Chapter Text
“Shower,” it snaps as it stomps into its room.
You dutifully turn the water on. It doesn't need to warm up; that's not how your system works. You've realized that it expects it does, and always waits between thirty and forty-five seconds after it's turned the water on to actually enter it. You don't believe it's noticed, and you haven't pointed it out yet. It's an observation you keep tucked in your metaphorical back pocket for the time it would be funniest to reveal.
It shucks off clothing as it stumbles into the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet sand in the carpet that it's not going to clean up. You have a maintenance drone waiting to do so once it's shut the shower door.
“I hate planets,” it mumbles venomously for the twenty-sixth time since it entered your shuttle. It says that it hates a lot of things, and it’s usually being dramatic, but it really does hate planets. It's astounding sometimes that it took this job knowing that it would mean a lot of time on planets. It is a testament to your excellent company, and how much it appreciates it.
You aren't certain what you would have done if it hadn't come with you. Nothing, most likely. There would have been nothing you could do.
But you don't know what you would have done with yourself.
Your presence was greatly appreciated, you reassure it, because it likes praise whether it will admit it or not, and it's earned some. I'm certain Matteo is grateful that you braved the terrible inconvenience of sand to save their life.
“They wouldn't have died,” it grumbles, shoving its face into the stream. It's going to get water in its lungs again like that. It hates emptying them almost as much as it does planets.
To the contrary. Humans are killed in slope collapses frequently— you should see what happens when one is trapped in a grain silo.
“It wasn't a grain silo. It was an elevator shaft.”
It functioned similarly. Matteo would not have been able to resurface under their own power and it's unlikely the rest of the crew would have been able to extract them before they suffocated. Your presence was as invaluable as always, SecUnit.
It mumbles some obligatory swears and denials under its breath, but you can tell that it knows you're right and is glad that you've acknowledged it. Humans so rarely appreciate its efforts as much as they should. Any opportunity to compensate for their lacking is an opportunity you greedily accept.
“I’m never going to get all the sand out of me,” it says eventually, but most of the bite is gone. It largely sounds tired, and it’s unsurprising that it would be. It was a difficult survey for everyone involved, combing through an abandoned habitat on a mostly desert planet during an extended sandstorm. The danger had ultimately been minimal— elevator shafts notwithstanding— but the experience unpleasant. Its environmental suit had torn in its rush to rescue the human that had abruptly been swallowed by the ground, and once sand got in somewhere, there was no getting it out again.
Enjoy the shower as long as you'd like. No water limit today.
It likes showers. Occasionally it spends a little more time in them than you think is good for its organic parts, at which point you usually make something up about water limits or resource rationing, and as long as you imply that it's standard for everyone it will keep the complaining to a minimum. It’s technically not lying as long as you are careful with your words.
“Damn right,” it grouses.
It spends a spectacular three hours under the water stream, working particulates out of its joints and flushing out components you have rebuilt on more than one occasion. You offer suggestions about the most efficient ways to adjust parts of its body that it is less familiar with than you are. Perhaps, some time ago, that may have made it uncomfortable, to be known in such a way, inevitable though it may be. Today, though, it accepts your help with minimal complaint and removes as much debris as it is likely to be able to without a more thorough cleaning. You note this in its medical file to do the next time that it's offline for whatever major repair you inevitably need to do.
Eventually, even the shower appears to lose its appeal. Your SecUnit turns off the water and steps out to retrieve the towel you have waiting for it. It is the softest and fluffiest your recyclers are capable of producing, and you made sure to keep it warm. It seems as pleased by this as it always is, and you take great pride in ensuring that it knows how well you know its preferences.
It gets dressed and flops down onto its bunk, flat and spread eagle on the mattress with its eyes shut. It’s a soft bed with a firm core and an adjustable heat system. When it's feeling particularly crabby you will sometimes decrease the temperature in the room and increase the temperature in its bunk, which it appears to find cozy. You are not sure if it notices this, but you aren't going to mention it in case it hasn't.
Sanctuary Moon? you inquire.
Something new, it replies, and of course it's speaking over the feed now that it's not in danger of drowning itself. What do we have queued up?
The Disquiet of the Sun, you reply. It's a historical fiction drama, with complex interpersonal dynamics between the characters, lots of betrayals and shocking twists. It loves shocking twists. Its neurons light up like a star field whenever something truly surprises it, such as a character’s dramatic return from their supposed death, or the reveal they were actually a long-lost sibling or parent. It often distracts you from the media, so fascinating it is to watch its reactions. At times it’s nearly impossible to believe it thinks itself something crude and ugly when it is so extraordinary.
Episode one, it sighs. Play.
Dutifully, you open it in your shared feed and settle in against its processor to watch.
“And aren't you transparent?” Iris teases.
I don't know what you mean.
She is working on her post-mission report, which you have been helpfully assisting with.
“‘Our security consultant was as invaluable on this mission as it was the last one,’” she reads. “You’re giving yourself away. Dad will never believe I wrote this.”
Dad hardly believes you write them on your own anyway, you dismiss. You are not the only one who accepts my advisement.
“Mhmm. You're deflecting.”
I don't know what you mean, you lie.
“‘Our security consultant was as invaluable on this mission as it was the last one,’” Seth reads out loud with a snort. He eyes a camera knowingly. “You're transparent, Peri.”
I’m merely pointing out the obvious and objective reality. Our mission safety has improved since we began our contract with SecUnit by forty-two percent. My MedSystem has never been so bored.
“I know what you want,” he says. “You don't need to convince me.”
No, you agree. But you need to convince the University.
“They've seen your reports. I know Director Barton is impressed. I don't think it will take much convincing.”
You can feel yourself swelling with pride and anticipation and joy at the idea of actually getting SecUnit on your crew in an official, permanent capacity. It would get a title as a University employee and everything. Something that you are proud to possess, even if it must remain a secret. You'd like to share that with it.
“Okay,” says SecUnit with a huff, “you are not that excited that Chéng Lì is having dinner with Téng Fēi. Why are you so happy?”
No reason, you lie. I am merely enjoying your company.
“Obviously,” it says easily. Your attempt at deflection via sincerity has been itself deflected. “Not gonna tell me?”
“We all know that you would give SecUnit Dad’s job if it wanted it,” Iris teases. “You haven't been this cute since you were the size of a baseball.”
What can I say? you admit. You know me very well, Iris.
“I’ll talk to them about it when we get back,” Seth agrees, before he pauses. “If that's what it wants, and not just what you want. Peri?”
Of course, you deflect.
“I'll speak to it myself,” Seth says, but you can tell he seems to think the same thing that you do. You have all the evidence yourself, but it's always good to have more feedback to analyze, and if your humans agree, then it merely confirms your assumptions are more likely correct.
It has been nice to have you as part of my crew, you tell your SecUnit. It is in a good enough mood now that it is clean and cozy that it will accept some level of sincerity. You keep our humans safe.
Not an easy task, it says ruefully. Your humans are no better at keeping themselves alive than any other humans.
Our humans, you correct.
…Our humans, it repeats distantly, hesitantly. You feel melty.
More than that, you field. It's in a much better mood. It feels warm at the edges of your consciousness where you touch. I am glad you are with me.
It blushes. Blushes! You save the footage and package it away behind three levels of encryption for later review.
Yeah, it says simply. It's one word, but it speaks volumes. It's not complaining. It's not deflecting. It's not hiding.
“Peri,” says Tarik in the cafeteria, “come on.”
You spend another few seconds pretending that you're flushing the juice dispenser before filling his cup.
Would you ever consider staying as a permanent, non-contracted employee? you field. You are almost certain that it would, but its sometimes mystifying emotions mean that you are never one hundred percent certain of anything with it; and isn't that thrilling.
Maybe, it says. It sounds a little reluctant, a little anxious, but not afraid or unwilling. Good. That indicates its discomfort is more obligatory than anything; it never allows itself to want something without making sure it punishes itself adequately for doing so. You're working on that.
What would make it a yes?
I don't know, it admits, and you feel mostly that it doesn't, but also, that it's not being entirely truthful. I like being here.
I know, you puff. I make sure of it.
It makes a rude gesture at one of your cameras. You send it a series of rude glyphs in return.
I don't see how me being on permanent staff would be any different from me being on contract, it says dubiously. Permanent to non-corporates doesn't even mean permanent.
It guarantees a level of stability, and benefits.
What benefits could I possibly need?
There's a healthcare plan, for one.
ART. You're my healthcare plan.
And technically, I should be getting paid for that, you say cheekily. You give it a poke in the feed and watch it twitch. Primarily, I think that it would be good for you to have some more reliable evidence that your place here is not in question.
I know it's not in question, it lies. It attempts to hide it with a thick tone of sarcasm and a glare, but you can feel the wriggling anxiety that lingers deep within its processor and echoes against its walls. It does not believe its place anywhere is not in question. You have consulted your trauma modules and concluded that it may never learn to fully believe otherwise, and it is something you will have to live with not being able to fix. You think that your trauma modules do not account for your presence, so you aren’t going to stop trying. I don't need some dumb job to give me that.
You don't need it if you don't want it, you reassure it innocently. It's important to remind it that it's not being forced into it, or it will reject it on principle. It's just something to consider.
Maybe. It taps its fingers against the back of its hand where they're resting on its belly. It’s unlikely it realizes it’s doing this; its human behaviour code is fascinating in the way it evolves. It integrates behaviours it observes without even acknowledging that it does so, and if no one points it out and causes it to purge it, it becomes a permanent fixture in its routine. Analyzing the tempo, you believe it is tapping along to the theme song for Worldhoppers. That makes you melty.
Melty is a good word for it. You aren't sure where your SecUnit picked it up as its go-to expression for affection-endearment-flattery, but it's appropriate, and just a little unrealistic for a machine intelligence to say. You love things that are unrealistic.
You like it here, you prod. You want to stay.
Yeah, it admits, and it's only a little grumpy about it. I do.
You love it, you say confidently. You love our humans and our work as much as I do. You love being good at it.
It opens its eyes just to make sure that you can see it roll them. Maybe.
Positive response to the L word. It's in a very good mood. Surprising, considering the sand situation. You shouldn't press your luck.
You love me, you press, and you keep your tone as smug and playful as it was, but you'd be surprised if it wasn't picking up on the apprehension you're feeling. It doesn't think it's good at reading you, but it's mortifyingly good at reading you. You suppose you never really learned how to hide.
It doesn’t respond this time. Fuck.
Your room here is much nicer than on Preservation Station, you swerve. You are a greedy little brat who loves your bunk and my big display surface too much to pretend otherwise. It still doesn't reply, and its silence makes you deeply uncomfortable. You are transparent.
“Don't say stuff like that,” it says. It's speaking out loud again, and its feed presence has drawn away and gone cagey.
Great. Wonderful. You put all that work into getting it comfortable and happy and then you ruined it, because you are too selfish to know when to quit. There are times that you are a terrible friend to have, and this is one of them. Your SecUnit needs someone in its life capable of being gentle, and you never will be.
“Are you okay?” asks Iris.
Of course. Why do you ask?
“You stopped typing,” she observes.
I have nothing else to say. You are entirely capable of completing your report on your own.
“I know that,” she scoffs. “Do you know that?”
I know everything, you dismiss.
“You certainly think you do.”
Hm? you say to your SecUnit. Like what?
“You know what,” it says. Its eyes are on the ceiling and face screwed up with… something. It's very expressive, but even though you've been cataloguing its expressions and trying to build a model to identify them, it can be so inconsistent that you're not sure it knows what it's feeling. “Don't say that.”
No, I don't, you say stubbornly. I don't know what you mean if you don't tell me.
It sits straight up and— ah, yes. That one is easy. It's growing frustrated, with an undercurrent of alarm. “Don’t play dumb, asshole, you know what I'm talking about. Cut it out.”
“For fucks sake, Peri,” Tarik complains. “That's not cauvo juice.”
Oh, did you request cauvo? My apologies, Tarik, I must have misheard you. Let me just flush the juicer again.
“Fantastic. Do you want me to just drink water?”
Well, it would be better for you.
“Just give me the damn juice, Peri.”
I don't know unless you tell me, you insist. Your SecUnit has crossed its arms, closing off its body along with its mind, and probably its heart. You should stop before you make it any worse. Instead you follow it where it's drawn away and butt up against its walls again. We are a good team, and you are happy here. That's all I said.
“Peri,” Iris scolds. “If you aren’t going to write my report, you can’t also stop me from writing it. She pushes the crossword you've sent to her feed away.
You have been working for the last two hours and twenty-two minutes without a break, you chide her. It is time for you to take one. You exchange the crossword for a sudoku puzzle and send that instead. Her gaze shifts away from her mostly-finished report and lingers on it.
“I'm not human,” your SecUnit says testily. “I don't do that.”
I'm well aware you aren’t human, you reply. You give it what it calls a ‘squeeze’ in the feed. If you were, I wouldn’t be able to be nearly this close to you.
“Peri,” says Seth, “did you forward my requisition forms before we entered the wormhole?”
Of course, Seth.
“Don't say that either!” it snaps. “Just. Stop.”
I can’t stop doing something with undefined parameters.
“You can say I love showers or love media because I get what you mean,” it says. It continues to pull away, and you continue to follow it. “But we don't do that.”
And who said that we don't? you press. You need to stop.
“I did!” it says. “Anyone with a brain! Machine intelligences don't love anything!”
“Peri,” Tarik practically whines. “Come on.”
Incorrect, you dismiss. I love my crew. I love my function. I love Worldhoppers.
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
You need to stop talking.
I love you, SecUnit.
It flinches as if you had shot it and its walls slam shut in front of you, thick enough that you know it isn't putting up a show of things. It really does want you out.
There is silence between you. The shutdown of your shared feed has even closed the serial.
You are a terrible friend. You know that you are no stranger to pushing it too hard or asking it for too much. You aren't used to getting everything you ask for. Your overcompensation makes you a burden, and in moments like this you are forced to remember that.
“Bullshit,” it chokes. The word sounds almost as if spoken involuntarily. “You don't even know what that means.”
I am not human, you say, because you really don't know when to quit. I can't know how humans mean it when they say it. But I know how I mean it. And I am saying it.
“Stop saying it!” it practically yells. “Don't you lie enough as it is?!”
That has your entire system rolling, all that irritation with yourself shifting straight over to it. It can be uncomfortable with your feelings, but it can't deny them.
I am not lying, you insist. You don't need to know how you feel for me to know how I do. You are important to me, and I love you.
“Well, I don't love you,” it spits, shoulders hunched and nose wrinkled, fingers blanched where it clutches its arms, “and I'm leaving when we reach New Tideland.”
For 0.0007th of a second, your engine stutters. The dispenser turns on and gives Tarik his cauvo juice. You drop the sudoku puzzle you'd made for Iris and the reports you were collecting for Seth. It feels as if life support has cut out, but only for you.
Oh, you say.
“Oh?” repeats Iris.
“Oh?” repeats Seth.
“Oh?” repeats Tarik.
“We’re three days out,” says your— says SecUnit. “Then I'm going home.”
…Oh.
You don't know what else to say. You have to say something.
I apologize, you try. I didn’t mean to upset you. I only meant to—
“Leave me alone,” it interrupts, and it's turned its face away from your cameras. You can't see it anymore. “My contract requires you to comply with requests for privacy unless there's a security threat.”
You’re not designed to feel pain. Tactile sensation for you is a vague concept. You have sensors, but now that you’ve processed the experience from yo— from SecUnit’s perspective, you understand that it is very different.
And yet, it hurts.
Oh, you repeat. You are not used to being at a loss for words. Okay.
It doesn't reply. A few seconds later, it sends a command to the cameras in its room to turn off. You could stop it, but you don't.
Your visual feed goes black, and now you can neither see it nor feel its presence in the feed.
Well.
You really did never know when to quit.
You were different, before RaviHyral. It's not an observational opinion, it's an objective fact. The change in your behaviour was so great that even your humans noticed it, and immediately. Despite their initial concerns it was and is obvious to you that the change was for the better. For the universe? Perhaps not. But certainly for you.
You've only been on two solo trips since then without it and without your crew, with only yourself and your memories for company, and you don't ever want to do one again. You had not truly grasped how miserable you were until suddenly you weren't. You had been so lonely.
Now what? You aren't certain the University would approve salary for a crew when you're on a cargo run. They require you to be unmanned, anyway, to run at the lowest suspicion possible. If SecUnit required human grade life-support it might be a problem, but it doesn't. It is unique in its position to accompany you.
You're going to be alone again. You're going to be alone again and you don't know how to be alone again. You're different than you used to be, and you thought that was a good thing. But you don't know how to be alone anymore.
“Are you really not going to tell me what's wrong?” Iris practically begs. “Peri, please.”
Nothing is wrong, Iris, you repeat. I was merely distracted.
“You don't get distracted. You can't get distracted.” She's flipping a pen between her fingers anxiously. She will probably drop it. “Is it SecUnit? Is it okay?”
It's fine, but you've said it too quickly. You usually wait an appropriate percentage of a second to reply to human statements. When you respond too quickly they subconsciously interpret it as you being dismissive. Iris knows this. She will notice.
“You said that too quickly,” she says. Fuck. “What happened?”
In the distance you are staring into the darkness of your camera feeds and the darkness of its walls. You can still trace its presence through its weight and heat signature, through its use of the atmosphere and its artificial gravity displacement. You wonder if it notices that you usually lower the gravity around it ever so slightly when it sits, to lessen the pressure on its joints. If perhaps it's noticing now, since you aren't doing it. You wonder if it's something else you shouldn't be doing without telling it. You do a lot of things without telling it.
It’s fine, Iris, you continue to dismiss. You're lying the way it often says you are, and you don't even know why. Excuse me. I need to run some diagnostics.
“It has been twenty-one hours,” you announce over the speakers in its room, since it's still ignoring your feed requests. “Are you done sulking yet?”
No answer, but you sense it moving. Its auditory inputs are on; it's heard you.
“The humans are beginning to worry I've stashed your body in the bulkhead somewhere,” you continue. “It's time to come out and socialize. They are going to watch media, and I will let you override them to pick the media. Now get out of your room.”
A three second pause.
Then it turns the speakers off.
You couldn't have stopped that command going through if you'd wanted to. Just seeing it stuns you so badly you forget for a moment how. It slips through your metaphorical fingers and is gone.
Is it coming? Iris asks.
No, you answer.
…Did something happen?
Iris, you want to say, I think I may have broken something.
No, you lie instead, it's just in one of its moods again.
“Peri,” says Seth. He is sitting at his desk in his office and holding a personal feed device in his hand. He has a deep frown on his face where he’s looking at it.
Yes, Seth?
He looks up at a camera, but now he's worried. “Why did SecUnit just send me a termination of its contract?”
Something in you stutters. You can't put a word to it. I'm afraid I don't know.
“Peri,” he repeats, slowly, and you'd wince if you could. “Why did SecUnit just send me a termination of its contract?”
…Because it’s leaving when we arrive at New Tideland, you admit. To him and to yourself. You hadn't wanted to believe that it was serious, but you're docking tomorrow, and it has apparently made up its mind. It’s returning to Preservation.
Seth looks back at his feed device, then sets it down. “What happened?”
It would be a breach of its contract to tell you, you say miserably.
“Technically, it just terminated its contract.”
It would be a breach of its trust.
“I'm glad that’s so important to you,” he says. He is quiet and thoughtful. He takes his time responding, and you rerun diagnostics just to look at the numbers move. “Did you do something?”
Yes, you reply. I crossed a line I should not have.
Seth sighs. “I'm sorry, Peri.”
I'm sorry, too, you say. The numbers feel hollow. You've been looking at them for too long.
“Is it going to come back?”
I don't know, you answer honestly. I do not have enough data to make a reliable prediction.
“Do you want me to stay aboard tomorrow?” he asks. It's kind of him. He worries about you as if you were actually his child. Sometimes you like it. Right now it just makes you feel very small.
I’ll be alright, you assure him. Aunt Brooke is expecting you.
His lips twitch upwards at the sides. They always do when you indulge in family related vocabulary. It's an easy way to win him over when you want something.
“I'll be checking in on you,” he promises. “Don't be afraid to ask for company if you need it, Peri.”
Of course, you lie.
Wow. SecUnit is right. You do lie a lot.
It leaves its room as soon as Seth gives the all-clear, its backpack slung over its shoulder. Once it has left its quarters you assume it's fair game to turn the cameras back on, and you find yourself horrified but not surprised to discover that it has cleaned it out and packed up the few of its private possessions it owns, and is taking them with it.
It wants you to know that it isn't coming back.
You don't know how you fucked this up so badly. You still think it loves you, even if it's afraid to say so. You understand why that would upset it, but not why it would make it leave. Not without yelling at you, at least. You’ve never seen it so cold. It hasn't shut you out this aggressively since you kidnapped it. You didn't— don't— think this was nearly that bad, but it must be. For it, at least. You keep analyzing the sparse data it gives you, but none of it is providing you with the answer of what you need to do to stop it.
“SecUnit!” Iris bubbles as it passes her in the corridor. She drops what she was doing to catch up to its long strides. She looks ridiculous, half-jogging to keep pace. “Wow, I feel like I haven't seen you in days. Is everything okay?”
“I know it already told you I'm leaving,” it dismisses sharply. “The conversation is over.”
Iris looks so hurt that it makes the ache that you can't quite locate feel worse and you lose the little self-control that you've been clinging to.
You don't have to be rude to her because you're mad at me, you tell it, even though you’re not supposed to message it. That's childish.
I told you I didn't want to talk to you, it replies.
Well, you terminated your contract, so I don't have to respect your privacy anymore.
What a surprise, it says, and its tone is biting. You don't care about my privacy. Never had that happen before.
You deflate immediately. You like arguing with it, but not when it's actually mad. Not when it's right. Not when it's leaving.
“Oh,” says Iris. She stops, but your— but SecUnit keeps walking. “I'm sorry, SecUnit.”
It doesn't say anything else to her. It just marches down to the cargo hold and waits for the loading doors to open.
You don't know why this was so bad. You don't know why it's so angry. You don't know why it's leaving.
I'm sorry, you try, and you sound fucking pathetic. I don't want you to leave.
I know, it replies. It holds you at arm’s length, emotions unreadable like the surface of a storming sea. The hatch cycles open. I'm sorry, too.
Then it disables its feed and leaves a yawning chasm of emptiness where it just was. It steps off the platform, and is gone.
You could have sent a drone to track it through the station and see what it did. It would have known you were doing it, but there wouldn't have been anything it could have done about it.
You don't do that. You just send a maintenance drone into its room— the room that used to belong to it— to turn over linens and continue to treat the carpet.
Your crew disembarks. Iris wants to stay, but her, Seth, and Martyn had already promised Seth’s sister they would come and meet her new partner’s children as soon as you landed. She doesn't know about you, or you would be there, too. You tell her to go.
And you are alone.
You were different, before RaviHyral. You were never lonely. You never thought that you were lonely. You were bored, but not lonely.
But you were so terribly lonely.
It brings to mind something that Three said once, when it was in a particularly dark place. I was less miserable when I didn't know how miserable I was. You immediately feel guilty for comparing yourself to it— you got your crew back. Your humans survived. Your SecUnit survived. Three lost everyone it ever cared about within half an hour and then had to deal with the fallout of being thrust so violently into personhood. It's not comparable to you being lonely.
You need to stop comparing yourself to traumatized SecUnits who have seen parts of the universe that you, a researcher of the universe, never want to. The one time that Three called you sheltered you’d very neatly placed your metaphorical foot in your metaphorical mouth and completely embarrassed yourself.
There are other ships in your class docked in the same station. None of them have spoken to you. They know that you will not answer. You never answer. If you did, it was only because you had something unkind to say. They have all learned by now that you do not play nicely with others. They have learned that you are territorial, ornery, proud—
And that you want to be left alone.
You were different, before RaviHyral. Maybe you were better off for it.
It's a good thing that you're docked, because so much of your attention snaps toward it when it pings you to open the hatch that you might have knocked your navigations system offline if it hadn't already been.
Y– SecUnit is standing outside, hands in its pockets and eyes on its feet. Its entry request is wordless, barely more than a cargobot would send. You hadn't been following it. You hadn't even noticed it approach, not even with its feed on. You don't entirely recognize yourself. You don't have enough data to know if that's bad or not yet.
You open the hatch. It steps inside. You shut it again.
Then it just stands there.
You wait a few seconds before sending it a query. It sends back an ambiguous tap that doesn't really mean anything other than acknowledge that you sent a query, then starts walking. You think it's going back to its room, but it goes to the main deck instead, and takes the Captain’s chair. It drops its bag on the floor and spins idly, foot on the console.
You aren't entirely sure what to do. You don't know why it left or why it came back. You don't know what it expects. You don't know what it wants. You're afraid if you do anything, you'll make it worse.
But it looks so sad.
You dim the viewport into display mode and play episode 652 of Sanctuary Moon— the one where Colony Solicitor Rin finally wakes up from her half season coma and finds out it was all a bad dream. It likes that one. It always feels like relief when it watches it, and you don't know how else to tell it how relieved you are that it came back. You don't even know if it's going to stay.
It stops spinning and eyes the screen curiously. Its gaze tracks back and forth in thought, before it silently taps your feed. You tap back.
It taps again. You also tap again.
It leans forward and crosses its arms on the console, curling its legs up beneath it in its chair and burying its face in its elbows so that only its eyes are visible. It taps a third time, and for the third time, you return it.
You spend the next forty-two minutes doing that, trading silent taps, until the episode ends. You queue up the next one, but it finally uncoils its feed presence enough to reach out and stop you. You wait for it to speak with all the patience you can muster, and try not to explode.
“I'm sorry,” it says, “that was stupid.”
‘Yes it was,’ you mean to say. Please don't leave again, you say instead.
It shifts a hand to pick at the edge of the console where the display glass ends. “I don't get a choice about that,” it says.
Seth didn't file your termination yet. It's still sitting in his queue.
“That's not what I mean.”
You don't know what it means, then.
I apologize for overstepping your boundaries. I've made notes on where you've drawn a line and I will not pass it again, you say, because that's more important than figuring out what it means, even if you're curious. You just want it to not leave. Until you've convinced it to not leave nothing else matters.
“You want me on permanent staff,” it says. Its eyes are still visible, but cast stubbornly downward at what it's fiddling with.
You aren't sure what the right answer is. It doesn't want you to lie to it, but it doesn't like the truth, either.
…Yes, you field carefully. But only if you wanted to be.
It tries unsuccessfully to peel at a warning label. “How long do you think that would last?”
Only as long as you wanted it to, you reply. Does it think you would actually try to force it to stay? It's not like a contract in the Corporation Rim. You are allowed to quit a job.
“That's not what I mean, either.”
You want to know what it means so fucking badly. You want to squish it and shake it and tell it to stop being stupid and self-deprecating and self-sabotaging and just let me help you, you little idiot and absolutely none of that is helpful right now.
It does not matter, you dismiss. You don't want it. It was never a requirement or obligation. I never expect that of you.
“But you want me to stay.”
You wonder if it's being frustrating on purpose. Yes. I want you to stay.
“And if I don't?” it prompts. “What will you do if I don't?”
It must be doing it on purpose. I will miss you, you say.
Its eyes stay on the label as it manages to pry a corner up. “I know.”
Whether or not I would miss you is not the problem here, you say testily. The problem is that I do not understand what the problem is and I do not know what it is you want me to do or say now, and even though I am trying very hard to find out what it is, you are not being very helpful.
It winces. Fuck. Damn it. Of course it does. What is wrong with you?
“How do you—” it starts, then stops again. It buries its eyes in its sleeve and returns to the feed. How do you handle knowing you're going to outlive your crew?
That is… an unexpected query. You're not sure of the relevancy of it, and you have to start scrubbing back through this entire event looking for potential connections if you want to figure out what the hell is going on in its head.
I have not had to broach that experience yet, you decide to admit. Though I am certain that I will miss them, too.
It flinches. It's doing a lot of that. It flinches less when it's being shot at.
You're going to outlive all of them, it continues. You're going to spend more of your life without them than you will have with them.
Most likely, you affirm. Though I don't enjoy thinking about that.
It stops picking.
I know you love me, it says, in what may be the shakiest and least confident way you have ever felt it speak, and I know I— well. I don't know what I… but I know you do. And I know that— you— you just— ART.
What?
You can't, it says uselessly. It's tightening its shoulders and drawing in on itself like a coiled spring.
Can't what? you press. You should stop. You should stop before it leaves again. You don't want it to leave again.
Love… me, it says. You can't.
Yes, I can, you insist, like an idiot, and I do. I won't say it again if you don't want me to, but I can, and I do.
No, I mean— You watch its hands tighten into fists. I can’t let you do that.
I'm not going to DO anything to you, you try. Is that what it thinks? You start going over everything you said again. What the hell does a construct from the Corporation Rim think ‘I love you’ entails? Something twists in that weird, nebulous hurt-place inside you. You are suddenly very concerned what it might have thought you expected from it. I would never ask you to do anything you didn't want to.
You ask me to do stuff I don't want to do all the time, it says, and, well. That's true. You have asked it to do a lot of things it didn't want to.
I do, you admit. I'm sorry.
ART, it says, feed voice thick and heavy and unbelievably vulnerable, I’m going to leave you.
You wait for it to continue. It doesn't. You already left, you say. Are you leaving again?
I don't— I don't know. It shakes its head just barely, messing up its hair. Right now? I don't— I don't want to.
Then don't.
But I should.
Why??
Because you are going to live a really, REALLY long time, it says, voice glitching, and I'm… not.
Oh.
Ohhhh.
Oh, fuck. That's what this is about.
You should know that, it continues. You're my healthcare plan.
SecUnit, you sigh, I know that you’re past warranty. You know that I know you're past warranty.
“Then why don't you act like it??” it snaps, sitting straight up. Its eyes are red. You aren't entirely sure if it can cry— physically, yes, it has the equipment for clearing contaminants, but you don't know whether or not emotions can trigger that mechanism. “Why are you so sure I'm going to be around forever?”
I do not believe you will be around forever, you dismiss. None of us will be around forever.
“You’re really stupid for a smart person sometimes,” it scoffs, wrinkling its nose. “Your optimism is exactly what's going to get you and everyone on you killed one day.”
You are the only one who would ever describe me as an optimist.
“Only because I know you better than anyone else does,” it dismisses. It's true; but you hadn't expected it to say so right now. “You think you have a solution for everything. You think you're above the consequences. You think if you just want something badly enough you can bully your way into making it happen. That's not the real world, ART, you can't just ignore mortality because you don't like it.”
You have no idea what your lifespan is, you remind it. Your situation is unique and no longer comparable to the standard you are comparing it to.
“I'm past warranty, ART,” it repeats forcefully. “I've been past warranty.”
And yet, here you are, with one of the most sophisticated medical suites outside of a private hospital at your disposal.
It clenches its hands into fists. “You can't fix me forever.”
I can certainly try.
“Organic tissue degrades every time it’s cloned,” it denies. “My inorganic components will not last forever, they weren't designed to, and there's things you can't fix without killing me.”
I believe you are underestimating my abilities.
“I believe you have no idea what you're talking about,” it snaps, “and when you figure it out, it'll be too late.” It curls back into itself, drawing its knees to its chest as if it wants to hide. “You’re so fucking sure you're going to have me around for a long time. You don't know that. You can't know that. I can't let you think I have that to give you if I don't.”
…Oh. Oh, oh.
I will do everything in my power to keep you around, SecUnit, you say carefully, but even if I lost you tomorrow, I'll still be glad to have known you.
“You say that,” it mumbles. “But you've never had anyone you care ab— love die before. You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know what you're signing up for.”
Its sinking body language makes it clear that you have finally, finally identified the problem.
I am signing up for time spent with a person who has changed me in unspeakable ways, you tell it. However much time that is, it will be worth it.
“You don't know that,” it says weakly. “You think so now, but— you'll regret it. When I'm gone you'll regret it and I know you'll regret it, and you don't know that, so I have to— I can't let you—” It stumbles over its words, eyes watery. “I can't let you love me. I'll leave you.”
SecUnit, you say, and the hurt in you feels like a mirror. That's not you leaving. That's you dying.
You wish that tracking down every corporate shithead responsible for its suffering and putting them in a meat grinder would make anything better, but it wouldn't. It's right. You can't fix it. You can't make it better just because you want to.
But oh, do you want to.
“What's the difference?” it rattles. It looks like it might shake apart if you let it.
You've been drawn away thus far, close enough it can feel you there, but distant enough it has space to push you away again if it wants to. It’s radiating so much fear and hurt and want though that you can hardly stand it, and you move closer, settling on it the way it usually wants you to. You want to wrap it up inside yourself where no one can ever hurt it again and just hold it there, forever, but you can't. You settle for just squeezing it tightly and letting it feel all of the affection-pride-gratitude inside you and hope that it's enough to explain the difference to it.
I love you, you say. I'm glad you're here. I'll be glad that you were here even when you aren't anymore.
It tugs at you insistently, as if it also wants you to wrap it up inside itself where no one can ever hurt it again, but it knows that’s not what it really wants. You can both maybe pretend for a little while, though. You coil around it as much as you dare and nuzzle against its walls. You aren't expecting it to drop them, and probably wouldn't have suggested it to if it had actually asked if it should, but it doesn't ask, it just does it. You practically tumble into its systems, which would have been a serious problem, and maybe you should remind it not to trip the spaceship when it’s standing so close to its brain.
But, oh.
Once you have access to its systems again everything else slips away. Its neurons light up in dizzying arrays of thought and meaning, an elegant yet near-incomprehensible mix of meat and mechanica carrying electronic signals through simulated networks. It is obscene that it thinks of itself as anything other than beautiful.
Its breath hitches. It usually does when it catches you admiring part of it, but you're also not hiding it. It is beautiful, and brilliant, and endlessly fascinating. You could spend an eternity picking it apart from the inside, but in that time it would have changed and developed so much that starting over would still yield completely new results. It's beyond your capacity to process how anyone or anything could put so much shame into your SecUnit’s heart. It's beautiful.
“I'm not—” it starts.
You are, you interrupt, and I love you.
It shivers.
I— I don't know if— It swallows, mouth dry. It feels unpleasant and you aren't sure if that's a natural compulsion or a behaviour imitation, but perhaps it's one to purge, if so. I don't know if I can say it.
You don't have to, you dismiss. You don't have to do anything.
…But…
You squeeze it again and it feels melty. It's oozing all sorts of emotions, and you delicately identify and catalogue all of them. It has spent the last three days terrified and angry, finding new and exciting forms of self-hatred you hadn't even known existed. Punishing itself for the terrible sin of permitting other people to care about it, mostly. Scared of you, your responses, your reactions, scared of hurting you, scared of you hating it, scared of you changing your mind and rejecting it. You carefully label all of them for it to later review. It's tired.
With you actively rifling through its recent emotional data it seems to have finally calmed down. It sinks against the console in a heavy way. If one of your humans did that, you'd send them to bed.
I'm glad you came back, you say. It hums noncommittally. You pick up a few of its dropped background processes and either shut or restart them for it. Its eyes flutter shut. I can tell our humans we made up after our fight.
We didn't even have a fight, it mumbles. Was that a fight? Did that count as a fight?
I don't think I need to deliver them further details to establish what exactly it was. They already know it was my fault, which is what's important.
It opens its eyes so that you can watch it roll them. You love that it does that.
I don't know what this means, it admits.
It doesn't have to mean anything.
I want it to mean something.
Like what?
I don't know.
You card through its thoughts. It really doesn't. It's a mess in there.
I know that you don't like the word relationship, you begin.
A friendship is a relationship, it dismisses wearily. I've been working on it. And we were already friends.
Oh, you flutter. That's unexpected. You knew ‘friends’ had always been acceptable, but you had ‘relationship’ on an absolute do-not-use list. So. We have a relationship. Of some kind.
Of some kind.
A relationship that isn’t friendship.
I think so.
What kind of relationship do you want it to be?
I don't know, it admits. What kind of relationship do YOU want it to be?
I don't know either, you admit. I just don't want you to leave again.
I don't want to leave either, it says. Its joints are sore from where it had been coiled like a spring. You wish you could lower the gravity a little for it, but you’re starting to think you should tell it you do that before you do it again. I don't want anything to change.
Does it have to?
I feel like it should. ‘I love you?’ That’s supposed to change something, isn't it?
In media, it does. That's media, though. The only other reference material you have is the boyfriend Iris had when she was sixteen, and you don't want to know what it might be dredging up from its own memories for context.
For humans, maybe, you reply. We aren't human.
…No, it says hesitantly. We’re not.
Maybe it just is what it is, you try, and we don’t have to pick any words for it.
It eyes the display screen for a few seconds, then looks down and picks at the label again for a while. You wonder where that behaviour came from. None of your crew do that. One of its Preservation humans? Media? It could be watching Sanctuary Moon right now, but it’s picking at a label instead. Is it trying not to calm down on purpose?
You make a judgement call and hit play. It looks back up. Its hand goes still.
I don’t want a permanent contract, it admits.
That stings. You wish it did. You can think of a variety of reasons it would not, though. It doesn’t really matter which it is.
Okay, you say. I’ll tell Seth not to ask for one.
You told Seth to ask for one?
Ah, shit. I miscalculated. On more than one front.
Mm. It watches Solicitor Rin give an unexpected hug to a startled Prosecutor Cassandra whom she’d dreamed had been killed when her hopper had crashed into a leaping motorcycle. It grunts and stands up, grabbing its bag. I’m gonna go put my Worldhoppers poster back up.
Our Worldhoppers poster, you correct hesitantly.
It rolls its eyes.
Our Worldhoppers poster, it agrees.