Work Text:
SHUTDOWN
“…Mensah?”
“Hm?” Pin-Lee, Ratthi and Gurathin were all looking at her expectantly.
“We were just wondering what you thought about the part in the message buoy about SecUnit?” Ratthi said.
Oh right, that’s what she had been looking over a minute ago. Was it a minute ago? She had clearly zoned out, but had no idea for how long.
Mensah resumed reading the document in their shared feed channel. It was going to be sent ahead of [the Company] ship, through the wormhole, so that the Preservation responder would be prepared for their rendezvous.
‘We also wanted to let you know ahead that we will be bringing an additional person back to Preservation Station with us. They are from the Corporation Rim and were instrumental in the success of our mission to rescue Dr. Mensah. They are suffering from significant injuries and will need to be treated in the medical suite…’
Ayda’s head hurt. She had read over the same three sentences multiple times now. The words slipped away as she tried to comprehend them, like water droplets sliding down a window pane.
She stopped reading. “Yes, that’s good, thank you Ratthi,” she replied absently.
She trusted Pin-Lee, who was working on securing SecUnit’s refugee status and Ratthi, who was compiling everything they needed for the message buoy. She also trusted Gurathin; who was overcorrecting for his initial misgivings by spending all of his time buried in SecUnit’s diagnostics and user manuals, in order to perform its repairs on the Preservation responder.
It was a good thing she trusted them, because she certainly didn’t trust herself right now.
Her teammates were quietly exchanging worried glances with one another. “Hey, maybe that’s enough planning for now. We could probably all use some downtime,” Ratthi said lightly, moving his gaze between everyone, but resting it pointedly on her.
“Yeah, I really need to get some exercise,” said Pin-Lee. “This ship makes me feel like a fucking rat in a cage.”
“The fact that all they have is a literal exercise wheel really doesn’t help!” Ratthi exclaimed.
Gurathin stretched and stood up. “Time for me to get back to the grind,” he said as he made his way over to the hot drinks station. He touched Mensah’s arm as he passed, “You look tired. You should probably go take another rest period.”
Ayda sighed. Her knee-jerk response to this kind of sickly-sweet concern was to bristle and say ‘No, I’m fine’ and head off to the next task, but she just didn’t have the fight in her. The worst part was that she knew everyone could see it and she could barely bring herself to care.
Something fundamental inside of Ayda had gone, and she didn’t know where it went.
When Ayda looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize the person staring back at her. It wasn’t just the heaviness around the eyes, the unruliness of the hair or the gauntness in the cheeks. After all, she still had her mother’s eyes, her grandmother’s hair and her father’s bone structure. It almost felt like the person looking back at her was a mirage, the shape of a person that shouldn’t be there. For some strange reason, It felt like there should be nothing in the mirror at all.
She left the hygiene cubicle attached to the shared bunkroom and sat down heavily on her bed. She was alone, except for—
“SecUnit?” she whispered.
The person lying on the bunk across from her did not respond.
“…Murderbot?”
Of course it didn’t respond. It was shut down, completely gone from the feed. The only thing alive about SecUnit right now was its organic tissue. Still, she couldn’t help but entertain the tiny shred of hope that if she called its name, it would open its eyes and look at her with that soft, world-weary expression it so often wore.
Gurathin had learned what happened to SecUnit’s brain when it successfully fought off the killware attack. He pulled the diagnostic report shortly after they had moved it into their cabin. SecUnit’s inorganic brain was in pieces, scattered throughout its processors like shrapnel. It had extended itself so far that it couldn’t find its way back into its own systems. It had blown itself apart to save them, again.
All there was left to do was wait until they were aboard the Preservation Responder, where Gurathin would try a manual restart and see if SecUnit could put itself back together.
Ayda stared at SecUnit intently. It had been in this inert state long enough for her to know the frequency of its organic life signs. After what felt like an eternity, she saw its chest slowly rise and fall with breath.
Her shoulders dropped and she let out a sigh of relief. It was still alive, still with her.
Whatever that meant now.
“We really do think it would be in your best interest to allow us to perform a cubicle repair on your SecUnit,” said Alvin, idly stirring their tea. “There really is no other way to ensure proper functionality of the unit going forward.”
“Our answer is still no,” Pin-Lee said tightly, staring Alvin down with what Ratthi liked to call her murder eyes. “Like we said, we are going to have our technicians work on it when we get onto our own ship.”
Alvin spread their hands, “I don’t think you understand. Your unit has experienced a critical systems failure. Our cubicle repair process is the best chance you’ll ever get at restoring the unit’s functionality. I’m sure your technicians are very skilled, but they don’t have access to our patented systems.”
Gurathin winced and Ratthi looked down into his mug. They were clearly considering the implications of this.
All Ayda could think of was how anyone could call SecUnit’s act of heroic sacrifice a ‘systems failure’.
Alvin continued, “Besides, if the unit turns out to be unsalvageable, our disposal process is seamless, environmentally friendly and will be considerably less expensive for you than any other disposal service you’ll find, since you are already clients of [the Company].
“Yes, we are well aware of [the Company]’s eagerness to dispose of damaged SecUnits,” Mensah said coldly, remembering SecUnit’s repeating buffer phrase after the distress beacon explosion.
Alvin seemed to ignore this, keeping their attention on the others at the table.
“We have heard your concerns, but want to remind you that Dr. Mensah has full legal ownership of SecUnit and her decision is final.” Pin-Lee stated.
Alvin leaned in towards Pin-Lee, their voice taking on a smarmy, conspiratorial tone, “I am aware of Dr. Mensah’s… attachment to her SecUnit. However, is it not reasonable to assume that her recent traumatic experience has impaired her judgement? She really should complete our Retrieve Client Protocol before coming to a decision, at the very least!”
“I made this decision when I bought SecUnit’s contract on Port FreeCommerce and I am not changing my mind. Not now, not ever.” Mensah heard herself say, forcing Alvin to meet her gaze. “Also, I will not be completing your Retrieved Client Protocol. If I wanted an emotions wheel and a set of breathing exercises, I could go to any creche in the Preservation Alliance and wouldn’t have to fill out a feedback survey afterwards.”
“I think it’s time for you to go,” Pin-Lee said, standing up and motioning Alvin towards the door.
“Yes, of course!” Alvin blustered, “We will be in Wormhole transit for four more cycles. Please don’t hesitate to reach out during that time, for any reason.” They cast one more knowing look at Pin-Lee as the door slid closed behind them.
Ratthi scrubbed his face with his hands, “Urgghhh I hate this place!” he groaned emphatically.
Ayda’s body deflated. She was suddenly aware of the deep ache in her bones. She hadn’t said much during that meeting, yet the things she had said seemed to take everything out of her.
She had barely spoken at all over the past few weeks. Silence was the only power she had while in GrayCris captivity. Her voice felt unreal coming out of her now, like someone else was speaking instead of her. It had been that way ever since she crashed from the adrenaline of being rescued by SecUnit, seeing it again, almost losing it again, and again, and maybe again…
“—them get under your skin.” Gurathin was saying..
“Well, since our extra safety bond includes a flat rate for food and drink, let’s drain these fuckers for all their worth,” Pin-Lee said, her expression going vague as she perused the feed menu, “dumplings and beer, anyone?”
There was a cheer of ascent from Ratthi and Gurathin.
Mensah picked at the dumplings, unable to remember the last time she actually felt hunger. They had given her a tube of awful tasting nutrient paste twice a day at the GrayCris holding facility. This food, though bland by Preservation standards, somehow tasted too strong. It made her nauseous. She got up to leave the table.
“You okay?” Ratthi asked.
“Yes, I’m just tired. I think I need to lay down.”
“Can you at least have one more dumpling first? I haven’t seen you eat anything else today,” Pin-Lee implored.
“No thank you, I’m not hungry,” she replied, knowing she sounded sulky, like one of her children.
Pin-Lee furrowed her brow. “Not taking no for an answer Mensah,” she said grimly. “Remember, I know where you sleep.”
Mensah sighed and forced herself to chew and swallow one more dumpling, lest she face the indignity of Pin-Lee waking her up and force-feeding her a protein bar in the middle of the rest period, for a second time.
Time no longer made sense to Ayda. She had been kept for weeks in a gray-walled, windowless room with a single florescent light that never turned off. Sometimes she was drugged into a stooper, sometimes not. Sometimes she was brought for interrogation, sometimes not. Seconds and minutes felt warped, bloated by anxious looping thoughts. Hours and days blurred into each other, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.
It wasn’t much better now, on [the Company] gunship. Yes, she was back with her friends, but being around people for more than a few minutes felt overwhelming after so much isolation. Being alone felt worse though, Ayda’s mind tricking her into believing that she was still being held hostage, just by a different corporation.
The only person who made her feel grounded was SecUnit. Ayda would sit on her bunk and watch it breathe. Three hundred seconds between each breath. She had counted.
Counting had helped her pass the time while in custody. Now, it was a compulsion. Even when her thoughts were elsewhere, there was always a voice in the back of her head that just kept on counting—forwards, backwards, by different increments—she couldn’t turn it off.
So, Ayda counted the seconds between SecUnit’s breaths.
She tuned in to the sound of voices outside the bunkroom door.
“I know, it’s--” that was Pin-Lee. “Look, I knew it would be bad. I just didn’t expect her to be like this. You talk to her and it’s like she’s on another planet, or something.”
“I’m sure she’ll be okay with a bit more rest,” Ratthi said.
“All she’s doing is resting and it hasn’t helped!” Pin-Lee’s voice rose with exasperation. “She isn’t eating and she’s barely drinking any water. GrayCris was clearly fucking starving her!”
Oh right, water. Ayda took a few quick swigs from her nearly full bottle.
“This is pretty normal, considering what she’s been through,” Gurathin said lowly. “I’ve seen it before.”
“In the CR?” Ratthi asked.
“Yeah, people would disappear sometimes. They’d come back physically, but they were still somewhere else mentally. It happened to my cousin a decade or so ago.”
“Were they okay in the end?” Pin-Lee asked, speaking more quietly to match Gurathin.
“After a while, yeah. His husband found him a trauma specialist, which was expensive as hell in the rim, but it helped a lot.”
“Thank gods for Preservation’s free healthcare,” Ratthi breathed. “Mensah’s tough and she’s got a good support system back home. She’s gonna pull through this, with all of our help. We just have to be patient.”
“But what if we can’t fix SecUnit? It’ll destroy her!” Pin-Lee’s voice cracked.
“I’m almost done coding a patch for the corrupted restart sequence. The rest will be up to it,” Gurathin said earnestly. “SecUnit’s tough too-- tougher than all of us.”
There were the muffled sounds of Mensah’s friends embracing and comforting one another.
Ayda knew that under any other circumstance, she would be wracked with guilt for causing her friends to worry like this. She would be berating herself for not taking up her usual position at the helm. It almost was like the part of her that felt anything at all had been blunted and buried somewhere she couldn’t access.
She was still counting—298, 299, 300.
SecUnit breathed. Ayda breathed too.
1, 2, 3, 4…
The only time Ayda did feel anything was upon waking up. Sometimes she would come to slowly; dazed and adrift in a bottomless sea of despair. No one was coming for her.
Other times, she would wake abruptly from a dream she couldn’t remember; disoriented and panicked, crushed by relentless waves of raw terror. No one was coming for her!
Ayda would calm herself down by listening to the soft sounds of her sleeping friends, reminding herself where she was and who she was with. Once, she awoke from a night terror to complete silence. The others weren’t there. The waves of panic became a tsunami.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop the shaking.
Her animal instincts pushed her to find safety, proximity to someone—anyone—to silence the jagged scream of fear that was rocking her insides. Before she knew what she was doing, Ayda had crawled over to SecUnit’s bunk and buried her face in its chest. She felt, under her cheeks and forehead, the softness of its bullet hole ridden sweater, and the firmness of its reinforced bones. It was cooler than usual and smelled synthetic and a bit like the musk of dried sweat; just like all the times it had held onto her, and that one time it had let her hold onto it.
She felt SecUnit inhale and exhale. She even heard the occasional faint thud of some sort of internal pump, circulating its fluids just enough to keep the organic parts alive. Ayda’s racing heart slowed.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and opened her eyes to see Gurathin standing over her, a sad smile barely there at the corners of his mouth. Ayda’s face grew hot with embarrassment. He said nothing, just took her hand and lead her back to bed. She crawled under the covers and Gurathin sat on the edge of her bunk, holding her hand until she fell asleep again.
Neither of them spoke of it in the days that followed.
RESTART
Mensah wrapped her hands around the steaming mug in front of her. She focused on the slight burning sensation in her fingertips and the sweet, earthy aroma of one of her favourite teas from home.
“I had to stash this behind the emergency ration bars to make sure they didn’t all get eaten before you got here,” Tahira said as she pulled a jar of spiced winternuts out from the galley cupboard.
“Oh, you’re too good to me,” Mensah said with a smile.
Mensah and her team had boarded the Preservation responder the cycle before. She couldn’t describe the relief she felt when she saw her old friend Captain Tahira waiting on the other side of the airlock for them. Her and Mensah were roommates during their time at First Landing and had been incredibly close ever since. Tahira was tall (about as tall as SecUnit was now), broad shouldered and gave the best hugs.
The familiar sights, sounds and smells of the Preservation ship were gradually pulling Ayda back into reality. It was finally clicking for her, that she really had been rescued and was going home. The ordeal was far from over though. Ayda still felt so fragile, but now had the presence of mind to be frustrated about it.
Tahira poured the spiced winternuts into a bowl and set them down on the table. “I mean, I would have eaten them all myself honestly, but someone had to go and get kidnapped by evil corporates and make me feel guilty for hoarding them,” she said with a wry smile.
Mensah winced. Tahira’s coping mechanism of choice had always been dark humour, which she usually found entertaining. Not in this case, it seemed.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry! Fuck, it’s way too soon to joke like that. I’m so shit at this!” Tahira blurted, hands scrubbing at her face. “I was just… so fucking scared for you.”
Mensah nodded sympathetically. “It’s okay… I’m sorry,” was all she could think to say. She knew these types of conversations were coming. She had no idea how to comfort her loved ones, when she felt like she was still neck deep in the trauma herself. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t opened the messages from her family yet.
“You’re sorry?! Goddamn it Ayda, come here!” Tahira exclaimed, dropping into the chair next to Mensah and pulling her into an embrace. Mensah tucked herself into Tahira’s chest, feeling the strong warmth of her friend’s arms surrounding her. Tahira’s chin rested atop her head, long black braids creating a curtain in from of Mensah’s face. This was a familiar shape for them; formed during the three months they tried dating, and kept long after that awkward time had been forgotten. It felt more like home to Ayda than anything had in a long while.
After a few minutes, Tahira pulled away and reached for a winternut. “So, you don’t want to talk about it then?”
“Definitely not.”
“Makes sense,” she said with a firm nod. Then after a moment, “There is one thing I want to know. The injured person you brought with you— what’s going on there?”
“You know I can’t talk about that. They need their identity protected until--”
“No, I get that,” Tahira cut her off briskly. “I mean, what’s going on with you and them? I saw how close you stuck to their gurney when we brought them aboard. I also know that you haven’t slept in your bunk yet. You’d still be in medical now if Ratthi and Gurathin hadn’t kicked you out so they had room to work.” she said pointedly.
Mensah’s cheeks flushed. “It’s not like that—we’re not—” she was stumbling all over her words.
“They saved your life, right? Do you feel like you owe them something?”
“They did, multiple times, but I don’t…” she trailed off, none of the words in the universe felt adequate for what Ayda really felt for SecUnit. She owed it plenty of things; an apology and a do-over of offering SecUnit the life it barely got to live, to name a few. She just hope she got the chance.
“It—they… are very important to me,” she said softly.
Tahira maintained eye contact. “Do Farai and Tano know?”
“Some things yes, but not the whole story. I will tell them, when— if…” Ayda buried her face in her hands. Everything suddenly felt too much, like her outer layer of skin had disappeared and even the air around her hurt.
“Hey, you’ve got the best people in there with them now,” Tahira said, placing her hand on top of Mensah’s.
“Now, go take a shower. I brought your favourite soap. You don’t want to look a mess when your friend-or-whatever wakes up.”
“So what exactly is the plan here?” Pin-Lee demanded, surveying the scene in front of her.
The medical suite was a cramped mess of cables and display surfaces. Some connected SecUnit’s gun ports to the MedSystem console and others connected the console to several of Gurathin’s augments.
“I’m going to power up the MedSys and then send a manual restart command to SecUnit’s systems. At the same time, I’m going to shove the restart code patch into its processing cue, to see if it grabs on. The hope is that the direct electrical current and the code patch will be enough to jumpstart its inorganic systems, bypassing the corrupted restart sequence.. SecUnit will have to take it from there.”
“Do you really think that’s going to work?” Pin-Lee asked, incredulous.
“It’s the best option we have without me interfacing directly with its systems,” Gurathin said. “And we all agree that’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah, SecUnit would not want to wake up to that,” Ratthi affirmed with a laugh.
“Okay, are we ready?” Gurathin asked.
Mensah nodded, her eyes fixed on SecUnit’s repaired body on the platform. She held her breath. Pin-Lee squeezed her hand.
Ratthi made a circle with his right thumb and index finger and touched it to his chest briefly; a simple prayer to one of his deities. “You got this Gura,” he said.
“Three, two, one.”
The MedSys hummed to life, a holo display surface materializing above the console. One by one, lines of code began to appear on the display. Gurathin’s face scrunched up with concentration for what seemed like an eternity, but was only four seconds (Ayda was back to counting).
“There!” he exclaimed, eyes snapping open as he let out a big huff of air. SecUnit’s whole body jerked. The display surface was suddenly populated with long streams of code, tumbling over each other as new lines materialized simultaneously. Gradually, the code strings appeared slower and slower, until they were barely a trickle.
They all watched the screen. Nothing else happened.
Pin-Lee broke the silence. “So, did it work?” she asked.
“It worked in that SecUnit’s systems are now online. We’ll have to wait and see whether or not it can put its code structures back together. There’s nothing else we can do from here.” Gurathin explained, disconnecting the wires from his augments, but still keeping his eyes on the readout.
“How long do you think that will take?” Ratthi asked.
“Hours, days, weeks maybe? No way to know,” Gurathin said absently.
They lapsed back into silence. Time passed. Pin-Lee and Ratthi’s expressions went vague as they began working on other things in the feed.
Ayda’s brain continued to count. 200 seconds between SecUnit’s breaths now. That was something, right?
“Any change?” Ratthi asked after 843 seconds.
“Not yet,” Gurathin replied.
“Do you think we should have let them put it back in the cubicle? If it can’t—”
“No. No, absolutely not.” Mensah cut Ratthi off. She didn’t want to hear another word about [the Company]. “They’ve got to want to know how it beat its Governor Module. If they had the opportunity, they might reactivate it. And they’d figure out how to keep other SecUnits from beating it too. We can’t trust them.”
Ratthi nodded gravely. They were all silent again. Ayda stared numbly at the display surface as lonely lines of code blipped in and out of the empty screen.
The Preservation ship’s ambient lighting had dimmed to its lowest point, indicating that they were well into the night cycle. It was just Mensah and Pin-Lee left watching over SecUnit now. Ratthi and Gurathin had gone to bed, exhausted from nearly sixteen hours of working on its repairs. Gurathin had left as soon as the ambient lights began to lower, rubbing his temples with a feed migraine. Ratthi hadn’t lasted much longer, nearly falling off his stool as he fought to stay awake.
Not much had changed about SecUnit’s condition. Its face, which had been placid in shutdown, was now deeply creased with pain or intense concentration, (Ayda couldn’t tell which), and it made small twitches from time to time. She couldn’t parse anything on the data readout, but to her, it looked like its processors were stalled, or caught in some sort of loop.
“I need to call it a night,” said Pin-Lee. “Are you sure you don’t want to come back to the bunkroom to sleep?”
Mensah shook her head emphatically. “No, I don’t want SecUnit to be alone when—if it wakes up.”
“You’re right. Damnit, we should have made a shift schedule,” Pin-Lee muttered. “I guess we all thought this wouldn’t take so long. I can wake Ratthi up. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind taking over for a few hours.” she offered, standing up and smoothing out her tunic.
“It’s alright. Honestly, I’d rather stay with SecUnit myself.”
Pin-Lee frowned and gave her shoulders a small shrug. “Okay, we’ll be back first thing in the morning. Goodnight, Mensah.” She then turned to the medical platform. “Goodnight SecUnit, get your shit together soon, okay?” She said a bit louder, her voice wavering with strained levity.
The door slid shut behind Pin-Lee and Ayda found herself alone with SecUnit again.
She sighed heavily, burying her head in her hands. It had only been a few hours since the restart, but Ayda couldn’t help the way her thoughts were careening towards worst case scenarios. What if SecUnit didn’t wake up. Or, what if it did wake up, but with very limited function. If SecUnit remained like this, or a similar state for the rest of its life, they would have to figure things out. She and her community would care for it the way that they cared for anyone with a traumatic brain injury or significant disability. But wait, SecUnit didn’t like planets. She would have to find a place for it on the station and… leave it there? No, she’d have to split her time between her home on the farm and the station, more than she already did. This would be a logistical headache, but she would figure it out. She would explain it to her family and they would understand somehow. They would have to understand.
Then a terrible thought occurred to her. What if it woke up and didn’t remember any of them—didn’t remember her at all. What if it left because it didn’t know or trust her and didn’t remember how it hacked its Governor Module and got taken advantage of by another terrible corporation. Ayda’s breath hitched. She would do anything to keep that from happening.
“SecUnit, can you hear me?” she whispered, on the off chance that it could. If any of her fears turned out to be true, this felt like her last chance to live in the comfort of ignorance and talk to the person she knew, for the last time.
No response.
“SecUnit, I need to say thank you. Thank you for saving me… again.” Once the words started, Ayda found they wouldn’t stop “You were somewhere across the galaxy and you came back for me. We’d all be dead if it wasn’t for you and I just… I need you to be okay. I need you to put yourself back together so you can remember everything—how brave and smart and kind you are—and how you changed everything for us… for me.” Tears were coming now. “I’m so sorry for all of this. I’m so sorry for underestimating you and making you do so many things you shouldn’t have to do. It’s okay if you leave Preservation as soon as you’re able— You don’t have to stay. I just want you to be able to live your life. Just knowing you’re out in the universe somewhere, watching your shows and helping people is enough. Just, please wake up so you can live, Murderbot!”
Ayda was sobbing uncontrollably. Her breath came in sharp hiccupping gasps. She hadn’t cried since the first night of her captivity and now it was like the dam had broken. Her emotions had been muted and dull for so long. Now they crashed through her with vivid ferocity. Ayda curled into a tight ball on the small bench that she had been using as a bed and gave in to the storm.
Very early in the morning, the med console’s display surface lit up with a sparking shower of data. Strings of code exploded outward from a single point, swirling and dancing around each other like fireworks in the night sky.
SecUnit opened its eyes. It stared blankly up at the ceiling, a deep furrow between its brows.
Its audio processors picked up a small noise coming from across the room. SecUnit turned its head slowly towards the sound. It saw a human huddled on a narrow bench in the fetal position, knees hanging slightly over the edge. She(?) was small and soft looking, even by human standards. She looked like she was asleep, or maybe unconscious. Her eyes were puffy and there were streaks of fluid drying on her cheeks. Her mouth was set in a deep frown.
She looked like…
SecUnit’s face softened in… recognition?
It said, in an automated voice “I am your [Company] designated Security Unit. Please remain calm while I render assistance.”
The burst of activity on the display surface died down to a steady rhythm of linking code segments and SecUnit’s eyes closed again.
REBUILD
Mensah awoke to the sound of the Medbay door sliding open. She sat up and slowly rolled her shoulders, trying to coax the stiffness of a fitful night’s sleep out of her body.
“Good morning!” called Pin-Lee, tossing a warm grainmeal pouch in her direction. Mensah caught it clumsily and broke the seal, realising that she actually felt hungry for a change.
“Hey, SecUnit!” Ratthi said brightly, scooting a stool up next to the platform. “Hmmm… it looks like it might have moved a bit during the night. Did you notice anything?” he asked, looking in her direction. Mensah shook her head.
Gurathin had gone straight for the display console. “Good news!” he said, “Diagnostics are showing greatly accelerated activity. It’s putting itself back together!”
Hope and relief bloomed in Ayda’s chest and she let go of the breath she hadn’t realize she was holding. She peered at SecUnit, noticing that its eyes were very slightly open now. The activity in the room must have been rousing it somewhat, as SecUnit started muttering softly under its breath.
“Art… Eden… Tapan…”
“What’s it saying?” Pin-Lee asked.
“It’s probably just involuntary vocalizations as it organizes its memory files,” Gurathin replied.
“Eden is a character from Sanctuary Moon, so that would make sense,” said Ratthi.
The mention of its favourite show seemed to get its attention, as SecUnit’s eyes opened all the way and focused on the equipment suspended from the ceiling.
“How do you feel?” Ratthi said gently.
“Fine.” SecUnit looked confused.
Pin-Lee snorted.
“Do you know where you are?” Ratthi asked.
SecUnit paused, then said “Please wait while I search for that information,” in its flat buffer voice.
“Ok,” Ratthi said with a small shake of his head. He leaned back, “Ok.”
Ayda frowned. The initial relief of seeing her dear friend awake was being replaced with the sinking dread that SecUnit wouldn’t come back to them as the person it had been, but as the automated shell that [the Company] wanted it to be.
Then it said “I don’t want to be a pet robot,” and her fears were quickly replaced with a gaping void of sadness. They were watching SecUnit remember its most personal thoughts and feelings in real time, without the ability to suppress or filter them. This was more vulnerable than SecUnit would ever want to be. Leaving it alone wasn’t an option though; since it was probably terrified not knowing where it was, or who they were.
“I don’t think anyone wants that,” Gurathin said with a small smile.
“I don’t like you,” SecUnit responded immediately.
Pin-Lee huffed a laugh and Mensah winced. Apparently, it did know who they were and wasn’t able to filter its feelings about them either. She felt her face growing hot.
Without missing a beat, Gurathin chuckled and said, “I know.”
“That is not funny.”
Mensah hated to admit it to herself, but it was kind of funny.
“I’m going to mark your cognition down at fifty-five percent.”
“Fuck you!” SecUnit shot back.
“Make that sixty percent.”
SecUnit had suddenly sounded so like itself—a real, unedited version of itself—that Ayda couldn’t help but start laughing. Her shoulders shook silently as she put her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound. Then she was crying. Waves of relief, joy, sadness and emotions she couldn’t name rocked her like a boat in choppy waters. Her feelings were coming back so abruptly-- so insistently, that she had no choice but to let the current take hold.
Pin-Lee put an arm around her. “It’s gonna be okay,” she murmured. The storm eventually died down and Ratthi helpfully passed over a box of tissues before turning back to SecUnit, who was having an emotional response of its own. It gasped for air as an expression of pure terror contorted its face. Ratthi reached for its hand. Gurathin gave a firm shake of his head and Ratthi pulled back.
“It’ll pass. Most of its memories aren’t going to be good ones,” Gurathin said softly
Sure enough, SecUnit’s face slackened a few moments later and it seemed to lose focus on its surroundings. Mensah hoped that meant it was calm now and taking a moment to rest.
“Where is she?” SecUnit blurted a few minutes later.
“Where is who?” Ratthi asked.
There was a long pause.
“Please wait while I search fo--Doctor Mensah!” It said, loudly cutting off its buffer phrase.
“She’s right over there SecUnit,” Ratthi replied, beckoning her forward.
Mensah stood up, but didn’t come any closer. She was suddenly very self conscious. She felt guilty for the ways she had used SecUnit for comfort on [the Company] ship and terrified that it heard everything she said last night during her emotional breakdown. What would it say to her now in this unfiltered state?
SecUnit turned its head and looked directly at her.
“Hi,” it said.
“Hi, SecUnit,” she gave it a small smile.
It was still looking at her with a puzzled expression. “You look sad— are you sad?”
“I was, when we weren’t sure you were going to make it, but I’m not anymore,” she admitted.
“Ok. Good.”
Seemingly satisfied with this exchange, SecUnit went back to staring at the ceiling.
“Are you sure there won’t be humans around?” SecUnit asked, its gaze fixed on its inorganic feet. Mensah was standing beside it at the Medbay hatch.
“It’s pretty late into the night cycle, so most everyone has gone to bed,” she said. “Also, the captain has agreed to make anyone that is still awake stay where they are for the next hour or so.”
Captain Tahira had initially protested when Mensah told her that she couldn’t meet SecUnit, until Mensah explained that her ‘friend-or-whatever’, as Tahira was calling it, didn’t like people on a good day—and this wasn’t a good day.
It was the cycle after SecUnit had woken up and this was the first time it was leaving the medical suite. To say that remembering how to walk had been a challenge for it was a massive understatement. It made such a loud thud when it collapsed to the floor the first time. It had always been so agile. Seeing it this physically and mentally vulnerable was taking some getting used to.
SecUnit was certainly vulnerable, but it was far from weak. It wouldn’t stop trying to walk, to remember, to figure things out—not until bouts of fatigue made it lose focus. Mensah was so proud of it, but knew this wasn’t the time to say so.
SecUnit’s current stream-of-consciousness style communication had given Mensah ample opportunity to confirm things she’d suspected about how the current circumstances made her dear friend feel. Mostly, she knew what SecUnit didn’t want: it didn’t want to be human, it didn’t want to go to the planet and it didn’t want to be a pet or servant bot. She had gleaned a lot less about what SecUnit actually wanted, which was reasonable given the situation. Mensah selfishly hoped that it would trust her enough to stay on Preservation while it figured that out. She really wanted to get it right this time.
SecUnit stepped through the hatch and began walking slowly, tentatively down the corridor towards the big porthole at the end. It stumbled a little on a seam in the floor, reflexively putting a hand on Mensah’s shoulder to steady itself.
“Sorry,” it mumbled.
“That’s quite alright. That’s what I’m here for,” Mensah said warmly. It felt good to be the person that SecUnit relied on for a change.
They eventually reached the porthole and gazed silently out at the approaching transit ring of Preservation station. Home-- for her.
“Do you remember the plan for disembarking the ship tomorrow?” Mensah asked.
“Uhh…”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind repeating it,” she said quickly. “There may be a lot of press at the docks, so Pin-Lee, myself and the crew are going to leave first to deal with them. Once the docks have cleared out, you Rathi and Gurathin will disembark and head to the hotel. That way, you’ll run into as few people as possible. I will see you later, when you’re settled in the hotel.”
“I should go with you and Pin-Lee,” SecUnit said, continuing to stare at the approaching station. “In case there’s hostiles.”
“You are in no shape to be fighting anyone right now,” Mensah said earnestly.
SecUnit’s eyebrows scrunched together. “I’m supposed to protect you,” it protested, its flat delivery frayed at the edges with frustration.
“Preservation is my home. Nothing bad has happened to me here,” she said. Mensah knew that she was doing a terrible job of convincing SecUnit, as well as herself. Even though her fragmented brain was putting itself together again, she had the sinking feeling that her sense of safety might never fit back in.
“Right now, you need protecting too,” she finally said.
It made a dubious expression. “SecUnits are supposed to protect humans, not the other way around.”
“Sometimes things are more complicated than that,” Mensah paused and then finally said the thing she’d been mulling over all day. “Do you remember when I rescued you, back on the survey planet?”
SecUnit turned abruptly to face her, its expression the picture of shock and indignation, “What?”
“You were in the DeltFall habitat and we had lost contact with you. I had no idea what I was walking in to, but I knew that I wasn’t going to leave you behind, not without a fight,” she said, remembering the adrenaline and the weight of the mining drill in her arms.
SecUnit’s face cycled through multiple complicated expressions, a microsecond at a time. It seemed to be remembering. It looked away from her and was quiet for a long moment.
“That was really stupid,” it finally said.
Mensah shrugged. She still hadn’t really processed the implications of that desperate perilous act, (let alone the fact that she had killed someone— killed for someone). It was going to have to be added to the growing list of traumatic events she had to work through in therapy. Thinking about that made her want to run away into the woods and never come back.
“I know,” she said. “And I’d do it again.”
SecUnit’s shoulders slumped and it curled in on itself. Mensah wondered if had lost the thread of the conversation and needed to go back to the Medbay when it said, so softly that she had to strain to hear it, “We come back for each other.”
Ayda’s heart melted. She didn’t know what SecUnit would do when it felt well enough to decide. She’d also been realizing that she had the same problem. She had saved it and it had saved her-- over and over again. Nothing could go back to the way it was, and despite all the trauma and pain, Ayda didn’t want it to. Both her and SecUnit had a long road to walk, but maybe they could walk it together.
“Yes. We’re good at that,” she said.