Chapter Text
SecUnit 03
Status: Departure
After the station responder from Preservation arrived, it was another twelve ship’s cycles before the transport Azure arrived from the Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland, carrying the personnel and bots needed for the decontamination of Perihelion’s alien remnant infected wormhole engines. The time spent waiting had allowed me to become more accustomed to the strange behavior of the humans from the Preservation Alliance. Perihelion’s crew had mostly left me alone, glancing at me in passing or nodding acknowledgement when they noticed me standing still in a corner, and even this was more social interaction than I had had with humans before my governor module was disabled.
The Preservation humans, though, persisted in talking to me. At first I answered automatically, or let my buffer reply. Over the cycles, I replied less and less, since there was no governor module to punish me for lack of answers. Toward the end of our wait, even Amena had mostly stopped seeking me out to talk at me, though she did always leave space for me to join her or the group when we happened to be in the same room. I never did. I had also pulled in most of my drones by then, keeping only two or three active, in corridors near to whichever room I was in, or ahead of and behind me as I patrolled. I’m not sure why, maybe it was the constant awareness of Perihelion in the feed, watching me. It had barely spoken to me, since its first instructions/threat/promise. I don’t know if that signified indifference, or hostility, or consideration, or if it signified anything at all.
In the excerpted files Murderbot 1.0 gave me, it had included all of its and Perihelion’s interactions with Murderbot 2.0. Reviewing the files is not at all the same as actually talking to and working with 2.0, but it helps, a little. Murderbot 1.0 had referred to Murderbot 2.0 as “other me.” When I consider those few moments of reading helpme.file and making the decision to help 2.o, it is as if a different me acted and disabled the governor module. Like there was another me all of a sudden, pulling me along onto a new path, telling me that I was performing my duties as a SecUnit by retrieving the clients, that I just had to break the lesser rules in order to follow the greater directive. I wish that other-me was still here, with the clear vision that it had, that I had, so briefly.
2.0 was like planetary lightning, a multitude of potential paths seeking each other from below and above simultaneously, the bright burst of connection, and then darkness again. 2.0 was one half of the connection, and my other-me was the second half, and now they are both gone, and I am lost. I have worked assignments solo before, and I have (mostly) gotten used to the absences of SecUnit 01 and SecUnit 02. But I have not reconciled myself to the absence of 2.0, though I know it is not logical. 2.0 made its choices, and fulfilled its purpose perfectly, and it seemed satisfied with that. I wish that I had any amount of such certainty and resolve.
Once the University decontam team began work on Perihelion’s engines, and its crew was handing off their work on the colony situation to the crew of Azure , the Preservation humans began making preparations for their own departure. Murderbot 1.0 was staying with Perihelion , having found certainty of its own at last. That was good, I suppose, but then did that make my uncertainty bad? My entire existence, up until now, had been obedience or punishment and over the course of more than ninety five thousand of hours of that, had become only obedience , and as close as I could come to unthinking obedience. Now, other-me and 2.0 had forced me into this, whatever this was, and thinking was suddenly essential to my survival, instead of detrimental to it.
Murderbot 1.0 had recounted the memory purges it had undergone, as best it could. That had never been done to me, but perhaps I had done it to myself. Not literally - I could, if I chose, go through my archive hour by hour and review everything. But, maybe I mean from a “thinking” perspective. Things happened, I obeyed protocols and orders, the assignment ended, I was placed in a new assignment. I had no connection to those events, those assignments, those humans. Not the way 1.0 did. Not the way Perihelion did. Not the way 2.0 had.
When the time came for the Preservation crew to make their final farewells, I stood closer than usual. Dr. Mensah glanced curiously at me, and I knew 1.0 was watching me with a drone as it exchanged short, awkward words with Mensah, Amena, Pin Lee, Overse, Arada, and Ratthi. It even exchanged nods with Thiago. Perihelion , as always, watched everything.
At the last moment, I followed Ratthi toward the shuttle. Murderbot 1.0 did not seem surprised, and it used the feed to open the hatch to the cargo compartment. I hesitated for almost half a second, considering the two open hatches in front of me, cabin or cargo. 1.0 did not look in my direction, but it pinged my feed, sent a compressed packet called Presevation.file to me, and let me see it sending Dr. Mensah the drone's video of me sliding into the cargo compartment and sealing the hatch behind me.
1.0 had told me I could trust them, its clients, and their behavior was unlike any I had seen from humans on my assignments. I guess this was me trusting them, as much as I could. I was going with them, after all, I just couldn't do it face to face. But I also couldn't stay with Perihelion . I don't think Azure knew I existed, but from the comm and feed traffic I had observed, it was another ship-wide intelligence like Perihelion , and that was even more terrifying. There was absolutely no going back to Barish-Estranza, and so my only option was going to Preservation. Or, toward Preservation. Moving felt better than staying still, waiting for something to happen.
Despite that, I stayed in the cargo compartment once the shuttle had docked with the Preservation station responder, and the humans had disembarked. I had made this move, this decision, and could make no more. I sat in the close darkness, categorizing the similarities and differences to the cargo crates I had been shipped in before. The freedom of movement was obviously new, as was the exact shuttle model, though it wasn’t much different from many shuttles in the Corporation Rim. The darkness and the helplessness was the same. Except, I wasn’t helpless anymore, was I?
I extended my arms, and expanded the projectile weapons built into my forearms. They pushed up underneath my sleeves, but did not tear the tough fabric. I had never been pleased with their performance and the extensive amount of maintenance they required. Without the armor interfacing with them, reloading was awkward and messy, and they held limited rounds without the armor’s extra capacity. Onboard energy weapons seemed much more sensible to me, endlessly rechargeable as long the unit was. But I’d had no say in my construction or function, up until now.
I agreed with Murderbot 1.0, though. A murderous rampage just seemed pointless. I had no reason to harm any of the humans and augmented humans within my current reach. If I was presented with the surviving crew of the Barish-Estranza reclamation mission, killing those individuals would change nothing in the workings of the Corporation Rim, and seemed frankly ridiculous considering the lengths I had gone to trying to save as many of them as I could. Even if the top administrators of Barish-Estranza stood before me, their deaths would only serve to advantage some other rival corporation.
I closed my gunports, crossed my arms on my knees, and rested my head on them. I ran a full diagnostic scan, and as expected, it showed no anomalies aside from the hacked governor module. I took a moment to restructure the diagnostic to report that as “within normal limits” instead of anomalous. I needed something else to focus on.
Murderbot 1.0 had given me a compressed packet of entertainment media a few cycles after it had passed along its excerpted personal files. I began unpacking and sorting it now. Most of it was visual media and serials, several thousand hours. I sampled a few of the shows, but quickly closed them again. Likewise, I failed to connect with the books. The music, though, that was just the thing. I skipped over the recordings of stage musicals, delved into the files tagged "orchestral," and started playback on a random file.
I had just written and set loose code to analyze individual tracks and select a pleasing sequence to play them in, when I got a ping on my feed from Dr. Mensah. The hatch of my cargo compartment opened, and she and Pin Lee stood just outside. They spoke to one another, with the air of repeating themselves, possibly for my benefit. I wondered why they bothered, and hadn’t just sent me a summary over the feed. I let my music drift into the background, and listened.
Mensah: "Given the precedent already set by accepting SecUnit as a refugee, surely a similar argument can be made for Three."
Pin Lee: "These are much less pressing circumstances, and we don't have the legal support of having purchased its contract, as we did with SecUnit. If Barish-Estranza ever finds out, our attempts at legal protection may not hold up in the Corporation Rim courts.”
Mensah: “Then we will ensure Barish-Estranza never finds out.”
Pin Lee: “They might be distracted by dealing with the colony and the University for now, but they won’t turn a blind eye to us forever. They will want to recoup both expenses and reputation, and from their perspective, Preservation has played a major part in interfering with their reclamation project. You are beginning to develop a reputation of your own regarding constructs now, you know.”
Mensah, after a sigh: “Yes, I know. And I know what the Council will have to say about it. I’ve heard it all before.”
Pin Lee: “They all saw how well SecUnit did its job, most of them firsthand. If Three-”
Mensah: “I don’t want to assume anything about what Three wants to do. All we know is that it chose to come with us.” She paused, and pinged my feed again. “Three, may we talk to you directly?”
I froze, my thoughts stalled. I managed to signal an affirmative on the feed, but I did not uncurl from my position in the cargo hold. I had not considered that Barish-Estranza might come after me. Or after the Preservation humans. I don’t know why I hadn’t, other than that I hadn’t considered much of anything when loading myself in with the cargo. I sent a clip into the feed, from the middle of that confusing first meeting with all the humans aboard Perihelion when I arrived in the B-E shuttle.
[Ratthi, speaking to me: “We’ll hide you. We’ll tell Barish-Estranza that you died.”]
Pin Lee: “Yes, we and Perihelion’s crew included that in our reports. Officially, you were still aboard the explorer when it was destroyed.” I made no reply, waiting.
Mensah: “Three, I don’t feel comfortable making these plans without your input. What do you want to do?”
Before I could stop it, the wave of paralyzing terror at that question overwhelmed me, and bled into the feed. Trying to clamp down on it, I brought the music up and it filled the feed instead. I stopped breathing, and considered going into standby mode. But, until when? Until what? I had acted to help 2.0, to save its humans and my clients. On assignments, I had made thousands of life and death decisions and acted on them faster than any human or augmented human could have. Why could I not think now, act now, when it was for myself? I didn’t know.
Mensah gasped, and Pin Lee reached for her feed interface, and they both pulled out of the feed.
Mensah: “I guess SecUnit didn’t talk to it as much as we had hoped.”
Pin Lee: “You think SecUnit knows how to handle this?”
Mensah: “It wouldn’t have allowed it to accompany us if it thought it was any danger to us. It must have thought we could help it. We have to try.”
Pin Lee, sighing: “Yes, I know.” To me, louder: “Three, I will send you some legal documents over the feed. Please review them when you are able, and give me what feedback you can.” They turned to walk out of the shuttle bay. My drone watching the hatch caught a few last words before they were gone.
Mensah: “Maybe we could convince it to go to Station Medical when we arrive, or do you think it will be safer at First Landing?”
I left the cargo hatch open, but made no move to leave the compartment.
Amena
Status: Homeward
Four cycles into the wormhole trip back to Preservation [“Oh, little child, we’re in the bridge-transit. No one will ever find you again.”], Amena sat with Pin Lee in the small galley, talking over tea and sharing a view of the Pansystem University’s catalog in the feed. Amena had already discussed this with her second mother, and she thought that her uncle Thiago would probably be entirely against it, so she had decided to get an opinion from someone a little further removed from the family.
“I know you’ll tell me the same as second mom, don’t make any decisions right now. But I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, and I can’t exactly just stop thinking, and I want your perspective on this.”
“Well, I do have to say I think she’s right about not making a quick decision. As for the Pansystem University, they seem to have quite a lot to offer you. Of course, much of it overlaps with what you could study at home, at the Free Preservation Institute.”
“I know that, but,” Amena waved her hands in frustration, “staying home isn’t exactly something my family has been very good at lately. I just think it might be a good idea to be more prepared for it next time.”
Pin Lee sighed, “Hopefully, there won’t be-” and broke off at Amena’s glare. “Right, I’m starting to sound like Arada.”
“I thought you’d be on my side, you know how hard it is to deal with the Corporation Rim. I just don’t think the Institute is as,” she paused, seeking the right words, “up to date with how the Corporation Rim is operating now, today.”
“I’m not taking sides here, and I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’ve had to learn a lot on my own, dealing with the corporates, and making sometimes very expensive mistakes. Contract negotiation and enforcement is probably the worst aspect of my work. I’ve gotten good at it, but it’s never enjoyable, never satisfying. Are you really sure that’s what you want to pursue?”
“Oh, that’s only part of it. I need to study Preservation law too. We’re never not going to be dealing with the Corporation Rim to some degree or another, though. And seeing what they do, to their own people, and to constructs, and what ART’s crew does,” her voice became a little choked, “well, someone has to do something about it, and help them, and why shouldn’t it be me?” she finished in a rush.
Pin Lee reached out and clasped her hands around Amena’s, which were on her cup of tea. “I think it should be you, if this is what you really want to do. I’ve been handling contracts out of necessity, and I’m sorry to put my own frustrations on you.” They were both quiet for a while, and Pin Lee returned her attention to her own tea.
[“Hey, are you there? Can you see me?” “Hi, Amena. Yes, I can see you.” “How do you feel? Are you all right?”]
“It’s just, they’re really people, you know?” Amena said quietly. “ART, and SecUnit, and 2.0.” She smiled to herself a little. “After talking with Iris, about her growing up with ART, I’m not worried for it, or for Azure, or any of the other University AIs. But I think Preservation can learn from Mihira and New Tideland. We need to change, we can do better.”
Pin Lee nodded. “You’re right. Preservation has its blind spots and biases, much as we might not want to think so.”
“Maybe they already support escaped constructs. If they have legislation like that in place, it would make it easier to get support from the Preservation Council, wouldn’t it? Maybe that’s why Three stayed with them,” Amena mused. Pin Lee looked up, startled.
“You didn’t know? Three came with us, though I don’t think it’s left the cargo hold yet.”
“What? No, no one told me that! Why didn’t it just come on the shuttle with us? It didn’t think it had to ride in cargo, did it? And why hasn’t it come out yet?”
“I don’t know what it’s thinking. It barely communicated with us when we went to talk to it, and it hasn’t replied to the feed documents I’ve sent it.”
“Should I try talking to it? What has it been doing all this time in there?”
“It seemed to be listening to music, from what we got on the feed. You could try, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”
“Huh, I,” Amena paused. “I think I will go and try to talk to it, at least. I hope - well. I’ll try.” She got up, put her cup in the recycler, and left the galley.
Amena’s thoughts were racing as she made her way to the shuttle docking bay. She wondered why Three had chosen to come with them to Preservation. Was she wrong about how Mihira and New Tideland thought about constructs? She supposed she must be, she had talked with Iris and Matteo about AIs in general, and Perihelion specifically, and she had assumed their view and policies included constructs too. But they had talked mostly about their homes, and the Corporation Rim, and Perihelion’s missions, when Iris and the others weren’t busy with their duties. There had been a lot of downtime, waiting.
She reached the shuttle, and saw that the cargo compartment hatch was open. Three was nowhere to be seen.
“Hello, Three?” she called, apprehensively. If it hadn’t come out, that probably meant it didn’t want to talk to anyone. But they couldn’t all just ignore it, that wouldn’t do any good. “Are you here, Three? I’m sorry I didn’t come speak to you earlier, I didn’t know you had come with us. Are you...okay?”
There was no reply, but Amena thought she could see Three’s form about a third of the way into the cargo compartment, sitting with knees to chest, and she thought its face was turned toward her. It was hard to tell, without better lighting. Amena leaned against the shuttle’s hull, trying to look casual and comfortable.
“Why are you in there? You can come out, you know. You don’t need orders, or permission, or anything.” Still no reply. She waited another minute. “What have you been doing?”
Two minutes later, she got a ping from Three, and a feed connection request. She accepted it, and a quiet, melancholy music flowed into her feed. She listened to it in silence, worried about Three. That piece ended, and a new song began, this one with a more danceable rhythm, which brought to mind the festival crowds at home on Preservation, watching the dancers swirling around and weaving between each other in colorful costumes.
Amena eventually slid down to sit outside the cargo hatch, listening to Three’s music for another hour, before she caught herself starting to doze off. “Three, I have to go now. I’ll come back tomorrow. Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Several seconds passed, then Three signaled a negative over the feed, and withdrew its connection. Amena wasn’t sure which question Three had answered. Maybe both.
Amena continued to visit Three for an hour or two each day, seated on a cushion outside the hatch of the cargo compartment listening to music with it. She thought she was probably imagining it, but perhaps Three was pleased by this. In any case, the feed connections after the first couple of days were less tentative, and required less coaxing on Amena’s part. By day four, she thought it had perhaps moved slightly closer to the hatch, but it was hard to tell. It would occasionally signal an affirmative or negative on the feed in response to questions (Is this the soundtrack to The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon? Yes. Did SecUnit give you this music? Yes. Did ART make you leave? No. Did you look at the documents Pin Lee sent? Yes.), but it would not elaborate or even acknowledge her more complex questions (Why did you come with us? Are you glad the governor module is gone? What can I do to help you?).
Late on the sixth day of this arrangement, Amena took her customary seat, and sent Three a ping. Three pinged back, and established the feed connection, but there was no music playing. Amena was surprised, and knew that she had let that reaction into the feed. She hadn’t been trying to mask her feelings from it at all during this time, figuring that the more it saw of her unfiltered intentions and reactions, perhaps it would be more likely to begin to trust her. In whatever way it could.
“Three,” she began, “are you okay?” She didn’t really expect an answer to that one. “Are you out of music?” After a moment, she received a view of what appeared to be a directory category and file names.
[SendToSecUnit003.entertainment.music.musicaltheater.comedy]
The files were titles of musical comedies, at least a hundred or so. The titles that Amena recognized, having seen them herself, or only knowing of them by reputation, were truly atrocious: niche cultural parodies, comedic interpretations of religions, unnecessary musical adaptations of other media, sarcastic drama about human biological functions, and more. Amena let out a startled laugh.
“Sec...SecUnit had these? No, oh, these are just awful! I agree, I’d rather sit in silence than listen to these too.” She laughed again, imagining SecUnit listening to these at all, let alone while pretending to work. She glanced into the cargo compartment, and it certainly wasn’t her imagination this time, Three was closer to the hatch than it had been the day before. From its presence in the feed, she thought it might be a little bit pleased, or maybe amused, by her reaction.
“No,” she continued, “we aren’t listening to those. Let’s see what I’ve got.” She glanced through the directories in her own feed interface, which had some storage. “It’s mostly popular stuff, Kanti and I were sharing a lot of our favorites during the survey, and some more mellow mixes for when I was working on samples and data.” [“Get to the gravity well, now.” “Kanti, go!”] She frowned a little at the intrusive memory, then forced a smile to push it away. “But it will be way better than what you’ve got left.”
She started by playing her newest favorites, then Kanti’s. When she got up to leave, she passed the rest of her files to it over the feed. “Here’s the rest of what I’ve got on my interface. I hope you like at least some of it.” She paused partway to the hatch. “Have you accessed the ship’s entertainment feed? There’s probably some more new stuff there.” Three signaled a negative.
“Why not?” No reply. Amena made herself shrug, like it wasn’t deeply strange to her that halfway through the twenty cycle wormhole journey, it hadn’t connected even once to the ship’s feed. As far as she could tell, SecUnit had hacked its way deep into any and every feed it had ever come across within about 15 seconds of becoming aware of said feed’s existence. She waved at the drone watching the shuttle bay hatch as she left, and went to try to find Ratthi.