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But you’re uncomfortable, Perihelion says. You’re taking increasingly long recharge cycles, isolating from my crew, and you’re going without fulfilling basic hygiene needs such as changing your clothing and showering.
I’m still not used to it mattering very much when SecUnits—when I’m–“ comfortable.” (I’m still not quite sure how to define that parameter precisely.) Perihelion is behaving the way clients do when they are upset with something that is out of my control, but which they believe I am responsible for. So I respond, “I’m sorry. I’ll take a shower now.”
That’s not my point, Perihelion insists. Tell me what’s bothering you. You haven’t left your quarters in multiple cycles. Something is wrong, and you can’t pretend otherwise.
There are no windows in my quarters, which is a very strong argument for remaining here. I have never been active for long term (wormhole) transport like this, before. During transport cycles, SecUnits are kept in partial offline states until they reach their contract destination. You don’t have to be awake for a seemingly-endless (technically only 45 cycles remaining) waiting period with no contract, no ongoing tasks, and no chance to get away from the attention of HubSys. (I know, logically, that Perihelion is not a HubSystem. And I don’t think I mind its attention very much…most of the time.)
On regular contracts, I had stayed folded in my transport box until the transport was over. I didn’t have to walk around where I could accidentally catch sight of a window, and see the glittering weirdness of a hole in time and space all around the ship, and remember how fragile the ship is and how fragile the humans inside are and how likely an accident is to occur that would result in total client loss. (If I had died in transport on a regular contract, I would never even wake up from stasis to see what had happened. It sounded a lot more peaceful, and less painful, than dying in an active situation with hostiles, if I had the ability to pick.)
I cannot keep repeating there is no protocol for this. Perihelion knows there is no protocol for this. (Surely, someday, it will get sick of hearing it. I have no idea what it will do to me then.)
I say, “This isn’t the way SecUnits are transported. I am uncomfortable because I am not used to it.”
SecUnit 1.0 doesn’t mind it, Perihelion informs me. It enjoys sitting on my bridge and watching the storms outside. Perhaps you could join it.
“No,” I say, firmly. “Thank you for the offer.” (I don’t mean it, but it would be impolite not to say it.) “1.0 is not like most SecUnits. It is different.” (I have no proof of this, but I know 1.0 doesn’t act like me, or One, or Two.)
What does an ordinary SecUnit transport look like? Perihelion asks. I do not want to explain. I don’t know how I could make it understand. I send over a compressed package of my memory files for it to examine. Surely it will come to its own conclusions.
Perihelion does not speak to me again for the remaining 3.4 hours I am awake before initiating a recharge cycle. (I feel guilty that I feel so relieved about the solitude.)
I wake up in a transport crate. It is dark, quiet, and comfortable. My systems reinitialize, one by one. Oxygen exchange first—I breathe in, shakily, and I can hear the air flow as it runs into my nose and down into my lung. Oxygen exchange is obstructed, but within standard levels for transport.
Memory will be the last function to reactivate, and I wait with mild nervous anticipation. There is something off about this situation, but I do not know what it is. Tactile and other senses come online—I am aware of my body, the way it is held securely in the transport crate bindings, the way I can see the blinking yellow lights of my own inorganics against the lid, the sound of my own even breathing.
Sometimes, when One or Two or I have interesting data recombinations (Two always calls them dreams) in transport, we share the data as a training exercise while coming back online at the start of a new contract. I save the interesting fragments of half-memories that flash by me—the inside of a ship with blue detailing, an unfamiliar SecUnit, lots of client faces…but some of the other images are unsettling. I mark them for deletion after I can complete review of my memory and confirm they are unnecessary. My governor module fails to come online.
My governor module…fails to come online. It does not restart, or try again. I poke at it, and discover, in horror, that it has been hacked.
Memory comes online, all at once. The SecUnit, the clients, the ships, all have names again. I have been rogue for 1,248 hours. I am affiliated with the Perihelion, now. I am in the middle of a wormhole trip to its home university, where I might be able to pursue my own life away from my company.
I wasn’t in a transport box when I went into my last recharge cycle.
This is, somehow, a transport box. It is indistinguishable from any contract transport crate I’ve been in before. I cannot understand how this has happened.
Perhaps…Perihelion… In its attempts to try and make me more “comfortable,” did it do this? It could have reviewed my memory files while I was recharging, and prepared a familiar environment for me to wake up in now. I appreciate the thought, but it’s doing this wrong—I shouldn’t be this awake unless we’ve reached our destination. Have we? And if so, why has it not initiated an exit cycle from the crate?
I wait.
I close my eyes, to focus more deeply on tactile input. I can sense the vibration of a ship in motion. I check my internal chronometer—very little time has passed. We have not left the wormhole yet or reached our destination. We still have 44 cycles of our journey remaining. Why am I awake?
With that thought comes a realization. Though this is familiar to me, and it is standard protocol for transporting SecUnits between contracts, I do not… want this. The enclosed space feels limiting, knowing that my inactive governor module would let me explore much further, just because I want to. I reach out for the feed to ping Perihelion, thank it for its trouble, and ask it to release me.
My ping bounces back towards me, like the sound of my own breathing off the walls. Restriction from feed access is standard protocol for transport, so of course Perihelion would have simulated it, but it cannot have actually cut me off from the feed. It is very attentive—it is likely monitoring my vitals and activity, to ensure my safety. I send another ping, ignoring the mild pain of it bouncing back at me, and send the message Perihelion, thank you, but this is not what I want.
The message does not return a sent notification. Nor does it inform me it has failed to deliver. I wait.
I send another. I know you’re listening, Perihelion. It’s okay. Thank you for trying. I will make more of an effort to… I struggle with the words. … to behave like 1.0? (I delete that.) … to be open to new experiences.
I wait.
After 5.6 minutes, it returns message failed to deliver.
I re-send both messages into the empty, restricted feed.
There is a reason transport crates are designed to keep the SecUnits inside in stasis. With the lack of stimulation, being awake is…bad. This is somehow even worse than being in my room alone. I look at my internal file storage, and shuffle a few items into a new order. I sift through, but I don’t see anything particularly exciting. (I know 1.0 keeps its media stored internally, but I didn’t see a need to do anything similar with my new files—when would I ever be without feed access?) I grow uncomfortable. There’s too little going on, and it…makes me think about things that could be going on. If there was an accident during transport and the hull was breached, or if clients attacked each other, or were attacked by raiders. I try to shut down this train of thought by checking my sent messages.
Message failed to deliver.
Perihelion, I send. Let me out.
…
Message failed to deliver.
As much as I want to, I don’t know if I can force myself into stasis. This soon after a complete recharge cycle, I highly doubt it. I consider my options, and with a lack of many, I decide to attempt escape. If I succeed, excellent, but if even my attempt is noticed, it increases my chances of ending this sooner.
It is hard to shift much in the transport box. SecUnits are classed as dangerous weapons, and have to be stored accordingly. I remember the process of being prepped for transport—a station unit or a tech would wrap my limbs securely with tape, preventing me from stretching them out. (I suppose in an emergency it would be possible to crawl on my elbows and knees, but that would be less than useful in combat, especially without viable access to my energy weapons.) From the little motion I can achieve, I determine I have been wrapped at least that securely now—my closed fists press against my clavicle, and I can feel my heels pressed against my thighs.
I wonder, suddenly, if Perihelion changed me into a standard skin suit, or not. I don’t feel the weight of my sweater around my neck.
In fact, my neck is held firmly in place by supports that make it hard to jostle around. The foam-like substance is form fitting, and prevents me from bashing into the crate walls no matter how harshly I’m moved. I can feel a piece of it pressing against my forehead, keeping my head down. Down? (It is hard to tell which way is truly “up” in here, gravity has been replaced by the pressure of the restraints.)
I struggle, feebly, to the best of my ability, but the foam and the restraints hold.
My jaw hurts.
A few of my inorganic parts, such as my energy weapons and teeth, are more fragile than other parts, and are padded during transport to prevent damage. I can hardly move my tongue—inside my mouth is a chunk of plastic, molded to the shape of my teeth, holding my jaw open so I cannot gnash them together. It is solid—I can’t feel the air on my tongue, nor can I seem to breathe through my mouth. I experiment with trying to talk through it.
The sound that I make is audible, softly, only because there is nothing else to cover it up in the silence of the crate. I have been effectively muffled. I try pushing against the plastic with my tongue, but it doesn’t budge—I suspect there is more tape around my face, precisely to prevent it from dislodging.
I am helpless.
I know I have been helpless in this exact situation many times, but things are different now. I know what it is like to be a rogue. To take a warm shower that lasts until I want it to end. To choose my own uniform. To talk to clients about nonstandard sights and experiences. I feel like I am back with my company now, suffocating in transport.
Maybe that is what happened. Perhaps Perihelion was boarded by my company, and I was captured, and I am being sent back to the deployment center for analysis and repair. I don’t want that. (It would explain why I haven’t been able to send messages, it doesn’t make sense that Perihelion would restrict my feed.) I struggle, harder, as if I have forgotten that it will not work. I am still just as helpless as I was moments ago, and now I feel worse. I truly am trapped here, at the mercy of whoever did this to me. Or not even that—the mercy of whoever will take pity on me and let me out. If that ever happens—it is possible whatever ship is transporting me will suffer an accident, and everyone will die in space, and the vacuum will penetrate this crate and kill me slowly and I’ll have to be awake for it. My breathing is fast and shallow in my ears. I am… helpless.
Time passes, and somehow, my systems cycle slower. (I had hoped I might have passed out and then at least I wouldn’t have to be awake for this. There’s no such luck for a SecUnit, never when it is needed.)
I’m still stuck. I send another message to Perihelion, and it bounces back again. I ping 1.0. Still nothing. I send a general ping, anything within range, at least tell me what ship is carrying me so I know where I am…
It is dark, and quiet, and empty, and I am utterly alone, and thoroughly restrained.
Panicking will not help. Time has passed, and my situation has not changed. It suggests there is no immediate danger, at least. In a way, I would feel almost embarrassed, if emotions like shame were applicable to SecUnits. I have been on many contracts, and in many transport boxes. I do not recall becoming anxious in similar situations before. Then again, in those circumstances, I had an active governor module enforcing compliance and regulating hormone production. And, under usual circumstances, most of a transport is meant to be spent in stasis. The fact that I am awake is not standard protocol, which seems likely evidence that the Perihelion has done this to me, unaware of proper procedures, and has not intended to hurt me.
And there is a familiar smell pervading the air of the box. I recognize it as Iris’s favorite scent of soap. Perihelion had stocked some in my shower, after I had not expressed a preference of my own, and then I had refused to use it while coping with the horrors of wormhole travel. Perihelion had wanted me to bathe. After I went into recharge, it must have…taken care of the problem itself. It is an unsettling idea. It must have had drones strip me out of my clothes, clean me, and then…package me. Like this. I wonder if I am still in my room, or if Perihelion chose to move me to the cargo bay, or even its MedSys.
Perihelion must be responsible. There is no other explanation that makes reasonable sense, no matter how much my risk assessment wants to run scenarios. Perihelion is not trying to hurt me. (Risk assessment cycles futilely, running a simulation of how useless I would be in a battle if Perihelion was boarded by raiders, and how likely it would be that raiders finding a SecUnit in my position would strip me for parts.) I send another general ping, but still no response of any kind. I set up a function to continually scan for the feed, and attempt a ping every hour or so. I try to relax, as I apparently have no other options. I scan through my internal memory storage again for anything I can use as a distraction. I have one book saved offline, that I was halfway through reading. I open it.
For a while, that works. The story is engaging, and the ending is satisfying. By my internal chronometer, I spend approximately two and a half hours completing it. For reasons I cannot explain, my performance reliability dips when I realize that. (I still have just under 44 cycles remaining before this transit is scheduled to conclude.) I check my storage again.
I consider my options, mostly unchanged.
I start reading the book again.
It is less engaging, knowing the ending, having just finished it. Though it is interesting to find hints of foreshadowing scattered throughout the story, it doesn't distract me properly. (Risk assessment keeps cycling, imagining a scenario in which Perihelion has done the same to 1.0 as it has to me. I do not like imagining it suffocating in the cramped darkness somewhere, like me. What if raiders boarded, and captured us both? What if 1.0 is right next to me, on the other side of one of the walls?)
My automatic ping system alerts–it encounters an error. With a lack of response, it has become lodged in an error with my chronometer, and it won’t send any more pings automatically. With nothing better to do, I resolve the issue. I restart my chronometer.
While it is offline, I feel. Bad. Lonely. It is harder to track the passage of time–I have disabled my internal sensors for doing so. I am relieved when the system restarts.
The time it pulls up is incorrect. It reads 00:00:00, January 1, 00000. I connect it to the feed to sync to the proper time, and…nothing. I’ve been cut off from the feed.
00:00:01.
I can’t stand to look at it, and I close the input as hard as I can. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Time passes while I gather myself again. (I don’t look at the chronometer to tell me how much time has passed.) At the maximum, I have 44 cycles remaining before the Perihelion will release me. I can survive that. I will survive that. (I don’t have much of a choice.)
Time continues to tick by, excruciatingly slowly.
I scream into the plastic between my teeth. The sound is soft, even though there are no other sounds to hear. Thrashing around is getting me nowhere, the restraints hold, and the walls don’t budge, but I can’t make myself stop. I haven’t been able to take a single recharge cycle. I need to exhaust myself. I need to sleep. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t really know how long I’ve been here. My chronometer glitches every 5 hours it is not connected to the feed, resetting to 00:00:00. I don’t know how many times it has done that. At least 4. My eyes are hot and painful, leaking lubricant and watery. I scream so hard I can barely breathe, my nose filling with lubrication and slime, and choking on it doesn’t slow my panic.
I try forcing myself offline. I hold my oxygen intake as long as I can, but my performance reliability forces me to breathe before I shut down. I hack at my systems, modifying the code 2.0 gave me to disable my governor module. I disable my oxygen exchange, but I am thwarted when my traitorous organic parts breathe anyway.
I rip my chronometer into fragments of code. It is useless to me anyway, without the feed.
My skin is itchy under the tape that still holds me packaged tightly. I disable the code that allows my hair to grow on my limbs, then I destroy that too. There is no point in keeping it. (At least destroying it is a distraction from. From.) (I’m miserable.)
I shouldn’t have destroyed my chronometer. At least when it was glitching every five hours, I knew roughly how much time had passed. Now I have absolutely no idea. I’m sure it’s been multiple cycles–exhaustion at last forced me into a recharge cycle, and after an infinity passed, another. Perihelion is punishing me, I am sure of it now. I don’t know why, but it must be listening (I need it to be listening) and I beg it over the feed to tell me what I did wrong and give me a chance to make it right. I promise it I will behave more like 1.0. I promise it I will behave more like a SecUnit with a working governor module.
I tell it it can turn my governor module on. I talk through the plastic in my mouth, and over the feed. I say lots of things to it. And to 1.0.
After a while, I tell Perihelion to kill me, to just make this end. It doesn’t respond.
It must be mocking me. I wonder if it and 1.0 are laughing at me somewhere. I wonder if 1.0 is dead of old age by now. I wonder if the Perihelion is an abandoned wreck, and I am floating amongst the garbage. I can’t think. I can’t move. I archive my most recent project–rewriting the book entirely from memory–and I start it over again. I decide that in this version, the main character will die, over and over again, trapped in a hell not unlike mine, only there is no escape for me. (I don’t start this project. I rip the blank file into pieces, so thoroughly that the shreds of code sting against my processor.)
I can’t scream anymore. My voice box stopped working long ago, with overuse. There will be no repairs for it. I wish the damage was sufficient to initiate a longer stasis while awaiting repairs. It is not. I am awake, and I am trapped, and I hate it.
When the box moves, at first I think I’m hallucinating it, as I have already hallucinated it many times before (or I’ve been moved hundreds of times to hundreds of locations anywhere in the galaxy, wormhole trip after wormhole trip). But the sensation persists. I am being moved. I sob, and it doesn’t make a sound. I can even hear muffled voices outside the box (or am I imagining that too?) I don’t want to believe that this is escape. I wouldn’t be able to take it if it wasn’t. I’d give anything for this to be over, no matter what’s waiting for me outside.
The lid opens–it's so bright, I can’t even open my eyes. Turning down my pain sensors does nothing to help.
“Shit, ART,” a voice that sounds like 1.0 says softly. “What did you do to it?”
I don’t hear Perihelion’s response, as the feed rushes back into my empty processor, too much all at once after so long without even a drone input. I throw up a hasty wall to try and protect myself, but it is ineffective, and Perihelion grinds painfully into my feed anyway. It prods at the sensitive places where I have destroyed parts of my functionality. It weighs so heavily, I can’t resist at all, despite the pain as it rummages through the shreds of my systems.
(The messages I eventually stopped sending are nowhere to be seen. With no feed to disperse in, they depopulated long ago. Perihelion and 1.0 will never see my requests for assistance. I cannot tell if I am grateful or not.)
1.0 touches me, and the pressure of its hand after so long of nothing nothing nothing makes me scream and try to wiggle away. It is not gentle when it digs its fingers into the tape binding my arms and legs, ripping it away. I still scream, into the gag, but barely anything comes out of my sore and painful throat.
1.0 sends me a feed command, quiet, and I comply, a little. I imagine the effect would be similar to that of using a soft tone to shush a panicking client. It almost helps.
Report, 1.0 sends, and I scrape together something like a diagnostic and push it into the public feed. Perihelion sees it as well, and backs off my processor to examine the data. I am helpless as 1.0 removes the tape from my arms, and stretches them out. Still helpless. There’s no escape.
“Can you relax your fingers?” 1.0 asks. I try to comply. 1.0 uses its hands to stretch mine out flat, and I whimper from the pain. Everything hurts. That isn’t normal–usually, SecUnits come out of transport boxes ready for deployment immediately.
1.0 lifts my chin, and removes the plastic from my mouth. My jaw aches. 1.0 quickly looks inside my open, dry mouth, and turns away, without commenting.
“ART didn’t mean it,” 1.0 says, quietly. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay.” I squeeze my eyes shut against the brightness I’m still not used to.
“We made it to the university?” I ask. 44 cycles. I survived.
1.0 makes a face. “What?” it asks.
I try again, over the feed, since my throat did not comply. We made it to the university?
1.0 freezes. It sends me a feed connection. I read its chronometer. I do the math.
Only four cycles have passed.
“I’m…sorry it took so long,” 1.0 says. “I didn’t realize you weren’t even in stasis. That’s…I’m sorry.”
Only four cycles have passed.
Perhaps now you will be more inclined to explore more of me during our travel, Perihelion says, if SecUnit protocols do not suit you any longer?
“ART, now is not the fucking time,” 1.0 hisses at it.
I wait for a performance reliability crash to shut me down. It would be convenient, now.
It does not come. 1.0 stares at me, trying to pretend it is not doing that.
It wasn’t my intention to hurt you. If you went to Medical, I could examine you for injuries and provide repairs to some of your systems, Perihelion says.
I don’t think I ever want Perihelion to touch me again. 1.0 must see something of that in my face. It steps closer to me, and holds my head in both its arms. I lean against its chest, closing my eyes. I can hear the hum of its fluid pump.
1.0 says, as serious as I’ve ever heard it, “Fuck off, ART.”