Chapter Text
If you’d asked me this morning, I would have placed the likelihood of ending this mission by running from station security back to ART at about five percent. Call me conceited, but it really was supposed to be just a simple B&E.
In my defense, the target’s security system had been more sophisticated than expected. I managed to retrieve the data we needed, but it scrambled my feed access in the process. Since ART had no faith in me (“And leave you without backup three layers deep on a Corporation Rim station?”), it had been forced to leave a partition in the back of my head to take up my processing space and give unsolicited opinions. I was slower than usual, and, if I was being honest with myself, I’d gotten the yips. ART had restored some rudimentary local feed access, but, after I’d managed to mistype “subprocess.run” three times in under a second, ART took over most of the hacking.
How do you live with so little processing space?
“Wow, SecUnit, I’m so impressed by your ability to fuck shit up on the regular so my humans don’t have to get into stupid situations,” I said. I was pressed against a wall and sent a drone around the corner. The garage was empty. “You make such efficient use of your available processing space. I love how you have all your media arranged by what we’re most likely to watch next and your tagging system is so thorough and easy to use.”
The color coordination is a nice touch.
I moved into the garage, making a beeline for the patrol cart closest to the massive overhead door.
“Are you going to be able to open that?”
I’m smaller, not dumber. There’s enough compressed data in this partition to fry your circuits. I’m starting to feel cramped.
“I forgot who I was talking to. Open that for me, will you?”
Very well, it said, attention flitting away from my— now our— audio/visual inputs. I put a hand on the patrol cart as I approached. It was shining black and aerodynamic enough to look like liquid suspended in air. The only thing that broke the illusion was the divot of the handle and the barely distinguishable “Station Security” detailing painting in black on the side. Even the emergency lights were subtle enough to blend in seamlessly. Why any station would waste this much money on a stupid vehicle, I had no idea. It was a shame I had to fire my energy weapons at the window, and far more of a shame that they actually broke.
Once inside, I dusted the safety glass from the seat and leaned over to remove the panel from the steering column. I found what I needed, stripped the wires, tapped them together, and revved the engine. The patrol cart roared to life just as the garage door started to raise. An alarm sounded and I felt ART’s attention slam back into me.
Bogey ETA thirty seconds, it said, flicking a map with ominous, fast-moving dots closing in on our position.
I cursed. I dusted off a very old education model and threw the car into drive. With my hands at ten and two I slammed my foot on the gas and very quickly slammed it back on the brakes.
“The fucking steering wheel is locked.”
ART was already in the feed. I felt it unfurl into the cart’s systems, expanding some of its compressed data. On it.
“Station security! Freeze!” Four humans in security uniforms came barreling down the hall, weapons raised. The wheel suddenly unlocked and I slammed on the gas. There was a squeal and the acrid smell of burning rubber, and we were off. Shots peppered the walls of the garage. One grazed the back of the car and ricocheted away.
“Fuck me,” I said.
I think they’re going to try. There was a small display screen that turned on and began displaying a map of the fastest route back to the docking bay where ART proper was, hopefully, preparing for a hasty exit. The gas pedal was on the floor. I heard an energy pulse fly past the broken window, a high pitched whizzing sound that cut through the pure noise of the wind. I took the first corner at 100 kmh.
ART, given free rein of a new body, sighed dramatically and settled in. It flicked on the emergency lights. They flashed red and white across the station streets, which had been artificially darkened for the night cycle. Behind us, I could hear sirens.
This was one of the largest stations in the Corporation Rim, outfitted with an intricate network of roads with a similarly intricate network of cameras and toll booths. My attention was almost wholly occupied by deciphering the insane warren of streets and making sure we didn't crash into one of the other few station carts out at this hour. One of the scraps of me that was capable of anything else noticed a strange sensation on my seat.
Why is my ass hot? I said, using the feed to bypass the overwhelming noise.
I turned on the seat warmer. You're welcome. I could feel ART lavish itself through the controls, stretching from where it was rooted in my head. I think there's a massage attachment.
I'll pass. This seems excessive, even by corporate standards.
Barring the broken window and exposed wires, it really was a beautiful cart. We were whipping through the twisting, elevated highway at 160 kmh and were able to hit 220 on the straightaways. The hormones that flushed into my system made the fine hair on my arms stand on end. The skyline of the station was dotted with bright lights that moved in parallax. The wind roared into and out of the cart, tugging at my clothes and bringing the sharp smell of artificial “outdoor” scents layered over hot metal and closely-packed human. The distant sirens from before had turned into visible flashing red and white lights as I got off an exit to cut through a business district into the second layer. I gripped the wheel tighter, willing twitching muscles to focus.
We're going to have to fake them out. We can't just drive this thing up to you.
It was busier here. The streets were more narrow, with cars lining either side. I slashed down the center, cutting a line of light through hightower office buildings.
The map changed. Here. We'll lose them in the dead end. You'll have to climb.
I can make that work.
ART cut the lights and I slowed to a reasonable 120 kmh. I made a sharp turn around a cart that in no way could have seen us coming, running through a traffic stop. Lights and sirens followed close behind. In the rear view I could see them now. Little globs of pure night followed us, indicated only by the fact that they wanted us to see them. I was too busy to shudder, but I still thought about how similar the effect of the blacked-out windows was to my old armor.
I made another turn. The tail end of the cart kept swinging behind us and righted itself. Two of the four security carts had fallen from view. Good riddance, assholes.
I do not have control of this vessel's braking systems.
I quickly whipped again and recovered faster this time, pressing down on the gas in an empty back street. My eyes couldn't tear away from the final cart that tailed us, hungry to watch it fall away like the rest.
SecUnit, slow down.
I will admit it: I was definitely going too fast when I made that final turn. The cart squealed through the short alley. I felt ART retreat from the cart's systems, shoving a whole lot of uncompressed data into my processors. My mind was caught in a riptide. A row of waste recyclers were coming straight at–
> unit offline
Oh, fuck.
That hurt. A lot. But not nearly as much as it should. Everything was muffled, and I felt my hand fumble at the car door handle. The inorganic components of my right leg were disconnected at the knee, moving uselessly. My body had become a tuning fork. I felt the shock reverberate through me and into every painful joint, strain, and bruise.
Are you back, my little idiot?
ART was at once distant and completely engulfed me. There was no room for response. The door opened. Somewhere behind us, glass shattered. My head ducked and the airbag in front of us blew as we rolled out and hit the ground–
> unit offline
I was scaling a building. With every rung of the fire escape ladder ART pulled and jumped, dragging my busted right leg along behind us. Every leap was exacting. Fluid leaked from my shoulder. I hated leaking.
SecUnit? Stand by. I am getting us out of here.
ART was getting us out of here. It hurt to exist. All I wanted was to let go, but I couldn't leave ART. It hated being alone. Warmth spread beneath the surface, where I was tucked away.
Sleep, my friend. I will keep you safe.
If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have listened. I would have fought back. Keeping people safe was my job.
But ART was my ship. That was its job, too. Wrapped this deeply in its programming, it was too hard a point to argue.
> unit offline