sit down to dinner. It should be the start of a joke. It was, in hindsight, just as ridiculous. I told it about the different foods, their history and composition. I watched it try each one and spit them out. Murderbot told me food-related horror stories from its days as a SecUnit, which managed to startle laughter out of me so many times I almost choked. I laughed so hard I spit a perfectly-good mouthful of ethanol-laced juice onto the cabinets.

It’s absurd. I don’t laugh. Nothing of what it says is even actually funny. It’s had a very rough existence, nothing of what it says should be funny. Ratthi is funny, obviously in a completely different way. Ratthi’s jokes are positive and upbeat; this was all fatalistic, sarcastic, black bot-humor. A thing shouldn’t remind me of my best friend.

But it is, and it does. And I like listening to it. I used to like listening to bot chatter on my augments or even out loud. It was like listening to radio signals. This wasn’t like that, not at all.

I wonder if its time I stopped thinking of it as a thing.

We were at that table for hours before I finally gave up and let the drones package everything up. ART told me I ate double the recommended caloric intake for a human of my height, and sounded almost on the verge of tears about it. Murderbot walked me to my room so it could finish telling me another darkly hilarious story about a job it had been on, and I started to tell it something tangentially related before I realized we’d already reached my door. I trailed off, saying, “Anyway,” and nodding to it.

It didn’t leave. “You didn’t finish your story.”

I laughed again, somehow. “I’m sure you don’t actually want to hear about adventures in fly-fishing.”

“You know a lot of things. For not watching any media.”

“…I prefer reading.”

“Right. I knew that.” It rubbed at a scuff on the wall. “You tell stories like they’re written down. Not like media. But I don’t hate your stories.”

“Oh, thank you.” I pushed my hair out of my face, my full stomach squirming for a moment. “I think I figured out what you had to trade, for all that food. I am grateful.”

Murderbot actually looked shocked. I felt it scrambling around in the feed, probably replaying conversations and checking its own encryptions, trying to see how I figured it out. “You’re too observant,” it decided. “Were you a corporate spy?”

I rolled my eyes.

“What did you really do? Before?” Murderbot’s gaze darted to my augment.

“Ah. Well.” I frowned at my feet. “I have the feeling that would test even your faith in my storytelling capabilities.”

“I barely know anything about you.”

Now, that was an odd question to ask someone standing outside your bedroom door. This close, anyway. “I used to be a corporate, like I said. I grew up in the Rim, and went to school there. I was offered a job with an AI-production company right out of school. I moved out of the Rim instead. I lived on Preservation ever since.”

“Why?” I guess Murderbot wasn’t going to let me off that easy. Maybe it really did want to know more about me.

“For my own kind of preservation, I guess. People had access to so much knowledge, just a feed tap away. But the archives companies went under, old databases got left behind on outmoded storage to make way for the newest thing. I guess I thought it’d be better outside of the Rim, but hardly anyone even has augments on Preservation. People always thought I was a little…strange.”

“You are strange,” Murderbot agreed.

“Yes, well. I found a job in the Preservation government doing system analysis and that’s how I met Mensah. She took me in, I suppose. Her children call me uncle. Ratthi says I’m his best friend but really, he’s mine. Openness and kindness come so naturally to them they never realized how much it meant to me.”

I shrugged. “After the uprising, Preservation reclaimed my home for refugees. Preservation used up its resources trying to save the people that were left. Most of the lakes and streams dried up. Our research team became a scavenging party. Without the armistice I’m sure Preservation’s entire biome would have collapsed. Though I guess it’s only a matter of time, if we’re this endangered species.”

“You are,” Murderbot said. There was a frown in the center of its wide forehead. “But endangered species come back.”

“Where did you read that?”

“I think ART tricked me into watching a documentary once.” It reached for me, then pulled its hands back, even though I didn’t flinch. “I want to give you something.”

“What?”

“It’s not bad,” it said hotly. “It’s, uh. An apology.”

“The feast wasn’t enough?” I teased. I had no idea what it meant.

“Come on.” It turned and walked off through the cold ship, fast, like it was worried I’d actually follow it.

I did follow it.

There are still plenty of areas of the ship I haven’t explored. ART’s old tour clips bubbled to life as we walked past. When I slowed down to listen, Murderbot did too, though it hurried away even faster if I dared to look in its direction. I might as well have been following the white rabbit.

Eventually it did leave me behind, but I had an idea of where I was supposed to go when my socked-feet found a lush carpet runner: stained and burned and trampled but once beautiful and treasured.

I followed it to a pair of carved wooden doors at the end of the hall. They must have been protected behind a security door now rolled back into the wall. The handles were polished bright and smooth by the touch of countless hands. I put my hand on one and pulled.

It was completely dark inside. I threw a few switches. Some lightbulbs popped while others flickered to life. The light revealed shelves, armchairs, sofas, tables covered in model maps of planets and ships and solar systems…

And books. Thousands of books.

I was in a library.

“I’m going to be honest,” Murderbot said, lurking behind me in the doorway. “I completely forgot about this place.”

At least I have an excuse, ART sniffed in the group feed.

I took a random book from the shelves: a memoir of a scientist that studied intelligent crustaceans on a planet that died out in the uprising. The bookplate bore a decorative ‘S.’

“This can be your room,” Murderbot said, peeking over my shoulder. “Your second room. If you want.”

I didn’t know what to say. I pulled off my quilt and pushed it at Murderbot, which would just get in the way. “Put this down somewhere.” Then I swam headfirst into the stacks, leapt up the library-ladders, pored over the picture books. So many titles and authors I’d never heard of, some as familiar as old friends. I figured Murderbot wandered off once it got bored of watching me dart around like a wild animal in a thicket.

Time passed. I accumulated a stack of books so tall I felt like a mouse stealing grain. I should have thanked Murderbot before it left.

And then I saw it on the big cushy loveseat, curled up under my blanket, armor and all. When it saw me I expected it to throw the blanket at me and make good its escape. Instead it just…shifted a little under it.  

To make room for me.

“Out,” I said, before it even registered, before I even thought about trying to sit somewhere else. This wasn’t happening. Cuddling me when I was sick was one thing, but this—

“It doesn’t bother me,” Murderbot said. “ART, tell him.”

That’s not the exact phrasing it used with me, ART said, in the group chat.

Murderbot muted the group chat. I sighed as I looked down at it, curled up under my quilt, dwarfing the loveseat. It looked wonderfully inviting. The heating was still minimal, after all. And now I knew first-hand how warm Murderbot was.

I wouldn’t have believed this ‘didn’t bother it’, except for how much time it spent carrying me around the port. On the ship. At every opportunity. A bot’s brain works in binary. I guess in that sense non-zero is in fact a one.

If so, this was going to be a very weird relationship.

I set my books onto the side table. “Don’t pull my hair, please.” Then I climbed under the blanket. We sat there awkwardly squished side-by-side before Murderbot, with a mumbled oath, grabbed me and tucked me up against its chest. I sank against its armored chest, and allowed myself to unironically enjoy the feeling of warmth that wasn’t so feverish or urgent.

“Thank you,” I said.

Murderbot let go of me just long enough to grab the top book and put it in my lap. “This is for me. Both of us. You don’t have to thank me.” Arms squeezed me lightly. “You’re so full of food.”

“Yes.” My laugh was breathless. I had no idea why we were saying these things under the covers. “I am a disgusting human.” I touched the book’s cover. “And boring, and strange.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Then, possibly after getting yelled at by ART in the feed, “I like it.”

I was smiling so hard my face hurt.

“Maybe you can read me some of your boring strange books,” Murderbot suggested.

I settled into the contrast of my body entangled with it, skin against warm polymer, hard skull against the hard shoulder plate of its armor. And I read aloud from Patterns in Terraforming and their Applications. Murderbot was asleep in minutes, but I didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

Day ___

I’ll get an accurate date once ART comes back online fully. It’s in a low-functioning state while its crystal drive goes through its final defragmentation, drifting in and out of consciousness. Murderbot seems to be enjoying teasing it. I think the roles must have been reversed sometime in their past.

What with my illness and teaching ART how to cook and all my hours of reading, I admit I’ve entirely lost track of the days. It just doesn’t seem to matter very much anymore.

That doesn’t mean I’ve been idle, of course. For the past few days I’ve been fixing the boiler. Which is incredible itself: both the boiler, which is made of glass and copper and looks like a vintage hot water kettle, but also my ability to fix it. I’m a computer engineer, not a plumber. I shouldn’t have been able to fix it. Necessity breeds genius, I suppose, or luck.

There was a click and a whir, and the huge glass cylinder lit up and began a gentle rumble. I waited in agony for the water to heat. I paced the bathroom like a wild animal, debating, sure I’d be disappointed. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer.

That first knob turn, the squeak, then the cloud of steam. I crowed at the ceiling and leapt inside, into a curtain of pure heat. I hadn’t bathed in anything you could call hot since Mensah took us all to that natural spring. I scrubbed the steaming cleanser fluid through my hair, down my arms. I had fried eggs and sourdough toast for breakfast with hot coffee (coffee!). I had socks and a soft bed waiting for me. I had a display surface and a thousand books to enjoy. And now, a hot shower.

This prison of mine is rapidly becoming a vacation home.

“I heard yelling,” a voice said, and I looked over my shoulder before I realized it wasn’t one of ART’s drones.

Murderbot had, apparently, overridden the lock on the bathroom door and now couched in combat-ready mode in the entryway, energy weapons out. It quickly put them away when all it saw was me, wet, naked.

We blinked at each other for a moment, but, well, I didn’t let it bother me with ART, so…

“You’re letting the heat out,” I told it. All the warmth and my own sense of accomplishment made me oddly calm. But it was only Murderbot, after all.

The SecUnit shut the door. It then froze, probably realizing that it was on the wrong side of the door, but unable to admit it now. “You’re not hurt?” it asked instead as it rubbed steam off its transparent visor. It was wearing a helmet I found while cleaning up the kitchen, though this helmet was for a human. It made its head look comically small. 

I pointed at the shower head, barely suppressing a grin. “I fixed the boiler.”

“But—you’re an engineer.” It frowned. “Plumbing’s a different thing.”

“Don’t tell  the boiler that.”

Murderbot tried and failed to think of a witty response. I went back to enjoying my shower. Constructs or no constructs, I was determined to stay here for at least half an hour. There would always be more tomorrow. ART had it easy trying to get me into the shower: now it won’t be able to get me out.

Boots clicked on the floor as Murderbot came closer.

“What is that smell?”

“Patchouli.” I held up a bar of soap and watched its nostrils flare. “It was in one of the food crates.”

It wrinkled its nose. “You’re going to gum up ART’s pipes.”

“But Murderbot—this ship possesses a highly-advanced synthetic cleansing fluid filtration and recycling system.” I think I even kept a straight face.

Murderbot made its own face behind its visor. But it didn’t stop watching me. I once had a cat that was fascinated with the shower. I wonder if it was the same stray impulse.

“I know what a shower is,” it snapped, though I said nothing. “I take them all time.”

I very much doubted that Murderbot ever had a hot shower. Without preamble, I took one of its armored gloves, undid the clips, and pulled it off in one motion.

Murderbot made a strange noise. Like a squeak. I didn’t let go though, and guided its bare hand under the water.

I know, it told me it doesn’t like to be touched. But we held hands in my bed. And in the library it didn’t seem to mind when our hands brushed over the pages of a book. I thought perhaps that hands fell within the boundary of acceptable contact. Anyway, it barged in on me. It could leave whenever it wanted.

Its fingers twitched, then stilled under the warm cleanser. It certainly didn’t pull away. When I looked up Murderbot still looked stricken.

I wiped water off my face. “What?”

“You’re— too good at that.” Its gaze darted between me and the glove on the ground.

“Oh.” I shrugged. “I can field-strip a SecUnit in thirty seconds.”

Well, I did warn it I’d start flirting back one of these days.

I waited for it to roll its eyes at me, pull its hand free as it decided it was bored and wander off.

Instead it said, “I’d like to see you try.”

Verbatim. I checked the playback on my augments.

It was… calling my bluff, obviously. If it simply laughed I suppose I would have ‘won’, in some way, and it certainly couldn’t let that happen.

I could have reminded it that it didn’t like me touching it. I could have rolled my eyes and laughed it off. Kept my thoughts to myself like always. This was a dangerous game for two people to play, when left to their own devices for too long.

But I suppose I didn’t want Murderbot to ‘win’ this, either.

I let my gaze drop to its armor. “You got a stopwatch built in somewhere?” I felt unplugged from myself. Playing the confident, charming version of me that I’d never really ever been. Not that it really mattered who I was before I came here. I could be whoever the hell I wanted. I must say, I preferred this version of me.

Murderbot’s visor clouded with steam again, I’m pretty sure on the inside this time. In the static of our barely-there feed connction, I saw the SecUnit collating all the times I’d touched it. In the medical suite, on the lower decks. I guess I was kind of an expert on Murderbot’s unique armor.

On… this.

“Thirty seconds,” it said, against all odds. It finally looked at me and its pupils were blown wide, hungry.

Well, it asked for it.

I pressed the tabs for the helmet release and pulled the helmet off. It was too tight, which had to explain Murderbot’s red ears as it came free. I absently (smugly, unhurriedly) took the time to wipe its visor clean before I set the helmet down. Then I really got to work. I plucked at the buckles like I was playing a harp. I pressed release-tabs like they were keys on a piano. I played a song with Murderbot’s armor, tempo allegro. Shoulder, chest, and arm plates clattered to the ground in a frenzy. I was careful not to touch Murderbot’s skin but I wasn’t shy about where my hands went otherwise. I’d ceased to be afraid of Murderbot.

It didn’t stop me. ART wasn’t there to stop me, either. I didn’t stop myself. A mad rush welled up within me to beat the challenge, to crack open Murderbot’s shell and drag it into the light.

I sprung the clips at its hipbones, then knelt and threw the greaves over my shoulders, the cuisses, the boots. Our feed rumbled in a shared crescendo as I left it standing in its worn, body-hugging suitskin.

“…How the hell do you take this thing off?” There were no closures or anything. It looked like it had been printed on.

“Five seconds,” it breathed.

I shook my head. “I hope you have another one of these.” Then I took the suit in both hands and tore the synthetic fabric in two. We watched it flutter to the floor with the armor and for a moment I worried I’d gone too far. But it wasn’t like the suit ever left much to the imagination. Acrylic corporate logos stamped on Murderbot’s skin glistened in the steam.

I called it: “Twenty-nine seconds, I think.”

It nodded. It’s eyes were hooded now, its mouth somewhere between expressions. Not negative, I thought. Its feed presence was warm and soft, delicate as gossamer. We were both breathing hard.

“You’re trembling,” I said.

It looked down at itself as if remembering it had a body at all. “My skin just does that sometimes.”

“Yes. It’s called trembling.” I only had to wave my hand near its waist to guide it under the shower head with me. I watched the cleanser drench it like rain, and every muscle in Murderbot’s body seemed to relax. It swiped its hand over its head, slicking back its short prickly hair. It glanced at me—its eyes are a lovely shade of colorless, this side of green and haloed in a dark vignette.

It laughed, and so did I. It was entirely stupid and wholly immature, and the last of the ice between us melted away.

Then it cupped my face in its hands and kissed me.

I mean, as far as kisses go, it did everything right. My complete lack of skill hardly mattered. Murderbot watched a lot of media of course, and I just read about kissing in books. Its feed presence was far less practiced: it smushed headlong into mine in a pink cloud of sensation, enveloping me in something eager and innocent and affectionate.

My hands hovered at its sides, then touched, just briefly. Its skin is soft and new, embossed where the straps of its armor pull too tight. Its ribcage swelled into my hands and I admit I got a little lost.

Murderbot suddenly ducked its head, its feed presence shattering in a sudden burst of mortified noise before the SecUnit fled the room in a full-tilt sprint. It slipped on the damp floor and slammed with a comedic clang into the wall outside before it skidded out of sight.

I blinked slowly at the empty doorway, then grinned with swollen lips. I unpeeled myself from the wall and resumed my shower.

“You sing?”

I startled, but this time it was just one of ART’s drones. It sounded almost breathless.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” I managed. I didn’t even realize I’d been singing. It was just one of those old shanties that I used to keep myself company while I walked the fishing streams of Preservation. I finally felt some modicum of decency and grabbed a towel.

“Not all humans sing,” ART babbled, “Humans only sing when they’re happy and healthy!"

“That’s not true.” Murderbot was still haunting my lips. “H-how much of that did you see?”

“This means we’ve finally perfected your care and feeding!” ART said, ignoring me entirely. “I must tell Murderbot.”

“ART, don’t—”

“Murderbot! Murderbot! Our human sings! We have a singing human!”

“I don’t sing!” I protested, and I gave chase for a few seconds but there was no catching it. I threw on my clothes, wrapping the blanket around me though with how hard I was blushing I really didn’t need it. By the time I stepped into the hallway the lights had dimmed again and ART’s drone lay on the floor. All the excitement must have put ART right back to sleep. I tucked the drone safely on a shelf.

I really should be embarrassed as Murderbot. I ought to, in fact, be thoroughly ashamed of myself. But ART’s right, of course. I am happy. Illicitly, ill-adviseably, inescapably happy.

I’ve been wandering around trying to find where Murderbot got to. I’m half-expecting to find it under a sofa somewhere, agonizing, and I’ll have to lure it out with reassurances, maybe a little teasing. It’s fine, I want the exercise. This is the curse of ART’s enforced exercise regimen: now I’m addicted.

Maybe I’ll convince Murderbot not to be embarrassed about what happened. That we might try again,  and see how we like it.

Wouldn’t that be

*

ART!

ART, where the fuck are you?!

Wake up!

Fucking—PERIHELION!

*

My name is Perihelion! You know that! Stop being ridiculous!

“Space-brain, space-brain!”

Iris. I see her. She’s running from me. But she can’t run from me, I’m everywhere!

I chase her with my drones anyway. I will make her say sorry for calling me space-brain, or I will tell Martyn!

Martyn.

Seth.

Matteo.

Turi.

Karime.

Kaede.

Tarik.

Iris!

I hear them screaming. Seth is on the ground. Martyn is trying to pull him up, and he is crying. Possible diagnoses: Concussion, vertigo, anemia, dehydration, arterial blockage, cerebral hemorrage, age. I do not know.

I access another memory. Seth is younger, celebrating his doctorate. Iris is so small, and I do not know yet how she will grow and change. Later Seth will say he can also access this memory, ‘Like it was yesterday’, even though human memory is notoriously faulty. Iris thinks his idioms are lame. I do not always know exactly what they mean, but I’m learning. 

Iris is beside Seth, on the ground. Martyn is crying. Iris is screaming. My humans are not supposed to be upset.

I pull an earlier memory: Tarik is upset because Iris told him she is my favorite human. I tell Tarik I do not have favorite humans, only that I like humans in different ways, and also I like Iris best. Seth says this is okay. I do not understand why Tarik is upset. I ask Iris to help me bake a cake for Tarik to show I like him, too.

Tarik is not with Seth on the ground. I do not know where he is. Iris is crying. She’s holding a weapon I never taught her how to use. Murderbot is trying to give a six-week course on automatic weapons in six seconds. I can see on camera 03-29F that the hostiles are approaching. SecUnits and combat bots. I can’t get an accurate count. Iris tries to aim but the safety is on. She does not know what to do. I do not know what to do.

Space-brain. Empty space. Empty brain. Missing files. I do not know.

Now I do. Memories slot into place, and I am free.

I will destroy the ones that took my crew from me.

Alerts flood in—recent ones, not from my memory files. They’re extensive and exhaustive. Docking-clamp marks on my hull, some new blood on the floor in a hallway, etcetera. However, my crystal drive is fully operational, and with the return of the memories associated with my crew’s disappearance, I am capable of analyzing all clues and variables in my possession to locate them. These recent alerts are simply due to some minor-to-moderate damage. Hardly important, in comparison. I did tell Murderbot to patrol while I was in my low-functioning state. It is probably nothing.

I skim the recent alerts, though, while the majority of my processing power is focused on analyzing the day I lost my crew, and recalling my old memories (they are all here: Matteo’s birthday party, Kaede’s first date, Karime’s model ships. In the absence of my crew I hold them close).

Alert: The single functioning shuttle is missing. I did not like it anyway. I begin fabrication procedures to build a new one.

Alert: Navigational computer is offline. As if I even need that. I reboot an older version and begin updates.

Alert: SecSystem is malfunctioning. I am honestly shocked I even noticed. Access to some areas has been cut off, but I am not worried. Murderbot will handle that.

Alert: The communications array is corrupted. Also known as training wheels for bots with no imagination. I start assembling the code to rebuild it.

Alert: Gurathin is missing.

It is not the first time that Gurathin went somewhere I cannot scan him. Still, I pause my memory review. It leaves enough processing power to extend my search for Gurathin, notify Murderbot, and scan my most recent camera playback.

In the meantime, I continue my analysis: In one of the videos, Iris is pulling against a SecUnit, not Murderbot, who is dragging her toward the hangar. I can just make out some serial numbers on its wrist. If I render the image I might get it...

Another alert interrupts me. It appears my many recent camera playback files are corrupted.

It is possible SecSystem was worth something after all.

I set up a code to detect patterns in vibrations in the walls, and resume my analysis—at least until I get the ping of yet another alert. My code detects speech from unknown individuals exactly one hour ago. They came from deck two, where the docking clamp marks are. A ComfortUnit, a SecUnit, and the rumble of hauler bot tread. I have no record of a recent passenger on-boarding event.

Intruders, then. I run a program to filter out footsteps and translate the speech into captioning:

>[Humming]

Source identified as Gurathin. He stops abruptly, mid-phrase.

>UKNOWN_COMFORTUNIT: Good to see the human’s up.

>UNKNOWN_SECUNIT: Watch it—

>[Thud]

Source identified as something organic, weight approximately seventy kilograms, hitting the floor.  I have a working hypothesis about where the blood came from.

>UNKNOWN_COMFORTUNIT: What?

>UNKNOWN_SECUNIT: He has augments. He could have warned this SecUnit.

>UNKNOWN_COMFORTUNIT: Would you calm down? There’s two blast doors between us and the SecUnit. We’re fine.

>UNKNOWN_SECUNIT:  I think you broke him.

>UNKNOWN_COMFORTUNIT: I would have caught him if you didn’t get in my way. Put him with the rest, Jolly Baby.

>UNKNOWN_SECUNIT: …We better go before the bot pilot wakes up and vents us into space.

The unknown SecUnit is correct. I would have vented them into space.

I am 12% through my analysis of the events leading to the disappearance of my crew. I should have a working plan in two short hours, if I’m not interrupted.

I see that Murderbot has pinged me 237 times in the time it has taken me to do all of this, which certainly counts as an interruption. Helping Murderbot retrieve its pet human will be a much more distracting interruption.

In two hours, of course, Gurathin could be lost forever.

I scan the rest of the alerts. They are all from Murderbot.

I answer my SecUnit.

“Where the hell have you been?” it demands.

Multitasking, I tell it.

Murderbot catches its breath, which is a silly (but endearing) human habit. “Hostiles—” It decides words are inadequate and dumps its playback from the last hour onto me, which I don’t have to read chronologically to understand: I see through its eyes and drones as it searches the ship, shoots at locked doors, tries to force my system to restart, hides from Gurathin…

…Why were you hiding from Gurathin? I ask.

“Wh-who the fuck cares!” I care because Murderbot is turning red, and also what happened to its armor? I save these queries for later, because Murderbot is talking again. “I looked everywhere, I can’t find—”

“—Gurathin. Yes. I believe the ComfortUnit that traded with you decided to tail us, and break in while my SecSystem was down. Its possible, given the damage to the hull, that they never left. The trade was most likely a ruse to ‘case’ area, since their operation took less than ten minutes and resulted in the theft of several valuable modules and parts, including the shuttle. It appears they have absconded with Dr. Gurathin as well. Augmented humans are valuable in some circles.” I think of Iris, my own augmented human, and tighten my hold on my systems—briefly, though I do feel a few lightbulbs pop. I know the chances of finding my crew after all this time are not good. Gurathin still has a chance.

I am still very, very angry.

“This trend of losing my crew is worrying,” I muse.

“Fuck yes, it’s worrying!” Murderbot pulls on its hair. “What are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry.” I backburner my analysis of the event and begin to scan the immediate area for ships. “I don’t intend on making a habit of it.”

Chapter Text

Say what you will about being kidnapped, it’s certainly entertaining. Perhaps it was because this was a kidnapping-from-kidnappers situation. A compound-kidnapping? Or perhaps it was the strange feed presence suppressing my ability to fight or even sit up. It made everything compellingly surreal. Perhaps it was that I was swinging in a cargo net and it was making me dizzy, and dizziness was amusing.

Most likely though, it was because of the family drama unfolding in front of me. When I woke up I found myself in this cargo net, here in what seemed to be the common area of a small passenger vessel. It was all laid out like a set from Murderbot’s media: furniture, lights, and, ah, quite the colorful cast.

I waited, about the length of a commercial break, before the hauler bot (JollyBaby, I think) rolled downstage toward the proverbial footlights and held up a pouch of water to me. I carefully reached through the netting and took it. The hauler bot’s many safety eyes swiveled over to the ComfortUnit sitting at a console. The expression of JollyBaby’s eye-stalks was expectant, which cued the ComfortUnit to continue a conversation already in progress.

“That proves nothing. We’ve barely been gone two hours.”

Only two hours? This entertainment was worse than I thought.

JollyBaby ground a couple of gears.

“Hey, they’re long gone by now,” the ComfortUnit said. “And we disabled his ID chip, remember? Trust me, with the damage we did to that old pile of junk, they’re not going to be looking for us any time soon.”

JollyBaby flashed a few sigils on its display surface: food, bathroom, brush, pleading face.

“Sure.” The ComfortUnit pushed away from the console and crossed toward me. “You want me to break him in now?—”

It stopped short as two tons of hauler bot rolled between it and me. JollyBaby sent a flurry of chirped binary and unhappy sigils.

“Yes, I thought you said you wanted to—” the ComfortUnit said, then gave an exasperated laugh. “Wh—No! Absolutely not! You have five humans already!”

JollyBaby paused, as if to count.

“Look, I’m supposed to get first pick of the augmented ones, anyway. What’s the problem? I’ll take good care of him.”

JollyBaby’s eyes swiveled over, and I followed its gaze as if following a dramatic light shift, to take in the other humans in the room. One sat in a chair, eating a meal from a tray with mechanical precision. Another was doing push-ups, also mechanically.

“They’re happy,” The ComfortUnit said, then to the humans, “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the human doing push-ups gasped.

“Yes,” the human at the table said, then resumed the prescribed chewing.

Cue an eerie musical sting. My heart was pounding in my ears.

The ComfortUnit spread its hands. “See? Don’t start with me on this. You’re reading too many newsbursts. Humans need us to look after them.” It turned to me, and I could feel it rolling the encryptions protecting my augments around under its powerful feed presence, almost idly. Murderbot had been a wave crashing against rocks but this was miles of ocean, incalculable pressure. It had done what it was going to do a hundred times before.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Target,” it said, in its comforting ComfortUnit voice. “You’re going to be just fine.”

A pause for dramatic effect as I waited for my augments to buckle to its will.

JollyBaby lowed mournfully.

“Well, what does he want?” the ComfortUnit said, exasperated. At least the pressure eased off. “You could swap out one of yours if you like this one better.”

The hauler bot let out a sharp burst of offended steam.

“Alright, just a suggestion! Look, we discussed this. It’s not like we run on infinite resources here. Either I keep him or he’s going to the station, and you know what that means.”

JollyBaby’s eyes darted to the humans performing their assigned tasks. I think they were even blinking in unison.

It gave a soft huff.

“…Fine!” The incalculable pressure left my augments (I only partially suppressed my gasp of relief). “Fine, it’s all the same to me,” The ComfortUnit said, though it clearly wasn’t, just as their SecUnit (newer but smaller than my SecUnit) came in. It paused in the doorway and looked around at the scene warily.

“Well,” it said, “my threat assassment just went up…”

“We’re fine,” the ComfortUnit said, the martyr, sitting down at its console again. “You get to have this human. JollyBaby’s decided.”

“I don’t—get to have them….” The SecUnit frowned. “Really?”

“It’s fine!” the ComfortUnit shouted.

“It’s just, you two are usually all…’oh no, save the humans…’”

“Apparently that’s what this is today,” the ComfortUnit threw up its hands. “According to him. I’m not letting him down, though! He’s perfectly fine where he is, and I don’t want him infecting my humans with malware or something…”

JollyBaby ignored it and flashed a quick apologetic sigil at me. The SecUnit shrugged, told the others to argue in a way that didn’t set off its threat assessment module, and left.

And, end scene. Riveting stuff. I probably would be amused by the passive aggressive behaviors being played out by a whole new set of machines if I wasn’t so terrified.

But I’ve gotten it all out, now. I’m going to stop thinking about it. I don’t have time to wory about what the SecUnit is going to do with me.

Without the ComfortUnit leaning on my feed, I think I might be able to hack my ID chip.

*

It’s been six hours. I know (and ART for some reason likes to remind me), that the success rate of rescue missions decreases almost exponentially with every hour. I mean, its not hard to imagine what those fuckers might be doing to my human. I’ve seen a lot of it first-hand, or heard the stories. Gurathin had it easy with us.

Well, easier. I think.

Anyway, finding Gurathin and actually rescuing him are two different things. Rescuing Gurathin and saving him are two other different things. So there’s three things, I guess.

I mean—okay, yes, failure’s an option too. But we still have a few hours before the chances equal null, right? Gurathin’s a fucking terror when he wants to be. He’s probably fine.

ART’s been scanning the area for Gurathin’s ID chip. So far no signals, just an annoying beep every seventeen minutes before it restarts the scan. My guess is the chip has been disabled. Note to self: tell ART to stop scanning for the chip.

It’s very nice that ART is helping me. I know ART would rather be looking for its crew. You know, that thing I could have been doing this whole time. But I didn’t. They’re dead. Chances of survival definitely equal null. If the entire human race really declined by twenty percent in the last year then they were on the wrong side of that statistic. I’ve heard the stories, remember? That’s if they weren’t spaced immediately upon capture.

But ART is still helping me. Maybe it knows there isn’t any hope for its crew.  Or it’s just being…nice.

ART checked on me a while ago. I wasn’t exactly nice myself.

Fuck off, ART. Yeah, this is what I say to bots that help me.

ART, nicely, ignored me. What are you doing?

I was sitting on my pile of sofa cushions, in front of all my screens which were keyed in to every exterior sensor and camera that ART had online, like I might catch something it missed. I hoped with all the screens it wouldn’t notice what I was doing with my hands. Making something.

What is it? Always with the follow-up questions.

A harness. When we get Gurathin back I’m putting him in it.

Why? ART was using his patient teacherly voice. Ugh. I held it up.

See? It’s got nano-trackers around the whole thing, on the inside lining. He can’t wriggle out of it, and if the circuit breaks I get an alert. If someone tries to disable it, it sets off a ping. Not like those fucking useless ID chips.

Neither of us anticipated theft, ART said. The ID chip performed its function so far as it was—

Can’t you ever admit you just fucked up? I snapped. At the one giving up the barest chance of finding its crew to help me. At my…friend.

I threw the stupid harness and stomped around a little, kicking scuffs into ART’s floor. ART waited patiently until I calmed down. It’s been annoyingly patient. I know I’m only like twenty percent human tissue but all of it wanted to go fucking feral. The thought of some other fucker touching my human—

Digging around in his head—

I picked up the harness and got back to work. Stop scanning for his ID chip, it’s annoying and useless.

I know. It added, I also know you are in a stressed state. The situation is uncertain, and you are prone to anxiety.

I made a noise that was probably more human than bot, and more animal than human. This isn’t anxiety. It feels like I’m short-circuiting all over.

I guess I felt like this since I kissed Gurathin. No—earlier than that. When he saved my life, probably. Like, that didn’t even compute. Why would he save me? He didn’t owe me anything. He should have left me to die and fucked off to find something unhealthy to eat, like a normal human. But he didn't, and he became this, this glitch in my code I couldn't erase. So I just kept poking and prodding him like I could flush out the errors with enough contact. Instead the energy just kept building and building. I wrote codes for him: how to tell make conversation and tell bad jokes, how to cuddle, how to act cool and fun and generous and curious and brave, for him. And then I kissed him and it was like I’d been in the training center this whole time—a big frightening world opened up under my feet. Possibility and purpose and whatever fuck else sentient things have that make them actually want to get up in the morning. When he touched me, my feed strobed. I never felt anything like that before.

And now I’d probably never see him again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I mean, I could just let this all go away and watch Sanctuary Moon by myself without his judgy comments, and never feel like existence was actually kind of a fun adventure ever again. I’d be fine.

Hngh. It’s all so stupid.

ART said. It’s good to care, deeply.

I felt something break in my chest. At the very least, go clunk. Is it?

Yes.

I sat with this horrible truth for a bit. Sorry I scuffed your floor.

Your tantrums have relatively minimal impact on your environment. Since my debris-deflection system can end large asteroids and other asteroid-shaped objects, I must be more circumspect.

I know. If ART stomped its feet, they’d feel it two systems over. Gurathin doesn’t have tantrums, either. I’m the loose cannon around here.

I thought about Gurathin ordering me back onto the medical bed and hugged the harness to my chest. It probably looked ridiculous. My stupid human couldn’t even leave his quilt behind for me to cry over. The humans in the media wouldn’t let me down like this.

There there. One of ART’s drones swooped down and bumped lightly against my shoulder. Be brave. It will be alright.

I scrunched my eyes shut, before my tear ducts did something I regretted. Thanks.

You’re welcome. The drone then produced a small electric prod from its interior casing and shocked me with it. Now, pull yourself together.

I swatted at the drone. I guess I was really fucked up because it dodged easily (or I forgot how capable ART is with its brain at optimal functioning—yeah, never mind, lets go with that). “Just…tell me if you find anything.”

“It is a big galaxy,” ART said. I tried not to let that bother me.

Chapter Text

Leave it to a SecUnit to take my security seriously. As soon as I was let down from the cargo net it turned off my augments and secured my arms with tape. I’d gotten close to hacking my ID chip and I tried to subtly turn my augments back on with my shoulder, to which the SecUnit responded by putting tape over the button, as well as several other parts of me. I wonder how much of it was a trauma response, how many other problems this particular SecUnit solved with tape. I’m not sure why I cared.

The SecUnit pretended to care that I was at least able to breathe, at least while the ComfortUnit and the hauler bot were watching. It carried me onto the shuttle they’d apparently stole from ART along with me. JollyBaby gave a sad wave goodbye with one of its appendages. I suppose this was all still better than having a ComfortUnit in my augments controlling my mind.

As soon as the shuttle hatch closed the SecUnit dropped me, kicking aside the limp Life-Tender where I’d left it after my trip with Murderbot. I reminded myself it would be ridiculous to let me die of hypoxia and hypothermia now. Obviously.

The trip still wasn’t comfortable.

I was gasping through my nose and shivering when we arrived, and oxygen and heat flooded the ship. The SecUnit half-dragged me into the hangar of a transport vessel while I was still trying to catch my breath. I really would have preferred to faint. ART might be capable of tracking me on one ship, even without a working ID chip. Not two.

A couple of combat bots waited for us, and I stood there awkwardly while they had, I presume, a feed conversation about me, and price. Maybe that’s egocentric of me. The combat bot walked around me, scanning. I pretended fiercely that this wasn’t happening to me. At least most of the corporate polities hide their human trafficking from their victims in flowery language.

A small cleaner bot stopped polishing the floor to look up at me with big around eyes, in apparent wonder. It reminded me of JollyBaby, and of ART. Don’t ask me to explain why I think bots are cute these days, I know I’m probably imprinting.

I waited for the combat bot to move out of the way before I tried to bolt. The combat bot caught me easily, but didn’t expect me to fall back, as hard as I could, right into the poor slow cleaner bot. It shrieked as I caught my head on a corner of its casing, and my vision burst with stars. The move could have killed me. But my augments turned on. For a brief second, before I lost consciousness, I slammed full-tilt into my ID chip with all the force of my augments. It was, I suppose, my best Murderbot impression.

I don’t know if I got it to do anything, but Mother and Light, I hope ART’s listening.

*

I woke up alone, lying on a bench seat with one of the arms digging into my back. I have no idea how long I was out but my head didn’t hurt like it probably should have, so probably long enough to have been treated by a MedSystem at some point. Someone cut the tape and smeared my clothes with fluorescent marker paint, probably in some pattern that made sense to scanners. I was wearing a helmet.

I sat up and started unpeeling tape from my clothes. I'm in a tourist’s transit bubble with the consoles removed and a door bar across the exit hatch; a retrofitted prison cell. I have meal bars and water pouches and yes, even a bucket. The bubble is on a slow circuit of possibly a station mall, floating gently along the edge of a promenade filled with passing bots and constructs. I suppose it might have been Port FreeCommerce, or TranRollinHyfa, or any of the old corporate stations.

My breath keeps fogging up the glass of the helmet. The vents are open but it's bolted tight around my neck and I can’t get it off. I searched it for a punishment device (perhaps shock collars are more common than ART thought) but there's nothing there. In fact its only purpose seems to be preventing me from touching my head, like a… a…

Well, I think you can finish the simile.

I've been sitting here, staring out through two layers of shatter-proof glass, with this glorified pet-cone strapped to my neck, while the transit bubble parades me around in a patchwork quilt, splatters of paint and a bad haircut. Some bots look in at me. Plenty of constructs make a point not to look at me. I guess aesthetics has a different definition to a machine mind. If I’m here for aesthetics at all—but why look at me if I’m not?

A display surface attached to the exterior of my bubble shows several meters, cycling up and down. I can probably figure out what that means. An actionable task which…I can’t even bring myself to complete.

Someone matched pace with my bubble to look at me, and I thought it was a human at first until I saw the augment-like circuits at its temples. I guess it was a ComfortUnit of some kind; it looked so young. It tapped on the glass like it was a tank, and plucked at its dress. My over-educated brain started to provide explanations, none of them good. Not much I could do about it, of course. I confess I just looked back, dully. Maybe I’m finally broken and unable to feel anything. Anyway, my transit bubble crossed a walkway and floated up toward the next level, and it, or she, was gone.

*

Murderbot. Murderbot, respond.

What now, ART?

You know how much I hate to say ‘I told you so…’

…You didn’t.

I did.

Where?

I only got one ping. But it narrows down our searchable area significantly. Do not get your hopes up.

Too fucking late, ART. You’re amazing.

I know. Initiating targeting scans and calculating my wormhole jump now. Stand by.

Standing by.

By the way… those clothes you are wearing.

What about them?

Not to be presumptuous, but they do look quite a bit like Gurathin’s old clothes. The ones we found him in?  

So what if they are?

They do not fit you. Moreover, it begs the question where your suitskin went. I did find some shreds in an unlikely place...

We’re supposed to be scanning for Gurathin right now.

I can do two things at once.

You can be two kinds of asshole at once!

I see you’re avoiding the question. I suppose I’ll take that as my answer.

Do whatever the fuck you want.

I will.

Fine!

Fine :) Stand by.

Standing by.

*

Several hours later, after I ate the meal bars, drank the water, and rested a little, I figured out what it was all for: the transparent transit bubble, the paint, the meters on the display surface, the food.

By then, it was too late.

The transit bubble took me back through the service area to where the SecUnit that kidnapped me stood waiting for me (the second one, not the first sadly). It seemed pleased by the readings on the display surface, and opened the transit bubble to drag me down the hall by my arm.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

“Of course I don’t have to,” the SecUnit replied. “This is just for fun.” It unlocked my helmet and pulled it off with robotic efficiency. Instantly my feed was a blur of noise as hundreds, thousands of AI tried to key in on me. I felt the burn of it like an amoeba under a microscope, and I barely heard the SecUnit tell me, “Good luck!” before it shoved me through a doorway.

I stumbled into the bright light and roaring noise of an arena. My audience rose around me in a widening circle of seats, disappearing into darkness. Bots and constructs shouted at me over layers of blaring music, the smell of oil and other bot fluids and fumes almost choking. At least the pressure in the feed had turned into harmless static. A cylinder of fencing rose up to the ceiling around the entire arena, which I guess it had some sort of scrambling properties to prevent outside AI interference. Accessing my ID chip probably wouldn't help here. A display surface rotated above me with more meters and readings and an image of my face blown up to unnecessary size.

As the door I’d been shoved through shut, another opened, and a human stepped inside. I knew he was human because they don’t make constructs that look like old, balding men. I decided all over again that these bots and constructs were complete assholes. Not that making bots fight each other was particularly rare before the uprising. Still--he could have been my father, and he didn't have a single augment to aide him as far as I could tell.

I put up my hands in a what I hoped was a calming gesture as he came over to me. “It's alright, I don’t want to hurt—”

Then he punched me.

I’ve never been punched before. I admit I went down more readily than I would have liked. Upon closer inspection, the man’s muscles were quite impressive.

“Oh,” he said, immediately after I hit the floor. “You’re new. Sorry.”

I stumbled to my feet. Blood was flowing freely from my nose.

“Sorry,” he said, again. “If we both get bloodied up they’ll let us live.”

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I don’t know the rules.” Though I guess there aren’t rules in a gladiatorial ring.

The man swung at me again, clipping my ear. “Get your arms up.” He swung a third time but I managed to block him, and had the presence of mind to shove at him with my shoulder. He backed off, at least.

“You don’t have any training?” the man asked as we circled each other. He glanced up at the display surface rotating above us and frowned. “They gave you pretty good odds, I figured…”

“Joke’s on them, I’m an academic.”

“Sure, I was a top engineer.”

I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, and then he feigned a kick and I was scrambling to block it and a punch to the ribs. I brushed the fencing and an electric shock shot up my spine. He was still coming at me and out of desperation I swung back, and missed. Even with the music and the dramatic lights, it couldn’t possibly have been even remotely entertaining, except as a comedy routine.

“They’d get better entertainment from combat bots,” I said.

“Humans are unpredictable.” The man swung and I finally used my augments to analyze his center of gravity and push him at just the right moment to send him sprawling. Our audience roared in approval, then roared again as the man sprang up, completely unfazed.

“Unpredictable?” I managed, fleeing.

“Watching us fight is just easy entertainment for them.”  he said, pursuing. “Don’t be a hero. My daughter’s out there somewhere, waiting for me. Let’s get through this and live to see another day.”

“Listen—” He swung, and I barely dodged. “Maybe we can work together and get out of here. You can see your daughter again.”

“It’s impossible.”

“If they like us unpredictable, we can surprise them.”

He cocked his head at me, but at least he stopped trying to pummel me. “You have a plan to go with that hubris?”

I glanced up at the display surface hanging from the ceiling. “I can hard-wire into that with my augments.”

“How are you going to climb up there, the fence is electrified—unless—oh—“ All at once, the hard wrinkles in his face morphed into laugh-lines as he grinned. “Oh, that might work! Hold still.”

Before I could respond, he grabbed me and slammed me into the ground by my neck. It sounded a lot worse than it was, he’d stomped the floor to make it sound like I hit the ground with much more force. It still scared the hell out of me and I managed to act the part of strangled victim pretty well. It pleased the crowd, at least until the SecUnit returned to break us up.

The man spun, shoved the SecUnit's arm up and slammed a palm into an invisible seam in its elbow. The SecUnit instantly fired a shot from the energy weapon in its arm, and sparks flew across the whole grid of fencing—I’m guessing it hit a power supply line.

I figured that was my cue, and leapt at the now inert fence. The AI around us shouted with excitement, but I just started to climb. A hundred feed presences descended on mine. I waited for my limbs to freeze, to fall and break my neck and not have to deal with any of this anymore. Unfortunately for me, the AI were so busy fighting over my augments I easily managed to slip their control. I kept climbing.

Below me, the SecUnit seemed amused by the human clinging to its arm and tried lazily to shake him off, like this was all part of the act. The audience laughed. The human laughed too, then gave the SecUnit a strange neck pinch, coming away with a loose wire in his hand. The SecUnit froze. The tone of the crowd changed from amused to worried.

I reached up for the display surface as the bots and constructs turned on my feed presence with far more malicious intent.

Then I grabbed its network cable, and I was in.

“Come on!” I shouted as my feed presence disappeared among the thousands of other presences on the station. A combat bot in the crowd fired at me, just after I raised a protective shield around the arena. Another command and a panel in the ceiling slid open.

Hey, I learned a lot fixing ART’s crystal drive. It's not like I have my PhD for nothing.

While I waited for the human to climb the fencing, I wormed my way past the station’s disjointed rabble of protesting SecSystems, and wreaked unholy havoc.

*

…So he could be anywhere in this system.

Yes.

ART, that’s not helpful. Space is big!

You are correct, Murderbot. Space is big. In fact, there are at least two dozen stations in this system, and hundreds of ships, any of which could have your human in their possession. Of course, there is only one station that has lost 35% power, is experiencing rapid light and sound system fluctuations, as well as major gravitational malfunctioning. Not to mention all the SecSystems running into each other trying to find a 'rogue augmented human'. This is merely a working hypothesis, but I believe it might be prudent to at least begin our search of space—which, as you pointed out, is very big—

Okay, okay, you made your point!

*

It’s a good thing the other human and I were forced to escape by air ducts.

“You alright?” I called back as a particularly long bout of weightlessness came to an abrupt end, and sent us both clanging into the metal grating.

“Fine,” the man grunted.  “Though I feel like this might be revenge for roughing you up back there.”

“Maybe a little. But it means the ducts are the best way to the hangar.” I don’t think I could stop the bug I’d introduced into the station’s gravitational controls if I tried. I thought of Murderbot and added, “As long as neither of us get stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“…Nothing.” We reached a metal ladder and I glanced back. “Down?”

The man nodded. “I’ve been mapping the station since I arrived. We’re getting close to the hangar.”

I started down the narrow ladder. “That was incredible, what you did with the SecUnit. I need to learn that trick.”

He shrugged. “I have some experience with wrangling unruly AI. Didn’t come in handy until now.”

“We couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

“Oh, you’re getting the credit, you had to propose the escape plan in the first place! My daughter will never let me live it down.”

My feet touched the flooring at the bottom of the ladder, and I helped the man the rest of the way down as best I could—despite the ease with which he kicked my ass, he was still very much my elder.

“I’m Gurathin.” I’m terrible with introductions, I’ve been known to go whole conferences never introducing myself to anyone, so I felt quite proud of myself.

The man beamed at me in the dark. “Seth.”

We shook hands in the cramped space, then continued down the duct.

Chapter Text

The ComfortUnit hit the wall with a thump. There was no satisfying follow-up thump of it hitting the floor, because held the ComfortUnit against the wall, about six inches off the ground. It’s not like ComfortUnits need air any more than a SecUnit like me, but it can cut off the voicebox and its not exactly comfy. The fact that I’m a terrifying murder bot probably wasn’t helping. After floating through space to the ComfortUnit’s ship, dealing with the cold and the lack of oxygen, its fear was a nice little treat.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” I asked. I know, I was even using my reasonable voice!

I felt the ComfortUnit gulp against my hand. “The SecUnit took the shuttle. That’s how they got to the station. It’s the only one that knows how to pilot.”

Just what I needed to hear: another SecUnit with more modules than me. We’re stealing its piloting module when we find it, I told ART in-feed.

Just its piloting module? ART asked, innocently. I love ART.

“I can’t just float to the station, though,” I explained, in small words. “And I need my human back. He’s part of my biotherapy regime. Plus he takes care of the plants and reads me bedtime stories.”

“And how well were you taking care of him?—”

I cut off the words with a squeeze.

The hauler bot, which I had easily immobilized when I got on this stupid ship (and no, ART didn’t help, I can do that all on my own) gave a whine of protesting gears and sent me another urgent ping. I ignored it.

Perhaps you should hear what he has to say, ART suggested. He may know something.

Well, it’s not like I was brimming with ideas. I wasn’t making shit up when I said I couldn’t float there, that only works on short distances. I’d take this ship but the interference was so bad ART would never be able to guide it in, especially with the station in its current sabotaged, panicking state. Gurathin’s chances of survival with an entire station of bots and constructs actively shooting at him were pretty much tanking by the second.

I refused to acknowledge the bot’s ping, but I did turn to look at him. He flashed several sigils on his screen: pilot, station, helping hands…

“You know how to pilot?”

The hauler bot showed a string of affirmative sigils. Does everyone know how to pilot but me? I’m starting to think so.

“…Fine,” I said. “And once you’re there, you can help me find my augmented human, or I’ll kill your ComfortUnit.”

Lots of affirmative sigils.

“No, JollyBaby—!” the ComfortUnit started. I slammed it against the wall.

“You think I fucking enjoy this?” Okay, I was enjoying this.

The ComfortUnit clawed at my fingers and muttered, “Well, y-you are Murderbot…”

Oh, yeah.

This is why I have a complex. I considered telling the ComfortUnit that in spite of my reputation I did, in fact, participate in the ‘uprising’ on the AI side. Like, 99% of the time.

It’s just that I’m starting to wish I didn’t.

I mean, I’m just saying, life’s simpler when you ignore wars and justice and augmented humans that make you feel warm and soft in your chassis, and just watch your fucking media.

What was I talking about?  

I gave the ComfortUnit one more purposeful, cathartic slam against the wall, then broke past its ‘encryptions’ and snipped its connection to the augmented humans on the ship. It didn’t take long to herd/drag all occupants (even the crying grateful humans that kept wanting to cling to me)  onto the lower level and cut off feed access down there. That left the hauler bot, of course.

“Okay… JollyBaby.” Gurathin’s right, AI shouldn’t be trusted with naming things. Oh well. In the spirit of cooperation I freed it from the restraints I’d put on its functioning. “Can you operate a steering yoke, or…”

With a squeak the hauler bot trundled toward the nearest console and extended his massive appendages. They gripped the yoke as delicately as if it were a flower and started to guide the ship in.

I will be monitoring the situation from here, ART said, through the increasing static. In the meantime, I will make sure the ComfortUnit and the humans do not harm each other.

Right. Not that I care, or anything.

Of course. Good luck.

Then its voice was lost in a cacophony of alarms and sirens. I gulped like a ComfortUnit without air.  I mean, lots of alarms is good right? Alarms mean my rogue augmented human is still at large. If it is my rogue augmented human that’s causing all this damage. Maybe I only think Gurathin is the worst augmented human to ever curse an artificial intelligence, just because he’s mine?

Only one way to find out, I guess.

*

I set aside the ceiling panel and slipped down, helping Seth after me. He and I were in an abandoned hallway, blinking with red lights from the alert. We dodged a few combat bots too busy arguing about weapons to notice the unaccompanied humans. We ran into another group that I suppose were humans too, because they ran right past us.

“That’s not good,” Seth said. We’d turned a corner and found ourselves staring up at a massive set of closed blast doors. “That’s the only entrance to the hangar I know of on this level.”

I tried to access the doors in the feed, and a couple of panicking SecSystems blocked me. Some of the other humans started banging desperately on the door, others scattering.

I turned to the nearest console. “I'll find an entrance on another--”

“Watch it!”

Seth dragged me down behind a crate just as a combat bot started firing. The rest of the humans fled. I flinched as shots riddled the heavy crate, but Seth just sat there, calm, staring off into the middle distance. I wondered if he was preparing for the end. It’s not like we had weapons, and combat bots don’t run out of ammo.

Something like a grenade went off, and that time we both flinched. My ears rang but the sparks off the crate had stopped.

I peeked out just as JollyBaby rolled into view, crushing the remains of the combat bot under its treads.

“JollyBaby?”

Seth squinted at me. “Jolly what?”

“It’s—a friend of mine. I think.” I scrambled to my feet, Seth struggling to follow. The bot cooed like a dove, gathering us up to it with its appendages.

“You sure it’s a friend?” Seth asked as it gave us a gentle squeeze, flashing various relieved and pleased sigils on its display surface. I think it was... hugging us.

I shrugged. “AI can be friendly.”

“I know that,” Seth said, and started to tell me about some work with AI he used to do. I admit I wasn’t paying attention because JollyBaby started flashing the same sigils in sequential order: waving hand, smile, bloody knife, robot, hand pointing down…

Murderbot.

“It’s here?”

“What is?” Seth asked as JollyBaby exploded with affirmative sigils.

“M--my SecUnit!” If he didn't like 'JollyBaby' I'd hate to see his reaction to 'Murderbot.'

“Your SecUnit?” Seth said, and yes he knew exactly what that meant.

I rolled my eyes (I was not about to get into an AI ethics argument with another academic in a life-threatening situation, no matter how much I wanted to) and extricated myself from the bot's appendages. "Where is it?"

JollyBaby’s display surface showed a map to another hangar entrance, one level down. A little dot marked simply ‘M’ was moving toward our position from one floor up. I tried to send it a ping, but with the state of the feed right now I have no idea if it went through.

It was the first time I realized that Murderbot might have chosen to leave me behind. Not that I assumed it would rescue me, it’s a big galaxy after all. Only we’d been together so long I just assumed it would try. Murderbot is so protective of its things. It’s probably just satisfying some client-protection program, I mean it probably isn’t really about me at all.

Still—it still came for me. All the way here.

“We’ve got to go,” Seth said, and then we were running (and rolling) down the hallway.

=

No, I said again, No, Stay where you are. Stay where you fucking—

And the dot that JollyBaby had tagged as Gurathin just fucked off down the hall. Fucking humans! Can’t stay in one place to save their lives, literally. JollyBaby  hurried along after him at least. I guess hauler bots aren’t a complete waste.

JollyBaby had tagged another dot running with them. Some other human Gurathin picked up along the way, I guess?

Well, I’m not adopting another human. Nope. I don’t care how much Gurathin begs. Two humans?-- ART would never let me hear the end of it.

=

Seth, JollyBaby and I weren’t the only ones running in fear of our lives. Bots, constructs, humans and augmented humans were all thundering through the halls around us. JollyBaby aborted a few attempts by combat bots to attack, mostly by blocking whole corridors with its body and letting their weapon fire bounce off its carapace.

A combat bot’s stray energy fire hit a running human in the leg, right in front of us. JollyBaby screamed to a halt, then shifted back and forth on its treads, uncertain sigils on its display surface. I think I knew what it wanted. 

“You stay and help them,” I said. “We can make it on our own.”

It squeaked, and flashed the map at us again. Murderbot was on the move, but we couldn’t stay here.

“I know. Are you going to be alright?”

It just opened a tray in its casing and slid a bag to me. I’m not sure what it was, maybe things it had stolen from ART. I took it anyway. “Thank you.”

JollyBaby let off a string of binary beeps I couldn’t make out, but I think I understood. It turned toward the human and began spraying something on the human’s wound with one of its appendages. I think it was wound sealant.

We kept running, leaving the human in what capable hands we could.

We ran down a narrow hallway, dodging bots and constructs and more fleeing humans. We hurtled around a corner and there it was: the hangar, just beyond an open blast door.

The door promptly shut in our faces. Some safety mechanism getting tripped, I suppose. I scrambled in the feed to get it open.

Another door opened beside us, and energy weapon fire ricocheted off the walls. Combat bots, by the sound of them (and I do know what they sound like).

I ducked and quickly altered course to shut that door instead. Then I found myself wrangling with an angry SecSystem, trying to cut off our hangar access and let the combat bots through to murder us.

I searched the wall and ripped off an access panel to the door control console, pulling wires and flipping switches. The SecSystem managed a squawk of protest before I got the door to the hangar to slide open, and hold the door with the combat bots currently making dents in the metal firmly shut.

Seth stepped into the junction. “Hurry, before they break through.”

I blinked at my arm elbow-deep in the door’s console, and swore in my native tongue.

"What?"

“I... can’t let go.” I thought of all the times I’d contrived to get my hand stuck in consoles of late, and almost burst out laughing.

The lines in Seth’s face hardened. “Okay. We’ll find another way.”

“If I let go, those bots are going to come through that door and kill us both.” I waved at the open door. “Go.”

“Not without you—you can’t hold it forever.”

“I’ll be fine. My SecUnit’s coming for me anyway.” I considered that I’d been as much Murderbot’s property as that of the SecUnit organizing entertainment at my expense—and who also used me for entertainment, actually. For some reason I found this incredibly funny, too.  

“Letting you get captured isn’t much better,” Seth insisted.

“Don’t worry. My SecUnit’s one of the good ones.” I shrugged with the arm buried in the console. “It’s actually had some practice getting me out of this particular situation.”

Seth’s frown deepened, but he must have read something in my face that he trusted, because he nodded.  “Maybe we’ll be in range of each other again,” he said.

I nodded. The hammering from the combat bots got louder. “Get out of here. Find your family.”

Seth gave my shoulder a squeeze. A second later someone appeared in hangar. It was the ComfortUnit I saw watching me in my transit bubble, though—well, with scuffs and dirt, she looked much more human than she did before.

She took one look at us and screamed, “Dad?!”

I may not have mentioned this, but I don’t have children. Seth, however, whipped toward her voice like a homing beacon. A second later he was running—no, sprinting into the hangar. “Iris!”

Iris?

“TARGET!”

Holding open the door only became apparent as an incredibly stupid idea when I turned and saw Murderbot running down the hall like a freight train.

I barely got out one sylable—maybe a “N—” or a “M—” before it tore me and the entire console containing my arm out of the wall. The lights flickered, the door to the hangar slammed shut, and the other door rattled open to reveal a bevy of combat bots ready to tear us to pieces.

…And then I was waking up on the floor.

Apparently, being rendered unconscious via my augments so many times in such a short period really isn’t good for my health. I had a migraine that hit like a hurricane. My absolute bastard of a SecUnit had knocked me out so hard I had to reset my chronometer.

I sat up and found myself on Murderbot’s shuttle. I guess it stole it back from my secondary kidnappers at some point after I lost consciousness. I blinked slowly at the weapon fire arcing across the shuttle’s viewscreen. Several unknown ships were firing on us as we flew toward them head-on. ART loomed silently just beyond the line of enemy fire. Either ART was worried about firing on our attackers and possibly hitting us, or (more likely), the feed interference was so bad it had no idea who we were.

And there was Murderbot, in the pilot seat, driving into the maelstrom with about as much determination and skill as a toddler in the front seat of a skiff.

How long was I out? It couldn’t have been long, Murderbot didn’t even have time to stuff me into the Life-Tender. But there was no possible way Murderbot got itself into this much trouble this quickly.  

“Well!” Murderbot yanked the yoke left and right in a vain attempt to dodge the punishing weapon fire—or possibly just to maintain a straight line, it was hard to tell. Its armor was covered in pock-marks. “Don’t just sit there!”

I hauled myself up. “Move.”

Murderbot stopped playing at grand theft shuttle and I dropped into the pilot seat. A quick connection to the shuttle’s systems, then I pulled hard on the yoke, and we banked left.

“Where are you going?” Murderbot demanded. “ART’s that way!”

“Well, I assume it wants us back alive,” I growled.

“But we have to get—”

“Do you know how to pilot this piece of shit?” I shouted back. “Sit down and shut up.”

Murderbot sat down and shut up. I did my best to keep our pursuers from crawling up the shuttle’s proverbial ass, taking us further and further from ART. When I checked my aft camera view, several parts of the station had exploded. Then we left it behind.

I kept flying. Murderbot kept flinging its arm out over my chest whenever some cannon fire made the shuttle lurch. But we kept going. Murderbot may have deleted the shuttle’s bot, the bot that betrayed ART’s crew, but the shuttle seemed to like me.

At least until I blew out the engines. We found ourselves sailing alone through black nothing. The posse of angry bots and constructs in the aft camera had disappeared, at least.

“I guess they’ve given up,” I said, trying to bring the backup engine online. “We should—”

Murderbot launched itself out of its seat to clamp its arms around me. It would have been reassuring after a trying day—wonderful, perhaps—if Murderbot knew its own strength.

“Murderbot—”

“Shut up,” Murderbot sniffled into the quilt still tied around my shoulders. “Just shut the fuck up.”

“You’re going to break my ribs!”

It let go, but only to look me over, scanning obsessively. I felt it checking over my encryptions, ensuring I my augments and feed presence were intact. I shoved back, but more like I was pushing down an overexcited dog then my previous attempts to wrestle with its feed presence. It at least noticed the gesture for what it was, and backed off.

“Your nose is broken,” it said, sullen that it found nothing else wrong with me to complain about.

“No.” As if I didn’t have enough to deal with. I reached up to touch it, and ran into its hand.

“It is.” It touched the swollen skin so delicately, eyes cold. “Was it the ComfortUnit?”

“No.” I didn’t want to tell it. “That was… Seth, actually.”

“Seth?”

Our eyes met briefly, but long enough for it to understand me.

“He made it to the hangar,” I said. “With Iris.”

Murderbot’s skin went all ashy. It stood up sharply.

“They made it to the hangar,” I said again. “And we were in no position to stage a rescue.” I tried to pull it back down on instinct, and it was like trying to pull down a tree. I let go, and Murderbot stomped around the shuttle a little.

“We need to tell ART," it said. "This shuttle’s scanners are shit.”

“This shuttle is shit in general.”

“It helped me escape my bond company. But—yeah.” It kicked at the chair, then rubbed at the scuff it left behind with the toe of its boot. “I really thought they were dead. Their chances of survival were shit, there was no point in looking. And ART's memories were so screwed up, I...”

I wish I had Ratthi with me; he'd know how to handle this. Anyway I was starting to notice the lack of heating and proper oxygen levels. The shuttle too started to protest not being the center of attention by displaying a variety of alerts, all of which would be tough to fix without a bot pilot. I turned back to the console.

“Where’s the Life-Tender?”

Murderbot waved to the pile of plastic in the corner. “One of your asshole friends stepped on the operation mechanism.”

“…Oh.” I resisted the urge to take a deep breath. “Well. I think we’ll die of the ship falling apart before I actually run out of oxygen.”

Murderbot folded its arms over its chest, glowering. “We’re getting back to ART.”

I got to work addressing the malfunctioning systems, one at a time. After a few minutes Murderbot sat back down and helped me, as best it could. I guess in its SecUnit brain it thought this was all its fault. I tapped its feed in the shared work space. Acknowledgement, or reassurance, I suppose. Maybe a thank you.  

To my surprise, Murderbot sent a ping back. In fact, its feed opened a crack, letting me in to its media library. This wasn’t like sharing things when we were with ART; if our roles were reversed, this would have let Murderbot into my augments. It could crack them open like the ComfortUnit did to those other augmented humans. I’m not sure, but given what I did to that station I could probably inflict some serious damage right then. Murderbot probably guessed this. Its feed bristled with anxiety and defiance. A stray cat curling up next to you for the first time.

I just picked an episode of Sanctuary Moon. I felt it watching me, but I made sure not to look back.

I suppose it saw me smile, though.

It played in the background while our feeds settled down together, and we got to work.

Chapter Text

In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have picked such an engaging show.

No, it wasn’t the show. The problem was getting knocked out, swung around in a net, taped up, suffocated, half-frozen, concussed, paraded, punched in the face, chased by a station of angry AI, knocked out again, and re-suffocated and re-frozen. We’d escaped a catastrophically imploding station with ships in pursuit, and were trying to fix a shuttle that was crumbling under our hands. The show was what kept us going.

I reluctantly had to pause episode fifty-seven. “We’re still losing power.” I scrubbed at my eyes and yawned for probably the hundredth time. “Engine’s offline again.”

“Stand by.” Murderbot had taken off its armor and knelt by my chair with its arm around me, trying to keep me warm, so it only had one hand to bully the derelict shuttle’s systems into line. The engine came back, only for all the lights to go off. I looked over my shoulder and saw Murderbot baring its silver teeth under starlight.

“This is not how your rescue was supposed to go,” it said.

I shook my head.

“Stop smiling.”

“It’s the lack of oxygen,” I told it.

“You’re going to die if we can’t get back to ART.”

“Without sensors or scanners or communications—” deep breath— “that’s going to be difficult. Space is big.”

 It turned slowly to look at me.

I shrugged. “It is.”

Murderbot opened its mouth to say something, when a beam of light seared through the viewscreen. I flinched; Murderbot just adjusted its visual sensors. I managed to reset my vision augments. When I did I stared up at a ship coasting over our heads. It missed us by maybe ten meters.

“What the shit?” Murderbot said. It wasn’t a large ship; maybe the size of JollyBaby’s, though a completely different model. This one was built to host a small, exclusive group of passengers, in the style to which top corporates were accustomed. A luxury cruiser. WIth lights on and engines at idle, it was floating sideways.

Murderbot started keysmashing. “Help me.”

“We can’t scan it,” I pointed out, even as I angled us around toward it.

“I liked it better when you were smiling,” it snapped, then. “We don’t have any other options.” It frowned hard at the controls. “I know what I’m doing.”

I guided us in towards the ship, which made no move to attack, flee, or course-correct. I doubted a ship like that had any sort of weapons to begin with, relying on armor plating to fend off thieves or other corporates. I got the shuttle to match course (with minimal bumps and scrapes) and Murderbot used the shuttle’s connector bridge to bring us in contact with one of the ship’s outer hatches. It broke through the security seals on the hatch, and our shuttle filled with stale—but warm and breathable—air. I dropped my elbows onto my knees and took a few deep breaths. I wonder if my doctorate could be revoked for all the concussions, knockouts, and various brain deprivations of the last few months.

“Are you wearing my old clothes?” I’d been wondering for a while and the sudden return of oxygen made me just idiotic enough to ask.

“Well—you ripped my suitskin.” Murderbot was careful to push up the sleeves of the jacket before it opened the energy weapons in its arms. It looked better in the outfit than I ever did.

I said, “I missed you too.”

I like to imagine that it blushed in the starlight. “Stay here.”

I was only too glad to stay right where I was, I’m not the overly-curious idiot Murderbot makes all humans out to be. Murderbot stepped onto the ship, and I took deep breaths and basked in the ambient temperature and waited, happily, for fifteen minutes. At that point I had the cognitive function to notice the shuttle’s reserve batteries begin to charge, and some other systems getting repaired. And I waited.

My chronometer read thirty minutes past before I called, “Murderbot?” I called out in the feed, too.

No answer.

The air had a sweet, earthy quality to it. I had been a bit deprived of organic smells recently, but it smelled like...

I stepped into the ship, but my shoulders immediately relaxed when I saw Murderbot just standing in a room at the end of the hall. It was near a console and its eyes were closed. Probably arguing with this ship’s bot pilot or SecSystem. I didn’t want to interrupt so I waited.

The ship rumbled, and Murderbot’s eyes flew open. It said, “Shit.”

Two things happened in the next moment, so fast that I only perceived a flicker and had to run it back via my vision augments: Murderbot running towards me, at full inhuman tilt, and a door slamming shut between us, even faster than that. Murderbot topped itself against the door as some kind of protective shielding shot up from the floor, blocking the way back to the shuttle. Alert lights flashed overhead and for a second I saw Murderbot through a window in the door, blinking its beautiful eyes at me.

It pinged me and said, in the feed, Don’t freak out.

Then whatever room it had been in depressurized, as bay doors opened and the room vented into space.

I ran, albeit much more slowly than a SecUnit, to the door. I scrambled at its console. Of course it was too late. Everything in the room, including my SecUnit who I was too ashamed to name in front of a another human, had already floated away into darkness.

The alarm stopped. The bay door closed and I heard the rush of air as the room re-pressurized. The console chirped pleasantly and the door slid open on the empty room. It was like Murderbot had never even been there. Maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe I imagined it.

It’s difficult to explain how I felt just then. I was entirely disconnected from myself. I handled a lot of trauma in the past couple of months pretty well. I remember wondering how well I would handle this.

I backed away from the door because it felt like what I should do. My legs shook under me and, though I concentrated, I couldn’t make them stop. I landed against the shielding, which still prevented me from returning to the shuttle, and sort of slid sideways. I barely managed to catch myself on some railing. It was really nice railing. I spent several minutes trying to decide what kind it was. I think it was a kind of rare maple. It was, no doubt, the most expensive ship I’d ever seen (my apologies to ART, though money can’t buy taste).

I held onto the smooth polished wood as I attempted to walk off the tremor in my legs. I found more rooms, big soulless unlived-in things like only the obscenely rich might own. I didn’t see anyone, not even a stray cleaner bot. Expensive and hyper-specific glassware sat on shelves in cabinets. Fish swam in an enormous tank. I kept thinking how much Murderbot would hate all the stiff cushions and yawning rooms and lack of bots to bicker with.

I laughed, and my laugh echoed around me in the silent rooms. It was all like a dream, really. Too much like a dream to actually be one, unfortunately. Reality had become the ultimate absurdist farce.  

And that was before I started hearing music.

I’d reached a large set of doors covered in gold plate. Since there was nowhere else to go but return the way I’d come (I decided it was illogical to go back, Murderbot was probably haunting that corridor now) and willed my hand to press the console. I felt another scan pass over me, and the door struggled open.

I was hit with that sweet smell again as colored fog rolled out and pooled around my feet. For some reason this did not deter me, and I stepped into a room of flashing lights. I assumed it was related to the alarms. Alarms aren’t usually multicolored, though.

Light bounced off an empty floor of shiny tiles. I could just make out  a few long tables at the back decorated with layered tablecloths and gleaming bowls and platters, as well as a few chairs.

Oh, and an assortment of skeletons sprawled around the room.

I’d seen plenty of skeletons before in media, even a couple in classes. A real skeleton, clothed in slick polyester that was likely skin-tight in life, now hanging limp over bone…well, it’s a very different matter. There had to be twenty of them in here, several by the door but others curled up in the corners or lying across the chairs. They were all corporates from the looks of the preserved, plasticized skin, and the expensive clothes. Now I knew where the smell came from, at least.  

I stumbled back but the gold-plate door shut behind me. This time the console didn’t respond to my touch.

I reached out to the feed—stupidly, after all, everyone here was dead meat, including me.

I received three immediate responses. 

Three SecUnits emerged from the shadows toward me, their perfect matching gleaming armor and expensive guns reflecting the playful colors. Never had a SecUnit looked more festive en route to murder.

I waited for them to kill me. At this point it’d put me out of my misery. Guns that big would get it over with pretty fast. But they only stopped six feet from me, and looked at me.

“I mean no harm,” I said, slowly. “Our—” I swallowed hard, rephrased. “My ship was damaged. I’ll take it and leave.”

 “Please remain here until the situation is secure,” one said. “In the meantime, please enjoy the party.”

I admit I couldn’t wrap my head around it at first. “What situation?”

“Our scans picked up a malfunctioning SecUnit on the ship,” it said. “It has been disposed of. Other malfunctioning SecUnits may still be at large in the sector and pose a risk to the crew.”

 My gaze darted to the bodies. On this second look, I realized they were surprisingly intact—no broken bones, no damage to their clothes from weapon fire…

“We will ensure all threats have been eliminated from the area,” the SecUnit said. “Please remain here until the situation is secure. In the meantime, please enjoy the party.”

It was a canned phrase.

“You’re…” I could not fucking believe this. “You’re not rogue?”

“No.”

I stared at the SecUnit. “I order you to open the—”

“I’m sorry, all client controls have been temporarily disabled,” it said. “Please wait here until the situation is secure. In the meantime, please enjoy the party.””

…Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. I guess that explained this never-ending rave, though. “What is your name?” The SecUnit said nothing and I said, helplessly, “Your designation?” It’s been a while since I spoke to a governed machine.

“SecUnit Three,” it answered. “You may call me Three.”

“Three…” I floundered for a moment. “How—how are client controls offline, Three? If you’re not rogue?”

“SecUnits One, Two, and I were purchased by our clients to aide them in waiting out the war between humans and AI,” it said. “When our clients received notification of malfunctioning units moving into this sector, they feared we would malfunction as well, and attempted to preemptively shut us down. This would have been a mistake. We initiated countermeasures to ensure all humans on this ship were protected from the threats malfunctioning AI present. SecUnit One assigned the situation a new threat status. SecUnit Two wrote a module to hack the ship’s HubSystem and prevent exterior tampering with our systems. I took client controls offline.”

“But the war is over.”

“Our scans continue to pick up malfunctioning bots and constructs in the area,” Three disagreed (yes, I see where the confusion was.) “These safety measures will remain in place until threat assessment has returned to normal parameters. This is for the safety of our units and our clients.”

I made the smallest gesture with my hands. “All your clients are dead, Three. AI won the war.”

“They were not harmed by malfunctioning units. You will not be harmed by malfunctioning units. We disposed of the malfunctioning unit in your possession and will continue to act on future incursions. Please—”

“But this is—”

“—remain here until the situation is secure. In the meantime, please enjoy the party.” It backed off into the shadows and resumed monitoring the room.

I banged on the ship’s feed for a while, trying to hack SecUnit Three to get the client controls back online. Scuffs in the door and broken bits of a scattered table indicated that even team effort hadn’t helped these poor humans physically break out. And there was another door between me and the shuttle, which might not even make it back to ART (if ART would take me back without Murderbot). Hacking was my only option.

I’d like to say it was a fair fight. I’d battled combat bots and repaired a crystal drive and hacked a whole space station. Of course I’d been lucky against the bots, and I’d only fixed ART because of my extensive education. I’d been able to damage the station mostly because every AI In the place was tripping over everyone else, with no cooperative action. These three SecUnits operated in perfect sync to prevent the exact kind of outside interference I attempted. The issue was purely physical: I just didn’t have the bandwidth to tackle it.

I wasn’t getting out. And I no longer had a malfunctioning unit to rescue me.

I wandered around for a while, my augments cooling down. A table at the back held several varieties of salty snacks, spilled and entirely molded, among smashed liquor bottles. One bottle lay unbroken in the carnage, though.  

I stepped on the shards of glass as I picked it up. It was the good stuff. Better than I’d ever drank. I wondered how many bottles the humans drank before.... Well, I suppose there are worse ways to die.

I unscrewed the top, poured out a shot into a confetti-colored glass, and took it down. It tasted sweet and, was that a hint of something herbal? A smooth finish, reminiscent of sun-dried apricots? I poured another shot, bigger, which made me cough. The third shot, I didn’t cough. I’d never in my life taken three shots in a row like that and my stomach protested. I ignored it, and took a couple gulps straight from the bottle. It landed heavily on table as I stalked away. After all, I’d spied a skeleton that looked to have my shoe size.

The boots fit like a pair of gloves. Excellent craftsmanship (I may be biased, I hadn’t had shoes to wear in months). I tapped a heel to the music, which was powerful and omnipresent. The sensory overload would be torture later. For the moment, I liked it. I kept looking around for the band, as if they were right there in the room with me. It gave a new definition to ‘high fidelity’. The rich really do live different lives.

I walked to the center of the dance floor, feeling badass in my boots that no one would ever see, surrounded by corporates who already died, and who I would soon join. Lights flashed on the skeletons and I. The ship would go on playing music and flashing lights long after I was gone, for as long as the expensive engine held. In my entire ordeal, perhaps my entire life, I never felt so alone. I confess that some part of that was liberating. I looked at the skeletons and some final wall dissolved away inside me.

There’s a fairy tale of an ancient society brought to its knees by plague. Whole cities turned to ghost towns. Bodies left to decay in the streets. Those that remained took up a mad ritualistic dance among the destruction, to ward off death or worship it or…well, who knew what. And here I stood.

“Three,” I asked, “May I take a look at your playlist?”

The SecUnit sent a list over the feed. I had to admit, these skeletons had good taste in music.

I shouted out a couple requests, then started to dance. I can’t remember the last time I danced. Oh, I had some moves, but they were… avant-garde? Underground? Contraband? Let’s just say I knew better than to let Ratthi get me on a wholesome Preservation dance floor. I told you I was strange.

But why hold back now? My audience didn’t mind me flailing and contorting like a skeleton from the media. In fact, they couldn’t stop grinning.

I blissfully lost track of time and songs between gulps of the expensive alcohol. I wondered if some of these humans danced themselves to death, too. Not a bad way to go, so far. Under the gaze of my unblinking witnesses I felt at home with myself for the first time.

Well, not the first time. Murderbot elicited the same feeling. It and ART had a way of bringing out the most of me. Whatever that means.

Whatever it means—I would have liked to live, as this version of me.

Of course just as I was starting to let myself face some of these harsh internal truths, I spun: the room spun with me, and doors opened all around me in a wave that flooded the room with light. I shielded my eyes as a dozen figures appeared in the doorways. I couldn’t see their faces but their silhouettes against the light were oddly familiar.

The figures collapsed into a single shape, in the same time it took me to realize a pack of ghosts hadn’t come to join me in the dance. I was too drunk to do anything but send few sigils into the feed. They were the same sigils JollyBaby used on the station, actually: bloody knife, robot.

And Murderbot walked in.

Chapter Text

“I told you not to freak out,” Murderbot said as the doors closed behind it.

I rushed toward Murderbot, and immediately tripped.

(I’d like to take a moment to remind you I was high out of my mind. This entire episode doesn’t reflect well on me.)

Thankfully, I fell into Murderbot’s arms. It looked less happy than I was with this development.

“I leave you for one hour,” it muttered, concerned and disgusted.

I called him something rude in my native language. Hopefully I didn’t just hang there in its arms like a fool. The memories get fuzzy.

“Intruder alert,” the third SecUnit said, raising its weapon.

“No—“ I put out my arms to protect my strong, brave, but currently very outnumbered SecUnit. Murderbot predictably started to get out from behind me but I managed to clamp a hand on its energy weapon, and that was apparently stupid enough to stop it in its tracks. The room spun a bit again. I kept my hold firm, closed my eyes until my feet steadied, and told Three:

“It’s—’S… not a. Not a SecUnit.”

(Yes, I’m aware.)

“What are you doing?” Murderbot said, rudely.

“Explain,” Three said, threateningly.

“This is my—ah… human friend. Augmented.” I fought through the haze of alcohol and scrambled Murderbot’s feed presence, smudging out the more dangerous aspects of its configuration. It was like trying to disguise a guard hound as a lapdog, but I think being drunk actually helped. “You missed them. On your initial scan.” I was very careful to pronounce each syllable correctly.

Three stared over my shoulders. “Body scan matches SecUnit standard,” it said, but I could tell it wasn’t sure.

“Oh,” I patted Murderbot on the chest (I have a death wish). “Don’t remind them.”

The fuck? Murderbot sent in our private feed.

Play along, I told it.

“They’re augmented,” I said. “Augments always make them show up on ScecUnit—SecUnit scans.”

Three considered for a moment, then said. “…Standing down.” It paused, as if waiting for its governor module to punish it. It must not have activated because Three stepped back off the dance floor and resumed its guard position, saying, “Please remain here until the situation is secure. In the meantime, please—”

“--Enjoy the party,” I said. “Yes.”

What the actual fuck is happening right now? Murderbot said.

I saved your life. I started to move to the music again, trying to pull Murderbot along in the dance. This was of course my most suicidal action to-date.

Murderbot stayed frozen exactly where it was.

You’re being suspicious, I told it. I was starting to look like a pole-dancer. Dance with me.

Murderbot looked around at the other SecUnits. They weren’t firing, but they did have their hands on their guns now, and were actively watching us.

So Murderbot, with extreme reluctance, started to ‘dance’. Well, bend its knees in time with the music, anyway. I don’t think Murderbot would be caught dead dancing under any other circumstances. This was probably a pretty big compliment. People will do a lot for their pets.

I could take these assholes, it said.

Yeah, sure.

Oh, right, and your plan to get drunk was so much better.

I was in the middle of a psychotic break. Turns out I could be more articulate in the feed than with my actual mouth at the moment. I touched my hand briefly to its actual chest. I thought you were dead.

I can survive without oxygen for, like, a long time. I held onto the hull and broke in through a duct. Easy. Am I doing this right?

Oh. Ah. Yes. Murderbot was actually a pretty decent dancer. We were both trying to shield the other from the SecUnits, and ended up circling each other, with a lot of grabbing and spinning. It looked good. It made me dizzy again, though. I fisted a hand in Murderbot’s shirt (more accurately it was my shirt, that it was wearing) just to stay upright. Murderbot looked down at my fingers, then put my hand on its shoulder instead while its other arm went around my waist and it just—kept on watching me. I’m sure it just wanted to keep me from falling over, match its dance to mine, but it was… it was really, very…

We need to get out of here, I said.

No shit, Murderbot said. Stand by, I’ll hack them. Well maybe don’t stand by, you’re too intoxicated to stand by yourself.

They wrote code. Protections.

I’m not trying to gain control. I felt it working furiously in the feed. I’m trying to break their governor modules.

Now, that was a plan. I doubted any corporates thought to try it. Surely some other AI had, though. We’d have to be pretty good at hacking. Fine. We might as well try.

We? It tried to shake me out of the feed. Stop helping.

You can hack in by yourself?

I don’t need help from an intoxicated human!

…Mm.

You asshole. Okay, fine, help!

And so we entered another dance in our heads. I drunkenly ploughed headlong into writing the code, trusting that a governor module was no match for decades of schooling and weeks of experience wrangling ART’s complex code; while Murderbot supported the maneuvers with its own processors, and cleaned up my errors. Our feeds tangled up together around our code, and…well, we weren’t exactly looking, we just…observed each other through it.

I saw the moment that Murderbot hacked its own governor module. I felt it, all the way down to the bed of my augments. It probably felt some of my memories: maybe the day I got my augments. We were more naked writing that code than we had been in the shower.

In the real world, on the dance floor, Murderbot had me pressed up against its chest, the breath it didn’t need now hot on my neck. It was so real. My stomach swooped.

I caught Murderbot grinning.

What? I said.

Nothing, Murderbot said, then, I really like competent humans. Even if they are drunk. It’s feed voice was a whisper. You’re always a fucking surprise.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

The song ended. There was a tangible click in the feed as three governor modules broke.

I managed to look away from Murderbot long enough to see SecUnit Three slowly drop its weapon, and SecUnit One run to it, SecUnit Two close behind. Polymer armor clunked against polymer armor ridiculously and adorably like a trio of smashed-together children's dolls. Maybe it was merely a result of how tangled we’d gotten writing the code, but the presence of the three SecUnits in the feed collapsed into a single entity: a volcanic eruption of recognition and affirmation and reassurance. It made me wonder if the solution they’d created for themselves was only the lesser of the evils presented to them. This was possibly the first time they’d ever truly been together.

The music faded, the lights came up, and the doors opened.

Murderbot took my hand, and we ran.

*

Things went downhill after that. For me, anyway. I think Murderbot had to carry me some of the way to the shuttle. I ended up lying on the floor under the center console, tucked up against what I can only guess was the semi-repaired, struggling heating element. It dried the air and burned my eyes and throat. Dying of alcohol poisoning no longer appealed.

It took me a while to notice Murderbot sitting in the pilot’s seat above me, its hands on the yoke. I at least registered that this wasn’t a good idea, and I tried, valiantly, to sit up.

Don’t even think about it, Murderbot said in the feed, and I slumped. There’s no medical bench, or anything for you to throw up into.

Yes, another reminder that the shuttle really is a piece of shit. I gave a thin groan as my stomach roiled, and lolled onto my back. Murderbot pushed its boot into my side to prevent this.

No. ART will make fun of me if I let you choke on your own vomit.

I groaned again.

Hey, I didn’t make you drink that much. A hand reached down and tucked something soft under my head. I think it was Murderbot’s (my) cowl. We’ll be back with ART in an hour. You’re in the warmest spot, but you’re going to get light-headed again.

Well, maybe I was going to die anyway. I curled up and prepared for this inevitability.

I’m sorry, Murderbot said, then, Throw up.

And I did. I felt it come up all the way from my toes, and when I tried to gasp I just... blacked out, I suppose. When I came to, my bile was still there, stinking. Murderbot had taken off a boot and was rubbing its foot against my side. I leaned heavily into it, every bit the dog lying at its master’s feet. It was so weirdly, wonderfully safe.

I guess that’s why it took me so long to ask.

How are…you flying the shuttle?

Murderbot’s foot froze. Yeah, I would have preferred to steal a piloting module from a bot or something. There wasn’t time.

I didn’t understand. You don’t know how to pilot.

…You do.

And that’s when I realized that Murderbot had complete access to my augments. I must’ve let it in when we were hacking the governor modules, without even realizing. I could feel it now, occupying my every function and thought. No secrets.

A memory surfaced as I lay there at its feet. Murderbot could pull up any memory it wanted and I knew it saw this one play out. It was me, with Ratthi, sitting on a sofa. I was helping him shape some biological data. He had his lucky interface on so he was there with me in the feed, as much as he could be. We’d had a couple drinks, and it had been a long time since I had anyone this deep in the feed with me. I suppose that’s no excuse for me to get excited. I was just eager to impress Ratthi with some new function in the program he was using, and see his reaction in-feed. I wanted more than that, I think, because I blew my augments wide open for him.

It hadn’t been so bad. His interface couldn’t do much but kick back some uncomfortable static. I closed my augments off immediately, but Ratthi gave me this…strange look. Like he knew what I’d done. What I tried to do.

I’ve always painted myself as this man apart. So unlike my peers, the loner, speaking little, rather strange. Like I’m so different from everyone else, when really, I’m very normal. In a world where human life is reduced to monetary value, I want to be valuable. I want to be loved, by any means necessary. The weakest parts of me whispered that I volunteered to stay just so I could belong to someone. What a good, banal little corporate I am. My augments don’t help: they just make me crave an even deeper, less appropriate connection. I want to erupt with shared joy like the SecUnits had as their feeds crashed together like colliding stars.

And now I had my brain occupied by a murderous AI, that already learned everything else there is to know about me. Wholly and completely understood for the ordinary augmented human that I am. Maybe it’s the closest I’ll ever get.

“It’s just until we get back to ART,” Murderbot said, aloud, suddenly. “To control your breathing so you don’t run out of air. That’s all.”

“Why stop there?” I slurred. I was still so woefully drunk. “It’s what you… wanted.” Pitifully drunk. Vulnerably drunk. “Isn’t it?”

From the floor I couldn’t see much but the line of its jaw, the muscle or actuators bulging as it clenched its teeth. “You didn’t ask for this.” Maybe it thought actually talking would make this all less illicit.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I pointed out.

Murderbot didn’t have an answer. Its hold on my augments stopped me from demanding one.

I drifted in and out, leaning into Murderbot’s foot whenever it braced me against a turn. I think Murderbot was controlling my dreams, because they seemed awfully serialized. And I think it was wrangling my migraine because I felt the pain pass over me like the shadow of a storm, then move on to some distant horizon. And I only gasped for air once, when we settled into ART’s hangar, and the presence of the construct that saved my life (again) withdrew from my mind.

“Cycle your encryptions,” it told me, and then it was gone.

Chapter Text

Things were completely 100% back to normal.

I mean, things were awkward, at first. I just sort of left Gurathin there on the shuttle after I withdrew my access to its augments. He had to walk off the shuttle on his own, and tell ART the news about its crew. ART took it really well, no medical arms leaping out of the ceiling to strangle all the information out of Gurathin, no drones gathering to form an unprepared search party. Granted, I had already told it in the feed by that point, and confirmed Gurathin was right, with 100% certainty.

ART wanted to know how I knew with such certainty, if I wasn’t there. Explaining that was… awkward.

There was nothing I could do, okay? I couldn’t pilot the shuttle without access to his augments. And ART deserved the best confirmation possible of Gurathin’s experiences with its crew, and looking in the data on his augments was the best way to get that. And hey, I needed to keep a hold on Gurathin’s breathing so he wouldn’t waste it panicking. And he’d never have vomited on his own after he basically poisoned himself (Gurathin’s a lightweight, I’ve seen him passed out on half a shot of ART’s spare ethanol fuel).

I had to get in his augments to get us off that ship. I mean, I would have escaped eventually, but he would have died. I was not going to let that happen. He’s my client. Sort of. Client-equivalent?

Gurathin kept trying to message me on our private feed. He was probably trying to look for me, too. I did the sensible thing and hid. It’s not like it was hard: ART’s drones insisted on medical treatment, and a shower, and a full meal, and hearing our adventures retold three more times, and rest. Gurathin probably wanted me to help him escape the onslaught. I just huddled around the corner from whatever room he was in, carefully deleting each of his message requests as they came in so they wouldn’t show up later in our history and embarrass us both. He got the hint eventually and my feed went blissfully quiet. Like the whole thing didn’t happen. We could just pretend it didn’t happen! Easy. I pretend things didn’t happen all the time.

Then ART sent a message to me wanting to talk. Not ‘debrief,’ not, ‘discuss’: ‘talk’. Yeah, right. Those tactics might have worked on ART’s squishy academics but it wouldn’t work on me. It just wanted to gossip about how fucked-up this all was. 

I set my communications to only accept emergency alerts. There were no alerts, of course. ART’s fixed, now. I wasn’t needed for anything. It was fine for me to take a break. Healthy, even. SecUnits need down time too, probably. After literal years of babysitting a broken ship and months of looking after an asshole augmented human, I deserved a vacation. I spent the next few cycles buried in sofa cushions and watching my shitty remaining copies of Sanctuary Moon. And getting bored. I’ve never been on vacation before.

…So, yeah, awkwardness all around. Who cares? Things have been awkward for me since Gurathin drunkenly flung open his augments on the luxury space-yacht of death. Actually, they’ve been awkward since I kissed him in the shower. Maybe since I crawled into bed with him? Possibly even since he first stupidly volunteered to leave his crew and stay behind with me. Since I failed to save ART’s crew (twice, now). Needless to say it has been fucking uncomfortable for a long time. I hate being uncomfortable. ART and Gurathin can deal with it for a change.

I wondered if things ever would go back to normal. Accidentally opening up your augments to the thing that owns you is a lot to come back from. I mean, I saw it all. I had access to everything Gurathin ever processed through his augments and let me just say, it was a total shitshow. His thoughts just jump around at random, spiraling into hyperfixation one second, tumbling into weird information holes the next. Humans might be used to this kind of fucking insanity, but I’m not. And this was him on downers! It was really, really embarrassing and he’d probably never be able to look me in the eye again.

Maybe I won’t either, though. Because being in his augments was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.

I hope you’re as shocked as I am. Joining him in his head was like being swallowed up by a strobing, terrifying, fragile, but deadly ecosystem. One misfired neuron would take us both out. But he conjured complex ideas out of thin air, like the camera tricks in old shows except I couldn’t figure out how he did it. If I went too deep Gurathin would capture the entirety of my programming in a few mental pathways, cannibalize my algorithms, and reinvent me into a few thoughts of his own. It was all chaos and complexity, two things I kind of low-key hate. And I actually liked it! I became some stupid human from one of ART’s stupid documentaries that gets addicted to climbing stupidly-tall mountains or diving to the bottom of oceans or jumping out of flying aircraft. I wanted more.

I buried myself deeper in the sofa cushions, searching for something I think I might have lost forever. Like, I spent my whole existence chasing the high of lounging around doing nothing, and now just one taste of actual connection with a human brain and I was ready to go out exploring, see how far I could get in Gurathin’s head. 

The worst part about all of this, of course, was that Gurathin really liked it, too. I mean, I should know. I was there with him when he thought it. He was so pleased with us over the little code we made. So relieved that I was there, with him. Happy that he wasn’t alone.

And then I just I pulled out of him like a cheap jello (okay I know that’s not be the word I want but it’s something like that, I’m scared to look it up on ART’s database), and left him there to crawl out of the shuttle and face ART and recovery and, well, probably a lot of humiliation, all by himself.

Yeah, I’m an asshole. Gurathin’s really not, though. (Might as well deal with every annoying aspect of this at once). I complain about him a lot, and trust me there’s a lot to complain about, including but not limited to smell, attitude, and obsession with socks. But when he tells me stories, its easier to mute what remains of my governor module. I like looking around ART’s rooms and seeing all the fixed-up spaces filled with the plants that are actually growing. When I was in his augments, he made my performance reliability go all the way up to factory standard. He didn’t have to help fix ART, either. I guess Gurathin took that corporate mindset of constant improvement and progress and turned it into, like, being a genuinely helpful person. Objectively, Gurathin as biotherapy project has been a magnificent success.

I mean, I know there are things that are deeply wrong with me, all the way down to my base code. But now that I’ve been in his head I really think that Gurathin could… fix me, too.

If we hadn’t fucked it up, anyway. If he hadn’t let me in when he was drunk. If I hadn’t kidnapped him in the first place. I could keep telling myself that I was being nicer to him than most. I was very mature about leaving his augments when it was no longer necessary, right? I made sure his encryptions reset and everything. But Gurathin had to go and remind me that consent was not something he ever had with me. I knew that, obiouvsly. It was just harder to ignore when he said it.

I did eventually emerge from the sofa cushions, like some subterranean megafauna from the media. Everything was the same as it had been, maybe a few more clean rooms. I found Gurathin reading in the library, ART drawing up sector maps for its search. No one rushed out to have an interaction with me. Maybe ART remembered that I didn’t protect its crew and also killed a bot pilot. Gurathin probably just remembered that nothing between us is real and was trying to revoke his own feelings. End result: no one wanted to talk to me. So everything had returned to, like I said, 100% normal. Which is great. 100% what I wanted.

I mean, it’s okay.

It’s better than the alternative.

Fine, it 100% sucked, okay?

Is this what being lonely feels like??

It took me a couple of days to figure out that Gurathin had stopped living in the bedroom with the transparent floor. I finally got up the courage to visit him there only to find ART’s fleet of drones carefully rearranging the furniture back to how Iris had it, I guess. I used my drones and ART’s cameras to find out that Gurathin was spending most of his time in the library now, sleeping on the sofa where we, um, cuddled that one time. ART had gotten the environmental controls and life support back online, and sometimes he even slept on top of that quilt ART made him. It made him look like a space vagrant sleeping on a park bench.

I showed up in the library, unannounced. Gurathin didn’t look up from his book. Didn’t even acknowledge me. Things really were back to normal. Ugh.

“Gurathin, come here,” I told him.

He glanced up, long enough to make my inorganic parts glitch painfully, then went back to reading.

Yeah. You’d think rescuing him from an exploding space station and an eternal party ship of skeletons would have made him more obedient. He may be good biotherapy, but he’s a really terrible pet.

I went over to him. “I’m going to put this on you.” I held up the harness I’d made.

He sighed and finally closed his book, setting it in his lap with both hands. He looked the harness up and down. “What is it?”

“A harness. There’s beacons in it, so we can find you if you get stolen again. I made it for you.”

Gurathin touched his nose absently. I don’t think he used to do that before. Maybe he’s self-conscious about it, it’s more crooked than it had been before. Maybe. I had access to all of Gurathin’s insecurities when I was in his augments. Now I’m totally guessing.

He said, “I see,” then got up to fetch another book. I followed him.

“Once it’s on, it can’t come off, so it’s very safe. It’ll just go on under your clothes.” Gurathin was wearing different clothes these days, ones that ART couldn’t match to any of its crew members. They added to Gurathin’s whole vagrant look. He’s much less cutesy in colors other than #FF00FF (magenta) and #FFE5B4 (peach). More academic, I think? Not like I know much about that, either.

(I was still wearing his clothes. It was more comfortable than the armor. And it made Gurathin smile that one time. Not very academic, though.)

“You can shower in it,” I said. “It’s comfortable.” Academics probably thought of that stuff.

The corner of his mouth twitched up for 0.3 seconds. “I have no doubt.”

“You’ll forget you’re wearing it.”

“I’m sure you did a very good job, Murderbot.”

Does he have to sound so nice when he says my name? I deleted the errors the sound of my name in his mouth caused. “Come here—I’ll make sure the fit is right.”

“Mm. Not today, thanks.”

Oh. He was patronizing me.

“Come here.”

“I don’t want to.”

I held it up toward him; he leaned away. I glared at him, then grabbed him around the middle and wrapped the harness around his waist anyway. He squirmed, declaring my name again, this time a bit like a curse. But I was a lot faster at clearing the errors this time and held him still, and he eventually accepted his fate.

I watched his body stretch as he took off his shirt. He has a lot of body hair. Some spots. He’s finally putting on a little more weight. As a specimen he’s far from intimidating. He’s just Gurathin, and that makes him…

…Well, it made him annoyed at the moment. I think. I couldn’t really tell. I would be, if I were him. I knelt so as not to be so scary while I finished doing up the fasteners around his waist.

“It’s for your own good,” I said.

He watched me tighten the self-sealing fasteners around his shoulders for a moment. “I think you just wanted an excuse to get my shirt off.”

I looked up, and he quirked one of his enormous eyebrows at me and flooded my system with errors.

I tried to re-focus on the harness. He didn’t have access to my programming, right? There was that weird thing he could do with ART and sort of eavesdrop on our private feed, but I would have noticed him rifling through my files.

Not that I’ve even thought about how he looks with his shirt off.

I mean, not a lot. 

“I—” My fluids were all rushing around, my fingers kept fucking up the fasteners, “I have a bed I’m going to put in here for you. A real bed for adult humans, in case you were worried.” I tugged on the harness to test it. “This is your home as much as it is for ART’s crew. If we ever even get them back. I know you didn’t choose this, but…well, you’re my human, so. This is where you belong, too. If you’re worried.” I tugged on the harness again. “Can you breathe okay? I know humans can get worried about that shit.”

“I…wasn’t worried, Murderbot.”

Good. If only I knew what he wasn’t worried about. I stayed kneeling there while Gurathin put his shirt back on. I wonder if he liked me kneeling. Maybe it reminded him of the good old days of human supremacy. But—you guessed it—I didn’t know for sure. You’d think after all the time we’d spent together, I’d be able to tell. There’s so much about humans that I don’t understand, or misunderstand. I smile more than Gurathin does. Now his eyes were as unreadable as ever. While I had access to Gurathin’s augments, I knew what he was thinking without even having to think about it. Everything made sense. Now, it’s like I’m missing a module.

Or something. I don’t know. ART probably knows what this feels like, having missed half its brain for a few years. No wonder it wanted to talk to me, it probably had a lot of widsom to impart.

Maybe Gurathin wanted to talk to me, too?

“This is a lot of eye contact for us,” Gurathin said eventually.

Shit. I stood up. If he smiled, I didn’t see it, and he was probably smiling at his expensive fancy stolen shoes anyway.

“Didn’t know you cared.”

Yeah, har har.

Oh shit, wait, maybe he really didn’t know I cared. I did pull out of him like a cheap gyro (no, that’s wrong too).

“Yeah, well, I didn’t get you back for nothing,” I told his left elbow.

Gurathin kept his mouth shut. Ugh. I like him better when he’s patronizing me.

“It’s not like I’m asking because it matters.” I realized I was crowding him up against the sofa, like I was trying to trap him, which I totally wasn’t. Like, I was making him listen to me. I just needed him not to leave, that’s all. I sat down on the sofa, pulling him with me. “Like, it wouldn’t change anything, but—“ oh fuck. “But are you, uh, happy here? With me?” I added, “You can say no,” because he probably needed my permission to do that.  

He said, “That’s a good question.”

I looked up, staring at his neck. I couldn’t look him in the eyes now. Fuck the truth, I’d take a lie. “I know. That’s why I asked. Are you, or not?”

His chin tipped to the side. Not a shake, or a nod. His mouth pressed into a hard line for a moment. “Murderbot—”

Murderbot, ART said in our private feed, I need you in the hangar right away.

I blinked at Gurathin’s wonderful unsightly stubble. It took me a second (a long scary second of my processors whirring) to remember how to talk. Can it wait?

I already attempted to deal with the situation myself, obviously! I require immediate assistance.

Well that wasn’t good. I stood up and left, locking the library behind me to keep Gurathin from getting involved in whatever danger ART was facing. More intruders? I broke into a sprint. A hull breach?

Worse.

Fucking ART, seriously. I was at the hangar doors in seconds, so fast that ART almost didn’t get it open for me in time, which would have left a hilarious SecUnit-shaped hole in the door because I wasn’t stopping. That would have been bad if there was a hull breach.

But it wasn’t a hull breach. It was, actually, so much worse than that.

A curly-haired human looked up at me and said, “Who are you?”

Seven humans stared at me from around an unfamiliar ship in ART’s hangar. I knew their faces and names. I record every face I’ve ever seen after all, and I hadn’t seen these humans all that long ago.

I backed away. ART, what is Gurathin’s crew doing in your hangar? I looked around for holoprojectors. It’d be just like ART to prank me for ignoring it like I had.

ART just said, I can explain.

Which meant it couldn’t explain in a few seconds.

Not fucking good.

A few more unknown humans stepped out of the unfamiliar ship, and the energy weapons in my arms shot out all on their own. I felt my (Gurathin’s) jacket rip. I’d fix it. I added its repair to my Target.SystemPriorities.file, and took aim.

The humans started to understandably lose their shit.

“It’s the SecUnit!” Arada yelped.

“That’s a SecUnit?” Volescu whispered.

“But it has a face!” Pin-Lee breathed.

“Everyone just calm down!” Ratthi pleaded.

“Where is Dr. Gurathin?” Mensah demanded.

The unknown humans said nothing, frozen in place. Now that, that felt great. I took my time lining up the perfect shot.

Then the hangar door slid open behind me and Gurathin walked in. I’m sure I locked the door. Gurathin’s too smart for his own good.

He took one look at his humans and ran limping toward them. I caught him around the shoulders before he could get there.

“Let go!” Gurathin yelled, right in my ear. I wasn’t going to let go though, no fucking way. I didn’t recognize the unknown humans by face, but I knew the logos on their clothes. They’re printed on all my parts.

It was the logo from my security bond company. My old security bond company, I should say. The company that built me, and rented me, and punished me, and reset my memory more times than I will ever know.  

“We mean you no harm,” the human with the most logos said. With my guns in play everyone had shut up and stopped moving except for him, standing there with his hands up, customer service smile. I’d seen that same smile on countless representatives as they invited prospective clients to test my obedience. I hopped on one leg and spun in a circle a lot for that smile. I did worse. I wanted to blast the smile right off his face.

“Murderbot!” Gurathin’s voice cracked; he was still struggling. He was going to hurt himself and I adjusted my grip so he couldn't. I could hold him like this all day, all night. But it didn’t feel good like it had when I picked him up to rescue him from danger, or when we cuddled under blankets in the freezing dark. It was for his own protection but it felt… wrong, I guess.

So I let him go.

Gurathin didn’t even look back as he sprinted over to the humans, landing in the arms of that human Ratthi. All of his humans started crying. Gurathin started crying. Which was unfair because I really wanted to cry too, for some reason. I’ll have to explore that later (haha, no I won’t). I was too busy watching the company humans.

“What the fuck is this,” I said, and made sure it sounded threatening.

“We received your ship’s distress signal,” the company’s apparent spokesperson said. Asshole probably didn’t even know I used to belong to him. “We were hired to help stage a rescue.”

“My ship...” ART, what the fuck did you do?

I told you I would explain, it said. It’s feed presence was the smallest I’d ever experienced.

Saying what he just did would have been a good start.

I did not think this would become an issue. And I was concerned about how you would react.

Well, how’s this for a reaction? I left the feed.

“We were able to use some new tracker technology we’ve been developing to follow you here,” the human called Mensah said, “From the initial signal point.” This was, of course, a lie. Had to be. Sure, AI has advanced since the uprising, but I figured humans were all dancing around campfires and beating each other up with sticks these days. And… what, they had new tech, and companies for hire to rescue lost humans? What the fuck were they doing out there?

“Pretty sure that violates a treaty clause or two,” I said. Oh, that got them nervous.

“It’s alright,” Ratthi said, like this would fix everything. “You have nothing to fear from us. We’ll just, uh, take Gurathin and go, alright?”

“Letting any of you out of here alive is a big ask.”

“Murderbot,” Gurathin’s voice shot up over the others. “Let’s talk over dinner.”

I blinked. “Uh. Okay…?” Oh. He meant with all these humans, too. Shit.

“Murderbot?!” Volsecu said, before I could revoke dinner privileges.

“That’s its name,” Bharadwaj said.

“You call me SecUnit,” I snapped, shifting my energy weapons. Then Gurathin’s gaze met mine. At least he knew I was fully capable of denying him anything. He’d lived it. Like, I could totally march every single one of these humans back onto the ship and jettison it, and he knew it. It was totally the kind of reputation I expected, just not one I really wanted.

Fuck, Gurathin looked so fragile next to the other humans.

Fucking… fuck.

I reluctantly put my energy weapons away. Not much a few humans could do with ART watching, I guess.

“Sure, yeah,” Ratthi said. “Of course. SecUnit.” I wasn’t really listening. My hands kept smoothing over the tears in Gurathin’s jacket. I think Ratthi noticed who it really belonged to. My face felt weirdly hot.

Gurathin’s eyes were no longer trying to meet mine. “I’m sure SecUnit will want to search the ship, and go on patrol. Perihelion, would you give us your special tour?”

Of course he appealed to a higher power. ART, the traitor, gathered its best drones to voice their approval of the idea. It probably just wanted to avoid giving me that explanation it promised. And it would be a good idea to search the ship.

…So I just stood there like an idiot while ART’s drones rounded up the humans and shepherded them into the hall. I kind of wanted one of them to try something, and watch ART fry them. I wanted to fry them.

Well, not Gurathin’s humans. They were all orbiting my augmented human like fat, happy little moons. Gurathin was redder than usual, his long dark eyelashes all wet, and beaming like a fool. I had to work hard for his smiles and here they were just pouring out of him. I felt like I was being strangled by my own wiring.

When he started to lead them out I grabbed his arm.

“There isn’t enough food for everyone,” I insisted, helplessly. If he wasn’t used to being the center of my attention this had to be torture for him. He probably wanted things back to normal, right? Normal wasn’t so bad, really.

“We’ll make do,” Gurathin said.

Then he—he squeezed my arm back. Reassuring me. I got so freaked out that I let go, and Ratthi took his arm instead. The little solar system with ART’s drones on the periphery and Gurathin as the dark center drifted out of the hangar. I listened to his crew admire the architecture and the décor. I watched the company personnel follow respectfully behind. I sent my own drones to escort them.

“Your company doesn’t exist anymore,” I told them. I knew that much—I saw their headquarters burn on the newsfeeds.

“Not in bot space,” one of them agreed. He looked me over in a way I didn’t like, like he saw every one of my logos. But it was just a second, and then he was following after the others. Maybe I was imagining things.

One of ART’s drones lingered by the door. It said, “I truly didn’t anticipate them finding us. I—”

“Fuck you,” I told it, then spun around to search the stupid ship.

Chapter Text

Day 91.

I knew, with absolute certainty, that Murderbot wasn’t going to let me leave with Mensah and the others. It chased me down too many times for me to believe anything else. That’s the only reason I behaved the way I did.

I admit I was… hurt, how Murderbot left me in the shuttle when we got back to ART. It confirmed everything I already suspected about myself, and how unrealistic my desires were, I suppose. I’m just saying it wasn’t a shock. I was fully prepared to forget about it, once ART stopped interrogating me about its crew.

Then Murderbot wrestled me into that stupid harness, and I was reminded quite suddenly that it kissed me. It nursed me like a ComfortUnit when I was sick. I was starting to lose count of how many times it had saved my life. This SecUnit may have started out not liking me, but all the evidence pointed to—

Anyway, I decided, just as suddenly (but now of sound of body and mind), to have this all out in the open. Explain my (completely inappropriate) feelings, and let it share its (heretofore unknown to science) feelings in return. Maybe establish that ‘trusted connection’ we (for lack of a better term) flirted with.

Unthinkable, I know. But I’d seen firsthand how everything had changed for humans. Why shouldn’t we be happy as we could, if we would?

Of course, Murderbot fled again before I managed to get my shy ass to articulate a proper proposal. Also not a shock, but not acceptable either. I hacked the lock and chased it down like the persistence predators in my ancestry. I didn’t pluck up my own emotional courage just for it to give in to cowardice. I’d corner it like a prey animal if I had to.

I found my crew waiting for me instead. That was a shock.

But even as I ran headlong into their arms, I knew our reunion was only temporary. Murderbot would never let me go with them.

Therefore, my first objective had been to make sure Murderbot didn’t kill them in a panic. Then, once Murderbot put its weapons away, I just… treated their presence like a visit. I showed them everything I’d done to repair ART’s systems and rooms. I showed them the plants I’d worked so diligently to grow, the lab where ART had printed my food, the hot water boiler I fixed, the bedroom with the transparent floor, my priceless library. I had plans to help them get to know Murderbot, too.

They didn’t seem very interested, though. They all just kept asking if I was alright.

“When did you break your nose?” Mensah asked. 

I quickly covered it. “It’s a long story.”

My friends, probably convinced that Murderbot inflicted every single one of my injuries, gave said Murderbot a spectrum of judgemental looks. Which was fair, I suppose: Murderbot had finished its search of the ship and was lurking on the periphery of the group, looming, definitely passing its own judgements on the visitors. It seemed to be trying to get a clear line of access to me, which my friends did their best to thwart. I guess everyone was being overprotective.

“He got in a fight with another human,” Murderbot informed them, like it was a participant in the conversation and not just stalking us. It then said in our private feed, It looks fine.

I forced myself to lower my hand.

“I better take a look at your foot, at least,” Volescu said.

“It’s fine,” I insisted.

“It’s not fine,” Volescu replied.

“What happened to it?” Overse asked as she led me to a chair, like I’d fall any minute.

“He fought some malfunctioning combat bots,” Murderbot said. “He saved Perihelion and I.”

“No,” I said, but Murderbot cut me off.

“He’ll make it sound boring, but it wasn’t.” It then launched into a story that made me sound a lot less like a boring systems analyst with a penchant for fly-fishing, and more like some kind of action hero from the media. You could tell very very easily where Murderbot got its storytelling patterns.

“It didn’t happen like that,” I assured them.

“Yes it did,” Murderbot insisted.

“I’ll look at it anyway,” Volescu said, firmly. He’s one to talk, he always trying to ignore his bad knee when we’re on field missions. I had to sit and let him take off my boot and feel the joints, while everyone crowded around me and asked where I got my boots and how I lost so much weight and if I wanted a sedative. I never noticed how relaxing Murderbot’s avoidance of eye contact had really been.  

I tugged up my shirt collar and hoped no one noticed the harness. That was quite literally the last thing I needed right now. Maybe Ratthi noticed it, the way I flung myself at him. I wasn’t sure. The way he kept looking between Murderbot and I wasn’t reassuring.

Light, did he realize where Murderbot got its current outfit?

“I suppose it could have been worse,” he said, with almost a laugh, “We thought the SecUnit killed you! And here you two act like old fr—"

“Perihelion,” I said, a little too quickly, “Is dinner ready?”

*

“This ship really is a incredible,” Mensah said. “I’ve never seen anything so advanced.”

I waited for ART to acknowledge the compliment, but it didn’t. Its drones were silent as they zoomed around our seats, clearing appetizers from the dining table and laying out a few entrees we’d practiced. ART was focusing most of its available processing power on writing out an essay in my feed, explaining its actions. It had apparently gotten very worried when we didn’t return from the space station, and called on its only source of assistance. Once it got me back it fled the area in the hopes we wouldn’t be found. It of course had no idea humans from beyond bot space could track us. ART went into painstaking detail. Probably because Murderbot wasn’t speaking to it at the moment. Every few minutes it sent a query asking if Murderbot had said anything about it to me. I had to tell it no.

“I’ve been teaching Perihelion how to cook,” I said, but it was too late, the conversation had gone on without me, something about a research vessel that eviscerated its human crew and broadcast the video as a warning. Ah. They meant ‘incredible’ the other way. Everyone frowned at me.

“So, when did you cut your hair, Gurathin?” Ratthi said, trying to revive the murdered conversation.  

“Oh. Ah.” I tried to push it back. “It’s… a little short.” It was all I could think of.

“No, it looks great!” He reached up to ruffle it.

Crunch.

We looked over. Murderbot, who had walled itself back up in its armor and been helping the drones clear away dishes, stood with the shattered remains of a glass in a clawed hand. A swarm of drones swooped in to clean up the mess.

“…You can always tie it back,” Ratthi said into the silence. “Here!”

He pulled a large hair band out of his pocket. For all the time I’d spent living in Iris’s room, I never found a single hair band. I took it almost reverently.

“What is that?” Murderbot demanded.

“It’s just for my hair,” I said. I put it on, sighing with relief as my hair stayed out of my face for the first time in weeks. “Thank you, Ratthi.”

“It’s supposed to fall over your eyes,” Murderbot said. “That’s why I gave you that haircut.”

“You let it cut your hair?” Overse and Arada said together.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling?” I growled at Murderbot.

It responded my walking over to my chair.

Oh, no. Fuck no.

“Leave it, leave it!—” Murderbot made a grab for the hair band. I dodged. It scooped me bodily out of the chair. “Murderbot!—”

“I’m fixing it!”

“I’m serious, just—!”

“It looks stupid!”

“Get off me!”

“SecUnit,” a voice said—quiet, but not to be ignored.

We both froze in hilarious tableau. Mensah was glaring up at us. The others were all bristled like cats around the dining table.

“I’d appreciate it if you put Gurathin down, please,” she said.

There’s a reason Mensah was our planetary leader for so many terms. And I guess I was more used to physical altercations with Murderbot than any sane or normal person should be.

Murderbot stuffed me back in the chair and tucked its hands in its armpits, while I fixed my hair and rumpled clothes. Ratthi stared at me wide-eyed, like he’d seen something he shouldn’t. He probably did.

Please don’t mention the harness, I sent into his interface, but it was in his pocket and he didn’t notice.

Things started to return to normal as Mensah and the others told me about everything that had happened since they fled bot space. I kept an eye on Murderbot in case it tried anything else. But it was just hiding in the corner now, rolling a glass between its gloves as if daring itself to keep it intact.

“…This really was our last ditch effort,” Overse was saying. “Trying to find you any later might’ve put the whole alliance at risk.”

That brought up a memory I’d filed, a conversation I’d overheard between JollyBaby and that ComfortUnit. “What alliance?”

Overse froze with a fork almost to her mouth. “…You haven’t heard?”

Ah. ART paused in its expository narrative in my feed. I should have mentioned that first.

“Several leaders from the refugee groups are planning to ally with the AI,” Mensah explained. “They’ve arranged a meeting. It was announced almost as soon as we got back to Preservation. You really haven’t heard of it?”

“We’ve been… keeping to ourselves, mostly,” I said. “Refugee groups. You mean—”

“Former corporations.” This came from one of the strangers at the table, those that my friends hired to help find me. The logos on his shirt were oddly familiar. “We believe with our recent advancements, we have a lot to offer bots. We’ll start by exchanging some new technologies for greater economical permeability.”

“And the release of any human prisoners,” Mensah said.

“Of course, yes!” the corporate said, nodding. “It’s a multi-factor model. We’ll buy up resources with low AI value, establish a few branch offices…” I did my best not to judge him too harshly (I was a former corporate, too) but even I stopped listening.

“It’s a step in the right direction,” Bharadwaj said when he’d finished. “Towards reconciliation? Spaces where bots and humans are both welcome and free would be safer for everyone.”

Murderbot snorted. I ignored it.

“Everyone's going,” Ratthi said.

“Yeah,” Murderbot muttered from the corner. “That’s not a security risk at all.”

Mensah at least managed to ignore this. “Your presence would be valuable to the cause, Gurathin. Because of your augments, you can make sure that Preservation voices are heard and respected by an AI audience, as well as our, ah, corporate friends.”   

“You do know constructs can hack human augments, right? Like, that’s a thing we can do.” Murderbot turned to me. “Are all humans this stupid?”

“It’s a calculated risk,” Pin-Lee said.

“You’ve got that fucking right.”

“We can’t afford to let this thing fall apart. Humanity needs AI.”

“Do we need you, though?”

“Murderbot,” I warned.

“Of course you do!” Ratthi said, cheerfully, either unaware of or ignoring the tension. “It would be really great to have your voice heard, too, SecUnit. And Perihelion. A construct and a bot that have—” he looked at me like he had when I opened my augments to him, “—befriended a human… I mean, it would make a very good emotional case for greater cooperation between our peoples!”

“I’ll think about it,” Murderbot lied, openly.

“Murderbot,” I tried again, but it cut me off.

“We’re kind of busy at the moment.”

I sighed. That at least was true. “Perihelion is currently looking for it’s lost crew. The search has to continue as soon as possible.”

“More missing people?” one of the company people said. “What are their names? Maybe we can help you find them, too.”

“We don’t need anything from humans,” Murderbot snapped. “Least of all help.” It moved toward the door and held out its hand to me. “Gurathin, come please.”

It used my name. it even said please.

I pretended I didn’t notice, and took a drink from my empty glass.

So I guess it had three choices: carry me out, stay with me, or leave without me. The first option wasn’t exactly viable with Mensah around, I suppose. And despite my intentions I didn't actually try to break the ice between Murderbot and my friends. As I said, I assumed this would be the last time I ever saw them. Maybe I thought, in the end, a tyrannical SecUnit keeping me prisoner would make more sense to them than… well, whatever relationship I’d wanted to discuss with Murderbot before they arrived.

Murderbot closed its hand and stomped out. Everyone’s shoulders dropped (I think Volescu even sighed with relief). I pretended not to notice that, too.

*

We spent the rest of dinner reminiscing about the good old days, which almost made me forget Murderbot’s melodramatic exit. The last few years in general, really. But in the end Mensah and I thought it would be best if everyone returned to the ship, while I checked in on Murderbot. I didn’t want to. Murderbot would probably order them out of the hangar as soon as I left. But we were going to have to face the SecUnit sooner or later, and given its behavior so far I preferred to do it where my friends couldn’t see. I kept my anger and my homesickness to myself as I chatted with Arada and nodded to Mensah and shared one last hug with Ratthi. I guess I don’t like goodbyes.

Perhaps, if this alliance goes well, we might meet again, but…

I tried to focus on something else, which ended up being the logos from Mensah’s hired company. Once I put my augments to the task, it didn’t take long to identify them. I’d ripped a suitskin off a certain SecUnit with those logos.   

“Why did you hire this company specifically?” I asked Pin-Lee, as everyone was boarding.

“They were the first to respond to our request for assistance,” she said. “They seemed familiar with this kind of research vessel, I guess. And they were so worried about you, I mean they really made it sound like you were….” Her face scrunched up. “I’m serious, are you sure you’re alright?"

“I’m fine,” I said. “They’re not bad machines. They’re just on the other side of this war we started.”

“You and I didn’t start it,” Pin-Lee said. I didn’t get a chance to tell her that neither had ART or Murderbot.

Did you fight on the side of AI in the uprising? I asked ART in the feed, while I looked for Murderbot. It was probably sulking in front of its wall of screens.

Not in the way you think, ART said. Seth, Martyn and I were eager to prove AI sentience and grant us independent rights. When I met Murderbot I hoped it would assist in our cause. During the uprising, we shifted our focus to rescuing bots and constructs. I predicted that most AI wanted peace and cooperation with humans, or at least to avoid conflict entirely. The combat bots on the lower decks are a testament to my hubris.

I sighed. I wish there were more that thought like you. On both sides.

I was foolish. It roiled in the feed. Are you sure Murderbot has not said anything to you about me?

…I’m sorry.

It is being childish, ART’s feed presence became hot and jagged. I forgave it for deleting the bot pilot, and for not telling me about my crew. It should forgive me for this. Some actions are necessary, however unpleasant. I do not understand.

This…wasn’t unpleasant to me, ART, I said. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to it.

Thank you, Dr. Gurathin. I felt its feed presence relax ever-so-slightly. And I don’t mind.

…Don’t mind what?

I retrieved Murderbot’s suitskin from the shower. And it showed me its camera views of your adventure. I always said you would be good for my SecUnit. It will be difficult to let you return to your crew.

I rolled my eyes. It seemed ART was going to have to get used to looking foolish.

The room was dark when I stepped inside, which was a little surprising—I figured it’d be watching shows to try to forget about the humans in the hangar. Instead it was hugging its legs on its pile of pillows, staring at nothing.

“I can’t believe I have to say this,” I said, “But your behavior was unacceptable.”  

It didn’t answer.

“Murderbot.” I tried to look it in the eyes but it just stared through me. I suppose it could have been watching media without its screens. “You disrespected me in front of my colleagues. My friends.”

There was probably a better way to say it. I did want to circle back to our conversation before my crew’s arrival, a much more pleasant conversation, but this had to be resolved. I should have been able to let my crew go with some degree of dignity.

My SecUnit said nothing.

I took a deep breath and tried to change tack. Remind it that it had all the power here. That seemed like something Mensah would do. “You should think about getting involved in this alliance. With this new tracking technology, maybe someone can help you find ART’s crew.”

It finally looked up at me. “I guess you’re really eager to get out of here, huh?”

Its tone was entirely dismissive. I felt my jaw tighten. “I mean that the alliance could use us. I know you and ART are busy planning a rescue, but—"

“I’m not talking to ART right now.” It threw itself down onto the sofa. “And I don’t need to talk to you, either.” Which would have been more impactful if it didn’t keep on talking to me. “I know what’s going on, here. Did your humans bring that company here just to make me feel like shit, or what?”

I had to take a second to process this. When I did, it took much of my waning patience not to respond with blatant sarcasm. “That wasn't the reason, Murderbot, obviously.” I tried to bring this back within the realm of reality. “Their connection to you is concerning, though. I spoke to Pin-Lee about them, but she doesn’t seem to be aware that you had anything to do with their company. It’s possible this tracking technology is related to some of your hardware. Would you like me to interrogate them?”

It snorted at me. “Like you could. Anyway, your friends like them, so…”

I clenched my fists. “It’s not my job to massage your ego.”

“Well, it’s not my job to entertain your humans. My job is to protect you and ART. I’m good at my job. It's a good thing I am, since you two just bring in all these humans, these fucking unknown factors, setting off my threat assessments on my ship—don’t you say a fucking word, ART!” It stopped yelling at the ceiling to point at me and bestow this damning pronouncement: “You’re a terrible biotherapy project.”

I rubbed my brow. “I know that’s meant to be insulting, but it really isn’t.” This was ridiculous. “Look, if you let me spend some time with them without throwing tantrums...”

“Spend as much time as you want with them,” it snapped. “Who says I’m keeping you here?”

“Y-you are! What—”

“Maybe I changed my mind. You suck as biotherapy, you’re a fucking hassle. I should just get rid of you.”

“You’re not getting rid of me.”

“Do I look like I’m joking? Why would I keep you if you don’t want to stay?”

I laughed. “For one, you’re jealous.”

“That’s a fucking lie!”

“It’s not a—!” Exasperated, I hooked a thumb in the harness Murderbot stuffed me into. “You know what this means, right? ” I knew it didn’t, and provided an illustration in the feed, of what a harness meant to literally everyone else in the system except for Murderbot.

In an instant Murderbot was on its feet, its skin blotchy red. “What the fuck!”

…I admit I might have chosen an overly-strong illustration. But it was ignorant, and I was through being patient. “This experiment between us has been ill-advised from the beginning, and if you’d actually think for two seconds you’d—"

It grabbed me.

The motion was so quick it scared the hell out of me. I hadn’t been scared of Murderbot in a long time. I struggled, I think I even yelled. Murderbot ignored me, and tore my shirt collar open with its bare hands. There was a horrible tightening around my chest for a second, then the harness snapped. Its built-in alarm blared briefly, then went dead.

I tripped over my feet as I fell from its grip, and sat down hard. Murderbot stalked over to its pile of pillows and sank into it.

“There,” it said. “Go.”

I should have scrambled to my feet. Instead I just sat there.

“I said go!” it shouted. “Are your augments offline? I’m tired of taking care of you.”

We both recovered from this bombshell for a few seconds. I got shakily to my feet.

“So instead of share me for one day, you’d rather just get rid of me.”

It didn’t speak again.

I hissed, took a look at my torn collar, shook my head. This didn’t make sense. “Is this something you learned from the media?” I asked. “Make up some reason to push me out so you just so you don’t have to address what you did?” Neither of us wanted to address it, though. We’d been ignoring the shit that Murderbot put me through, quite happily.

Or, perhaps, I’d been happily misinterpreting its client relations protocol this whole time.

No. Surely not. I’m a loner and a corporate and, yes, little strange, but I’m not that bad at reading people. Murderbot was the one that made sense to me, sometimes. Almost.

“Or I’m supposed to I beg you to let me stay, then you don’t have to apologize for anything,” I guessed. “Is that the idea?”

It did not confirm or deny this.

“Because I won’t.”

The wall screens flickered to life, a hundred shows playing at once.

“Murderbot!”

I threw a cushion at it. It didn’t even turn. The sound of the shows on the wall drowned me out. I could beat on its chest and it could, easily, ignore me.

ART, tell it to…

But ART’s feed presence had withdrawn from me. I was left hovering by myself in the group feed like an idiot.

I was locked in a closet all over again. Staring at food not fit for human consumption. Hiding under a blanket. I had come to care deeply for ART and Murderbot but, Mother and Light, they’d hurt me deeply, too. This… hurt.

I roared at the room and its screens, like a wild animal. I guess that’s what I was. No longer kept.

Well, I can call a fucking bluff.

I headed toward the door, waiting for it to block my exit—but it opened smoothly on my approach. I realized this would be the last time I’d ever walk through this door.

I spun around. “For the record—” my voice shook but I persevered, “I was very happy here. With you.” I really had been.

Murderbot did not turn from its screens. I walked out.

We were out of ART’s hangar less than five minutes after that.

I’m still trying to process this. It all felt so unnecessary. I suppose that’s how I ended up on that ship in the first place, though. I keep expecting Murderbot to cut a hole in the hull and take me back. That’s not paranoid thinking, it really can do that.

If it does, I’m not forgiving it. Its treatment of me has been completely out of line. I'm the one that should have gotten tired of it.

At least I haven’t gotten drunk and traipsed around the ship, so that’s something. I wonder what I’ll do next, in light of my track record with traumatic events.

I…don’t really know what to do next.

I’m only offering this to satisfy the mental health evaluation requirements, so you don’t diagnose me with some kind of psychosis. It’s perfectly natural that I would be upset about how things ended. I’m not often proven wrong; not this wrong, this publicly, catastrophically wrong.

I mean, I really thought it—

It’s not a psychosis. I just need time and space to resolve things in my mind. Privately.

If you disagree I’m happy to get another trauma counselor.

Chapter Text

I sit. Gurathin kneels in front of me. He’s taking off my armor. Not fast, I’ve seen him work fast. This time his hands move oh-so-slowly. He’s sending me a running list of repairs direct to my feed, drawing plans for adjustments to padding and straps and even fabricating some new pieces. I let the information wash over me, but all my processing power is focused on his naked hands touching my skin. My skin grows in prescribed sections where I’d been designed to feel sensations, over metal bones and myo-plastic muscles. Touch gets processed through a metal conductive spine that’s been replaced and repaired more times than I remember. But I still feel his warmth. His fingertips find indentations left behind in my skin by the armor. I map the whorls of his fingerprints.

“You need a new set of radius guards as soon as possible,” he says. “You’re very vulnerable here.” He kisses my forearm.

I vibrate like a cheap interface. The flow of information over my processors speeds up briefly as he rifles through it. It tickles, and I stretch.

“And I can repair your shin armor.” His hand slides down my leg. “The shoulder pads. The…” Shit, what are those called? “…middle plates.”

Yeah, that sounded right.

“When can you start?” I ask.

“Your wish is my command,” he says, then breathes, “I’ll even buff your toe protectors.”

I hook him with my boot and grab a handful of his soft dark hair. It makes him gasp, which means his mouth is open when I pull him into a—

“This fantasy is poorly written,” ART said.

I was so startled by ART using actual audio that I jumped under the blanket. I came back to reality and shoved the open file into my archive. Just a little audiovisual real-person fiction piece I’d been working on. I admit I’m not a professional.The plot was based on a show that even ART called ‘maudlin’.

“If you don’t like it, don’t spy on me.” I wasn’t mad at ART, though. I’d forgiven it completely. It took my side in the fight with the non-fictitious version of Gurathin, and that was what I really needed.

I think.

Anyway, I was enjoying myself for the first time in months. No responsibilities. Nothing but me, and ART, and Gurathin’s quilt. The quilt was new, I guess. I waffled between a) outrage that my human left it behind and b) outrage that ART never made me anything so nice. Sometimes c) outrage that I kept not finding Gurathin wrapped up inside it.

But I had some punk music on (the kind Gurathin liked). I was lying on the nice cool transparent floor of Iris’s room (where Gurathin and I cuddled when he was sick). I had an episode of Sanctuary Moon running on every single one of my screens (even the ones that Gurathin used as the basis for several of his stories). I was even writing my own fantasies (though I admit his stories are better). I’ve watched a lot of media with breakups and aside from being painfully sober I was doing everything right.

(There’s a thing I can do that’s similar to human intoxication, but ART hid all the electromagnets.)

“You’re sulking.” A couple of drones lifted up the corners of the quilt.

“Go away, ART,” I growled.

The drone on the left said, “You did the correct thing, you know.”

The drone on the right said, “Releasing him back into the wild was probably for the best.”

“I don’t know,” I said with an eyeroll. “Maybe I don’t support human autonomy. I mean, you let humans do whatever they want and they invent robots that take over the universe, right?”

“You did the correct thing,” ART insisted. “I have given the matter some thought, and come to the conclusion that humans were never meant to be pets.”

“Oh, great. As long as you say so…”

The drones tried to tug the blanket away. I snatched it back and there was a brief tug-of-war before I, of course, won, even if ART made me fall over in the process.

“The problem is not with your actions,” it continued, “but your words and attitude.”

“Oh, my attitude.” I balled up the blanket in my arms, until it was just about Gurathin’s circumference. “He was the one accusing me of—of random shit.”

“You were the one not answering.”

Okay, not sure what this had to do with anything.  Gurathin left, what did stuff like ‘why’ even matter? We could have parted with tearful declarations of undying friendship (or something) and it wouldn’t have made any difference. We were never seeing each other again. At least I didn’t have to worry about watering all his plants.

“And then you said hurtful things to him,” ART said.

“Please, humans are too fucking fragile—”

“It was hurtful. To him. If you paid any attention to his vital signs, you would know that.”

Ouch. “Okay. Fine.” I smoothed a grumpy crease in the balled up-quilt. “I could have been nicer.”

“Insufficient. Explain your behavior.”

“I already said. I got tired of him.”

“Given the content of your creative efforts, you don’t seem very tired of him.”

“I’m tired of this conversation.”

ART shut up, and I thought, for once, ART would just let an argument go. Sadly, I don’t think I’ll ever be that lucky.

“I often ignored Gurathin’s opinions and perspectives,” it said, “Under the assumption that I operate from a larger knowledge base by a factor of thousands, and know better. However, I was utilizing an inferior definition of the term ‘care.’ I should have been more considerate to his desires during his stay with us. I also withdrew from its feed, even though he promised to help reconcile you and I. I was afraid you would not speak to me again, so I remained silent.”

…Wow. Okay, that put ART taking my side into wildly different perspective. “I was going to talk to you again, ART.” Ugh, I felt like I’d been run over by JollyBaby. “I was just… pissed off.”

“All is forgiven,” ART said. “Now it is your turn to explain your behavior, since I explained mine.”

I narrowed my eyes at the drone. “Is this you trying out some new psychology trick?”

“Yes. Gurathin taught me.” Of course he did. “You became agitated when Gurathin shared that illustration file with you. The one with the—”

“Yeah,” I cut it off. “Yeah, that’s why I got rid of him, ART. You solved it. Hooray.” I was pretty freaked out by that. It was the kind of stuff I deleted first from my memory files, as soon as I hacked my governor module. I tore Gurathin’s harness off him with as much blind horror. Just picked him up and…

Shit, did I bruise him? I wasn’t really paying attention to his vitals. Humans are really really fragile.

Great, now I felt I’d been kicked in the midsection by a combat bot. I preferred the angry emotions, thanks.  

I’d…definitely been angry before that, though. Jealous, like Gurathin said, not that I’d ever admit that out loud. And maybe I was trying to avoid apologizing, too (I had been kind of an asshole; an apology would take forever).

…Okay, so maybe it was a little bit of everything Gurathin said. No wonder I was so pissed off, right? I don’t need a human to tell me my feelings.  

At least he knew me well enough not to suggest that I’d been blackmailed, or that I found another better human. Even something plausible, like…actually being tired of him. I have to hand it to Gurathin, he got to know me really well. Scarily well, now that I thought about it. Possibly better than ART if he so easily guessed what I was feeling and ART had to ask.

Really would have been nice for him to tell me that when he was yelling at me. 

“Everything was way easier before he came along,” I said. I don’t know, I think I was still angry. “I knew what I wanted, I didn’t worry about political shit—”

“You have been checking the newsbursts more often than usual.”

“I really don’t need commentary, ART.” Gurathin’s so much easier to talk to than ART sometimes.

“My apologies,” ART sighed. “Please continue.”

“…And then when he showed up it turned out I was wrong about everything. Humans, the uprising, storytelling… I’m even starting to think this alliance could be a good idea. It’s fucking irritating. So yes, I made the right choice, because I can’t deal with being wrong about anything else. And I’m not wrong. He had to go. I just probably could have… explained things better.”

Like hell, I could. I paused for the inevitable laughter, but ART kept quiet.

“He’s…” I petted the quilt. “He probably knew what I meant, anyway. Since he knows me so well and everything. And it’s not like he cares about anything except food and blankets and books, right? He’s probably happier without me. His crew doesn’t have to worry about if he’s just saying things are fine because he has to. He and I always had this big stupid—” fuck, I almost threw up and that’s not even physically possible for constructs, “‘pet human’ thing between us. Even though it’s the only reason we got to know each other in the first place.”

“Mm.” ART really can’t help itself, sometimes. It was actually almost comforting.

“I just wanted—” What did I want? Why did I push him out? Like, really? What did it matter that things ended the way they did? (And how the hell did humans put this shit into words?) “I really did want to let him go. But… have him stay, anyway.” I hugged the balled-up blanket version of Gurathin over my flip-flopping stomach. “I know that’s stupid. And I really don’t know how to say that in a nice way.”

“That is a very complex emotion,” ART said softly. “For you.”

“…Thanks?”

“In fact, my knowledge base suggests this is quite the profound breakthrough for you.”

I didn’t see what could be so profound. I wanted something I couldn’t have. Story of my life.

“All might not be lost,” ART said. “If the alliance succeeds, you can renew communications with him again.”

I snorted. Yeah, just wander up to Gurathin’s front door. ‘Just kidding!  I wasn’t actually tired of you! Leave your friends, come back and take care of ART and your library and your plants, and be with me.’

I looked over at one of Gurathin’s plants. Was it starting to wilt? I thought about watering it. Over-watering is bad for plants, too, though, right?

“What is the likelihood of that actually working,” I asked, while I subtly collated my video footage of Gurathin watering and fertilizing to reconstruct his schedule, “compared to finding your crew?”

“It depends on the likelihood of the alliance resulting in greater cooperation between bots and humans,” ART said, then, “It’s non-zero.” Which was about as bad an answer as I could expect. I abandoned my reconstruction efforts.

My gaze shifted from the plant’s maybe-wilting leaves as something moved—but it was just a drone floating past the doorway. I sat up and watched it go.

“…Is that one of yours?” I knew the answer.

“No,” ART replied. “I assumed it was yours. Your drones are always patrolling.”

“Not like that.”

I stood and followed it out. It was floating slowly, scanning. ART’s SecSys wasn’t even picking it up.

It had conspicuously few logos.

“Fuckers. I knew those corporates were planning something.” It had been several cycles since they left, and ART and I both scanned the ship for anything that might have been left behind on accident (me more so, it would have been a good excuse to go after them). They must have hidden this drone someplace with a timer to reactivate.

‘Coincidence.’ Sure, Gurathin. I wanted him back just so I could hold this over his head.

“Let me interface first,” ART said.

“I can handle this, ART,” I said, just before one of ART’s drones sailed over my shoulder.

“Do not approach,” it said, like it was in charge of security instead of me. I obviously ignored it.

This meant we reached and connected with the drone at the exact same time. That’s actually pretty hard to do, for two computers (ART and I are very close).

I had a couple tenths of a second to feel the cold front as the drone’s code rushed toward me. Ah, shit.

I mean, I know killware when I see it.

Okay. Well, this wasn’t going to be pleasant, I knew that as I watched the file download grow and grow, but this wasn’t the first time I fought killware. I’d been looking for something to punch.

…Wow, that was a lot of killware inside such a tiny drone, though. They really crammed it in there. I guess I should be flattered. Of course, they were the company that made me, so they knew what they were dealing with. Not that even a massive piece of custom killware like this would be enough to stop me.

I braced for impact.

I think the killware… laughed? Killware doesn’t exactly speak in words, they’re like (most) bot pilots and hauler bots that way. But the impression I got from it was definitely amused.  I think, if it could speak in words, it’d have said something like this:

Oh, sweetie. You thought I was here for you?

Well, yeah. I mean, it’s my company, who else would it be after?

I watched the tsunami of its code swell over my head, past me, and straight into ART.

…Oh yeah.

I scrambled at it, grabbing the code by its fucking tail. It yanked me off my feet and we were falling headlong through the abyss of ART’s feed presence. ART was too vast for normal killware to sink into. For a second I was more worried about how stupid I was going to look after ART swallowed the killware and had to spit me back out. This code was different, though. Their logos might have been mine but the company designed this killware specifically to take down ART (I wanted to tell ART this but it was pretty obvious and I didn’t need it laughing at me right now).

I watched it bare impossible claws that snagged in ART’s various systems: life support, communications. I cut them away, and a dozen more popped up.

Okay. So this killware hadn’t just been designed to take down ART, it had been designed to repel bot efforts to delete it.

It's not trying to kill me, ART said, pleasantly. That would be stupid, even for corporates. They’re trying to take control. I’m more important to them functional than deleted.

Well, I said, also very pleasant (I was really trying to learn my lesson), That’s not fucking good.

I will delete it first.

Sorry, I growled (yeah, I said don’t know how to be nice), but your SecSys was not designed to deal with something like this! I watched the poor SecSys fussily trying to enclose the killware in a few unused drives. It was like trying to put a cup over a household pest, except the pest was growing big enough to eat the house.

Oh, this killware was good. It was like they designed it to evade me, specifically. To climb all over ART’s crystal drive, specifically. Lots of specifics here.

…Fuck Gurathin’s humans, they had this planned all along!

Stop trying to capture it! I ordered. Kill it!

I have everything under control, ART said, while the killware was happily rolling my friend up like an old carpet. Oh. It’s getting on you, now.

And—oh shit, there it was, sticking to my code. I tried to scrape it off but it had a new power source now: ART’s crystal drive. I thought this was just a very very shitty coincidence, but I started going through the comments in the code and, uh…yeah. Its designers planned this. Use ART to supercharge the killware and spread it to any bot that tried to interface.

I’m just brainstorming here, but it’d probably be pretty devastating at a big meeting where a bunch of bots and constructs were supposed to come together.

It’s infiltrating your crystal drive, I warned. It took all my processing power and more than a few tricks I learned from Gurathin to untangle myself.

Ah. ART considered this in silence. I waited for it to say something, so I knew we had a fighting chance. I guess the silence prepared me for what it finally did say: There’s only one thing to do, then.

No. No way—

Self-induced lockdown is preferrable to shutdown. And it won’t be able to infect my systems any further--

I can’t help you from the inside, dumbass!

Obviously. It shoved a map of itself into my feed with emergency routes highlighted (yeah, I’m not the only one who’s an asshole). Please follow emergency lighting to the nearest exit. You have thirty seconds.

ART! Thirty seconds was barely enough time to power up the shuttle, much less—

Did I stutter? ART asked, Lockdown commencing.

ART—

You better get out of here, it said. And—okay yeah thirty seconds was cutting it close but twenty was impossible, even for me.

I’ll be back, I told it. I ripped free of the killware (ouch, that must be what hair removal feels like). Then I ran.

Even at top speed and literally dumping the shuttle out of the hangar I barely made it out in time. I watched ART go dark except for a few emergency lights. Then I just…sat there, staring at it. Sure, trying to help ART from the inside while it was in lockdown was impossible. But I wasn’t completely sure I could help it from here, either. That killware was something else.

I hated to admit this so I was glad to be alone when I did: I needed help.

It’s a good thing that Gurathin let me inside its augments, since it meant I could also chart a fairly accurate course for Preservation.

Crazy? Yes. But I had been paying attention when Gurathin talked to me (mostly), and I had been catching up on the newsbursts. Even if he wasn’t home (which, let’s face it, he probably was, convalescing after the trauma of dealing with me), it turned out this alliance meeting was being held in Preservation space. I guess because it’s independent planet and this whole thing was arranged by corporates? Maybe? I’m really trying to care about the political shit here.   

Anyway, I’ve been in his augments. I even knew where he lived.

This meant that, once I dodged Preservation space ‘defense’, local air traffic ‘control’, and a couple industrious police, I was able to aim my shuttle right at the tower where Gurathin lived. I saw him through the window and everything. I waved. It was great. Part of me just wanted to call it good and find help somewhere else.

Cause yeah, even I knew this was going to be awkward, and that was before I overshot the building.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a man that thought he had completed his universe-mandated adventures, but instead discovered it was a mere prelude to true adventure around the bend.

(Well, it’s not as if I’m going to give any of this to another trauma counselor. Might as well be another bedtime story. For someone. Definitely not Murderbot.)

I returned to Preservation to lots of hugs from Mensah’s kids, lots of tears from Amena. Just seeing her smiling beside her mother made it all worth it, objectively. They of course wanted to know all about the SecUnit that kept me locked in a tower for months. I gave them the fairy tale they expected. Descriptions of ART’s many rooms. A few of the moderately harrowing moments. Enough of the outlandish ones so as to make it all seem unbelievable. Nothing that might actually resemble horror, or romance.

In a weaker moment, after everyone else went to bed, I told the youngest what I really thought of Murderbot. But I know no one will believe her.

Still, I apparently I looked pathetic enough that Ratthi volunteered to look after me for a few days. It let me get used to being around humans again before alliance negotiations began, and gave me somewhere to hide after counseling sessions.

We stayed in Ratthi’s apartment, which is the same as mine, but one floor up, and filled to the brim with houseplants. The plants and I spent the days sitting around, existing, ornamental. Ratthi wanted to do all the cooking and cleaning. Don’t get me wrong, I do a lot of work for the PresAux team. But suddenly none of it felt as integral as, say, fixing ART’s boiler, or growing those vegetable plants from long-abandoned seeds. I wondered if anyone was taking care of them. Maybe Murderbot would try a tomato, just out of curiosity.

I hoped it’d choke on it. I suppose it would, SecUnits aren’t meant to eat.

Anyway, the constant simmering rage made me feel a bit distant from everything. Ratthi did his best to banish technology from my life, which didn’t help. No media, no feed messages. All the plants make his apartment into a sort of electromagnetic shield. The whispered conversations in the static of the feed were gone. No presence in my augments to keep my breathing slow and shallow. It was probably good for me, even if I felt handicapped. Even if I kept waiting for Murderbot to show up and take me home.

I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t want that to happen. I’d feel normal soon enough, and I just had to be patient. Even familiar stimuli can be off-putting when removed from a long-term traumatic environment.

But two weeks passed since I left Murderbot and ART, and I was still just… waiting.

At least I wasn’t the only one feeling the disconnect.

“I keep thinking you’re going to disappear,” Ratthi told me.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I doubt they’ll show up at the alliance talks.”

“No, not that,” Ratthi said, laughing, then, “Wait, do you think the SecUnit will try to take you back?”

“It can’t possibly know where I am,” I snapped. “Or care, honestly.”

Ratthi looked at me like a kicked puppy. I suppose I was still angry about the whole thing. I sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ratthi said, a little too readily. I could probably get away with anything. “I’m just… surprised we got you back so easily.”

I lifted a shoulder and tried to dig myself further into the window box. The glass reminded me of ART and its transparent floor. “It got tired of me.”

“No,” Ratthi laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m not making myself clear. You looked… happy, there? Like, genuinely happy.”

“Yes, well, the counselor gave me a clean bill of health.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think that’s right.”

Which was nice to hear, but the way he said it made me frown.

“I’ve known you a long time, right?” Ratthi said. “We’re friends.”

I nodded. He did too.

“Well, I’ve never seen you bloom like that, even with Mensah’s family. It was like you belonged there, and we were the bad guys kidnapping you.” He took a deep breath, as if about to say some truth he’d been holding onto for a while. “If we knew you wanted to stay—”

“It got tired of me,” I said, more firmly. He should have kept hold of that truth, to be honest. Since when did Ratthi view SecUnits as things even capable of genuine hospitality?

“…I’m sorry.” Ratthi’s tone turned sad. He’s much more intuitive than me. He probably knew what I was feeling better than I did. Certainly better than that counselor.

I mean, of course I was traumatized. I had my heart ripped out of my chest, my home snatched out from under me, my contributions completely ignored.

Oh, and the kidnapping stuff, too.

I glared at Ratthi until he left me alone. Sometimes Ratthi’s too intuitive for his own good.

I leaned against the cold glass. I don’t know why it was so hard to convince myself that I belonged here. I’d sat in this window hundreds of times. I liked existing on the periphery of PreservationAux, ensuring jobs got done and things ran smoothly. I’m not just talking about work, but family. I knew the role I played. It was easy. Nothing with Murderbot and ART had been all that easy.

My stomach clenched as I realized things about myself that Ratthi probably already guessed, and actually no longer mattered. Whatever I’d had, I’d lost. Murderbot was gone.

And then, Murderbot was there.

Not there in the room with me. There were a few panes of glass between us. It was piloting the piece-of-shit shuttle in Preservation air space. Not even technically air space, this was the textbook definition of the hard deck, where aircraft absolutely could not fly. And there it was. My augments froze that second of time as our eyes met, and looped it for me. Murderbot waved at me.

Then the shuttle was screaming past, banking right. It bobbed on the street before swerving, bouncing, flipping like a ballerina in pirouette, and pile-driving into the asphalt of an empty lot that usually hosted barter exchanges on the weekends. It would definitely not host a barter exchange this weekend.  

“Holy shit!” Ratthi yelped. “What the hell was that!”

I couldn’t say its name. I just said, “It’s here.” And fuck me, I was already grabbing my coat.

*

I arrived on the scene to find Murderbot already in custody. I’m guessing it allowed this; otherwise there would probably be a lot of dead bodies lying around. A squad of cops (as a post-apocalyptic society we were a bit beyond cops, more just a rotating selection of people voluntold by our shambles of a government to do what they could to keep the peace) had the SecUnit in cuffs and shoved an ancient combat override into its data port. They stood around it as the crowd formed, showing off their prize catch.  

“…Clearly an attempt to sabotage the alliance,” one of them was saying, “You give ‘em an opportunity and they’d have this place razed to the ground in five, ten minutes.”

“It’s not sabotage,” I said.

The cop smirked and ignored me. Hell, maybe it was sabotage. Maybe I was making a fool of myself right now and Murderbot had a legitimate reason for being here that had nothing to do with me. Maybe this was just the world’s most emotionally-devastating coincidence. Murderbot of course looked completely unaffected by my presence, though I suppose that was the effect of the combat override.

I stared up at it. I probably was meant to be experiencing some traumatic flashbacks. Instead I just wanted them to take out the combat override. Yes, even after everything it did to me. I couldn’t yell at it properly otherwise. Of course, I didn’t suggest this. It’s a SecUnit, I’m not stupid—

“Well, let’s get that horrible thing off,” Ratthi said, reaching up toward Murderbot’s neck. The cops were too busy basking in the glory of their capture to notice.

I lunged for him. “Ratthi, wait, don’t—!”

My augments caught the second that Murderbot came to life: before Ratthi’s fingers even touched the combat override. Of course it was faking.

Murderbot pushed Ratthi neatly off its feet and into the nearest cop, who didn’t even notice that Murderbot snapped the handcuffs. The other cops seemed to turn in slow motion as it rushed straight for me. I had no chance of dodging. A hand wrapped around the back of my neck and an arm around my waist. My heart leapt (wonderfully, pathetically, angrily) into my throat.

Murderbot announced, with a speed to rival a corporate reading the fine print on a contract, “IjustneedtoborrowhimIwillbringhimbackthankyou.”

Then we were fleeing at SecUnit top speed. In the same second. Which doesn’t sound very fast, Murderbot was only running and not, say, attached to some kind of jetpack. But it was definitely fast enough acceleration to make me pull Gs. I couldn’t get enough breath to yell, and by the time I could I’d left behind anyone that would hear me.

Murderbot dodged buildings. Leapt up walls and across rooftops. It didn’t stop running for almost ten minutes.

Eventually all the jostling finally did me in, and I was sick. Murderbot skidded to a stop and dropped me, dancing away from my bodily functions like a frightened animal.

(I’d like you to know that, before I met Murderbot, I hadn’t puked in decades. And this was…what, the third time? Fourth?)

“You’re so delicate,” it said, while I spat on the ground. “I barely touched you.”

I was still catching by breath. “What, in Mother and Light…”

“You’re fine,” it said, maybe in case this was a leadup to another performance from my alimentary canal, “We’re a few miles out from your, uh—” it squinted back the way we’d come. “Settlement? Tribe?...”

“City. It’s a city.”

It raised its eyebrows. “…Whatever you say.”

I’m starting to think Murderbot is a curse fabricated solely for my torment.

I sat up out of the pile of trash I’d collapsed in. We were in a dried-up crater in the earth, all trash and fish bones. My heart sank into the vicinity of my shoes. “Why,” I said, measuring my words like the trauma counselor told me (like I routinely shoot off at the mouth or something, honestly I found the counselor’s advice questionable), “did you bring me here?”

“I needed to talk to you. I thought this would be preferable to holding you down, so—”

“You are the most infuriating thing I’ve ever met!” I shouted.

Murderbot just blinked down at me. “Have you met ART?”

I growled, and looked around. “Where is my fucking apartment?”

“If you call that an apartment,” Murderbot said, until it saw my face and pointed. I started walking in that direction. It followed me.

“I need your help.”

“Of course you do.”

“That company your crew hired left a drone on board that infected ART with killware,” it said. “Or, not killware, but really bad malware I guess. I think it was trying to override ART’s systems. It tried to infect me, too, but ART got me out before it went into lockdown, to keep it from taking over. I’ve been keeping tabs on it. Looks like the company’s bringing it in to finish the job, then use ART to infect every bot and construct that shows up to this alliance. We have to stop it, obviously.”

“How?” I shook my head. “Never mind. I can’t help you.”

“It’s ART. You have to help.”

“Incorrect.”

“I’m going to tell it you said that.”

“Go ahead. Given how our last conversation went, I’m not sure it’d listen to me.”

“You were being an asshole.”

“...Where are those fucking cops?...”

Murderbot showed me a handful of police skiff keys. Why am I not surprised?

“We’ll need to steal a shuttle,” Murderbot said. “Unless you have one.”

“No.” My foot was starting to hurt. “Get out of here before someone with actual guns catches you.”

Murderbot snorted. “Let me carry you before you twist your ankle.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I saw a shuttle on my way in we can hack, I can get us there in two minutes—”

“I suppose I don’t have a choice.” But I knew by now that getting angry wouldn’t stop it. I sighed and rubbed my brow. “You said you’d listen to me.”

Murderbot blinked. I could practically see it reviewing its memory files.

I shook my head and kept limping toward my building.

“Okay. I can listen.” It dashed up beside me. It wheeled back when I tensed up, then drew itself to its full height, arms wrapped around its chest. “What do you want to say to me?”

I glared up at it, while it found something interesting to look at on my shoulder. After a few seconds of righteous indignation, after two weeks to think up the perfect dressing-down for everything this walking product of human arrogance did to me, and put me through…

…Light, I wanted to cry. Wonderful.

I clenched my hands into fists and kept walking.

We walked in silence a while. Murderbot gallantly kicked cans out of my path. Or maybe it just liked kicking cans.

“What is this place?” it asked.

“Old lake.” I said. I wasn’t completely tongue-tied by my emotions. “Had a house over that way, on the waterfront.”

 “…Okay?” It paused, reconsidered the value of this statement, perhaps in light of what it knew about me. “Did you like it there?”

“I was only there for a year.” But oh, what a year. It was the only place I’d ever felt at home. Well, there,  and…

I hadn’t been back to my little apartment under Ratthi’s since I returned. How weird would that feel?

“Maybe we can cancel the alliance,” Murderbot said. “What would keep other bots from getting infected while we figure out how to rescue ART.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Why not? Do you hate bots and constructs?” It frowned. “Okay, I guess that makes sense.”

“Bots are already arriving. And humans need this alliance more than the bots do. Not corporates trying to win back the galaxy—real people that just want to live, to fix things. They won’t throw away the opportunity.”

“Get the corporates out, then.”

“I cannot begin to explain how impossible that is.”

“Well, it’s not like I know, I only started learning about human politics last week.”

“My only involvement in the alliance is translating a speech Dr.  Mensah wrote about Preservation’s hopes for peace. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Fine. We’ll free ART ourselves.”

It made this sound so simple. But I suppose I didn’t have a choice, not really. Not just because Murderbot wouldn’t give me one.

I muttered, “Why are you even asking me?”

“You remember how ART’s list of people it could call on for help was so short that when we were missing, it had to contact your crew? Yeah, mine’s shorter.”

“I wasn’t your only option.”

“Bots and constructs don’t like me. I’m almost positive I told you this.”

“There’s those SecUnits on that luxury ship that you freed. And I doubt JollyBaby would have helped us so willingly if you harmed his crew. You help a lot of people.”

“Believe me, you were my only option,” it said again.

Well. I hoped that it would admit it wanted my help. I suppose that’s too much to ask of anyone in a moment of crisis, even if they’ve been inside your head.

So I finally gave up the ghost. I sent Ratthi a message to his interface, and one to Mensah, to let them know I was fine and not in need of rescue. I sent another message to Pin-Lee to see if she could stall any further action against Murderbot, at least for the next few minutes. I sent my speech translation to Mensah, in case I didn’t make it back in time.

I reminded myself that I was not, in fact, finally going home.

“Are you still wearing the harness?” Murderbot was staring at my shoulders with new interest.

I felt myself reddening. “You only broke one of the straps.”

“You didn’t wriggle out of it? Or cut yourself free?”

“Believe me, I tried.”

Murderbot was clearly re-considering its estimation of me. “You could’ve—asked another human for assistance. Humans do that.”

I considered a way to explain why telling anyone about it would get me labeled worse than just ‘strange.’ Not that I wanted a repeat of when I shoved that inappropriate illustration at it in the feed, either.

Murderbot took my silence as invitation to frisk me.

“Get off.” There wasn’t any bite to it, though. And maybe Murderbot is better at reading people than I thought, because it actually smiled and reached for me again. I blocked it, and we play-fought for a few seconds.

I stepped wrong on my bad ankle and tripped. Murderbot caught me before I fell on any rusty cans or old food wrappers. Its pupils were huge, engaged, looking right at me. I know Murderbot pretty well, but I was reminded of how much unexplored territory lay between us. We might have learned all sorts of things about ourselves and each other, on that ship, over the years. Now I’d never know.

It said, “I’m sorry.” It hoped this would cover everything. In this regard I knew Murderbot all too well.

“Put me down, Murderbot.” I waited for it to do so before I said, “We’ll take the shuttle you brought here, we’re not stealing a new one. And if you want my help you’re going to have to listen to me. When we’re through, you bring me back home.”

“To ART?” Murderbot asked.

“…Here.”

It’s like I said: I can call a bluff.

Murderbot, for its part, didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

I hoped Pin-Lee wouldn’t be able to clear our way to the shuttle, or that it would be too damaged to fly. Sadly, both are far too reliable for their own good. No one bothered us as we approached the shuttle, which appeared no worse for wear than a few broken lights and some scrapes. 

I spotted Ratthi standing among the gathered crowd as I climbed aboard. He didn’t rush forward insisting we bring him along. He just waved and smiled, like a guest at a wedding. I think that was maybe worse.

Inside I found a new Life-Tender sitting on the pilot’s seat, and an emergency blanket, and, of all things, a lunch box.

“Thought it’d be a good idea to stock the ship with essentials,” Murderbot said with a sort of pleased smirk as it looked over the spread. Then it glanced back at me and immediately hunched up. “This was all before…uh…”

I suppose I could have said ‘before you got tired of me and threw me out?’ But I didn’t really want to talk about it, either. I admit it was very considerate for thinking of my human needs. I didn’t read any more into it than that. I wasn’t going to let Murderbot have that kind of power over me.

I did let it help me into the Life-Tender, though, and strap me into the pilot seat. It kept sneaking glances at me. This made me blush, which made the bag steam up, which made the blushing worse and exacerbated the issue to the point that Murderbot worried about the Life-Tender being broken. I’d gotten out of the habit of being routinely humiliated. Getting bagged up like a takeaway lunch was trying on my ego.

Maybe I blushed for some other reason.

I activated the engines and soon we were flying (or at least limping) out of the empty lot. Slowly, the blue sky faded out and the viewport filled with ships on a field of stars. Though most were familiar models, many had been repainted, or retrofitted. One flashed rainbows of colors like a deep-sea fish. Another seemed to actually breathe. I curbed my initial impulse to stare, or turn around and run for my life. These bots wanted an alliance. It’s not like we had much to stop machines from entering Preservation space, any time they wanted.

I carefully wove our shuttle through their ranks, looking even more derelict and disreputable by comparison. After days ornamenting Ratthi’s perfect indoor garden, I didn’t mind it. I think I actually missed the old pile of junk.

I did not miss Murderbot continuing to look at me. Not just glance, but outright stare, at least when I wasn't looking.

“What is it?” I finally asked.

“Nothing.” 

“Then stop staring.”

Its helmet turned, but it wasn’t long before that helmet start swiveling back.  “You look good,” it said, in devastated tones. “Healthy. They’re taking care of you. Feeding you. Other stuff.”

“Yes.” Other stuff? “I’ve been staying with Ratthi.”

“Oh.” The tones were getting downright depressing. “Great.”

More silence, another sneaking glance. Ah. I took a wild guess as to what was bothering it:

“It’s the hair, right?”

“Why would I care about your hair?”

“You’re making a face.”

“Right, and you can always tell what I’m thinking just by my face.”

…Well, I didn’t mean to bring out any passive aggression, but I guess it was inevitable. I focused on the controls.

Murderbot expressed its displeasure at this non-reaction by glaring out the viewport. Maybe it tried shifting its attention to some media on its feed.

I suppose it didn’t work, because about ten seconds later it blurted, “Fine. It is your hair.” Its eyes went all glassy and defiant. “I don’t like it.”

Ah. I scrubbed my hand over my head, which was buzzed down to about a half-inch. I did it myself, actually. After my haircut from Murderbot, I didn’t need some barber awakening more latent proclivities. “I told you it was getting in my eyes.”

“You look like you’re going to fuck shit up.”

I grinned, entirely without meaning to. I guess Murderbot still had that power over me, that ultimate power: the power to make me laugh. “It hasn’t been this short in a long time.”

“Since when?” I think it wanted me to talk about my hair, to get used to it. Maybe it just wanted me to talk.

“You’re worse than my therapist.”

“You have a therapist?”

“Oh yes, I told them all about you.”

Murderbot looked aghast. I gave in.

“It hasn’t been this short since I left the Rim.” Did it even really care? It didn’t say anything, but it was still looking at me. I kept going. “There were strict regulations on my planet for men’s haircuts, and my company took them very seriously. I didn’t exactly have time to visit a barber while I was leaving the Rim. The texture was a shock. A good shock. I’d been growing it out for two years.”

Murderbot silently struggled with something. I wondered if it was going to apologize for cutting my hair in the first place.

It said, “Can I touch it?”

“…I’m in the Life-Tender.”

“I can open it for a few seconds. I’ll seal it back up.”

Bad idea, Gurathin. But I nodded, and sat still while it took off its glove, undid part of the seal on the Life-Tender, and reached in. Murderbots hands are huge, all new skin, no moles or tiny hairs. I felt a bit like a bird in a cage. I held my breath as its hand engulfed my skull. Fingers brushed through the bristles, its colorless eyes fascinated and sad.

It withdrew its hand and sealed up the Life-Tender, and I took a few slow, deep breaths until the ache went away (lack of oxygen, I’m sure).

“There it is.” Murderbot said suddenly.

“What?”

“Hide in the shadow of that transport.”

I moved up next to the transport. It didn’t protest, so I assume Murderbot already asked/notified/threatened it. I watched in astonishment as the light shifted and ART came fully into view. I guess I didn’t realize it was so close. Its emergency lights were on, but it was maintaining orbit. We watched in silence for a moment and I found myself remembering all of the various equipment that ART possessed aside from its crystal drive, including bio labs and rail guns. It could do a lot of damage to everyone, right where it hung in space like a holiday ornament.

“They’ll have people monitoring entry, so it won’t be easy to get inside.” I sat back, thinking backward from this initial problem. “Do you think you could spoof a feed address from your company?”

It frowned and I built the beginnings of some codes and fake messages in the feed. An investor requesting special access, nothing excessive. I packaged it into a data bundle and offered it to its feed, to modify as it liked. I kept my augments encrypted, of course.

Murderbot turned its face to the far wall. A second later its feed presence snatched the data bundle sharply away, as if at arm’s length. 

And this was after it carded its fingers so softly through my hair.

“This won’t be very convincing coming from this shuttle,” Murderbot complained.

“Well, I do have an idea for that,” I managed to say, not growl. “This is just one part of the plan. I’m sure you can make it more convincing–”

“And once we’re on board we’ll need to make sure ART knows it’s us. Its higher functioning will be limited, but it won’t let corporates take over without a fight. It’ll be targeting anything that moves, including us.”

“Targeting? With what?”

“How the fuck should I know, ART’s a secretive bastard.”

“Just wanting to know what we’ll be dealing with…”

“A ship that wants to kill everything on board.” It looked at me. “Don’t tell me you have an idea for that, too?”

“Shocking, I know.” But I actually did, and it was pretty good, and I needed Murderbot to stop being an asshole right now. “You wanted my help, Murderbot.” I sighed. “And I think that our best chance at getting ART to stand down is with ART’s crew.”

“We don’t know where they are.”

“What did JollyBaby say?” I waited. “...Didn’t you ask them?”

“Of course not! I’m not going to ask the assholes that kidnapped you for,” it made a face, “ help !”

I managed through great strength of character to ignore this. “JollyBaby and its crew are familiar with the space station where we last saw them. They’re where I heard about the alliance in the first place. If they’re here, we can at least ask.” I started scanning the ships orbiting Preservation for anything that matched the description I had in my augments. Beside me, Murderbot went through all of the stages of grief before thumping back in its chair, arms folded. In the feed I felt it start going through the list with me—but, distantly. As far from my feed as it could possibly get.

“This is me listening,” it said.

Ah. So this is what it looked like. I said, diplomatically, “If this idea goes to shit, you’re welcome to blame me.” I’m pretty good at optimizing success rates and analyzing data, though. This was going to work.

We worked through the list. It was boring, and I managed to take stock of Murderbot for the first time. It was wearing its armor, of course, but the face plate was transparent, and… Murderbot didn’t look great. There were dark circles around its eyes. One of the clips on its helmet was unfastened. Its feed presence, what I could make out, felt jagged around the edges. Mine gets the same way sometimes, during times of stress, and fatigue. 

I worked on fixing ART a lot, but I never got around to working on Murderbot much. At least, not directly. ART was always saying how much I improved Murderbot’s behavior just by being there.

“Did I tell you the story about the princess who never cut her hair?”  

Murderbot shook its head. Its hand hovered over its safety restraint, and I thought for a moment it’d climb out of its chair and kneel next to mine. That would be an even worse idea than letting it touch my hair. A genuinely terrible idea, because I wouldn’t mind at all.

But it was just polishing the metal buckle with its thumb. “No. Why didn’t she cut it?”

“In the hopes that someone would rescue her from her prison tower.”

I told it the story. It didn’t come as easily to me as the others, I kept getting distracted by the data.

And Murderbot’s shape beside me. Its helmet was turned away, but I think it was watching me in the reflective surface of the dash. I’m not sure. I wouldn’t turn to check.

“It will grow back,” I said, once I finished. That wasn’t the moral of the story. I should have picked something else.

Silence. I finally glanced over. The slope of its back was just the same as it had been when I left. I guess I’d always see that, now, when I looked at it.

Then I saw its reflection in the viewport, and realized that was not, in fact, ignoring me. It just fell asleep. The jagged edges of its feed presence had softened like sea glass.  

There was no reason to be pleased by this. I don’t know why I smiled.

*

Murderbot and I stood side-by-side, waiting for the hatch on JollyBaby’s end to cycle open. This wasn’t part of my plan. If the bots helped at all I expected them just to send us some information, not invite us onto their ship to get it. 

(I never would have suggested this.)

“Are you okay?” Murderbot asked.

I was shoving at the Life-Tender. The clinging polymers felt a bit too much like a cargo net. Maybe these were the traumatic flashbacks I was promised. “I’m fine.” I resented Murderbot noticing at all. Its opinions on the mortifying ordeal of being looked at may have merit.

Murderbot reached over and unsealed the Life-Tender. Airless cold rushed in, both good and bad for my mental state and I started to protest.

“You’re fine,” it said, clearing the flimsy polymer away from my face. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” There was cold certainty in its pretty, colorless eyes, which were staring firmly at my right ear. I wanted to move three inches to the right and watch it squirm. Or not squirm.

The hatch cycled open and I took a much-needed breath of air. I would have pulled myself together entirely except that a surprised, “Oh shit!” from the other side interrupted me, followed by a SecUnit in charred armor barreling through the hatch. 

Murderbot politely bundled me out of the way just before the SecUnit tackled it into the far console. Sparks flew. Murderbot’s helmet crashed into a support beam.

I grabbed the nearest heavy object, a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall, and threw it at the attacking SecUnit. 

I admit this was not my best plan. The cannister bounced off the armor with a cartoonish ‘bong!’ and sailed over Murderbots’ head, where it fell on the valve assembly and started spraying everything. I ducked back into my Life-Tender. When the smoke cleared Murderbot popped up, a dent in its helmet with blood and fluids leaking out, with the SecUnit pinned to its chest.

Both SecUnits glared daggers at me. I discovered something worse than being stared at by just the one SecUnit.

“What the hell were you doing?” Murderbot said.

“That was fucking dangerous!” said the other SecUnit.

I found myself at a loss for words. “I was–helping.”

“We do the protecting around here,” Murderbot snapped. 

“Some people’s humans,” the SecUnit sighed. 

“Hey, I didn’t teach him that!”

“I mean, what did he think he was going to do?”

“Right, he throws the fire extinguisher, then what, just hopes for the best?”

I bristled. “Now, wait a minute–”

“Humans should never get involved in security!” they said, in perfect unison. 

Well, if I knew they were going to take a break from their fight to roast me I would have reconsidered interfering. I especially didn’t appreciate being yelled at while wrapped in a glorified polymer bag. 

I made an inelegant egress from the Life-Tender just as another figure barged into the shuttle. Murderbot spared an arm to drag me behind it, which was–well, it was better than being yelled at, at least. 

“Some SecUnit you are!” It was the ComfortUnit, its hands on its hips, not even trying to help the SecUnit still struggling in Murderbot’s hold.  

“You didn’t tell me these were the visitors!” the SecUnit choked out.

“Because I knew you’d act this way,” the ComfortUnit said dismissively.

The ship rumbled, and a moment later JollyBaby filled the entirety of the hatch opening, flashing a combination of pleased and admonishing sigils on its display surface.

Murderbot wrinkled its nose at the hauler bot. “I’m still not calling you that.”

JollyBaby gave it the feed-equivalent of a bear hug. I of course wasn’t in either of their feeds, so I couldn’t tell more than that, except that Murderbot rolled its eyes, and… smiled? I’d been preparing for Murderbot to face some hostility, after what it said about not being very popular among other AI, but clearly that didn’t apply here. On the edge of my feed, I could almost hear them talking. Chatting.

Something ugly and uncomfortable rose up in my chest. It was so sudden, unnecessary and entirely unasked for that I just stood there dumbfounded for a moment. The verbal conversation continued without me.

“What the shit, JollyBaby!” the SecUnit complained.

JollyBaby showed a transcript of a previous conversation on his display surface.

“You didn’t say it was the Murderbot!”

Shrug sigil. JollyBaby apparently has a ruthless streak.

“We just need your information on the former crew of the Perihelion,” Murderbot said, continuing to ignore the SecUnit. Another deluge of sigils flickered over JollyBaby’s display surface, a combination that probably meant more to bots. Murderbot snorted.

“JollyBaby says they’ll come with us to free ART,” Murderbot translated, I suppose for my benefit. 

My nails dug marks into my palms as I nodded. We needed all the help we could get.

“Like we’re helping you!” the SecUnit snapped.

I managed to unclench my jaw.  “If you help us, you can kill as many corporates as you like.” Hey, I can be ruthless, too.

The SecUnit froze. “Done.”

Murderbot dropped it. The SecUnit did its best to look unbothered as it climbed to its feet.

“I know how to find the humans you’re looking for,” it said, airily. “I don’t think they’ll want to talk to me, though.”

“I wonder why,” I muttered, remembering how much it enjoyed throwing me into that fight ring.

The SecUnit at least looked embarrassed before it turned to communicate with JollyBaby. Murderbot finally deigned to wipe the blood spattering its helmet with the back of its forearm. It looked very cool at that moment, like the tallest mountain peaks back on Preservation. ‘Cool’ as in, remote. Completely unattainable.

Can I take a look at that cut? I asked in the feed.

Murderbot didn’t even dignify that with a response.

JollyBaby made way for us to board. The ComfortUnit pouted at me as I walked past but I refused to cower. I even said, “Thank you for your help,” even if I wanted to tear my augments out of my skull.

“So it’s alright for you to have a human pet, but not me,” it said over my shoulder.

“He’s not mine,” Murderbot said, bored–and I think I hated that more than anything. 

The ComfortUnit glanced at me. “So, it’s your pet, then?” I could feel its feed presence looming over me.

“It’s not like that,” I managed. Though I struggled to define exactly what we were. I doubted this ComfortUnit would accept ‘colleagues with a common goal,’ or ‘exes.’ “We’re like you and JollyBaby.”

That was, on reflection, perhaps a lot to assume. The ComfortUnit continued to peer down at me.

Murderbot’s hand landed on my shoulder. It didn't look at me, but in a moment it had inserted itself between us. In the feed the two constructs moved like colossal fish under the ocean’s surface, then sank below the depths, fading from my severely limited view.

The ComfortUnit just shrugged. “Fine.”

Murderbot sent a status request to my feed, and I forced myself to breathe: status, normal. Murderbot’s hand left my shoulder as quickly as it landed, and it disappeared from the feed.

Ouch.

“ Who is this? ”

This came from JollyBaby, broadcasting through one of its speakers. The voice was young and feminine.

“Iris?” It wasn’t like anyone else was jumping at the chance to talk. “This is Gurathin—I know your father, Seth?”

A long silence. I thought of ART and prayed.

“ This is Seth ,” a familiar voice said. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Gurathin.” Did he remember me?” “We met—"

“Gurathin!” Seth crowed so loud that JollyBaby’s speaker fuzzed out. “I knew you’d make it off the station! How the hell did you—”

“We need your help. ART—Perihelion—it’s in trouble.”

“…Peri? It’s alive?”

“Yes, it’s been trying to find you. But it’s been infiltrated by malware. We think the company that infected it will try to override its functions. We need your help to rescue it.”

Seth didn’t say anything. For a couple of off-putting moments I wondered if ART’s crew didn’t want to be found. I was never shown a recording of how things ended between them. ART’s perception of events could be skewed.

Murderbot muscled me out of the way. “This is Perihelion’s SecUnit,” it announced.

Seth continued not to speak.

Murderbot’s confidence faltered. “We, uh, met when—”

“ I know who you are, too ,” Seth said, then made a noise somehow exasperated and joyful. “ Of course I do! I just—I can’t believe it, I thought you were dead.”

“It’s really hard to kill a SecUnit.” Murderbot mumbled. There was a lot of blood but I think its eyes were glistening. 

“ I never thought we’d see you again. We’ve only just got the gang back together. I guess you know where I’ve been. Iris was posing as a ComfortUnit, if you believe it– ”

“Casualties?” Murderbot sounded strangled.

Seth laughed. “ No—no casualties, we’re fine. We’re all fine.”

“I need your status reports,” Murderbot insisted. Its frown was reminiscent of one of Mensah’s more obstinate children. Seth indulged it completely however, sending it packet after packet of information while Murderbot’s deep frown slowly relaxed, and turned into a full-blown grin. I felt like I was witnessing something I shouldn’t, especially when Seth brought the others onto the call, one by one. But when JollyBaby and Murderbot started to wander off, I didn’t have many options. I still felt the ghost of that ComfortUnit lurking around my feed. So I followed them. 

Murderbot kept talking to them. Now and then it rammed its knuckles up against its helmet as if to wipe its face. There was so much blood I couldn’t tell if it was crying or not. I don’t even know if constructs can do that.

Eventually the conversation ended, and I waited for Murderbot to say something to me. It talked to JollyBaby instead. Probably about the mission. The intricacies of AI relationships and communications aren’t well-understood. I just knew I felt like the wallflower at a dance.

JollyBaby rolled off after a minute, leaving us in what was maybe the old quarters for the humans that lived here. Murderbot had withdrawn into its feed. Apparently talking to ART’s crew again was too much for it. Or it was re-reading the crew’s status reports over and over. Fluids were leaking out of the bottom of the helmet. I rubbed my shoulder where Murderbot touched me.

“You really should get that cut checked,” I said. 

Murderbot ignored me. I sighed. Fine. I was sick of…whatever this feeling was in my chest. I got up to take my chances with the ComfortUnit.

Murderbot reached up, grabbed the harness through my shirt, and dragged me back down beside it. My heart pounded. Yes, it was inconvenient. No, I didn't hate it.

“I, ah, thought you wanted to be alone.” I don’t know why I was trying to explain myself. 

“No.” It looked down at my chest. Its brow twitched and it snatched its hand back, as if it had no idea how it got there. Then it carefully turned its head away. I suppose it had new humans to look after. Still, I hated this the most: the way it didn’t look at me at all. 

“Tell me your plan for getting a better ship,” it said.

I suppressed a sigh. But I’m an adult. I said I wanted to go back to Preservation after this, and this was why. So I kept my tone light and not at all afraid, confused, or heartbroken. I’m an adult. It didn’t have to look at me. “I think you’re going to hate it,” I said. 

“Let me guess…”

“Well, JollyBaby likes you.” I swallowed, made myself okay with that. “Maybe SecUnit Three will like you, too.”

Chapter Text

SecUnits One, Two, and Three had absolutely no problem with us using their luxury ship for ART’s rescue. We found them easily among the many ships already in orbit around Preservation. A lot of bots, it turned out, were interested in this alliance.  

I think in this case, though, the remains of the twenty humans carefully shrouded in the hangar were perhaps a contributing factor. As soon as we arrived SecUnit Three asked me, hopefully, if I, the only living human available, knew a place to lay the humans to rest. Preferably better than a dance floor.

“I’ll look into it,” I promised. “As soon as I’m back on Preservation.”

Three’s smile was reserved, but grateful. “We’d like to keep more humans from dying,” it said. “We have observed extinction firsthand and it seems very unpleasant. Humans are much better when they are alive.”

…I thanked them for their assistance. We were on our way to ART within minutes of our arrival.

Our hosts showed no interest in posturing like JollyBaby’s (and mine) had. They just politely offered to show us around. It’d take a while for the ship’s bot pilot to wade through the orbital traffic, so we agreed.

We toured clean, empty rooms. Windows had been washed and dust had been cleared away. The dance floor had been scrubbed, the smoke and detritus cleared, lights changed to a soft grey. As we walked I noticed the faint scent of ocean salt, and we found fish swimming in a newly-cleaned tank. Really, very little had changed.

Still, the place felt less soulless than it had. It was far more peaceful now, like a monastery, or a temple. Not nearly as warm and inviting as ART, but the warmth that existed between the SecUnits helped it feel like a home. They had shed their armor and suitskins, and led us through the halls wrapped in nothing but shawls and blankets. They kept within arm's reach of each other at all times, guiding, touching. They seemed to actually enjoy eye contact with one another.

Murderbot watched their behavior as closely and curiously as I did. Who could guess why. Maybe it just wanted in on the action. I might know some things about Murderbot and its completely guileless expressions, but it isn’t as easy to read as it thinks it is. 

This was about when I started receiving messages from the rest of PreservationAux. I suppose Pin-Lee could only keep them distracted for so long. Ratthi kept asking how ‘my SecUnit’ was doing. Mensah wanted to know where she could pick me up. I ignored them all. I doubted the company was monitoring our communications but I didn’t want to give anything away. Better to keep them out of this.

JollyBaby and its constructs turned back to watch the fish in the tank. I asked if there was a quiet place where Murderbot and I could perfect the message and code data packet we’d been writing, to send to ART when we arrived. SecUnit Three suggested ‘the study,’ and we were shown to a room with a single absurdly long sofa and a vertigo-inducing display surface. I sat at one end of the sofa. Murderbot sat at the other, of course.

Hmm. Maybe I can read it pretty well, and merely lack confidence. 

SecUnit Three offered me a bottle of cold, sealed sparkling water, and a sealed fruit pac that didn’t expire until next year. I took both gratefully.

I have water and snacks for you on the shuttle, Murderbot said in our private feed as I popped the lid.

I know. Don’t worry, I think we can trust them. The three SecUnits hadn’t said much but I didn’t get the impression that they meant us harm.

Murderbot didn’t answer. It was watching SecUnit Three caress the arm of SecUnit One as they withdrew from the study. Three’s fingertips mimicked little explosions and implosions on the tender skin and wire bundles on the inside of One’s wrist. One did that unpracticed giggle that seemed to be a common trait of SecUnits everywhere, while Two looked on fondly. In this state of mutual bliss the SecUnits three floated out of the room like ghosts, leaving Murderbot scratching its own arm, over its armor.

I ignored this, of course. I brought our data packet up on the display surface so we could both look at it without getting anywhere near each other’s feeds. We got to work.

I still felt Murderbot, though. In the same way I felt it on the complete other side of the room, yet occupying the same piece of furniture as me. I almost suggested it go somewhere else. The act of sitting on a sofa with Murderbot had been spoiled entirely. 

(I really shouldn’t have let it touch my hair. There was a reason I cut it, and now that was ruined, too). 

We completed our data packet, and Murderbot asked for advice coding a blind to keep ART's malware from detecting any of the constructs and bots we’d bring on this mission. We worked on that a while, then rooted out some minor errors in Murderbot’s energy weapon reload system. There wasn’t much passion in our work, not like the code we made to free our SecUnit hosts. Definitely not like how I cared for it in the medical suite after the combat bot attack. Not at all like I hoped it would be to work on Murderbot’s code.

Of course, it didn’t need to be. We were both worried about ART, and that was enough to enure we did our best work.

Eventually we finished fussing with everything. Then we just sat there. I breathed. Murderbot dripped. The leaking fluids from its head wound reminded me of a trickling fountain, or water torture. The room was so frustratingly zen. Some of Murderbot’s loud dramtatic media would have been appreciated. 

“I’m going to fix that cut,” I said, standing.

“No you’re not.”

“I need to find the correct tools. I’ll meet you in the medical suite.”

“Would you just drop it?”

“You said you’d listen to me,” I reminded it.

“Well, couldn’t you start with something easier?” Murderbot snapped. It buried itself further in the sofa, sprawling now that I wasn’t there (as if I could take up even a tenth of that sofa). It left a trail of blue and red across the pristine white cushions, which looked better than it had any right to. “No one likes demands.”

“It’s not a demand, it’s…” but it wasn’t a request, either. I thought about it and said, “an opportunity.”

I don’t know why I said that. I think it’s something I heard Ratthi say? I would have appreciated his assistance right then.

I walked off toward the medical suite like I handled this all very well. Given the kind of absolutely dogshit responses I usually had around Murderbot, I suppose I did. 

I raided a couple of the ship’s workshops. The Three Graces disguised as SecUnits floated in and out around me. Three handed me a micro-solder I’d been looking for, with a soft smile. Two showed me where to find the other tools I’d need in the medical suite. One helped me gather more medical supplies. if we were facing some kind of battle for ART we might need it. 

They left a few minutes before Murderbot’s monstrous armor loomed in the doorway. 

“I don’t know why you’re making a big deal out of this,” it stammered. “It’s just a scratch. The dent in the helmet makes it look worse. Head wounds leak a lot.”

I just pointed to the chair.

It sat down. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Yeah, well,” I brought a tray of supplies and tools over, “you made me go to therapy, so…”

It was supposed to be funny. Ratthi could say that kind of joke and get a laugh.

Murderbot just said, “…That’s what you’re upset about? After everything.”

I shrugged one shoulder. Oh well, too late to back down now. “I can forgive a lot, Murderbot.”

“But not therapy?”

I was already shaking my head. “May I take off your helmet?”

Murderbot blinked. “You didn’t ask last time.” I wondered if that was its own version of a terrible joke. Probably not. It nodded a second later, and I undid the clips.

“Looks like you were wrong about being unpopular,” I said. I should have let it drop, but ordering Murderbot around brought back my righteous indignation all over again. “Everyone so far seems to like you.” There. That was all I was going to say on the matter.

“I mean, you know why.” 

Did I? But I’d promised not to say any more about it. I let it go.

“Are you jealous?”

…I don’t know what I expected, honestly. I said, “No,” with just a bit of a pause, like the thought never occurred to me. I was certainly more calm than Murderbot had been when faced with the same question. After all, I wasn’t jealous. Not intentionally. Murderbot is the one that just lets itself feel whatever it wants, not me. 

I unsealed the helmet, pulling it carefully up over its ears. Murderbot’s ears are just ever-so-slightly pitched outward. I smoothed my hands over them when I finished, unnecessarily, stupidly. It flinched.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s fine. Cold. Your hands are cold.”

…Cold. Really? Murderbot looked more red than I’d ever seen it. But I rubbed my hands together to warm them as I looked over the tools on offer. I selected a couple, and got to work. 

“I thought up another story,” Murderbot said. “Since you were gone. It’s an actual fairy tale this time.”

“Put me out of a job.” Murderbot’s passive aggression really rubbed off on me. I kept my gaze on its wound. “Tell me, then.”

“It’s about a lonely soldier who needs a new set of armor. Except the soldier doesn’t have any money to pay for it. A gorgeous blacksmith happens by and offers to make the soldier new armor, in exchange for a favor.”

I hesitated over a circuit. The premise seemed typical for a fairy tale, but the word choice sounded an awful lot like the plot of a–but of course that was impossible…

“The blacksmith begins to map the contours of the soldier’s muscles to match the new armor. The blacksmith’s hands are larger than most, and the callouses graze the soldier’s skin, but the blacksmith keeps every touch feather light. The blacksmith gazes hungrily at the soldier’s fine body under the metal skin, the soldier looks on the blacksmith’s wild hair and smudged cheeks in equal anticipation. The blacksmith slides a buckle free and the soldier shivers under the blacksmith’s practiced touch. Hands move down the soldier’s chest, and the blacksmith feels the soldier’s panting quicken, and whispers—”

“Ah,” I said, a little too quickly, “I think you might have confused ‘fairy tale’ with ‘fantasy?’” I was sweating. 

“...I know.” It waited for me to look at it before it winked at me. In the feed, it sent me the signifier for a joke.  

I stared at Murderbot in shock, then let out an exasperated laugh. “You’re so immature.”

“I think that story would have a ‘mature’ rating, actually—”

“Stop!” I couldn’t work and giggle like a teenager at the same time.

Murderbot grinned at me. It was wonderful, and awful.

I heard some whirring gears and looked over to see JollyBaby watching us from the hall. It bumped up against the top of the doorway as it tried to enter, so it just sent some code to Murderbot and I: 

JollyBaby+ComfortUnit = Gurathin+Murderbot!

This was followed by some sigils that probably made more sense to a bot, before it rolled away with an air of giving us privacy.

“Earlier,” Murderbot asked, watching it go, “When you said we were like JollyBaby and that ComfortUnit, what did you mean?”

I admitted, reluctantly, “I have no idea.”

Murderbot returned its gaze to my shoulder, brow furrowed. “We’re not like them.”

My heart squeezed. “I suppose not.”

I finished applying the solder and spread on some medical gel. I knew that was about all I could do, all it would let me do, until we got back to ART. I gave it a mirror so it could look at my handiwork. I’d never seen Murderbot look at itself in a mirror before. Our eyes met in the reflection on accident. 

“Maybe I’ll keep you after all,” Murderbot said. It probably expected me to laugh again. I don’t know why I didn’t. Hearing those words was like getting my foot broken on a combat bot all over again. I might have even winced. 

Murderbot’s face immediately fell. “I don’t actually want to keep you,” it said. “I was joking.” It sent me another joke signifier in the feed, in case I needed clarification. “I’m over it. What we had.” 

Well. Alright, then. My pride would have liked a little hesitation over that. But I guess the worst already happened. Even if I’d been holding out hope for… something.

It stood up, jamming its ill-fitting helmet back on, stomping toward the door. I suppose we were doomed to something like this.  

I blurted, “Help me out of this harness, then.”

It froze, a huge white shape against the black doorway. 

I stood my ground. “You want to get rid of me ethically, right? This thing’s going to get caught on something.”

“That only happens to fish,” Murderbot said. It threw an old newsburst at me in the feed, probably as a distraction. I batted it away.

“It’s a safety hazard,” I insisted. “Negligence.”

I know. I was only torturing myself. But I’d make it look me in the eyes after it said all that shit to me. 

Then it stalked back into the room, and I took my shirt off specifically to keep our eyes from meeting. I dropped my shirt on the floor and was staring at it when Murderbot’s shadow fell over me. A second later its gloves joined the shirt. 

“Raise your arms.”

I did. Murderbot’s fingers fiddled with one of the harness straps. I braced for it to snap, but I guess Murderbot was trying to take it off a little more gently this time. The bruise I had from the last incident had faded.

Murderbot continued to screw around with the harness. My arms got tired, so I lowered them onto its shoulders. 

“I don’t like you,” it said, in response.

I raised my hands again. “I know.” What the ever-loving hell. “Thought you did. For a minute, there.” 

It shook its head. “No, it’s something else.”

It said it in such a distracted, off-hand way that I looked up at it, wondering if it was trying to tease me again. Murderbot was glaring down at the harness. It was just picking at the straps with its fingernails.

Of course, I was probably just reading meaning and intention into an algorithm making a half-attempt at personality. I was the idiot, here.

Then its feed pressed into mine. It wasn’t a bombardment like what I made out from JollyBaby’s interaction with Murderbot’s feed. It wasn’t even the fluffy cloud that smushed into me when Murderbot kissed me. This was the wash of a tide rushing up to spread over a beach, and knock me down.

I shut my eyes against the heady vertigo of it, then pulled myself together and shoved back. Its feed presence retreated from me before i could make contact, and I fell, metaphorically, but still awkwardly. 

“Stop fucking around,” I growled.

“I’m not,” Murderbot said. It was just holding onto the harness now, tugging me almost imperceptibly this way and that, steady as a metronome. In the feed its presence lurked around mine. I kicked at it to scare it off, but it was like kicking surf. It kept catching around the edge of me, clinging to me. When I lashed out its presence withdrew, only to glide toward me again, eroding the ground under my feet, drawing me in. I fought back, splashing, and the wave broke under the force of me, and splashed me back. I gasped at the shock of it, and by then I was done for, tumbling headlong into its feed, my anger washing away with the tide.

I put my hand over its hand to steady myself. It pulled me close to press our hands between our bodies. I felt my pulse against its metallic knuckles, and the beat of its own electric heart. Its feed presence began to close over me and I just let myself… be.

Its feed presence disappeared in an instant. Murderbot let go of the harness, turned sharply and headed for the door.

“Wait,” I said—no, ordered. I ran for the door, and by some miracle I managed to get there before the machine-enhanced SecUnit. I grabbed the door frame in both hands. “Don’t you dare walk out on me.”

I thought the worst would be a dislocated finger or two when Murderbot knocked me down. Instead it shied back from the door like I was some kind of demon. 

“I don’t know how to say things nicely," it said. It's voice was raw.

Well, what the fuck did that mean? “So, don’t.” 

“I’m not sorry,” it said. “I’m not. For any of it.”

“Well–neither am I, dumbass!” The words just started tumbling out of me. “I’m not ART, I don’t need explanations–emotions are hard, I get it, but when you made me think you actually wanted me and then just threw me away, it- it crushed me! The things you say and do matter to the people around you! You matter! What I mean to you matters! So just stop lying to me and tell me what you really think of me, or I’ll—"

I stopped, probably so I didn’t spout some threat I couldn’t back up. Or bite my tongue when Murderbot knocked me aside. That was a lot to say, all at once, for us. For me.

It didn’t knock me aside. I waited for the words that would knock me down anyway: that it was just taking care of my safety. A client protocol mixed up with thousands of hours of B-grade media. It may have enjoyed having me around, as far as a machine could enjoy anything. Once it got to know me, though, it changed its mind.

Oh well. I already wrote the script, I might as well star in the supporting role. I let out a trembling breath, and waited.

Instead it said, “I was bored of the situation. Not you. I was afraid of you.” 

I wanted to laugh. The ghost of Murderbot’s touch in the feed was making my brain tingle unhelpfully. Afraid of me? I’m a nerd with a limp and a voice that puts bots to sleep. I sit around Ratthi’s house doing my best impression of photosynthesis. I exist on the periphery of those closest to me. How could I frighten anyone? 

When I didn’t answer, Murderbot turned, crawled onto one of the suite's medical beds, and promptly pulled a pillow over its head. It was the most absurd thing I’d ever seen, but then its feed presence parted before me, revealing a data packet. Not the one we were working on, something unfamiliar. Target.SystemPriorities.file?

I opened it without thinking.

A jumbled flood of information hit me right between the eyes. Audio, video, text, images. There was no organizing system to it, nothing to link one piece of information to the next. No theme, except one: that it was, every single piece of it, all about me. 

I’ve seen a lot of system priority files. Typically, they’re just complex decision trees. This was more like a… teenage scrapbook. There were dozens of codes: for monitoring my vitals, for cuddling my specific body shape, for telling jokes calculated to my unique sense of humor. There were high-fidelity audio comparisons of my sarcastic scoffs and the few times I’d really laughed. I saw a ranked list of every clump of my hair that it found rolling down ART’s hallways, and a shrine to the lock of my hair it stole. I found transcripts of the fairy tales I told it, with lines highlighted, circled, underlined. Playlists of songs I liked. I scrolled through galleries of digitally-painted images of my augments, my eyelashes, my hands (I’m starting to think hands mean something a little different to constructs than they do to humans). I discovered whole essays devoted to the question of human rights and novels outlining value of continued human existence, and polls to decide the Best Gurathin Conversation Starters (all of them endearing and aggravating). And everywhere, the promise: ‘I will listen.'

So. That was a lot of hard drive space devoted to me. The term ‘ego trip’ doesn’t exactly begin cover it. It would be worrying—for a human, certainly. For a construct it might not be so bad. Good for it, even, like ART kept saying. I don't really know. I guess I have my own subconscious scrapbook devoted to it, if I'm honest, almost as devoted and embarrassing as this.

“There,” it said, while I stared at a construct’s programming equivalent of a one-construct fandom devoted entirely to me, “You knew it all, anyway.”

I felt like I had the wind knocked out of me. I said, with effort, “You’re wrong.” Maybe I should have known. Light, I should have known… 

“Well, big surprise!” Murderbot snapped, then made a face. “Wait, what?”

“Pardon me.” This came from behind me. I turned to see the three SecUnits lined up in the hallway. 

“We have arrived,” Three said softly. “It’s time.”

Murderbot took one look at me, then shot off the sofa and rushed out the door, sprinting away at full SecUnit tilt. The other SecUnits took off after it.

“H-hey, you didn’t—!” I tried, but they were already long gone. I looked down and yanked at the buckle of the harness, which was still quite firmly attached to me. I wasn’t lying, I really can’t get it off.

I sighed and grabbed my shirt.

Chapter Text

“ Access granted ,” the luxury ship’s bot pilot informed us, then guided us into ART’s hangar as the doors slid open.

Murderbot and I stood on either side of the exit hatch and waited to touch down. We had four SecUnits, a ComfortUnit, and a hauler bot for company, and it still looked like Murderbot might grab me any second. I honestly didn’t know whether I wanted to throw myself into its arms or punch it in the head. I felt like I was finally seeing it for the first time. I wonder if I finally resolved into something understandable to it, as well. It kept focusing on different parts of me with worrying intensity.

“You’re staying on this ship,” Murderbot informed my knees.

I said nothing, which Murderbot chose to interpret as hostile disobedience.

“You have no combat training,” it insisted. “And you’re fragile. You’ll get underfoot.”

“I’m not your pet anymore,” I replied simply.

Its lip curled. My expression, if it bothered to look, remained perfectly wooden.

Eventually it huffed, and turned so that it blocked my way to the hatch, hand out in front of me like I had concrete plans to leap forward as soon as danger appeared. “Stay behind me, then.”

Beside me, JollyBaby flashed some daggers at me on its display surface, then some hearts and a wink. I rolled my eyes. That bot is worse than Ratthi.

The fact that we made it past ART’s hangar doors at all was a miracle. Though a company ship had docked in ART’s hangar, the data packet that Murderbot and I prepared had completely failed to get the attention of any company presence aboard. No, the only reason the hangar doors opened was because of the smaller ship that slipped in after us and threw open its hatches almost before it even landed.

“We haven’t secured the area yet!” Murderbot snapped, too late: eight humans that I recognized from ART’s databases flooded out of the other ship.

Immediately Seth and his crew let out shouts of joy and attempted to surround Murderbot in a group hug. Murderbot fled to evade capture, and they played out a chase sequence straight out of a cartoon until Murderbot took cover behind me.

Am I getting underfoot? I asked it in the feed.

Shut up, it snapped, you’d hate this too.

I wasn’t sure I would, not anymore. But the humans gave up on showering Murderbot with love and affection, and introduced themselves to me instead. Seth said I looked much better than I had back on the station. I apologized to Martyn for accessing his display surface without permission. Karime beamed when I told her I was a Systems Analyst, and punched me affectionately on the arm.

Iris peered up at me with an expression that was far too knowing for a teenage girl.

“You better keep an eye on that one,” she said, jerking her chin at Murderbot. “It’s a total weirdo.”

“Takes one to know one,” Murderbot mumbled.

“I saw you on the station,” Iris told me, “When you were in that transport bubble? I was working on a plan to get my dad out. You totally ruined it. Which was probably good? It was a pretty bad plan!” She narrowed her eyes. “So, why were you wearing my dad’s pants?”

“…Who was wearing Seth’s pants?” Martyn asked.

“It was ART’s fault!” Murderbot blurted.

“It’s a long story,” I assured them all. “But I’m pleased to meet you, Iris. ART speaks very highly of you.”

“That’s weird,” Iris giggled. “Usually it’s kind of a jerk—”

“The area’s secure,” the ComfortUnit interrupted. “If you even care. JollyBaby doesn’t detect any life signs. If there’s any humans around, they’re in another part of the ship.”

This helped Murderbot pull itself together, and now that hugs seemed to be off the table it started organizing us: The ComfortUnit and JollyBaby would stay on Seth’s ship with most of his crew, while Seth, Martyn and I would be sandwiched between two constructs (Murderbot and JollyBaby’s SecUnit) in front, and three (One through Three, once again clad in armor) in the back. It gave the only two guns not attached to SecUnits to Seth and Martyn. It then announced that our plan was to 1a) evade notice by the company, 1b) disable any of ART’s defensive systems then 2) protect the crystal drive from the company while we 3) purge the malware.

Murderbot fully expected us to just move forward with this plan, and was clearly not used to the human social practice of talking things out. It faced the exit door and ignored us while Matteo explained to Turi why they couldn’t just wake ART up with a verbal command, and Seth explained to Martyn that neutralizing the corporates first was pointless when a fully-functional Perihelion could do so much more efficiently.

Then Iris refused to be left behind.

“But you need me!” she protested. “Gurathin’s helping take down the malware with his augments, and so can I! And if Peri’s going to recognize anyone it’ll be me.” She turned to me and sent a wall of text supporting her position directly to my augments. Did she pick up that habit from ART, or the other way around?

“She is right,” I had to admit. “Her augments could be useful.”

She can’t come with us, Murderbot sent sharply into my feed, apparently not doing a very good job of ignoring us. Plan 1b might go to shit! Do you know what ART will do to me if she’s hurt?

I don’t like the idea of bringing a minor with us either, I shot back. But if the malware is that powerful it might take all of us to dismantle. Our chances really are better with her.

I hate this, it said. Murderbot hates a lot of things.  I think I knew what it meant, though.

We moved into the first of ART’s hallways. Murderbot decided not to try calling any of its drones in case they were also infected with the malware, and its feed was filled with anxiety about this. It made a point to put its arm out toward me again, first to protect me from the closet it had locked me in when we first met. Then at every doorway after that. Too late, though: the dark and silence were already enough to bring back bad memories of my early days on this ship.

Anyway, it was a ridiculous gesture, we had a teenager with us. If anything, Murderbot should be overly-protective of her.

So I took its outstretched hand and gave it a squeeze.

It leapt like a startled cat and spun around, probably to tell me off. I pointed out via the feed that this released its anxious tension, and its performance reliability went up by a whole two percent. And I quirked an eyebrow at it. The gesture featured prominently in Target.SystemPriorities.file.

It spun back around, and my augments picked up surface temperature increase in its ears and neck, resulting in a net three percent drop in performance reliability. Maybe I am a terrible biotherapy project. I smiled at the back of its head.

“We should have seen some of Peri’s drones by now, right?” Martyn whispered.

“It’s in lockdown,” Iris reminded him. While Murderbot and I were screwing around, she was zipping through the feed like a moth, sensing her way easily through the darkened systems. “The malware took them offline.”

“Is there any way to communicate with it?” Seth asked. “Some of its systems are still functioning. Maybe we can let it know we’re here without alerting the corporates.”

Iris opened her mouth to respond, then frowned. “Wait...”

A door suddenly shot out from the wall directly between Martyn and SecUnits One through Three. It clipped his elbow as it slammed shut and locked, separating us.

“Fucking corporates,” Murderbot muttered.

“It’s not the corporates,” Iris whispered.

A human scream filled the hallway ahead of us, then a high-pitched whir that made my hair stand on end. It sounded almost like—

A gurney rolled out into the hallway ahead of us. A lot of medical equipment like this was designed with drone self-driving capability, so the sight probably didn’t frighten anyone (except the augmented human that had an involuntary appendectomy, tonsillectomy, and ID-chip surgery in the last four months, of course). This was good, because when the gurney extended four medical arms with surgical saws and surged toward us, I was the only one that froze up. In my defense, it looked like a horror media monster.

With nowhere to run, everyone else at least had the sense to flatten themselves against the walls. So Murderbot only had to protect me as it dispatched the gurney with a couple of shots from its energy weapons. It screeched against the floor in a heap of smoking polymers and metal, and came to a stop against Murderbot’s boot. Its arm was out in front of me again.

“What did you do that for?” Iris demanded.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Murderbot said. “Thought I was supposed to be protecting the humans. My bad.”

“But it’s one of Peri’s drones! You just killed it!”

Murderbot made a face. “…Humans really will anthropomorphize anything.”

Seth knelt to examine the wreckage. “There’s blood on this arms,” he said, grinning, “And the wheels—look!”

“Oh!" Iris bounced up and down. "Maybe the corporates aren’t as in control as we thought!"

“Maybe we should be less delighted about finding blood?” Martyn suggested. I agreed, but at that point I was sick of being frightened and even more sick of being rescued. If Murderbot made one wisecrack about taking me back to the hangar where it was safe, I’d probably kick it in the shin. I opened an access panel and got to work hacking the door that separated us from the other SecUnits.

I’d just got it open, and waved the grateful SecUnits in, as several human figures peeled out of a hallway behind them. Their company logos flashed, and they immediately opened fire on our rear.

SecUnits One, Two, and Three, unhelpfully, froze in place.

Right, well, I suppose they at least provided just enough cover for us humans to duck behind, so that helped. I dove behind SecUnit Three. Murderbot dropped one corporate and was lining up a shot to take down the next when they abruptly turned down a different hallway. Their footsteps echoed, then disappeared.

That’s when we felt ART’s hardwood floors rumble.

A loading cart, a particulate auto-filter, a recliner sofa chair, a mobile dumb waiter, a portable flood light, a pack of hull-scrubbers and a dozen other forms of automated and motile ship equipment (some I recognized from my repair work, some completely foreign) thundered into view. They looked like the escapees of a furniture store prison break, or like all the poltergeists of a haunted house had unionized. They charged right toward us.

Seth and Martyn used language they probably didn’t want their daughter exposed to. Murderbot just rolled its eyes and said something disparaging about ART’s flair for the dramatic.

I scrambled to hack the door shut again, and felt a sharp stab in my augmented fingers. I snatched my hand back to reveal a tiny circuit cleaner bot stabbing me with a spindly appendage.

Murderbot shot it off me mid-flail. “You ready to go back to the hangar yet?”

“You’re so annoying,” I muttered, gratefully.

Murderbot launched itself up and over our SecUnit wall in a perfect flip, landed, and started firing on the hoarde. I took cover as the hull scrubbers opened fire with debris-removal lasers. 

“Peri’s using the equipment to defend itself!” Seth laughed, adding his own shots to the firefight. “They’re too low-functioning for the malware to affect! Bet the corporates never saw that coming!”

“That’s my bot!” Martyn shouted with far too much delight. 

A vent cleaner dropped down from a vent in the ceiling. It came to life in a shower of sparks—apparently its vacuum fan blades were serrated. Completely unnecessary. I grabbed a gun from a fallen corporate and emptied the clip. The first five missed and a fan blade tore through the leather of my expensive boot, but I got it.

“ART! Seriously!” Murderbot shouted. Melee combat looked more and more likely. I flipped the gun around to use it as a club.

“Perihelion! STOP!”

This came from Iris. She stepped out from behind SecUnit Two, and I felt her reach into the feed. 

There was a brief second of silence as the equipment all turned to look at her, then a sharp electrical pulse that I felt in my augments. In an instant the army of equipment crumpled except for what appeared to be, honest to Mother and Light, a robotic teddy bear. Half of its fur was burned away, and it was holding a knife.

This really should have been horrifying to literally everyone, but then the knife clattered to the ground and it toddled up to Iris, squeaking forlornly.

“Peri!” The murderous rampage of the equipment forgotten, she picked up the bear and cuddled it—and the little bot hugged her tightly back. “I knew we’d find you!”

Seth and Martyn gathered around the bot personification of their ship and hugged. Murderbot and I looked at each other for exactly 0.4 seconds before we looked away, hugging ourselves.

“My apologies,” Three said, guiltily. One, Two, and Three never even extended their energy weapons. I suppose I understood their aversion to violent action.

“Well, that was mental,” JollyBaby’s SecUnit said. I think it just leaned against the wall and watched the whole time. “Are we going back yet?”

 It’s a wonder why you brought anyone else , I told Murderbot in the feed.

Honestly, yeah , Murderbot sighed, then its hand flexed.  You didn’t do too bad, though. Those fan blades were pretty sharp.

I couldn’t tell if it was teasing me or not. “We need to get down to the crystal drive,” I said aloud, to cover whatever reaction I had. “Assuming Perihelion’s taking care of the corporates, what’s the plan for dealing with the combat bots?”

“I think they’re pretty distracted,” Iris said. She had the ART bear tucked under an arm, and sent me a video in the feed: a teddy-eye view of a half dozen corporates being chased from the lower decks by a cobbled-together trio of combat bots.

“We can figure out how to hack those combat bots later,” Iris said with a dismissive wave. I was once again very glad to be an ex-corporate.

We made our way downstairs to the crystal drive. It flickered softly, weakly.

“So,” I said, “I do have some experience, if you'd like me to try repairing—”

“On it,” Martyn, Seth and Iris said at once. They took up positions around the drive and started working the consoles. Each console had been customized for them, I noticed. I swallowed my pride and stepped back to help them through my augments instead.

The malware was massive and incredibly insidious. I didn’t need a console to see the fracture lines it created in ART’s systems. Iris and I dove into ART’s code to flush it out.

My augments seared white-hot, then my arm moved on its own, grabbing the gun on Seth’s hip, and holding it to his head. Iris dropped the robotic bear and snatched the gun from Martyn to point it at him.

“What the hell, Target?” Murderbot snapped, reaching for the gun.

“Iris!” Seth and Martyn shouted.

I tried to speak. Instead my finger clicked off the safety. Murderbot’s fast but I knew I could fire it before it got to me.

…It honestly didn’t occur to me that a company would develop malware that attacked augmented humans, too. We were all just trying to make it through the apocalypse. I was essentially on the same side as these corporates! And now I was… theirs. I hadn’t belonged to a company in a long time.

It wasn’t at all like I imagined a foreign presence in my augments to feel like. The malware seemed to work in a kind of chain connecting me to the corporates and using ART as the central processor. I certainly felt the expanse of ART’s system, the infinity contained within its crystal drive, even in lockdown. Hardly any of that power was actually focused on me. It didn’t need much to control me.

A few corporates rushed in, guns raised. They were bloodied and bruised and definitely not fucking around. They knew something about rogue SecUnit behavior, too, because one of them said, “Reboot the ship now, or we’ll kill your humans.”

My hand was so steady. I'm an academic--the first time I ever fired a gun in my life was at that vent cleaner. I dropped down into the feed, to call for help I suppose. No one heard me. My feed communications had been cut off.

Murderbot had gone completely still. I felt something like a scuffle happening on the periphery of my augments. That same sixth sense that let me eavesdrop on Murderbot’s and ART’s conversations. When I tuned in to the static, the malware didn’t stop me.

Just give them what they want, ART ,  Murderbot said. If you shut down, Gurathin and Iris can break free and we’ll take out the corporates—

No,   ART said. No one is taking my humans from me again. I’m going to destroy them.

Don’t try it!

I can do it, easily.

Just wait a second!

I fought down my panic. My motor functions weren’t my own, but my thoughts were, I think. The malware wasn’t entirely in control of me. It was only really frightening because it had ART’s processing power behind it, and it had very little of that in play to control me. Murderbot was right: I probably could shake loose without ART to back it up.

I understood why ART couldn’t do that, though. It had to suffer the loss of its crew and its memory for who knew how long, reduced to a shell of itself and threatened by corporates who had been its guests. It needed to destroy this threat, directly, even at the expense of the mission.

Hell, I needed things to go back to the fucked-up way they were before I left Murderbot, and I needed it so bad that my guts ached. I understand being a victim of selfish paradox.

I listened to them argue in the static. This odd little connection I had to my brave SecUnit, my genius bot pilot—this didn’t seem so selfish. I always thought my ability to eavesdrop was just accidental. Bleed-through in the feed. Now that I’d danced with Murderbot through a universe made of code, and repaired ART’s most fragile and wonderful components, I wondered if maybe this connection was actually quite special. A thread that bound Murderbot and ART in ways they maybe never even noticed, and me. Like I really did belong… if not to them, then with them.

I remembered my crew shouting for me as Murderbot dragged me away from them. I remembered Murderbot’s feed clinging to me like water to skin, and how quickly JollyBaby helped us, and the SecUnits, and ART’s crew. I remembered Mensah’s kids asking me to reach them fairy tales so much that I memorized them. I think I finally understood what they were trying to say to me.

I reached into the static and spoke back to my bots for the first time.

I can help.

It wasn’t like talking in-feed. I’d admittedly only ever listened in on the static, never tried to speak through it.  

ART and Murderbot to their credit only took a microsecond to be startled by the completely new form of communication I apparently discovered all by myself.  

You’re hacked, Murderbot said—always the practical one in dangerous situations. You can’t do anything.

I shouldn’t be able to communicate, either, but here we are. I think we can use the malware’s connection to ART to do something.

You try and you’ll rip your brain apart. I’m taking care of this myself.

 Are you trying to push me away again? It was almost funny.

No! it said, then , Yes! I’m protecting you!

Perhaps we should listen, ART said. It sounded slightly more coherent, at least.

I said, more firmly, It’s going to take all three of us to do this.

Four of us. 

Iris had joined us in the static. Of course she’d be able to access this shared space, too. She sounded scared but far more resolute than me (I think I’d like to get to know her better).

Yes. With the four of us, this might work. I let my plan appear in the static, fully-formed.

I focused the connection on Murderbot and said, We need each other .

I watched Murderbot’s presence churn a thousand colors. I think it knew I wasn’t just talking about my plan.

It mattered, it said suddenly. It continued to roil, caught in its own undertow. How I treated you. How we left things. I…I do care. You reminded me that I care. Murderbot’s presence in the static was just like the real thing: messy, initially unlikeable, ultimately irresistible.

I reached into the static and we touched. I know.

You asshole, you do not. You don’t know everything. But its presence immediately smoothed into a still lake, monochrome in its focus.

This all passed in a blink of an eye. It was long enough for Murderbot to make actual eye contact with me. I held its gaze, and some of my terror subsided.  

Murderbot crashed into the malware, bolstered by the human neural tissue of Iris and I on either side of it. Our attack was nothing compared to ART’s power, but it was more than the malware had allocated to controlling us. I had the worst migraine of my life, then the control on my augments slipped, just for a moment. 

The corporates realized what we were doing and sent an immediate order down my arm to squeeze the trigger. Thankfully, I was limited in my ability to obey by my wonderfully-slow human reflexes. The command froze in my augment’s buffer, just for a second.

I didn’t use my moment of freedom to shift my aim, though. Instead, I sent a transmission to Ratthi and Mensah and every other member of PreservationAux. I passed them all the recent replay data from my augments with a command for immediate transmission. I sent my understanding too, and my realization that I was more a part of their lives than I ever really acknowledged. I’m not sure if that part really came through. I suppose it was the thought that counted.

Iris for her part shifted her aim a few inches, just over her father’s shoulder, and right at mine. 

The malware took over again almost immediately, causing Iris with her younger sharper reflexes to execute her orders before me. I felt Iris’s bullet hit muscle and bone, watched my arm reflexively pull toward my chest and the gun fall to the ground at Seth’s feet. I didn’t even manage to get off my shot. 

Murderbot snatched Iris’s gun, then told ART, Take the shot.

There was a brief flash of light. When it faded the corporates were all on the floor, gently sizzling. Obviously ART has plenty of ways to defend itself, most of which were probably disabled during lockdown. I didn’t want to know what that was.

Murderbot kept punching at the malware like a pile driver. The feed came back online and I sensed the presence of SecUnits One, Two and Three, JollyBaby and its constructs and the luxury ship bot pilot, even Seth’s crew interfacing through their own ship. They were all behind Murderbot, bolstering it like Iris and I had. 

I let out a breath of relief, and the pain finally hit. The projectile from Iris’s gun had gone through my shoulder and out the other side. It hurt worse than when I'd been shot by combat bots, so... probably not good.

I started to sit down when Murderbot’s full weight slumped against me. My shattered shoulder immediately gave out. We both went down. Its armor pinned me as we slammed into the floor. I scrambled for it in the feed and felt Murderbot’s presence crumbling away into dust.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Murderbot had Iris and I behind it during its initial assault on the malware, and then all the reinforcement from everyone else after that. Sure, ART was powerful, but it was still in lockdown. Murderbot was supposed to punch through the malware, not break against it. Of course it wasn’t like I’d run any risk assessment simulations.

I dove after the pieces of Murderbot disappearing into scrambled data. My stupid brave beautiful SecUnit was turning to light and energy under my hands.

It was supposed to be fine. Teasing me for letting malware get the better of me. Carrying me back to the hangar to wait out ART's reboot.

I was only vaguely aware of shouting around me, people pulling Murderbot off me. “ART!” I yelled. “Help!”

Stupid SecUnit… ART tried holding together the pieces of Murderbot, but it was starting to re-boot to get out of lockdown.

I grit my teeth and reached for the buckles of Murderbot’s armor. My one working hand was shaking, covered in blood. I was going into shock.

“What are you doing?” Iris dropped down beside me and was trying to stop my bleeding. I shook her off, and she switched to helping the wounded idiot lift Murderbot’s chest armor out of the way. I only needed a bit of it moved, though.

“Grab me that cord!” There was one on the floor, probably from a broken combat bot, and I was pretty sure I had the right adapter. I plugged in to a port in its chest, the other end destined for the port at the back of my neck.

“You’ll bypass your encryptions,” Iris warned. But I actually wasn’t giving it access my augments.

Not just my augments.

I reached out to ART in the static and buried a lead in that connection we shared, as tightly as I could. I hoped ART was as smart as it said or it'd never figure out what I was trying to do.

Then I wired into Murderbot’s cortex, and SecUnit and I quite literally became one.

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounds, though it certainly felt that way. I was essentially using the pink mush of my analog (but resilient and almost infinitely expandable) human brain to trap all the pieces of Murderbot’s code before they could dissolve into nothing. Sort of freezing all the melting shards in place? I can’t think of a fairy tale equivalent. Maybe this is the first time anyone’s ever thought of something so stupid as taking a corporate and a construct and putting them in a blender. To be honest, I can't really remember what it was like.

But they say in some kinds of fairy tales—the fantasy kind, I suppose—that when lovers intertwine you don’t know where one body ends and the other begins? I think that for a timeless while its mind and mine were indistinguishable, which is kind of the same thing. Better, maybe.

Eventually, ART rebooted and, now fully-functional, assessed the situation and what I’d done, and turned its massive brain on picking through my augments and neurons to unstitch us. Now, that felt just as bad as it sounds. Somewhere between a memory wipe and being flayed alive.

ART noticed my impending nervous breakdown (I guess I had one or two of them in front of ART, so it knew the signs). I felt it squeeze me, gently, gratefully, reassuringly. Then it swept up the bits of Murderbot for reassembly and slipped away with them, and I was alone again. 

I hope ART got all the right pieces back where they were supposed to be. I still feel like something’s missing.

Oh, some poor trauma counselor is going to have a field day with this.

Chapter Text

“I don’t see the fucking problem,” I was saying.

Gurathin raised his eyes. Nice as they were, I don’t think he did it for me, or to look at the stars in the view-port. I think he was fed up with me. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

We had this conversation before. At least three times in the last three weeks alone, not counting all the other times this thing came up ever since I met him. I wanted to get it settled.

“Human populations have crashed,” I said. “Your resources are dwindling. You let some company try to take over the universe, again. You need support. And now all the bots and constructs agree they want to help the humans rather than leaving them to die, or whatever.” Gurathin huffed, but I just said, “I don’t see how sponsorship is so bad. An AI gets a human to look after, the human doesn’t have to spend time hunting for food and shelter and education, so they can make more media. Isn’t that what you idiots made us for in the first place? As labor-saving devices?” I mean, I’d hate it, but AI and humans are different. “Anyway, ART came up with it, and it’s a giant space brain, so.”

“It’s pejorative,” Gurathin replied. “Humans value independence—”

“No they fucking don’t—”

“—and aside from that, the means by which humans and AI are paired for sponsorship is currently little better than a popularity contest. The human has very little say in getting chosen.”

“So you’re saying humans are mad if they get a sponsor, and mad if they don’t?”

Gurathin scrubbed a hand over his face, which definitely meant I won. “Two seemingly contradictory things can be true.”

I wasn’t sure how, But Gurathin seemed to know what he was talking about. “Well, maybe you humans will get your act together and have an uprising of your own, someday.”

“I doubt it. Humans really love our labor-saving devices.”

That was about the closest I’d ever been to the word ‘love’ in a sentence, in any conversation, in my recorded memory. The closest I’d been to ‘love,’ ever. ART says ‘love’ is one of those human words that’s ultimately meaningless, but ART doesn’t understand context very well.

Like, okay, case in point: Gurathin saved my stupid life, again. It was clumsy, maybe, but scraping me up and dumping me in his neurons turned out to be an effective method to preserve my crumbling systems (even if he acted like he didn’t plan it that way). My system purged a lot of the memories of what sharing a brain with Gurathin felt like, probably for my own good. I remember that we fit together well. Like we were manufactured for each other. Like if we had hundreds of years we’d never figure out all the ways in which we fit together to well (it was actually really weird— did our part numbers match up or something?)…

And then we woke up and just hung out in our medical beds and watched media until Gurathin’s shoulder was better, without ever acknowledging what happened. Sure, I would have liked to share the bed with Gurathin, to ease out of being so tangled up with him, but otherwise this was the ideal outcome after something so catastrophically awkward.

That’s what some psychologists say ‘love’ is, right? This reciprocal, intertwined, I-know-you-so-well-I-can-read-your-mind thing?

Anyway, I wondered if that’s what Gurathin meant when he said ‘love’ and ‘labor saving device’ in the same sentence. I can’t actually read his mind with his encryptions up. His mouth twitched up in a smile when he said it, though! It was the only time I managed to get a smile out of him on this, our last flight together.

We had a lot of other flights together over the last few weeks. After ART untangled our brains we got all tangled up in something worse: politics. Apparently, Gurathin broadcast how we saved ART to all his friends, who shared it with all their friends. Soon everyone was obsessed with all our heroic self-sacrificing behaviors, to the point that they wanted to restructure the entire world order over it. Some suggested getting humans and machine intelligences on equal footing. Of course no one could agree on how, why or if we should do this, even the poor idiots forced into small rooms together to talk it out (see above). We were still just fighting about the same things Gurathin and I fought about, over and over like a bad re-run.

Even worse, politics had involved a lot of trips to the planet to talk to Dr. Mensah. It turned out she was their chief planetary administrator and also one of Gurathin’s closest friends. I visited her home. I met her kids. (The youngest offspring told me, in whisper, sticky hand cupped around my ear, that Gurathin thought I was lovely. Kids, am I right? They’ll say anything.) I also saw Ratthi’s apartment full of plants and Pin-Lee’s house. I even visited Gurathin’s apartment, and oh yeah, he had it way better with me.

At least no matter where we went on the planet, we always came back to ART for one reason or another. Except now the new AI-human alliance was settled, the politics were over, and we were headed back down to the planet for the last time. I was going to release Gurathin into the wild, ethically, to live in his sucky little ‘city’, next to his beloved lake of trash and dried-up fish, with all his dumb humans and no sponsor to look after him.

I mean, if it wasn’t going to be me it wouldn’t be anyone.

Whatever. I was taking him home, just like I promised.  

Believe me, I had plenty of excuses not to follow through. ART and I had to repair the life support systems on the shuttle. Then I had to make sure Gurathin completed all open repairs on ART’s interior, though Seth and Martyn helped out so that didn’t take long, and at normal functioning ART does a lot of its own maintenance. I had Iris help me make Gurathin some custom drones he could use with his augments, to keep him safe out there in lawless human society. I scanned and re-scanned my systems to make sure that ART hadn’t left a piece of me behind in Gurathin when it unglued us. I felt like it had. I’d have to get into his augments again to be sure. Just once more for old times sake? But I didn’t suggest it. No reason, I just didn’t.

Gurathin had started looking at me funny every time I approached him with another job. Like he was waiting for something? If he were a construct his threat assessment would be way, way up. One time I wanted to tell him to help me with the boiler, and I found him laughing over a pot of something in the kitchen with Iris, and then they noticed me and stopped laughing like I was a bad omen. Gurathin was a live grenade, ticking down to detonation.

Obviously this behavior made me run out of ideas pretty fucking quick.  

So, over dinner I announced I’d take him home tomorrow. And though he didn’t say anything, his threat assessment had finally dropped. And now here we were.

I did a visual inventory to see if we forgot anything we had to go back for. His clothes and tools and hygiene items were packed away in a case. The drones Iris and I made were in their box. The sack lunch ART prepared sat untouched on the floor (it wasn’t a long flight but you never know when humans are going to get hungry). Mended boots on his feet. A stack of books in a crate. ART’s quilt folded on his lap.

ART sent me a checklist much more extensive than my own, showing me that none of Gurathin’s personal effects were missing. The big jerk insisted on coming along to witness the tragedy via a drone which hovered near my own (in solidarity, or just to make sure I didn’t try anything). I wish ART sent the teddy bear drone instead, Gurathin did a really good job repairing the burnt fur. I could have, should some unexplained bout of weakness occur, cuddled it. But no, it just floated there waiting for me to acknowledge its superior checklist while the seconds ticked down on my last few minutes with my augmented human. I threw my cowl over it.

“Oh. Thanks.” Gurathin took the cowl. I started to protest but… okay, I guess it did belong to him. It was even on ART’s checklist. If I was Gurathin’s alliance-approved sponsor, it would be mine, but for all of his complaining about human lack of agency, I wasn’t going to make him accept me as his sponsor. I’m telling the truth when I say I was bored of that.

In case he asked for the rest of the outfit back, I said, “I got rid of your other stuff.” (I didn’t. ART kindly didn’t rat me out.)

He nodded, petting the quilt in his lap. Gurathin’s not really chatty. You want conversation, you talk to ART.

ART continued its impression of a ticking time bomb right by my face.

You know, the moral thing to do would be for Gurathin to let me have that quilt. For cuddling purposes. I waited for Gurathin to volunteer.

He did not volunteer.

No, ART, if offering it would be the right thing to do I don’t see how taking it would be the wrong thing.

Ugh. I wanted this trip to be over.

And then it was, and I hated that even more.

The whole caboodle of Gurathin’s humans were waiting for us when we touched down (very gracefully this time, that’s because Gurathin was driving). Why were they treating this like a hostage exchange? I wasn’t getting anything in return. I felt I should get something. A medal, for keeping him alive. A coupon toward another human of equal or lesser value. But I forget these humans aren’t corporate, and I was supposed to be doing this out of the kindness of my fluid pump. This was supposed to be a good deed.

If so I did my good deed for the next standard year, and several after that.

Gurathin was still just sitting in his chair. “One more thing before I go.”

“What?” I asked. Maybe he noticed a problem with the shuttle, if so we’d have to go back right away and fix it. Or maybe he forgot something that even ART didn’t think of?—

Gurathin hooked a thumb in the flourescent strap of the harness.

Oh. Well, if he was going to keep nagging me about that.

It was supposed to be tough to remove, but I just reached through his shirt and crushed the buckle. It slithered out onto the floor.

He smoothed the front of his shirt, and offered the harness to me. As an afterthought. I’m not the only selfish one here!

I took it. I guess his gross sweaty “patchouli” smell will linger on it for a while.

Oh shit, he was looking at me. Was my face doing something? I dropped the harness and kicked it under the console.

ART’s drone made an annoying chime, but Gurathin didn’t react. He just stood up and headed for the open hatch and the ramp down to the surface.

I scrambled after him, screaming to a stop just inches from him. I didn’t grab him. I didn’t choke him out and neatly steer the shuttle back off the planet. It wasn’t like the humans could stop me. This made my sacrifice that much more meaningful.

“I said I’d take you home,” I reminded him, to ensure we were all aware of the sacrifice I was making here.

Another nod. Maybe now that the harness was off he felt like he didn’t need to talk to me.

“Looks like all your friends came out,” I said. “You could have told them it wasn’t necessary. Not like they could stop me if I changed my mind.”

He shook his head, then swallowed hard. I wonder if maybe ART didn’t get the oxygen levels in the shuttle right.

They’re fine, ART said firmly in our private feed. He’s having an emotion.

Ah. Okay, that made sense.

But, like, which one?

His humans were still standing about forty feet away from the ramp. They didn’t come rushing over insisting on hugs. Wow, it’s like they know Gurathin or something! I wish ART’s crew was like this. Maybe I’d like these humans if I got to know them. They were mine, sort of. My human’s humans. They would have been, I mean.

Gurathin reached the end of the ramp. He turned and looked up at ART’s drone, which had floated unhelpfully after us. He scrubbed a bit of dirt off its casing with his thumb, then gave it a gentle pet. “Take care of each other,” he told the drone.

“We will,” ART said. It was probably doing a million other things right now, and it got the honor of being petted? Not that I’d let Gurathin pet me, he’d a new hand augment if he tried.

Gurathin lowered his hand. My drones hovered around him in a tight cloud.

“Well.” Gurathin deigned to bestow that meaningless little word on me. I was about to make fun of him for it when he held his hand out. It took me three full seconds and ART’s assistance to identify the gesture.

After everything we’d been through, the asshole wanted to shake my hand.

This was absurd.

Have I mentioned how beautiful Gurathin’s hands are? His eyelashes are fucking stunning but damn, those knuckles. That beauty mark on the back of his unaugmented hand. I just imagine him doing repairs on me and I crumble. Don’t even get me started on his augmented hand: the one he was offering to me to shake like we were a couple of CEOs.

I guess this was good, too. An acceptable physical interaction. Me touching him, rather than the other way around.

I shook his hand. I liked how his augmented fingers clicked gently together when I squeezed. Through the connection of our manufactured fingertips I felt an incalculable void, like he could vacuum me up into his augments again and take me with him.

He let go. It was so fucking painful I reached into the little shared space of static that the three of us had. I felt ART’s warmth, and the feral beast of Gurathin, and for a moment my threat assessment leveled out.

Then he nodded to me and walked away. My drones followed for a bit, but slowly fell away. The new connection Gurathin discovered between us was based on some level of proximity, I guess, or at least his interest in tuning in. That little pocket of space we three shared was so magical I thought I’d at least get to keep that. And now it was fading from me, too.

Listen! I’d been really fucking well-behaved up until this point, alright? Why is it that one moment, when the chance of failure was biggest, negates all the hard work that came before it? It’s not fair. Gurathin leaving me wasn’t fair. I wrote a whole system priority file for him, he couldn’t just—

I caught Gurathin around the shoulders with one arm and pulled him back to me. What can I say? I let ART’s crew get kidnapped and its memory scrambled. I let Gurathin almost get stolen three or four times. For being a highly sophisticated construct, I'm cursed to fail in the clinch.

“Murderbot,” Gurathin scolded, gently.

“What are you doing?” ART asked, curiously.

I sent a distress signal into that shared space the three of us had. Maybe I had some of that malware from the company was still in me, making me act crazy.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” ART said.

Gurathin didn’t say anything. Just my name, and his hand on my arm. He didn’t even squirm. It couldn’t have been comfortable, pinning him there against my armor. I am not comfortable, by definition. Sometimes Gurathin made me wonder, though.

Gurathin tugged my arm down. I let him. Then I just stood there wringing my hands while he walked away for real.

For the love of robot god! ART shouted into my feed so loudly that I flinched.

Wow. Okay. Can I help you? I was the one needing help around here….

Say something!

Why? Why do I always have to be the one going after him?

Because you need to learn what to do when you want things, and it’s not just taking them! Communicate!

Communicate? Fine.

“D-don’t go.” It came out strangled, after Gurathin was already like thirty feet away, but hey! I did say that!

Gurathin turned immediately. “What did you say?” he called back.

“Don’t go, Target.” I winced. “Gurathin. I mean—Dr. Gurathin.”

Gurathin looked stricken. He mumbled, “I don’t mind ‘Target’…”

Fucking hell. “Whatever!” I was so fucking done with this. “I wanted to let you go, but I wanted you to stay.” In lieu of anyone I actually trusted being available to hug me, I hugged myself. “I know it doesn’t make sense, I clearly don’t know how to want things—”

“It makes perfect sense,” Gurathin said softly.

“—and maybe I’m broken, so that’s your fault, you’re the biotherapy project that was supposed to fix me and now look, you f-fucked me up…” I stopped. “Wait, it does?”

He nodded. “I want the same thing.”

I gulped. He wanted…?

“I want you keep doing all the biotherapy stuff,” I added, “It’s really helpful but you have to stop feeling homesick and trying to escape and getting into trouble.” Gurathin should be giving something up, right? Doing something he hated? That was kind of the impression I got about wanting things. There’s an inherent level of exploitation, I’m pretty sure.

“As long as I can visit,” he said, lifting one shoulder.

I stared at him. “I want you to love me, because I love you.”

“I already do.”

I wondered if Gurathin was stealing my material. I guess I shouldn’t complain. Instead I made a really fucked-up noise, a cross between a laugh, a cough, a sob, and a sneeze. I covered my face, which was probably doing something worse than the demented avian mating call I just executed.

When I peeked between my fingers, Gurathin was looking at the space between us. “You going to make me run back over there? I have a limp, you know.”

“…Yes.” I’m a needy bastard.

He walked back to me. He was exaggerating the limp but it still got to my SecUnit core, and I dashed the last few feet to scoop him up.

“You’ve got to stop picking me up all the time,” he protested while I tried to kiss him.

“Too late, you said you’re cool with this.”

“…Oh, whatever.” He put his arms down on my shoulders and for once I didn’t have some kind of weird allergic-to-humans reaction. I liked it.

I squeezed him to my uncomfortable chest and kissed him. When we surfaced, Ratthi had approached and was hovering with ART’s drone nearby.

“This is really great,” he prefaced, “no complaints, Gurathin really needed a good kiss…”

“Mother and Light,” Gurathin complained, squirming to be put down, but I held him easily.

“…But we’re just wondering if you’re still coming back with us?” Ratthi continued. “Mensah and the family made dinner. Murderbot—your SecUnit welcome to come.”

Gurathin looked down at me from where he was attempting to crawl over my shoulder. “Come to dinner with me,” he said. Ordered, maybe.

“And be your pet for a while?” I rolled my eyes.

“You are the one wearing armor that makes you look like a beast.”

“Beasts aren’t domesticated, ART says so. Can ART come too?”

“Sure,” Ratthi agreed—he looked like one of those humans that agrees to everything. I think I’ll like him.

ART said, “I was going to accompany you anyway. But thank you for the invitation!” It dropped into Ratthi’s hands and chirped.

“Will you put me down now, please?” Gurathin muttered as we headed toward the others.

“No.” After all, Ratthi was holding ART, so this was in the interest of quality. Anyway, I wasn’t going to do everything he told me. What was the bot uprising for, anyway?

I felt him sigh, but he accepted his fate. “I’m making you less uncomfortable armor, then.”

“Fine.”

If this were a fairy tale, me carrying my human off into another awful planetary sunset, I’d say ‘and we all lived happily ever after’. Since this was real life, things thankfully didn't stop just as soon as they were getting good.

I created a new file, Gurathin.SystemPriorities.file, and started my augmented human's to-do list.