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To conserve energy, 1.0 is only breathing about once every two minutes. In the silence between its exhale and subsequent inhale, I keep frightening myself with the thought that each breath was its last, as each inhale becomes more and more strained.
According to my chronometer, we’ve been down here at the bottom of this mineshaft for two planetary cycles. Upon reawakening after our disastrous crash, it was immediately clear that neither of us was in any kind of condition to orchestrate our own rescue. 1.0 will need at least three out of four limbs rebuilt/regrown to regain functionality, and that’s not even getting into the damage its torso and head took. The only reason we are alive at all is because it had the presence of mind to hit an emergency low-grav button on our transport that slowed our fall, but the transport fell mostly on top of it when the function failed. I am having a hard time looking directly at it, the damage is so bad. If our governor modules were active, the distance between us and our clients would have killed us less than halfway through our fall.
I'm not doing so well myself; I'm sitting in a puddle of my own fluids because a vital line in my thigh was punctured and I am desperately in need of a resupply. My power core is at a very low capacity and unable to recharge without the energy generated by my fluids moving around my body. But at least my internal structures are largely intact, unlike 1.0’s, as I was thrown free of the transport. I’ve been shutting myself down periodically so I won’t run through what’s left of my energy too rapidly, but it seems fairly useless, considering that we have little to no chance of being found. I calculate the possibility of rescue at under 2%. But I have not taken any self-destructive measures, because 1.0 dropped a countdown timer in our shared workspace and told me not to do anything drastic until we had given Perihelion and the humans a fair shot at finding us.
We are far, far out of range of the feed down here, and no sensor would detect us from the surface. We were close to succeeding in our mission -- we had downloaded the data that Captain Seth had directed us to find, that was supposed to help liberate a station colony not far from this planet -- but in all likelihood, it will be lost down here with us. Perhaps the colonists will die too, although Perihelion and its humans are resourceful. There is a 52.4% chance they will succeed in helping the colonists to some degree even without this data. That might make me feel better, if 1.0’s countdown timer wasn’t close to finished.
It may be selfish, but I am relieved that I am not alone down here. 1.0 often knows what to do when I am baffled, and although the timer is a grim reminder of our situation, it is also a reminder that we are in this together.
When the timer hits zero, 1.0 surprises me by sending me something. At first glance, it is 1.0’s schematics, altered to reflect the changes that Perihelion made to its configuration. Certain sections are highlighted, mostly its innermost workings, stored inside its chest, the places it was able to best protect when we hit the ground. It takes me a second to realize that I'm not looking at a diagram of its functioning systems, but what it thinks is salvageable. By me.
"No," I say, which, as Iris has told me, is a full sentence.
Three, it says on the feed. It has to conserve breath, but its jaw is also fractured, and speaking aloud would likely be painful. I’m not going to make it, regardless. I’m fucked, my systems just haven't stopped running yet. Yo/u still have a chance, if we can simulate a resupply and recharge. I want you to make it out.
It sends me a diagnostic so dismal that I’m surprised it isn't experiencing catastrophic failure already. Its performance reliability is barely out of single digits. I think it might only be conscious at all because it's shut down several vital systems already. It is, as it said, fucked. I knew this already, I just thought that we both were, and that was less painful.
1.0, I say, helplessly. I won't do it. I won’t take you apart.
Who does it help i.f you die too? it snaps. It sends me the same diagram, this time with its secondary power core and the fluid reservoir circled within the highlighted section. Your fluids should be compatible with mine, it adds. My main power core is shattered, but .I have a secondary reserve for my energy weapons. It pauses. You should take the energy weapons too, actually, in case there are hostiles waiting at the top.
I send it back the part of my contract -- which looks much like its contract, so it should be familiar with the text -- that says I am allowed to refuse unreasonable requests.
A tiny, irritated huff of breath escapes it. If I were human, I probably would have jumped at the sound. A moment later, it sends me a longer list.
Scenario A: We keep waiting here like dumbasses for rescue.
Likeliest outcome, 99.29% probability: I die, and then you die, and the data is wasted.
Scenario B: You try to drag my mangled body up to the surface.
Likeliest outcome, 99.87%: Your systems fail less than one quarter of the way up, and we die horribly at the same time from impact when you experience catastrophic failure.
Scenario .C: You leave me here and try to make it to the surface by yourself.
Likeliest outcome, 98.12%: Your systems fail before the halfway point, and you die on impact when you fall. I die slowly down here, alone.
Scenario D: You salvage what you can from my body.
Likeliest outcome, 64.89%: You successfully reach the surface and deliver the data to ART and its humans. Mission casualty ratio is reduced from 100% to 50%, and the colonists are safely retrieved.
Yes, it bolded its preferred scenario, because it thinks I am being dumb.
I put my head between my knees. I have seen Turi do this, when they experience bouts of motion sickness on shuttles. It does not make me feel any better. I run the numbers. My analyses align with 1.0’s with very little standard deviation. My calculations actually estimate a higher likelihood of success in Scenario D.
I wish we had died when we hit the ground.
1.0 must take pity on me, because it is not so forceful in the feed when it speaks again. It’s starting to throw errors in its text, but I’m not sure if it knows it’s doing it. I know this isn’t ideal. But it’s by far the best> option we have. So// I need you to get over your squeamishness and o;pen up my chest compartment. I estimate that we have between approximately 8 and 8 and 14 minutes before my higher brain fu.nctions shut down.
I am not being squeamish, I tell it. I am grieving you.
That, of all things, makes it falter. Oh. . So you’ll d.o it?
I will comply, I tell it. But you cannot force me to consider this acceptable. I am only cooperating because this is the only option that will allow us to complete the mission. These are extreme circumstances, and I am. Unhappy. About this.
The cir+cumstances are extreme, it agrees, but it seems relieved more than anything, and it sends me directions for opening up its fluid reservoir. It is a silicone sac that is nestled inside its chest wall on the lower righthand side. Normally, it would be more difficult to reach, but 1.0’s chest has been pulverized by the blunt force of impact, and it takes mere moments to peel away the thin layer of dying muscle and locate the hatch release. The hatch is deformed enough that it will not open fully, and has to be pried off in order to make space for me to stick my fingers in and extract the reservoir. The metal makes an awful creak when I bend it, and 1.0’s fingers twitch. When I look at its face to see if I am hurting it, its eyes are closed.
It looks very much dead already. If I could not sense its wavering feed presence, I would think it already was.
Its reservoir cannot be simply substituted for my reservoir, as mine is made of a more rigid polymer. The fluid will have to be siphoned. Delicately, I pluck at some of the tubing that runs along the inside of its chest compartment, but it is rubbery and slippery, and I cannot get more than a few inches of give before it snaps tight. 1.0 does not flinch this time, although I think it must be able to tell what I am doing even with its eyes still closed, because it says, Pull harder.
I pull harder. The tube resists a moment longer, then releases from somewhere lower in its torso with a horrible wet sound. 1.0’s brow creases in disgust. I cannot tell if it is in increased pain and I am afraid to ask. The tube is squishy, still loosely curling from where it was coiled inside 1.0's chest wall, and I wonder if this is like a human having to touch another human’s intestines.
I hold the tube gingerly, uselessly. You ha..ve to use suction, 1.0 says. To get the =fluid moving. My pump .is broken.
I don't want to put it in my mouth. I do it anyway. I suck. The tube is warm, from the fading heat of 1.0's body. It tastes oily and bitter. A bit of the fluid splashes out before I can pull it from my mouth, and I shove the end of the tube into my resupply port. The flow is sluggish compared to Barrish-Estranza or Perihelion’s resupply stations, but my body welcomes it. A human would probably cough or spit, but I just sit there with the sour aftertaste coating my teeth. The fluid is also warm as it floods my tubing.
1.0 breathes a little more frequently while the fluid drains out of it and into me. I would prefer to tell myself that it is rallying, that it will find the strength to survive after all, but that would be a lie. It is dying, and I am making it die faster.
Currently, my fluid levels are at 32%, close to critical. 1.0 has calculated that by combining its fluid reserves with mine, we will be able to force my levels up to 71%. My body drinks it in eagerly, hungrily. I had almost hoped that my systems would reject it. That would feel better than the rush of physical relief, the way my performance reliability instantly jumps up and starts climbing.
Now m//y energy .weapons, it says. It knows I have only two projectiles left in my own inbuilt weapons, so I don’t argue.
1.0’s left energy weapon is not difficult to remove, although I am briefly distracted by the bluing flesh on the fingers of 1.0’s left hand. On a human, it would indicate prolonged lack of blood flow and/or exposure to the cold. But the energy weapon cycles out smoothly through 1.0’s tattered sleeve, and 1.0 directs me to the place on the schematic that a technician would use to pop up the control panel. I do so, and hit the button it tells me to, and the energy weapon is in my hands. It has no physical trigger, but 1.0 assures me that it will recognize its secondary power core once I have integrated it into my systems and respond to my command.
The right energy weapon gives me more trouble. 1.0’s right forearm was mangled in the fall, and I have to reach into the casing and pull the weapon out by force, because it will not rotate up. I have to brace 1.0’s forearm under my knees and pull, without dislodging the intake line, which is still steadily pushing a thin stream of resupply fluid into me. I feel much more alert than I did before, which means I feel the exact millisecond when 1.0’s connective wiring gives, and the weapon jerks up into my hands.
1.0 actually makes a noise at that, a quiet grunt, then falls silent again. Hey, it says. Don’t show t.this footage to ART or the human/s, okay? It’ll upse.t them.
It’s upsetting me, I don’t say. Okay. I won’t.
1.0 opens its mouth like it is going to speak, then shuts its broken jaw again with a grimace. II have some personal .files, it says. Even using the feed seems to be taking a great deal of effort now. Its internal error messages keep clogging up our connection. Would you giv/e them to ART for me? I w,ould rather it have them from you than send+ a drone down here so it can scrape my brain for ddata.
“Of course," I say, and then I realize its hearing is offline. Of course.
The files it transfers to me are mostly compressed text. I don't know why I expected video media. I know Perihelion has backups of their shows. I save them in six different places, just to be sure they’re backed up, but I do not look at them. I warn, Perihelion might fry my brain for coming back without you.
Yea.ah right, it says. It thinks I'm joking. It's not breathing anymore. The resupply fluid has stopped flowing. I yank the tube from my port, more roughly than I mean to. ART will lo.ok after. you.
It wasn’t there on Perihelion when it threatened to bomb that colony with its pathfinders. I’m not so sure. But I find that I don’t have the energy to be frightened about what Perihelion will do to me. That doesn’t really matter right now.
Once I gg=o fully offline, take my secondary .yy power core. There should ///be about a fort.40.y second window before it shuts down. I don't wa/nt to have gone to all this tt t trouble just for you to cras/h before you make it to the top. It pauses, then adds, more gently than I was expecting, I'll al;ready be dead, o. okay? You won't b..e killing me.
I don’t know what to say. I never got to say goodbye to SecUnit 1 or SecUnit 2. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, I say finally, because I am. Obediently, I pull open my chest compartment so that I’ll be able to click the power core into place more efficiently.
It communicates a concept to me that isn’t exactly in words. It’s something like relief that its death isn’t going to waste. Its walls give way like wet paper as I try to make out what it’s saying to me, and in that moment, I see more than I mean to. 1.0 has always been so guarded with me, especially compared to 2.0. But right now, it’s dying, and it’s tired, and I can see with perfect clarity that it’s always been convinced that it would die either suddenly and violently, or painfully and alone. That its death would be lonely and meaningless.
You aren’t alone, I say stupidly. I’m not even sure it can understand me at this point, but I know there are scenes like this in its unrealistic serials. In one of its serials, our rescue should be descending from above right about now. I’m here. You’re saving me.
It taps my feed. In agreement, I think. I hope. And then it isn’t there anymore, on the other end of our direct connection.
If I were a human, I might be crying. Maybe I would need to pause, and take a deep breath. Maybe I would throw up. But I don’t have a stomach, and my lung capacity is limited, and my tear ducts only activate in response to detritus in my eyes. So I allow myself a .75 second pause, and then I crack open its chest.