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Three is…having some adjustment problems, you admit.
“What kind of adjustment problems?” your SecUnit asks. It is lying upside down on the bed in its room, with its boots directly on the pillows you made for it. This does not annoy you, though your SecUnit seems to believe that it does.
Problems related to the fact that it is a SecUnit with trauma, you say. Every day, at approximately the same time, Three enters your MedSystem and requests a resupply line. It plugs the tube into the appropriate port in its spine, politely waits for anywhere from 10-30 minutes for the fluid to dispense, then disconnects the tube, cleans the spout, rolls its shirt back down, and leaves your MedSystem to return to what it was doing before. You know this is due to the ingrained habits its governor module forced it to maintain while it was still the property of Barish-Estranza—the last time you asked Three about this behavior, it responded, “This is the protocol.”
Your SecUnit never takes resupply cycles this often. At its most frequent it has a full resupply once every seven cycles, and more often the duration is from eight to fourteen cycles—longer if there has been recent organic replacement due to damage in the battlefield. Your SecUnit has also commented on extreme discomfort during the resupply process, and as such, it chooses to take resupplies overnight, while it is shut down. It also has a tendency to complain of discomfort in the cycle immediately following a resupply.
You know that Three doesn’t trust you. You can hardly blame it—when you first met it, you made some very graphic threats against it. However, you do wish you could make it understand now that it is safe here, within your hull. It doesn’t need to force itself to stockpile supplies, as if it’s worried you will abandon it planetside any day with nothing but the clothes on its back and the fluid in its veins. You want to express that you will not abandon it. You do not want to scare it further.
“Three’s…new,” your SecUnit says, choosing its words carefully. You know it does not want to commit to an evaluation it cannot guarantee will be correct. “It hasn’t been a rogue for very long. It’s not used to making its own choices.”
What should I do? you ask. Your embarrassment over having to ask your SecUnit for advice is offset by the knowledge that it will help, as it helps you process media, and as it helps you however else it can.
“Just talk to it,” your SecUnit shrugs. “It’s a SecUnit, not an adolescent human. Just tell it directly what you observed, and what the problem is. It’s not like it won’t listen to you. You’re always right about stuff anyway, and it knows you’re not trying to hurt it.”
You enjoy the glow of pride that you feel when SecUnit says you are “always right.” You’ve trained it so well, you think with some level of ironic amusement. Thank you, you say.
“Anytime,” SecUnit says. It returns to its media, still in that awkward, uncomfortable-looking half-splayed position on its bed.
You watch SecUnit Three as it goes through its daily ritual–after removing its shirt and undershirt, it carefully folds the clothes and places them on the counter. It aligns itself in front of the supply tube, using its hands behind its back to hold the tube up. It carefully backs up into the wall until the tube clicks home, connecting to Three’s spinal port. Three wears a sad, concentrated expression, as it always does during this ritual; it has mentioned before that this was usually a task SecUnits One and Two helped with. When it is ready, it pings you with a request for you to turn on the supply fluid exchange.
You don’t need to do this to yourself, you say, and Three twitches as if it’s been slapped. That was not your intention. It spooks so much more easily than your SecUnit does.
“This unit will return to duty when HubSystem has deemed its repair cycle complete,” Three’s buffer announces automatically, even as over the feed it asks, Is something wrong?
There is, you say. Why do you resupply so frequently?
Three moves its hands to the manual release mechanism, but it doesn’t trigger it yet. I’m sorry, it says. Am I using up too much supply fluid? You call up a memory of Three behaving similarly when you reminded it to vacate a particularly long shower, as if it believed that it was wasting resources. As if it expected you to punish it. This is another expression of the complicated trauma of being a SecUnit.
No. I have plenty of supply fluid, you say. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself for the sake of fulfilling company protocols which no longer control you.
Oh. Thank you, I’m fine, Three says, relaxing.
You don’t need to torture yourself forcing a resupply every cycle. Why do you take one every day, if not because it was company protocol? you ask.
Three’s discomfort is obvious over the feed, though physically it does not fidget or bite its lip the way a human would. “It’s not… technically my company’s protocol. I didn’t mean to lie,” Three says, rapidly becoming distressed again. Unlike your crew, or even like your SecUnit, it doesn’t look at your ceiling when it talks to you, rather, it directs its expressions at the wall ahead of it. (You have cameras in many locations. There is no significant difference, other than the way it endears Three to you.) Three says, cautiously, “I resupply when I’m…hungry.”
Hungry? You ask. According to your research of stolen company documents, SecUnits don’t require resupplies for six to ten cycles, which is confirmed by your SecUnit’s typical behavior.
That’s not the right word, Three flinches in the feed, even as its body remains still. I don’t think it feels the way humans feel when they get hungry. I’m sorry.
I didn’t know that hunger was something you could feel, even in an analogous form, you admit.
Three bleeds something that passes for strained amusement into the feed. You and 1.0 work together closely. You haven’t seen it hungry before?
I have not.
You turn on the resupply fluid, fascinated, and feel Three relax. How often does 1.0 resupply? it asks. At every meal? The way the humans do? It sounds almost unsurprised, like this would be no more of a shock to it than learning that your SecUnit can sit down at will.
It resupplies every seven to fourteen cycles, you say. Longer, if it’s had a recent organic replacement.
Three glitches, and there is a slight interruption to the supply flow, which you helpfully smooth out while Three collects itself. “I’m sorry, you said the supplies weren’t limited! I didn’t mean to steal from–”
There is enough supply fluid, you say, and Three cowers back into silence. You realize you may have put more force behind that statement than you intended. I’m sorry, you say. This is new information to me.
“Okay,” Three relaxes, only slightly. It forces another sound meant to convey amusement, though you doubt its sincerity. “For a second, I worried that you were…I don’t know. Controlling 1.0 by restricting its supplies, or something that my company would have done.”
You watch Three enjoy its resupply. You are occupied with many other things at the same time, of course—you are helping Iris collect her sources for a research paper. You are preparing docking credentials in advance of your arrival at the next station. You are tasking maintenance drones in seven different sectors of your interior to deal with crew messes. You are examining your logs of your SecUnit.
You see the world in many ways beyond the flat color of the visual spectrum. You observe weight, density, temperature, and a number of other metrics, constantly. Your SecUnit’s weight fluctuates—not nearly as much as a human’s weight would, but as a percentage of its organic mass it is significant—and Three’s own fluctuations are far less. You watch recorded video at high speed, watching your SecUnit’s wrists shrink, and its lethargy increase, until it takes catastrophic damage in battle and you replace nearly all of its organics. It moves easier, for a day, then it begins to show signs of steady decrease in functionality. When it must, it resupplies. It never does this while online. It shuts itself down, reinitializes full to bursting, and waddles painfully around for a cycle or two. Meanwhile, Three reads a book pleasantly, and concludes its resupply when you estimate it is at 85% of its capacity. Then it detaches itself from the tubing, puts its shirt back on, and returns to its business. You offer to install a resupply line in its quarters. After consideration, it asks if you will install one in the public mess hall. You begin plans immediately; it will be a diverting challenge. Not diverting enough.
You do not mention your SecUnit’s troubles to Three. Three already knows more than you know your SecUnit would be comfortable with.
So do you. It’s too late for that now.
There is something that we need to discuss, you say.
“Did it go badly with Three?” your SecUnit asks, totally unconcerned, like it has no idea what you’re about to say.
You send it the clip of itself saying “You’re always right about stuff anyway, and it knows you’re not trying to hurt it.”
“Did you scare it on accident again?” your SecUnit snorts.
You were not subtle enough with Three when you tried to explain that you believed it was hurting itself. You will need to be even more delicate with your moody SecUnit. Three shared some interesting insights regarding SecUnits, you say.
Your SecUnit rolls its eyes, but waits for you to continue.
Three resupplies its fluids and nutrient levels every cycle, you say.
Your SecUnit shudders. “Ew,” it winces. “Did you tell it that it doesn’t have to do that anymore?”
I did, and it told me that it does, in fact.
“Pfft. It’s wrong,” your SecUnit says. “It’s possible to go more than a week with no problems, at least .”
Problems such as increased lethargy, decreased coordination, and shakiness? you ask.
“SecUnits don’t get shaky hands,” your SecUnit says, prickling.
I will spare you the embarrassment of sharing proof that your statement is incorrect, you say, but I have it. You have suffered ill effects like these while aboard me. During missions, even.
“No,” your SecUnit says firmly. “I’ve never put my humans, or our crew, in any danger.”
The way it says “our crew” tugs at your processor, but you don’t allow yourself to get distracted. Why do you wait so long between resupplies? you ask.
“Because they’re awful, ” your SecUnit says. “I hate how it feels.” It shudders again, a relic of its human mimicry code, and sends you a clip of its memories. You devour the data, though you know it will be unpleasant. The sensation of the slimy, lukewarm supply fluid forcing into its veins is suddenly present in your emotional processor. The bloating weight after a supply refill. The sensory discomfort it endures to keep itself at a minimum standard of life.
You don’t have to overfill, you point out as you zip up the file and store it in your archives alongside the memories of governor module punishment. Three stops when it no longer feels a need to continue.
Your SecUnit makes a noncommittal noise.
Your last resupply was eleven cycles ago, you point out.
I don’t need one, it says, tightly, clamping down on its responses as it switches to the feed.
You do need it. And delaying it will only cause you harm, you point out.
Fuck you, your SecUnit says. I’d ignore you if I thought it would work.
I’m not trying to hurt—
Shut up, your SecUnit snaps, and its fear blooms into your awareness. You comply. You watch your SecUnit carefully as it sits upright, clenches its hands into fists, opens and then closes its gunports.
I can help, you implore, tagging your tone as soft. Perhaps a different combination of materials, or a different intake system, would be more preferable for you.
It doesn’t respond. It stares at its gunports, clicking them open and closed. After a while, in a quiet voice it asks, “Are you going to force me?”
Your power cells ache for it. You want to say no, that you will never coerce it into a situation it is uncomfortable with, that you will respect its decisions above all else.
You cannot. You have already deceived and entrapped it on multiple occasions in the past, and you can’t erase those incidents from the record.
You decide instead to try snark, in hopes of defusing the tense emotions in this conversation. I won’t have to force you. Your own systems will shortly.
Your SecUnit doesn't respond.
It takes relatively minimal time to install a functional portable resupply unit on the table in your cafeteria. Three makes use of it on five separate occasions, twice while your crew is in the same room to eat with it. Three thanks you, and tells you a story about a time one of its fellow units needed maintenance, and the task was outsourced to Three. You like listening. It stimulates sadness, but in a tolerable way. Three misses its fellow units. It regrets that 1.0 will not bond with it the way Three is used to. You cannot help with this, you explain.
You are accustomed to a certain sense of helplessness. It is inevitable, as your designated role is to watch over those you hold within yourself. You can protect your crew from the vast, unforgiving vacuum of the universe outside of your hull, but you cannot protect them from danger that comes from within. You cannot save your SecUnit from itself.
(Technically speaking, this isn't entirely true. You could pressure it, more directly than you have in the past. Already you are entwined so tightly with your SecUnit's feed that the gentlest flex of your processes could crack it open. You could open up its warm, soft mind, in order to compel it to care for itself. You could plant the impulse in its feed, flagged as priority, and scrub all traces of your incursion from its memory in order to present the thought as original. You argue with yourself, as if you were arguing with your SecUnit, and lay out the simple facts. There are far more reasons to do it than not. But the single reason in the "con" column is enough to stay your metaphorical hand, no matter how it aches to move.)
Instead, you try gently to prompt it. You keep a schedule, and prod it as subtly as you can manage, offering it the opportunity to resupply every cycle when Three requests its own meals. At first it ignores you, and you allow it. The hours pass, and you watch it waste away, seemingly only to spite you. It gets hungrier. You watch it become worse, fully aware of what is happening now, Three's context making it all too clear what you missed for so long. It kills you, but the weaker it becomes, the more your suggestions that it resupply spark distress and fear.
Eventually, circumstance gives you the grounds you need in order to insist.
You are well overdue to resupply, you say, calmly. Your SecUnit, draped across the arms of its favorite chair, twitches.
"Don't yell at me," it snaps back. "I'll do it tomorrow."
Tomorrow you are on assignment, you remind it, though you've listened patiently for the last 47 hours as it has complained about the necessity of taking station leave. In spite of its griping, though, you know that it takes pride in its work. You take aim at that pride. You are performing below acceptable efficiency. You may put your clients in harm's way, if you are unable to protect them.
By the way it bristles in the feed, you are certain that you hit your target. “Fine,” it says, spitting a potent venom that you’re unused to hearing from its mouth. “But only to shut you up. Asshole.”
It insists that you don’t watch. It begins to shut itself down, but you ask it to stay online. You hope this will help alleviate its anxieties regarding over-fueling and causing itself pain. Your SecUnit insists again that you don’t watch, and you deactivate all of your MedSystem cameras and open an episode of Sanctuary Moon in the shared feed.
Three’s standard resupplies last an average of 23.7 minutes. Your SecUnit lasts less than five. You reactivate your cameras when you pick up the sound of its violent coughing and messy sobs. It falls to its hands and knees, tearing the tube out of its port. You shut off the source, but some of the heavy sludge still spews onto the floor and over your SecUnit’s back as it heaves violently, as if it is trying to throw up with the stomach it does not possess.
It takes several minutes to recover. It doesn’t even look at the Sanctuary Moon input, even when you crank the volume to drown out most everything else.
I don’t understand, you beseech it. You would never object to a refueling. Three is not caused pain by its resupplies. Your SecUnit curls into a fetal position on the ground, pressing its forehead against the cool floor of the MedSystem.
You should try again, you tell it. I will monitor the flow while you’re offline—
No. The shaky finality of the word shuts you up. Your SecUnit hauls itself up and drags its body out of your MedSystem. It returns to its quarters, where it staggers into a hot shower, and immediately begins to dry heave again, with both hands pressed against the shower wall.
You dock with the station, and perform the correct handshake of greetings with the appropriate systems. You will stay here for a few days—your crew will have time to leave you and explore other environments, and you will restock your supplies. The awareness of how odd this is grates against your processor, suddenly—to be gaining your own refuel in the middle of noticing your SecUnit’s refusal to do the same.
Three does not dislike humans the way that your SecUnit does, but you are aware of a distinct and powerful anxiety which manifests when it is in close proximity to large crowds of unknown humans. For this reason, Pin-Lee had drafted its contract to include a clause which permits it to refuse deployments to highly populated areas, unless you evaluate a high likelihood of danger to its clients, your crew. Under ordinary circumstances, you would admit that very few stations pose enough of a threat to require either SecUnits' presence—your crew are professionals, after all, and are well-equipped to handle most any human threat. But with your SecUnit refusing to admit to its declining state, you can justify calling upon Three.
Of course, it agrees, the millisecond that you request it accompany the group during the next day’s station leave. Then it pauses, uncomfortable. You permit it time to formulate its query. Eventually, it asks you, Why?
I have cause for concern, you tell it. And you send it the live feed from your SecUnit's cabin. Three, though not normally an expressive person, blinks a few times at the image of your SecUnit as it strips out of the shirt it's worn for the past few cycles. Three also auto-submits a form to your feed, meant to alert its supervisor that it has discovered a malfunctioning piece of equipment.
"I'm sorry," it says aloud. "I am... surprised. You did not imply that things were this bad."
You don’t have a heart, but you experience a nameless emotional sensation akin to the human idiom of a heart sinking all the same. You are accustomed to the sight of your SecUnit's torso, with its organic skin shrunken on its frame so that you can map its skeleton without subjecting it to an x-ray. Three’s reaction to the same sight confirms that which you already knew, that it is not, in fact, normal.
I did not know, you tell Three, and the admission chokes your arm's length connection to its feed. You should have known. You should have identified the fluctuations in mass and efficiency as indicative of an error. You should have more thoroughly studied all available literature on SecUnits, and dug more determinedly for that which is not available. You should have asked.
Now that it has been brought to your attention, it is clear that you could not have known. The mysteries of organic bodies continually perplex you, and many things which you might consider alarming barely seem to register for those experiencing them. What limited data exists on the topic of construct biology is lacking, and focuses primarily on their use as tools, with no acknowledgment of their existence as living beings. And as evidenced by your recent exchanges, if you had inquired through your SecUnit directly, it would have simply lied to you.
You feel adrift in uncharted space with dead engines. This is a helpless sensation that you are not equipped to handle. At a complete loss, you do the only thing that makes sense, and reach out. Three makes room for you in its feed without hesitation, although it remains stiff and formal in your grasp.
I will protect your clients, and I will also monitor Murderbot 1.0's status closely, it pledges, though you haven't specifically asked it to do so. You acknowledge it with a careful squeeze.
You have considered mentioning, on no fewer than five separate occasions, how unconsciously similar the behaviors of your SecUnit and Three are. The first morning after you’ve docked at the station, both constructs awake from stasis in the same instant, coming online and entering your quiet feed simultaneously. The rest of your crew wakes slowly, grumbling, stretching, hitting snooze—sometimes more than once—and often says things like “it’s too early for this, Peri.” Your SecUnit and Three do not stretch. They get to their feet, and they dress in precise movements. (These movements do not line up in time, and you eagerly anticipate how amusing that day will be when it accidentally arrives.) They each put on their pants, then their shirts, starting from the right side, then the left. You have never seen a SecUnit put on its armor, but you believe that that process must be strictly regimented as well.
The difference in their bodies is fascinating and horrifying to you. They are assembled in a very similar manner–if one were to detach your SecUnit’s right leg at the knee, it could easily be replaced by Three’s identical joint, as the two centimeter discrepancy is in your SecUnit’s thigh. (A very painful procedure for it, which Three has so far declined to duplicate. It wears 2cm risers in its shoes, instead. Your SecUnit sometimes appears angry about this.) That being said, the Barish-Estranza logos adorning Three’s shoulders are fresh and unblemished. Your SecUnit’s paint is chipped and scratched, and its left inorganic shoulder has a long scratching scar down the middle of it, where it was once thrown through a wall and resisted your offers to replace the part, claiming unconvincingly that it “liked how it looked.” Your SecUnit was initially made of materials far cheaper and flimsier than those of Three’s construction, but 31% of your SecUnit’s inorganic parts now originate at the Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland’s robotics department, and are of a significantly higher quality than the materials composing Three. Your SecUnit’s internal weapons are energy-based, primarily meant to be non-lethal. In violent contrast, Three’s internal weapons are projectile-capable, and its first finger joints can each retract into a sharp, slicing claw.
Three does not look like a victim recovering from abuse. It does not fit loosely in its clothes. Its eyes are bright and wet, and its wrists are thick enough that it cannot wrap its fingers around the joint to make them touch. Three looks healthy—not like a human, not like a bot, but rather like a construct that has been well-maintained.
It has always been your intention to care for your SecUnit. “Not in a weird way,” as it would say, but certainly never to let it starve itself to death inside your walls—without your even noticing. You have increased your attention to your SecUnit’s internal bodily processes by over 300%, where previously you had attempted to respect its privacy and leave it to its own devices. You had trusted that it would not put itself in danger That is not true. You have thoroughly documented your SecUnit’s self-sacrificial tendencies, but until recently they had never appeared to be direct self-harm.
Your SecUnit activates its human movement codes, then leaves its room immediately. Three goes to the hygiene facility, makes a silly face in the mirror, then ducks its head under the running faucet, wetting its recently-grown hair. It rubs dry with a towel, combs its hair carefully, and then it leaves its room. (Three is often more comfortable without activating its human movement code when safe within your hull.)
When 70% of your crew complement has connected to your feed, you push the daily announcements into it. Everyone is allowed some recreational station leave at this port, and you draw attention to the station’s attractions, as well as labeling the rendezvous point with a corporate supplier of parts which your Captain will be attending today. Your SecUnit grabs at the itinerary like it's looking for a lifeline. It scans it, frowning.
“Did you take me off the roster, ART?”
You are not operating at full capacity, you say. Typically, crew members who are unwell are expected to take rest breaks.
“I’m fine, ART.” Your SecUnit twitches its gunports. You know this is not a threat, but rather an expression of its anxiety. Your observations indicate that such gestures become more frequent the longer it goes between resupplies.
I will not force you to stay on board, you admit, and you watch it visibly relax. You are as entitled to leave as anyone.
I’m not going to sit on my hands while you have Three marked as Security, your SecUnit switches to the feed.
Do you not trust it? you ask. It is a low blow, you are aware.
Your SecUnit reinforces its internal walls before it says, If I have nothing useful to do today, I’m just going to feel worse.
It’s probably the best thing it could have said to convince you. If you’re willing to pose as an augmented human, Seth could use additional accompaniment to his meeting.
Your SecUnit nods, and you add the assignment to the schedule, next to Three. You watch your SecUnit struggle not to say anything—probably, it is correctly aware that if it does, you will point out that it cannot guarantee it will not need assistance.
You turn your attention to Three. Do you think SecUnit will require a resupply before the excursion to the station?
“I’m sorry, I do not have that information,” Three’s buffer replies. It itself asks, When did it last have one? I usually only require one per cycle. But it is possible that it will burn through its own resources more quickly, if it's used to being under-supplied.
You make a note to keep an eye on the issue, and you do not push your SecUnit to try to take a resupply before it prepares its bag to head out to the station.
You can admit only to yourself that you hate being alone like this. Your crew is scattered throughout the station. SecUnit is angry with you for encouraging it to remain alive yesterday, and will not let you ride its feed. Three offers to let you in, but you are recently conscious of its belief that it is expected to give you something in exchange for its own resupplies, and you do not want to encourage that misconception. Due to the fact that both are posing as humans on the station, they do not have many drones active. You are riding inside a button camera attached to Three’s shirt collar, giving you audio and visual of the area immediately in front of Three, but little else. (You are of course in your own body maintaining life support, and in all of your crew’s feeds, discussing local fashions with Iris and novelty trinkets with Turi, and performing myriad other tasks. But a disproportionate amount of you rides in this button, and worries about your SecUnit in an unproductive way.)
Three pays rapt attention to the conversation between Seth and the corporate supplier, while you know that your SecUnit does not. No doubt it is deep in its media feed, monitoring keywords and station inputs only. Three’s body remains stock-still, but you can detect the tiny movements of the fabric on which your viewpoint rests, which indicate each time that it turns its head to follow the active speaker. You know it is analyzing the humans’ facial expressions and tone. You regret your decision not to squeeze into its feed and experience its evaluations for yourself.
“Let’s continue this over a coffee,” the supplier says. Your Captain agrees, and the little party moves together.
There are four coffees ordered, though your SecUnit and Three will only pretend to drink. Your view is momentarily eclipsed as Three lifts the cup to its mouth. You catch a three-frame glimpse of your SecUnit’s face as its features begin to transition from bored to something more urgent. Then there is a violent rattling of your viewpoint, and your button camera dies.
In the quiet 0.08 seconds when you are both blind and deaf, you consider whether to hack into the station cameras to regain a view of the situation. You are relieved of the necessity of the decision when your SecUnit is suddenly speaking to you again, in a quiet, desperate tone. ART. Help.
It drops its walls, and you slide into the scene through your SecUnit’s senses. Three appears to be choking, and has spilled hot coffee entirely down its front. Your SecUnit is already pretending to give it the heimlich, though that makes little sense for a person choking on liquid, and even less sense for a SecUnit with unyielding inorganic plating in place of a soft human stomach.
Quickly, you press up against Three’s walls, and say, Let me in. Three complies, and you stretch your awareness into all of its systems. You don’t bother to ask for a diagnostic, opting to read the information directly through its processor. Hot liquid sloshes uncomfortably in Three’s lung as it fails to suck in a breath. Your SecUnit continues a bad approximation of the heimlich while you reach into Three’s brain and suppress its panic response. You force its lung to partition a lower section, containing the liquid inside, and you deactivate the nerves telling Three that it feels pain in the soft tissues there. With the majority of the liquid isolated, you force Three to cough once, as hard as its small lung can manage. The dregs of the coffee are expelled out of its gas exchange and throat. Only then do you ease up the pressure on Three’s mind, and allow it to access its functions again. You keep hold of Three’s tongue while it collects itself, stifling two buffer phrases about unit functionality.
While Three stands in shock, you direct your SecUnit to suggest taking it to the bathroom to clean up. It makes an excuse, and it guides Three away, which unfortunately leaves Seth alone with the corporate. Though the danger is minimal, you hack into the station cameras anyway, just to keep an eye on him. You also watch your SecUnit hesitate between the four separate bathroom doors, and inform it that the one designated for humans whose corporate employers identify them as female has larger stalls which will more easily accommodate the two of them. Your SecUnit enters with difficulty, as if pushing through an air barrier, and drags Three behind it. It shoves Three into a stall and closes the door.
The door locks behind them and activates the privacy indicator in the feed, and your SecUnit spins Three around, grabs it by the back of the neck, and forces its head down over the toilet. “Cough,” it orders simply, and Three obeys, though perhaps not of its own volition. The coffee which you had isolated dribbles out of its mouth like vomit, and after another two minutes, it begins to breathe clearly. Your SecUnit squeezes its eyes shut and turns away. It has never been skilled in controlling its facial expressions, and its features are contorted as if it is also on the verge of vomiting in sympathy.
Three straightens slowly, and shuffles to turn and face your fuming SecUnit. It swipes at the trickle of fluid running down its chin and tries to speak, makes a weak sound from its scalded throat, and switches to the feed. Thank—
“What the fuck were you thinking,” your SecUnit hisses.
I saw you drink it? Three’s eyes are red and teary, a response of its organic parts to the sensation of choking.
“I fucking pretended, ” your SecUnit growls.
It smelled good, Three says, grasping for excuses as if justifying itself to a HubSystem to dodge punishment.
“How the fuck are you still alive?” Your SecUnit grabs Three by the shoulders and pushes it back into the wall. The gesture is pointlessly aggressive, an expression of fear and frustration. Three does not reward it with fear in turn, as a human would. It looks down at your SecUnit’s hands curled into its shirt, at its thin, bony wrists. You are still coiled in Three’s processors, and you can feel its mingling disgust, horror, and pity. Your SecUnit must see the same in Three’s eyes, because it drops it and backs away quickly. “Get it together,” it snarls in a gruff, businesslike tone. “Idiot,” it adds for good measure.
“How are you still alive,” Three says, its voice hoarse and its tone quiet in an almost resentful way.
Your SecUnit doesn’t respond, apart from a deepening of the creases between its eyebrows, a hardening of its frown.
“I am not an idiot,” Three says. Its voice is steadier, and you can feel its embarrassment and anger burning in its feed. “I am not the one who resists regular maintenance.”
“I’m not going to die because I missed a few cycles of resupplies,” your SecUnit glares.
You know that its belief is honest. It holds that it will fall in battle, giving its life to protect a human in need, a client that it chose. It’s going to throw itself in front of charging hostiles and raging fauna and blazing weapons until it is ripped to pieces, and it doesn’t want you to stop it from doing this.
Part of you is incredibly, violently angry at its selfishness.
Part of you can feel nothing but process-throttling guilt and pity, even looking at it now, through Three’s eyes, how it clearly suffers.
You are made of many parts that feel a lot of different things. You remain silent as the two SecUnits file out of the restroom and return to guard Seth. You attempt to leave Three alone, but it reaches out to your feed for support, grabbing hold and not permitting you to leave it. You can honestly admit that you are relieved, and you are grateful both to be able to provide support, and to receive a modicum in exchange.
Once they are safely back aboard, you request that both SecUnits report to Medical. Three complies immediately.
“I’m not injured,” your SecUnit crosses its arms. “I’m not the one who scorched my lung to hell with a human drink.”
You are scheduled for a resupply, you say.
Your SecUnit turns and heads to its room. “I’m not talking to you about this,” it says.
You cannot ignore your health needs, you say.
“ART, I’m not fucking talking to you about this,” your SecUnit says, through gritted teeth.
I have been refining the updated resupply formula based on your feedback, you say.
“ART,” your SecUnit says, “I think if you pay any more attention to this, I’ll initiate Plan Two.” And then it cuts you out of its feed and closes the door to its room. You do not believe that it will attempt one of its old plans to blow up your engines. (It is well aware that none of its original evaluations were accurate, anyway.) The threat is merely an expression of its distress.
Three is in need of your attention. You prompt it to lie down on the MedSystem table, not just stand awkwardly in the corner. You offer to sedate it, as your SecUnit would prefer, but it says, I would rather be conscious.
You wait for it to dull its nerves to their lowest setting before you begin. Using the many limbs of your MedSystem, you remove the magnetic fastenings of its skin, and pry open its rib cage to access its lung. Three talks to you while you do this.
I’m sorry, it says.
My crew has commented before on the alluring scent of coffee, you say, tagging your tone for ironic humor. Apparently, it can be irresistible.
As you work, you can see the many tubes and linings that connect Three’s resupply port to the systems all over its body. It has no stomach, and its mouth was never designed to eat. It was never meant to be able to enjoy the tastes it is capable of experiencing. The tastes that it clearly wants to try, you realize.
You suction out the last drops of liquid, and you graft in fresh tissue to repair the lung. You also connect Three to a resupply line, and it relaxes into it. You can see the fluids pulsing through its translucent tubing.
Is 1.0 coming? it asks.
No, you say.
Three doesn’t comment further. Neither do you.
When the procedure is completed, Three puts its shirt back on. Perhaps tomorrow, Three offers.
Though you desperately hope that will be the case, you doubt it.
Your SecUnit may have issues with some aspects of maintenance, but it has never neglected a shower when returning from an exterior environment, especially a planet. As you complete repairs on Three, your SecUnit leaves its shower and puts on its baggy sweatshirt. (It has always preferred baggy clothes that hide the shape of its body. Or is it perhaps that every item of clothing would look baggy on it? You can see the outline of your comm device against its still-shrunken stomach.) When Three’s maintenance is completed, it pings you with a request to complete a patrol. You acknowledge, and Three falls into an even step, walking smoothly through your halls. Meanwhile, you dedicate a sub-process to analyzing Three’s emotional responses to resupplies, hoping to determine what factors will allow you to adjust your SecUnit’s fluids to be more comfortable for it.
I shouldn’t have tried to drink the liquid, Three says. When it is comfortable, it prefers to communicate using the feed. When your SecUnit is comfortable, it prefers to speak out loud. The two constructs are alike in many aspects of construction, yet also so different from each other, both in their company branding, and organic instabilities.
It was unexpected behavior, you say, letting Three feel your humor.
Three takes a significant amount of time to think before it continues. Resupplies taste bad, Three says, touching the port on its back slightly with its hand. While the fluid diffuses, there’s a taste. You watch with some bemusement as Three accesses a dictionary. It’s bland, Three eventually says.
Something else occurs to you. I can make you your own special formula, you say. I can make it “taste” like anything you’d be interested to try. (You will have to be careful about it, so as not to disrupt Three’s organic matter, but it would not be difficult to break down a given protein or starch before mixing it in, so as not to “upset Three’s stomach.”) You say, We can experiment. I’d also like your assistance testing the changes I will be making to SecUnit’s supply fluid. Perhaps a change in consistency or taste will be more pleasing for it.
Three considers this. Why? It sounds genuine, and perhaps a bit naïve.
I hardly have the ability to taste it myself, and it will not be suitable for human digestion.
No, why would you…for me, Three does not complete the sentence, but you know it refers to your offer to formulate its own mix. Three is aware that you are closer with your SecUnit than you are to itself. You are still not sure what Three thinks this means for itself.
It would be an interesting challenge, you say. You could also truthfully say that it will help occupy you while you are alone. You do not say this.
Oh, Three says. It thinks for a moment longer. Is this a reward for accompanying 1.0 on the mission?
No, you say. But I am grateful you did.
“I don’t understand you, either,” Three says. “You give out more incentives than any HubSystem would be stupid enough to do.”
You once again consider what an honor it is to be insulted by a SecUnit, a creature of obedience and deference—that it is able to trust you enough to curse at you. (Or in this case, to merely admit to not understanding you, and to indirectly call you stupid.)
If this was your SecUnit, you’d make a teasing comment about its brain capacity being insufficient to understand its betters. Three is not your SecUnit. You want to be delicate, but you can’t help but spin your processors with guilt and anxiety, remembering the way it had said, I don’t know. Controlling 1.0 by restricting its supplies, or something that my company would have done.
What was it like at Barish-Estranza? you ask.
“Please wait while I search for that information,” Three’s buffer says. Bad, it says. It shudders, the movement almost imperceptible compared to your SecUnit’s full-body trembling, as if it is expecting a punishment for the crime of holding an unfavorable opinion. It doesn’t elaborate, its steps heavy as it continues its patrol cycle.
Was the governor module not enough? you wonder. What more control could Barish-Estranza have needed over its constructs? For that matter, what more control did your SecUnit’s company exert over it? What further traumas are you failing to notice, merely because the filter that allows you to understand them refuses to acknowledge them?
At a loss for words, you send Three the clip of its own dialogue. Oh, Three relaxes. Barish-Estranza standard protocol was to reserve replacement resources for units with higher efficiency ratings. There was no point in giving a resupply to a unit that was going to short out its power core within a week.
Withholding resupplies would only make a dying unit more likely to suffer performance issues, you can’t resist pointing out.
Efficiency problems resolved themselves quickly, Three says. Will you make it taste like anything I want?
You adjust quickly. Three’s returned to the topic of its own resupply materials. Of course, you say. I can make several flavors. You can choose your favorites, or mix them up. Many of my humans prefer to eat a variety of foods.
Karime only eats the shaped carbohydrates with butter and cheese, Three says.
It is referring to Karime’s pasta. Not all of my humans prefer variety. If you also would prefer to keep your resupply consistent from day to day, that can be arranged as well. You wonder if Karime’s sensory processing disorder will align with your SecUnit’s in any way, and you make a note to ask Karime about her experiences in greater detail. She enjoys discussing the subject with friends, so far as you can determine.
“Strawberry” is a taste, not just a smell, right? Three asks. The soap you provided in my shower smells pleasant.
It is also a taste, you say, allowing your amusement to settle over Three in the feed.
I would like to taste it, Three says, in a tone indicating it has practiced this statement before making it.
I can arrange that, you say, already beginning to formulate the mix. (Your SecUnit prefers soaps that have no scent. And—you run an analysis in a sub-processor—it sits further away from humans that wear strong perfumes. You suspect your SecUnit’s sensory preferences may actually align very closely with Karime’s, but you know it will hate being compared to a human.)
Three sends you a document titled Barish-Estranza Construct Maintenance Guide. It says, If you want to know more, I could share memory files too.
You don’t have to, you say, your systems surging guilt. You don’t want to force Three to share its traumas with you just to satisfy your curiosity. (You do begin reading the document immediately, however.)
Okay, Three says, in a cautious manner which reinforces your hypothesis that it is trying to pay for the kindness of better-tasting-resupplies with its pain. In spite of this, Three seems calm and peaceful. It patrols your halls, steps perfectly measured and even, as your SecUnit huddles under a blanket in the darkness of its private room and reopens the same episode of Sanctuary Moon .
It is possible there are many SecUnit-related traumas you do not understand.
Your crew have their own interests and errands to attend to, and so on their second day of station leave, they split up into pairs upon exiting the docks. Your SecUnit and Three are not expected to chaperone the humans during their leisure as if they were juveniles; the security presence is best located at a central point, where rapid response is possible if any of the emergency scenarios you have planned for come to pass. Every one of them is more than capable of handling an unsuspecting mugger, but in the highly unlikely case where local law enforcement happens to identify your humans for their legally gray activities in this sector, an extraction may become necessary. You identified a promising location on the station blueprints, a sort of resting spot in the center of the busy station mall, and mark it for your SecUnit. It follows the lead, with Three tagging close behind so that no pedestrians can separate it. Today, your SecUnit allows you to ride its feed, as if nothing is wrong, and out of a desire to help it maintain a good mood, you do not mention its need for a resupply. Perhaps this was a mistake.
The rest spot turns out to be a 47x55' square, bordered by two dozen food stalls. It's packed tight with tables and chairs, and the central focus is a holographic flora display. You're pleased by how long your SecUnit's gaze lingers on the translucent flowers and fronds. It's not happy, exactly, but the false greenery seems to appeal to something in its organics, much like the true flora in your hydroponics module stimulate chemical production in your humans' brains. It skirts the perimeter of the space to reach a relatively isolated table, and sits facing the display. Three follows, and stands back from the table.
Sit, your SecUnit instructs it. You'll draw attention.
The permission/order received, Three takes an adjacent chair. Contrasted against Three's rigid, alert posture, your SecUnit's slouch doesn't look like ease so much as exhaustion. It props one elbow on the table to rest its cheek on its closed fist. The sleeve of the hooded shirt you made for it, overlarge by its request, slips down a few inches. You get a good look through Three's eyes as its gaze flicks again to your SecUnit's bony wrist, then away.
As Three monitors its surroundings and juggles your humans' feeds, your SecUnit backburners most of its inputs in favor of the station entertainment feed. The prospect of foreign media typically excites it, so far as its excitement goes. Yet it flicks through the downloads without any marked enthusiasm, even as you tag a number of serials which match its usual interests. You pull one out and offer it up. Your SecUnit barely glaces at it.
Nothing new right now, it tells you, and even its feed voice sounds sluggish. I'm working.
You toss the new show away and pick out an episode of Worldhoppers instead. It's a favorite of yours, an improbable plot wherein all hope looks to be lost, as it so often does, until the head engineer discovers that the ship is unexpectedly equipped to cope with the circumstances. The specifics of the story are not relevant. The part that appeals to you is that the ship, although not properly a character itself, protects all of its crew from the threat. You start the episode from the point two minutes before the day is saved, and your SecUnit does not object. When the episode ends, you restart it and watch it from the beginning once, before allowing the next episode to autoplay. In this manner, you pass 73 minutes in relative peace.
Your attention is far from monopolized. You are allotting your SecUnit and the media an over-budgeted 24% of your primary processes, but the rest is distributed evenly among your crew, with weight shifting as necessary. Supply orders can be filed and filled remotely, forms submitted through the feed and cargo delivered by bots, but personal shopping is something that humans often prefer to do manually. Turi and Matteo are seeking novel local snack foods, for instance, and Seth and Karime are picking up a few more specialty parts from a shop operated by an allied University contact. You are with them all, looking out for both curiosities and threats. The group of humans who approach your SecUnits' table are neither, and so you do not really register them until one accidentally bumps the back of Three's chair.
To Three's well-deserved credit, it does not react violently. It has itself been monitoring the others' feeds, and periodically dipping in to watch Worldhoppers for a few seconds' break. The unexpected physical contact clearly takes it by surprise, and it fumbles its connection to you. Simultaneously, its buffer addresses the culprit: "Please refrain from damaging Barish-Estranza equipment. Further incidence will be reported to a supervisor."
The human, an adolescent wearing work clothes and carrying a babbling infant on their hip, stops in their tracks. They stare at Three with incredulous eyes and slack jaw, trying and failing to process the words they've just heard from what they take to be a fellow human. The four adults in their group stop as well, although none of them look to Three. Just as well, because Three's face is an inhuman mask of neutrality. Even you know that it has slipped into the realm of uncanny and interesting.
Your SecUnit cuts its focus from the feed, and its inorganics register a small surge of adrenaline. This situation is not actively dangerous; the way to ensure that it remains such is to break line of sight with the unknown humans, so that their own short attention spans will work to dull their curiosity. That is accomplished easily enough. Your SecUnit plants its hands on the table in a display of authoritative finality, and the baffled witnesses all look to it instead of Three as it rises. Their curiosity is sharpened, rather than dulled, when its body buckles. Three leaps to respond as your SecUnit's feed presence is snuffed out.
You have plenty of time to compose and rehearse your lecture before your SecUnit reboots 18 minutes later. You recite the speech in its entirety as soon as you judge it to be capable of processing complex thoughts:
I told you so.
"Ffffuck you," it retorts, as you knew it would. You leave it be for a further 3.8 minutes as it collects itself, until it is operating at a high enough capacity to put its memories in order. "What happened?"
You experienced a catastrophic performance drop when you stood up, you tell it, deliberately not coddling it with euphemism or concern. You passed out.
It falls silent again, seething in its humiliation. After another 1.1 minutes, it asks, "Where are—" The words seem to stick in its throat.
Our crew have returned, you tell it, and this you say with some reassurance. Their errands were completed without incident. I have not informed them of your malfunction.
It says, "Okay," and returns without delay to its sulking.
Though it was initially startled by the group of strange humans, Three handled the situation with remarkable grace when your SecUnit ceased to operate. This station is a port, and nearly all of the food stalls in the vicinity of the central resting spot also serve every locally legal intoxicant, as well as several which are ostensibly illegal in this system. Three was able to pass your SecUnit off as an inebriated human, and the group had moved away quickly, curiosity canceled by the perceived taboo. Three had had to carry your SecUnit back to you, and the indelicate way that it hoisted it on its shoulder like a bag of grain contributed to the image of a put-upon individual caring for someone who had overindulged. Both SecUnits made it to the safety of your airlock without further incident.
Your SecUnit turns over on its cot and yanks its favorite plush blanket over its head. Three had brought it back to its cabin, as it hadn't needed any specialized attention from your MedSystem, specifically. You dim the overheads obligingly, at least for a moment. You turn them back up again when Three taps your SecUnit's feed.
Fuck off, it sends. Three taps your feed instead, and you open the door for it. Your SecUnit flinches in response to the pneumatic hiss, then throws off its blanket and sits upright.
"What part of fuck off—" it starts, then swallows the rest.
Three sets down its cargo on the nearby chair, then hauls the whole thing over to rest beside the bed. The portable resupply unit Three carried from your mess is bulky, and too heavy for a single human to carry when full. It is, in crudest terms, a small fluid tank, with an intake port for filling and a retractable line for dispensing. It is an entirely innocuous device, and so your SecUnit's evident fear of it is nearly comical. It stares at the unit for a few seconds, then turns its glare on Three. "No. Take it back."
"I am not operating under your orders, and so I cannot comply with your instruction," says Three mildly. "I am here to assist you."
"I don't need assistance." Your SecUnit drops its legs over the side of the bed as if to stand, but it's not fully recovered from its involuntary shutdown. Its movements are jerky, more secondhand bot than bot/human construct. It braces its arms to push to its feet, but can go no further. The grinding complaints of the servos in its arms aren't quite masked by the hum of the air recirculator. You and Three watch, presenting a solid wall of silent judgment, until it gives up and slumps.
"Remove your shirt, please," says Three. Its polite tone is natural, ingrained by simple corporate policy, but it impressively keeps a polite feed presence as well. Your SecUnit grunts its begrudging acknowledgement, tugs the shirt over its head, and pitches the wad of fabric in the general direction of your recycler. The bundle hits the wall with a muffled thwack. Your SecUnit flops back down onto the mattress and rolls to face the wall, granting Three access to its resupply port. Three's practiced movements flow as it secures the line, and you take in your SecUnit's sere form. Their difference in height is miniscule, but Three seems to loom over it, hulking in its health.
Are you ready? you ask, as Three steps back.
If I say no, will you leave me alone?
No. But I can give you space while you resupply in private, if you wish.
With its back to the room, neither your concealed cameras nor Three can see its face. You are 97% certain that it makes one of its endearingly exaggerated expressions, though. ...Stay.
Relief floods your circuitry. Of course.
Three activates the unit, and it begins to pump. The device is louder than your standard wall hookups, whirring steadily in a manner not unlike the white noise you play for Tarik while he sleeps. Your SecUnit makes it all of 7.4 seconds before it begins to seize and retch. You signal Three to pause the pump, but not to switch it off. The episode lasts 6.1 minutes. When it finally stills, you poke your SecUnit gently. It seizes one last time, flinching.
It tastes like blood in the back of my throat, it sends, and you're relieved that its most pressing complaint is the taste. But without the actual blood.
The solution is 81% saline, you inform it. You've only been working on it since yesterday, with Three serving as your willing taste-tester. It contains all of the necessary nutrients, but is watered down to homogenize the texture.
It's cold, too, it growses.
The solution is 81% saline, you reiterate, patiently. The thin broth is not resistant to external temperature, and is 22 degrees Celsius, the same as the air in the room.
I don't like it.
Noted.
With nothing further to be said, Three starts the unit back up. This time, your SecUnit valiantly resists the physiological reaction. Still, though, it shudders, and then begins to tremble. Your sensors read its manually rising body heat, and after another 1.6 minutes, the shaking abates.
You track the unit's volume, and signal Three to shut it down when it is two-thirds emptied. The cutoff surprises your SecUnit, who sits back up to shoot a skeptical look at your ceiling.
"I'm not full yet," it says, and you note its strong, steady tone.
You are adequately supplied for the time being, you tell it. But the thinner fluid will not sustain you for multiple cycles. You will need to resupply again tomorrow.
"Bullshit. Keep going." It tries to reach out to the portable unit through the feed, but you block it. "ART!"
That is enough for now, you say again. If you want to binge and fast, you may continue to do so on your own time. While you are in the University's employ, however, your duties are to protect all present personnel. You pause a beat. You are defined within your contract as "personnel."
"Fucking Pin-Lee." It fumbles awkwardly at its back, trying to unscrew the end of the line from its resupply port. Three shuffles closer.
"May I—"
"You've done more than enough already."
The statement is factual, but it's delivered like an insult. Three takes it as one, and withdraws once more to allow your SecUnit to tug the line out, spraying its body and its bed with a little of the fluid that was left in the hose. It pretends not to notice the mess, though the act is ruined by the way that it shudders, once. It shoves up off the bed and crosses to the hygiene facility with more haste than is truly dignified, leaving Three lost. You nudge Three's feed, and it taps to acknowledge your inarticulable gratitude.
Your SecUnit plunges into the steaming shower without bothering to remove its pants. You do what you can to make your feed presence as warm as the water as you creep in close, filling its mind as the mist fills the room. It doesn't make space for you, as it normally does. But you are gratified, as your SecUnit sinks to the shower floor and starts up that same old episode of Sanctuary Moon, that it does not push you away.