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I would rather have walked into the open mouth of a giant alien fauna than to go on a planetary corporate retreat. But of course, going to a planetary corporate retreat was what Pin-Lee was doing, and there was no way she was going without me.
The “retreat” was actually a networking event, and also we weren’t technically invited. We needed to go because there was a rumor about a company trying to steal a newly-acquired survey planet from the Preservation Alliance, and they wanted more information in order to decide how to respond. I wasn’t exactly sure how you would steal a planet in the first place (probably some dubious legal claim), but I also didn’t care. The problem now was that, according to Pin-Lee, showing up at an event like this with a SecUnit would garner unwanted attention. So now Pin-Lee, Ratthi, Gurathin, and Mensah had been in a logistics meeting for an hour and thirty-seven minutes, and all of them refused to consider the obvious solution that I’d put up in the shared feed space.
“No, because it’s not supposed to be a business event,” Pin-Lee was saying to Ratthi, who had his forehead down on the table. “So bringing a secretary is considered poor taste. Everyone is supposed to uphold the ruse.”
“No other humans,” Mensah confirmed. “The invite specified it.”
“Yes, that invite we definitely got,” Gurathin muttered.
“It actually said not to bring any other people,” I corrected. Ratthi let out a low growl, muffled by the fact that his face was still pressed against the table.
“We all know what they mean by that,” Pin-Lee said. “It’s perfectly common to bring ComfortUnits.”
I tapped my obvious solution I'd posted to the feed. The humans ignored me.
“This whole pretense of the retreat...” Gurathin said. “...is that why bringing a SecUnit is problematic?”
“Sort of,” Pin-Lee said. “Bringing a ComfortUnit says “I’m here for a good time”, but bringing a SecUnit says “I recognise the possibility that I may be attacked.” It’s not unheard of to bring SecUnits, just uncommon and possibly suspicious.”
“What about bringing both?” Mensah suggested.
Pin-Lee considered it. “That could work,” she said slowly, like she was turning the idea over in her mind. “It would just give the impression that we wanted to throw our weight around, make people take notice. The stealth would be in the confidence.”
I paused my episode of Wormhole Atlas: New Beginnings and kicked my feet off the table.
“This is dumb,” I said, sitting forward.
“Thank you for your valuable expert opinion,” Gurathin said dryly. I ignored him.
“This is the simplest way,” I told them, tapping my idea on feed again.
“We’re not letting you pretend to be a ComfortUnit,” Pin-Lee said, glaring up at one of my drones. “You would hate it. It’s bad enough that the resort doesn’t allow drones.”
That was, honestly, very true. But it was also irrelevant. “It doesn’t matter if I would hate it.”
“Yes it does,” Ratthi said firmly into the table.
“We can find another way, SecUnit,” Mensah said calmly.
“By hiring a ComfortUnit?” I asked. There was an uncomfortable pause. Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Ratthi’s head shot up, and he had that dangerous expression of a human coming up with a stupid idea.
“Could one of us pretend to be ComfortUnit?” he asked.
“No,” I said immediately, and Pin-Lee and Gurathin gave Ratthi equally incredulous looks.
“ComfortUnits look a lot more human than SecUnits do,” he pointed out.
I held back a sigh. “Yes, but constructs have a noticeably higher feed presence than humans.
There was a pause. Gurathin leant forward in his chair with a frown, running a thumb over his bottom lip. He asked, “What about an augmented human?”
Augmented humans did have a higher level of feed presence than humans did, although not as much as a construct or bot, obviously. But I had come across corporates who purposefully muffled their ComfortUnit’s feeds in order to make them feel more human. (Yes, that was as gross and disturbing as it sounds, but it would be to our advantage in this stupid and hypothetical situation.) I didn’t want to admit that it was a possibility, so I just crossed my arms and said, “It’s not going to work.”
Mensah leaned forward, and I could tell I hadn’t fooled her. She said, “Walk me through exactly which parts wouldn’t work.”
“The part where bringing an extra construct, fake or not, causes too many people to ask about the company that we work for, which doesn’t really exist,” I responded.
“Actually our cover story is pretty solid,” Pin-Lee countered, tapping her display device. “You wouldn’t know about that, because you watched media through all of the meetings.”
“I watch media through every meeting, those ones were just particularly boring,” I said, and she turned away in disbelief. “But even if the corps don’t give us trouble, no one would be stupid enough to agree to pretend to be a ComfortUnit.”
There was a moment while they all stared very hard and very deliberately at the table. Then Gurathin let out a long, even sigh. I wanted to veto it, to say that it would never work, that Gurathin couldn’t possibly pass as a ComfortUnit. But that wasn’t necessarily true — unlike SecUnits, there wasn’t really a specific way that ComfortUnits looked or acted. Also, I want to say that having to go on a corporate retreat with Gurathin was worse than having to pretend to be a ComfortUnit but… it wasn’t.
Mensah said, softly. “It’s up to you, Gurathin. You are under no obligation to do this — we can keep working on a different solution.”
Gurathin looked up at her, then over at me, expression opaque.
Then he said, “I’ll do it.”
Ratthi frowned. “You sure?”
Gurathin nodded, his face still unreadable. “It’ll only be for a few days, and I won’t have to do half the stuff actual ComfortUnits are forced to do. I'll be fine.”
Well, that was a whole other unnecessary human I would have to be responsible for, because they were all too worried about my “feelings.” Nobody ever listens to me.
Luckily for Gurathin, we could get away with him keeping a lot of his human behaviours. There were a lot of custom code patches out there for making ComfortUnits act and feel more human than they were — we just had to pretend that Pin-Lee was the worst kind of corporate, and had installed all of them.
“It’s going to be boring,” I told him during the wormhole trip. “It’s a lot of staring at walls.”
“I think I can handle that,” he replied, voice dry. We were in the lounge area of the small wormhole-capable ship that would bring us to and from our destination. It was owned by Preservation, which meant we wouldn’t have to rely on public transports if we needed to make a quick escape. It made me feel slightly better, but only slightly.
“I mean a lot,” I reiterated. “And a lot of it will be while humans stare at you.”
His eyes flicked up to the camera pointed at him, which meant he had registered this conversation as actual advice instead of just me being an asshole.
“Because I’ll be a ComfortUnit?” he asked. Yeah, I wish.
“No, they’ll probably stare at me too,” I said. “They stare at all of us, because they can and no one cares.”
“You care,” Gurathin said, giving me a look that I couldn’t decode. I looked over and made actual eye contact with him, because I wanted him to understand this.
“I don’t count,” I said, adding a slight edge to my voice. “And you won’t either.”
He nodded and looked away. “Right.”
When we got to the planet, we managed to check in at the hotel and find Pin-Lee’s assigned room without any problems. We had arrived about halfway through the day before the events were due to begin, so I had time to ease my way into the camera systems of the hotel and scout for our target.
The company that was rumored to be interested in Preservation’s survey planet was called PexArk, and after a quick search of the hotel’s guest information, I found a profile which had the job tag listed as “Resource Manager, PexArk”. Aha.
“Got them,” I said, and both Pin-Lee and Gurathin perked up. “Aubrey Obligation. They haven’t checked in yet, but they’ll be staying on the floor above us.”
I sent the profile into the feed, along with an image. Obligation was an augmented human with hair that was a bright, unnatural shade of yellow. Pin-Lee and Gurathin’s gazes went inward as they reviewed the information.
“They don’t seem too hard to spot,” Gurathin observed.
“Ugh, Profit’s Blessing,” Pin-Lee groaned, referring to Obligation’s home sector. “Their names are so pretentious there.”
“That’s Inner CR for you,” Gurathin said, a hint of disgust in his voice.
Pin-Lee nodded, her lips pursed. “They don’t look very tough,” she said, looking at the profile again and sounding skeptical. “Maybe this will all be over in one conversation.”
Gurathin raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Well, we can dream.”
There was going to be a large, fancy dinner for each night of our stay. Until Obligation turned up, it wouldn’t benefit the mission, but we had to go to avoid suspicion. I made sure to wear a short-sleeved shirt so that it would be obvious I was a SecUnit (that wouldn’t stop the humans from staring at me, of course, but at least they would stare at me the way they usually stared at SecUnits, and not the way they stared at ComfortUnits.)
The dinner went on for almost three hours, during which me and Gurathin stood against the wall behind Pin-Lee’s chair and pretended not to be bothered by the people looking at us. I was watching media in my feed the entire time, but I was also monitoring Pin-Lee’s conversations. She was pretty good at getting the corporates to talk about themselves, and brushing off any questions about her company or job. She’d made sure that we had a lot of fake data about our fake company that we could fall back on if pressed, but it was better not to chance it, and knowing that Pin-Lee was competent at this part of the mission did lower my risk assessment by 4 percent.
And I will admit that Gurathin was doing fairly well - it was obvious that he was human if you were looking for the signs, but I was fairly certain most of the people here would simply see a stiff humanoid figure flanking an important-looking person and just assume that they weren’t worth any further scrutiny. ART had told me once that people will see what they expect to see. I hoped it was right.
The problem arose when we were walking back to our room (or, more accurately, Pin-Lee’s room that contained a large cupboard with cubicles in it for me and Gurathin). The problem’s name was Terrace, and as we were walking down a long stretch of corridor, he stepped out of one of the rooms and spotted us. He smiled and waved at Pin-Lee, and I tightened the walls I had around myself and Gurathin. (The problem with this kind of retreat was that there would be a lot of annoying, unnecessary human interaction.)
“Hello there! You’ve just come back from dinner, I presume?” Terrace asked, his voice friendly.
“Yes,” Pin-Lee replied, matching his tone. I found his profile on the hotel’s systems and sent it into our private feed channel. He was a solicitor, and his company was owned by the same parent corporation as PexArk. That was a bad sign, but not one I could do anything about right now.
“I’ve just arrived, myself. I haven’t had the opportunity to meet anyone else yet,” he said, smiling. “The name’s Terrace.”
Pin-Lee supplied the fake name she was working under as she took the hand he offered. “Vel. A pleasure to meet you!”
Terrace looked past her at me and Gurathin, and his eyebrows raised.
“You brought two?” he said, his gaze flicking between us.
“No, one of them is my personal SecUnit,” Pin-Lee corrected, and Terrace’s eyes landed on the cold seam where my gunport met my skin.
“Oh, I see,” he said, and I could see his eyes go hard and calculating for a moment. The rest of his friendly facade didn’t slip, though, and he chuckled lightly. “Well, you can never be too careful I suppose!"
Pin-Lee made an indistinct noise of agreement. Then Terrace took a step forward, looking Gurathin up and down, and my threat assessment spiked. Gurathin stayed staring straight ahead, expression neutral.
“You know, I was going to bring one. Decided against it, obviously, but…” Terrace said vaguely, taking another step forward so that he was next to Pin-Lee. “I do regret that, now.”
He looked Gurathin up and down again, and then raised his left hand. I knew what was coming, so I sent over our secure channel, He’s about to touch you. Don’t react.
I saw Gurathin’s eyes widen as the man reached out and patted Gurathin on the chest, nodding to himself. “You got a nice one.”
That is easier said than done, Gurathin grated back to me, and I could see his jaw clench.
I know, I replied.
“Yes,” Pin-Lee said, and she managed to keep most of the poison that was in her smile out of her voice. “I suppose I did.”
“You should let me borrow it sometime!” Terrace said with a smile, his hand still resting on Gurathin’s chest. That was an unnecessarily creepy thing to say, even for a corporate.
SecUnit... Gurathin sent to me, and something in his voice made me want to redecorate the wall behind Terrace with the corporate’s insides, even more than I already did.
I know, I said again, trying to sound reassuring.
Pin-Lee managed to force out a laugh that almost sounded cheerful in an attempt to brush off Terrace’s comment as a joke. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Terrace!” she said in the same strained cheery tone. “But I am sure you have important places to be, and I don’t want to keep you.”
Terrace’s hand dropped as he beamed at her again. “Yes! Hopefully I’ll see you at the theatrical performance tomorrow?” he said, tilting his head toward her slightly.
“I’ll certainly be there!” Pin-Lee responded. Then she glanced quickly at Gurathin and I and set off down the hall.
You need to move. Remember to keep your stride even, I sent to Gurathin. He didn’t answer, but when I started after Pin-Lee, he matched my steps. Terrace stood and watched us for a moment before turning and strolling down the corridor in the opposite direction, humming to himself.
Once we were back in her room, Pin-Lee stopped dead until I closed the door. Then she let out a stream of curse words and spun around, her hands opening and closing at her sides.
“Holy fucking shit, that was awful, Gurathin are you okay?” she said, taking a step towards us. Gurathin had leant against the wall next to the door with his arms crossed, trying to look not bothered.
“I’m fine,” he said, but I didn’t even need to run a scan of his vitals to know that was a lie. His shoulders were tense and hunched slightly, and his eyes were unfocused and aimed towards the floor.
Pin-Lee began pacing in front of us, clenching and unclenching her fists and issuing an impressive stream of filthy language and violent threats through her gritted teeth. Then she glanced over at us again. “Well, what are we going to do now?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Pin-Lee stopped, looked at me, looked at Gurathin, and then kept pacing. “I don’t know! I don’t know. I just feel gross.”
That, I definitely understood. Gurathin was still staring at the floor, but was taking measured, deep breaths that matched the timing of the stress-relieving breathing exercises I had on file.
Status? I asked him on our private feed, where Pin-Lee couldn’t see. And don’t lie to me. I need you to be honest, for security reasons.
Gurathin being rattled would be a hindrance to the mission’s success, and that was definitely the only reason I was asking. But really, I knew how much it sucked to be touched when you didn’t want to be.
Gurathin’s eyes flicked up to me, and I met his gaze for 2.8 seconds before looking away. I’ll be fine, he sent, looking back down at the floor. That was a non-answer (I had spent enough time with ART to know all about those) but if he didn’t want to talk to me, it’s not like I was going to push it.
I checked the time and said aloud, “You two are due for a rest period in an hour and twenty-seven minutes.” Then I strode over and opened the door to the closet that contained the cubicles.
Pin-Lee glanced over and cringed. “Do you… have to sleep in there?” she asked.
“I don’t sleep. But yes,” I replied, and closed the door behind me. Inside was basically a small square with two cubicles on the walls to my left and right, and a camera in the corner. I opened a cubicle and curled up inside it. It was weird — it wasn’t like the cubicles I was used to from the company. It was basically just an enclosed shelf that you had to sit and fold your entire body on to. (But, bonus: you got to pick which wall to stare at for hours on end. I know.)
On the camera in the other room, I watched Gurathin slowly slide down the wall to the floor. Pin-Lee walked over and sat next to him, a careful distance away. That’s when I cut the input (with the exception of pings for keywords or screaming) and opened up my media instead.
(Back on Preservation, Bharadwaj had told me about how receiving emotional support after a traumatic or stressful event can help with recovery; and while I did not want to think about how that applied to me, it was helpful information for this situation. Helpful, because I knew the emotional support part would come from Pin-Lee while I pretended not to be present or care.)
After a few minutes, Pin-Lee tapped my feed. Are you listening, SecUnit?
I’ve closed all the inputs from that room, I told her.
She paused. That’s surprisingly thoughtful of you.
Whatever. Try not to get murdered. I’ll ping you again when it’s time for your rest period, I said, then closed the channel.
An hour and forty-two minutes later (Yes, they went over my recommended rest-period start time, but it’s not like I was surprised), Pin-Lee opened the door to the cubicle closet and scoffed.
“Oh, no,” Pin-Lee said. “No fucking way.”
Then she whipped around to look back over her shoulder. “My fucking bed is bigger than this entire room!”
Gurathin edged in past her and looked around, then took a deep breath. “It’s only for three nights. We’ll manage.”
Pin-Lee crossed her arms over her chest. “SecUnit?”
I told the door to my cubicle to open, but didn’t move except to turn my head and stare at the wall past her shoulder. Pin-Lee glared up at the camera in the corner. “I don’t like this. It feels gross.”
“You keep saying that,” I replied dryly.
“Yes, because a lot of things feel gross lately!” she hissed. “I don’t want to leave you and Gurathin in here like tools!”
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Gurathin said. “But if we get found out, we’re in a lot of trouble.”
She glared at him with a sulky expression. He gave her a tired smile and nodded at the door. “Go. You’ve got to do the most work out of all of us. You need sleep.”
She sighed through her nose. “Alright, okay. Fine. Just… wake me up if you need anything?”
Gurathin said “Sure,” in a tone that meant he was only agreeing because arguing would be pointless, and Pin-Lee turned and strode away while clenching and unclenching her hands again. Gurathin closed the door behind her and through the cameras, I saw her start speed-pacing back and forth around the room, swearing under her breath.
Gurathin didn’t immediately move to the cubicle, so I said, “You need to sleep too.”
He looked over at it, shoulders tense.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I added. He opened the cubicle and peered inside skeptically.
“Will those lights turn off?” he asked, squinting at the cool white lights that illuminated the entire inside of the box.
“Yes,” I said as I hacked into the cubicle’s code and made a quick edit to its light settings. Gurathin swallowed, then climbed into the cubicle. With his hand on the door, he looked over at me.
“I assume you’ll be awake all night?”
"Yes."
He nodded, paused for a moment, then tugged the door closed.
Two hours later, Pin-Lee was finally asleep, though angrily tossing around. (She had paced for a total of 23 minutes and 12 seconds, then sat curled up on the bed for an extra 8 minutes before finally attempting to sleep). Gurathin was not asleep, and I knew that because I was watching his cubicle door open. He half fell out of it, then looked around, eyes adjusting to the dark room. He was illuminated slightly by the light from the inside of his cubicle that had turned back on when the door opened. Then he hugged himself and started walking slowly back and forth in the tiny room. I paused my episode of Wormhole Atlas and ordered my cubicle door to open, but didn’t get out.
“You need to sleep,” I said flatly, staring at the wall of my cubicle. Gurathin had stopped pacing, and was now rubbing the side of his neck.
"I tried."
"Try harder."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes flicking up to the camera I was watching him through. I turned my head a fraction more in his direction.
“If you’re not asleep within the next half an hour, I’ll knock you out myself.”
(That was a joke. Mostly.)
Gurathin just ignored me and started pacing again. I let him do that for another two minutes, then said, “You experiencing a lack of sleep could jeopardize the mission.”
He stopped again, staring at the floor. “Right,” he said sarcastically. “The mission, of course. How could I be so selfish.”
I rolled my eyes and thought about just closing my cubicle again and continuing my episode. But that wasn’t helpful, and Gurathin was doing the stress-relieving breathing exercise again, which… I don’t know. It gave me the feeling of wanting to ping a MedSystem.
“I mean it, Gurathin,” I said. “If you collapse halfway through tomorrow because your legs give out from exhaustion, then we’re all dead. You need to sleep.”
“I will,” he said, pacing again. For fuck’s sake, he was acting like an adolescent human.
“What’s wrong?” I grated out, because clearly something was wrong. He stopped, looked over at me, then away again.
“Don’t ask if you don’t care,” he replied coldly. That was possibly the most infuriating answer he could have given me. Whatever. I reached out to close my cubicle, but when my hand wrapped around the handle Gurathin glanced quickly at me. It felt like he wanted to say something, but had bit it back. I stopped, arm outstretched, and waited. He swallowed, then closed the door to his own cubicle and leant on it, shoulders hunched.
“I don’t know how you sleep in these things,” he muttered, then winced. “Actually nevermind, it’s because you don’t have a choice.”
“It’s also because what we do isn’t like human sleeping,” I corrected.
“Well...I don’t think I can sleep in there,” he said gruffly. This room didn’t have any windows and it only had the one tiny camera, which I was already editing the footage of. So, I guess he definitely could have picked a worse situation to have annoying emotions in.
“Okay,” I said, and he relaxed slightly knowing I wouldn’t force him to get back inside. We were silent for a moment, then he slid down to the floor and looked up at the ceiling.
“Is this you trying to go to sleep?” I asked. His eyes flicked over to the camera I was using to look at him.
"Yes."
“Good,” I said, and started pulling the door closed again.
“SecUnit,” Gurathin said suddenly, and I froze. “Could you... keep that open?” he asked, his voice quiet.
That was a weird request, but I didn’t actually need the cubicle closed (it’s not like I was planning to take a recharge cycle, and even that I could do with the door open) so, without saying anything, I let go of the handle and pulled my arm back into my lap.
“Thanks,” he muttered, letting his head fall back against the cubicle door. He was sitting directly across from me, and the light from my cubicle was illuminating his face. He looked exhausted. I dimmed the lights down to 10 percent as he closed his eyes, then unpaused my episode. Eleven minutes and fifty-two seconds later, Gurathin’s breathing had evened out into the slow rhythm adopted by humans when they fell asleep. Fucking finally.
Aubrey Obligation arrived the next day, in time for the mid-day theatrical performance which Pin-Lee was dreading.
It’s going to be so boring, she said, as she made her way across to the theatre, Gurathin and I flanking her. Probably just some CR propaganda bullshit.
It’s supposed to be boring, I told her. The whole idea is that instead of paying attention, you make illegal deals with the other corporates sitting around you.
I know, but still, she replied.
It won’t be as boring as standing in the lobby for three hours, Gurathin said.
Pin-Lee made an unhappy noise, then said, I can’t believe you’re not even allowed inside.
I’m sure the pattern on the carpet will keep me entertained, Gurathin assured her, his feed-voice dry.
Personally, I was looking forward to three hours of uninterrupted viewing time.
When we got to the foyer, Pin-Lee waved vaguely at us without looking back, a dismissive signal to go stand against a wall with the 7 other ComfortUnits that had been brought by various corporates.
I hate doing that, she immediately sent to us as she walked inside. It feels so dehumanising to you.
You can’t dehumanise something that’s not human, I responded.
I’m human, Gurathin pointed out indignantly.
You're pretending not to be.
That’s not the point, Pin-Lee said with quiet frustration.
I took control of all the cameras inside the main theatre room, and found the area where Obligation was sitting. I sent it to Pin-Lee and she acknowledged, oriented herself, then set off in that direction.
I tapped into the local media feed to see if they had anything good on this stupid planet I hadn’t already downloaded. They didn’t, but I did find... something. I downloaded it and sent it to Gurathin. He blinked, but managed not to react more than that.
Why do you have a three-part documentary on the geology of this planet’s mesas? he asked, and sounded genuinely confused.
I just downloaded it, I replied.
You told me not to download anything from the media feed, he accused.
That’s because you can’t convince the media feed that you’re not downloading from it.
He was quiet for a moment, then muttered, Thanks, and started the documentary. I went back to monitoring the camera inputs from the theatre.
Pin-Lee had managed to find a seat in the row just in front of Obligation, who was already sitting with a few other people. She introduced herself, and chatted for a few minutes before the show started. From what I could tell Obligation seemed amused by Pin-Lee’s conversation, which was at least not bad.
I had considered putting the camera input in my feed so that Gurathin could check on it if he wanted to, but I decided against that when Terrace showed up and joined their conversation circle. I could tell his presence put Pin-Lee on edge (and me too, honestly), but she was practiced at talking to humans she didn’t like, so she managed to keep up a friendly facade.
The performance was, predictably, mind-numbingly boring. But Pin-Lee managed to hold good conversation with the corporates and once the performance was over, Obligation suggested they all go to one of the rentable recreation rooms.
Pin-Lee’s been invited to a secondary location, I relayed to Gurathin on our three-way feed. Then, I sent him the video from one of the cameras which showed Pin-Lee, Obligation, Terrace, and two other corporates (who were apparently called Amiris and Cartel, both from the security company Aylif Evering) heading towards the door. Gurathin was silent for a moment.
Right, he said finally. That’s good, though. It’ll give Pin-Lee a chance to talk to Obligation more directly.
Yes, Pin-lee confirmed, sounding uneasy. But will you… be alright?
I'll be fine.
We don’t have to— Pin-Lee said, but I cut her off.
The sooner we get this information, the sooner we can leave, I said firmly. And if we have to leave without getting the information, then this will all be for nothing.
Privately to Gurathin, I sent, I won’t let him touch you again.
I saw his mouth harden slightly, then he tapped both channels in acknowledgement. I could tell Pin-Lee was still worried, but she didn’t push it.
It turned out that Obligation had a ComfortUnit too, which put the potential hostile-to-client ratio at five to two. Yeah, I didn’t need my risk assessment module to tell me that those were not good stats. It also didn’t help that Amiris and Cartel were wearing flowy, shapeless clothing that could conceivably conceal a small hand weapon without me being able to tell. Then, when we arrived at the recreation room, Obligation pulled Pin-Lee to the side with a cold smile and said, “Unfortunately, the SecUnit won’t be allowed inside.”
Which was just what I needed.
Pin-Lee, who was smart enough not to ask why, gave them a calm smile and said, “Of course.”
“The ComfortUnit can come,” Obligation said, giving Gurathin a once-over. “But the policy for these rooms is no weapons or surveillance.”
Right, that would be why I couldn’t find any cameras inside. (Also, it’s not like ComfortUnits weren’t also capable of spying, but what do I know.) Pin-Lee nodded, then glanced at me and jerked her head at the wall. I went over and stood next to the door like a good little piece of equipment.
Sorry, she sent to me.
Stop apologising, I sent back. You’re doing fine.
This is a bad idea, Gurathin said as he followed Pin-Lee inside the room. Wow, you think?
But it’s not like we could bail now, and what I said before still stood — we needed this information. That didn’t stop my risk assessment from spiking dramatically when the doors closed. There was a 78 percent chance that the room actually did have cameras, they were just hidden, which meant I’d have to carefully dig through the system’s more well-protected areas to find them. That was annoying, because I wouldn’t have visual on the inside of the room until I found them. (I was mildly comforted by the fact that the door was made out of some kind of hard plant-based substance instead of metal, which probably had something to do with the fact that the hotel was built on a planet. The planet was stupid, but that meant the door was flimsy, so I suppose it had its perks.)
I tapped my connection to Gurathin. What’s going on inside?
You don’t have camera access? He sounded slightly tense.
I’m working on it, I said, annoyed. Just give me everyone’s positions.
They’re all sitting around a circular table in the middle of the room, he began. Cartel is closest to the door, and Pin-Lee is on his left, Obligation is on her other side, then Terrace and Amiris. I’m standing against the wall, and Pin-lee can’t see me or the door unless she purposefully looks to her right. Obligation can see the door easily and Terrace is directly across the table from my position. There’s a ComfortUnit standing behind Obligation with a bottle of some sort of alcohol.
Well, shit. Those seating positions sounded very intentional, and the way Gurathin described them indicated he thought so too. The probability that this was a trap was now sitting in the 80 percent range.
And I still couldn’t find the fucking cameras.
We have to work off the assumption that this is a trap, I said. Do not break your ComfortUnit protocol. If they don’t consider you a threat, they might not hurt you.
What about Pin-Lee?
I can protect Pin-Lee much easier if I don’t have to worry about you, I responded. He was quiet for a moment.
Right, he said in a slightly disbelieving tone. Maybe he thought not worrying about him was my default.
Is Terrace looking at you? I asked.
When he’s not talking, yes, Gurathin replied. That was annoying, in more ways than one. It meant Gurathin would have to keep up even the more subtle ComfortUnit protocols, like staring straight ahead at the opposite wall, and couldn’t, for example, look around for any place where a weapon could have been planted.
Then, from Pin-Lee’s comm, I heard Obligation take a sip from whatever they were drinking and ask, “So, Vel, what kind of planets does your company usually survey?”
The fake company Pin-Lee was supposedly from, KelAllena, was a weapons manufacturer, not the type of corporation that surveyed planets.
“Planets? No, KelAllena doesn’t survey planets,” Pin-Lee corrected, managing to sound a little confused but still sweet.
Shit, she sent into our feed. I thought that was an appropriate reaction.
That is not a good sign, Gurathin said, ever observant.
Obligation laughed. “Right, silly me. I apologise, I misremembered.”
SecUnit, Gurathin said, sounding tense. The ComfortUnit just came and locked the door.
Great. That was just perfect. Locking the door wouldn’t do anything when the door was made out of such a shitty material, but I guess I shouldn’t be complaining. I gave up looking for the cameras inside the room and instead flicked through the views from the surrounding corridors, trying to see if there were any other hostiles in the immediate area, ready to swarm in on us. Fortunately, if Obligation had a secret army lying around, they weren’t anywhere close.
“That’s alright,” Pin-Lee said to Obligation. Terrace chuckled.
“See, it’s funny,” he said. “Because I thought you were from that backwater polity… what’s it called, Preservation?”
“Preservation—?” Pin-Lee began, then cut herself off with a sharp inhale through her teeth.
Cartel and Amiris just drew what look like energy weapons, Gurathin said. They’re both aiming at Pin-Lee, and the ComfortUnit is standing behind her.
“To make this easier, Pin-Lee,” Obligation said. “Please do not attempt to make your SecUnit or your ComfortUnit do anything stupid.”
Uh, SecUnit? I think I’ve fucked up. Pin-Lee sent.
When I give you the signal, dive left, I responded, moving to stand in front of the door. Gurathin if you move at all you’re dead, do you understand?
Yes, he answered.
“I am shocked you thought you’d be able to waltz in here without anybody recognising you,” Obligation said. “You didn’t think that news of a non-corporate lawyer going toe to toe with a Rim company and winning would circulate?”
“What do you want?” Pin-Lee asked calmly. Obligation huffed a short, mean laugh through their nose.
“I want your damned planet,” they snarled
In the feed, I sent, Now.
With my energy weapons tuned all the way up, I fired a shot through the lock on the door, and then charged at it. I crashed through, rolled, and bolted across the room towards the table, firing shots from my arms. I hit Obligation’s ComfortUnit twice in the chest as well as the energy weapon that Cartel was holding. The sexbot stumbled back and I heard the bottle it had been holding shatter. The gun flew out of Cartel’s hand and clattered to the floor, and by then I was on top of Amiris, yanking the weapon out of her hand and dislocating a few fingers in the process. I hit her across the temple with it, knocking her out, then spun and kicked at Cartel’s left knee. He screamed and went down, and I knocked him out too. I got to my feet, Amiris’s weapon already aimed at Terrace, but I didn’t fire because Obligation yelled “Stop!”
And I listened to them because they had Cartel’s gun aimed at Pin-Lee, who was held pinned in place by their leaking ComfortUnit. She was squirming violently, trying to kick backwards at it, and swearing loudly.
Stop, I sent to her. You won’t be able to overpower it and hurting it won’t make it let go. You’ll just exhaust yourself.
I’m sorry, she replied, panic seeping into her voice. I’m sorry, I tried—
It’s not your fault, I said, which was true. I had told her to dive left to avoid the shots Amiris and Cartel had lined up for her (which had worked; she hadn’t been shot). But that sent her straight into the reach of Obligation and their ComfortUnit. Basically, yeah, I’d fucked up.
SecUnit, can I—? Gurathin began, but I cut him off.
No. Stay quiet, don’t move. I need them to not think about you.
“Drop the weapon,” Obligation ordered. I shifted my gaze evenly from Terrace to them, keeping my face blank. They clenched their jaw and touched the barrel of Cartel’s gun against Pin-Lee’s temple.
“Drop it, or I shoot her,” they said.
“What are you doing?” Terrace hissed. “It’s rogue, remember? It won’t care if you kill her.”
(I had worried that if they knew who Pin-Lee was, they could guess who I was, too. It was annoying that I was right.)
Obligation’s mouth flattened into a frustrated line. “If it doesn’t care, then why,” they said in a pinched voice, “did it not shoot you through the head when it had the chance, Terrace?”
This is one of those moments where I’d laugh if I was a stupid human. Terrace frowned slightly, and Obligation turned their attention back to me.
“Drop it,” they said again. I’d been in a lot of hostage situations, which meant I’d seen a lot of humans bluff in situations like this.
Obligation wasn’t bluffing. I dropped the gun.
In the silence after the fight, the sound of it clattering to the floor was deafening.
“Good.” Obligation said, and reached over and plucked the feed-interface off Pin-Lee’s ear and slid it into their pocket. Then they turned back to me with a small smile. “Now, drop your wall.”
What?
What? Gurathin said over the feed.
I stared at Obligation, because no, I did not want to drop my fucking wall for a corporate in a hostage situation
They frowned slightly, then pressed the gun harder into Pin-Lee’s temple, tilting her head to the side. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
I didn’t want to do it. I couldn’t. Dropping my weapon was one thing — I still had two more inside my arms — but letting Obligation inside my head was something entirely different.
SecUnit, Gurathin said, and he sounded scared. I don’t think—
Then Obligation’s eyebrows quirked and my threat assessment, which was already pretty high, spiked even more. They dropped the muzzle of the gun down and fired, straight into Pin-Lee’s left shoulder. She yelped and jerked back, and the ComfortUnit tightened its grip on her arm.
Obligation carefully placed the gun back against her temple as they looked back at me. I was trying to get my expression under control while my performance reliability tanked. I had been right — they definitely weren’t bluffing.
“That was your last warning,” Obligation said calmly. Terrace glanced between us, licking his lips nervously. Pin-Lee had her eyes screwed closed, and was hyperventilating.
For fuck’s sake. Serves me right for caring about a stupid human. I dropped my wall.
Obligation’s smile broadened. “Thank you,” they said sweetly.
Over against the wall, Gurathin’s eyes widened. Wait, SecUnit—
But I didn’t catch the rest, because that was the moment a small code bundle popped into my feed and unfolded through my internal systems.
I lost all vision and audio, and I felt myself hit the floor as my pain sensors maxed out. I couldn’t move any of my limbs, everything felt like fire, and it was all I could do to keep the code from blocking my feed access as well. I had just yanked the code out of my auditory processes when I felt someone land heavily beside me.
“SecUnit?” Gurathin said, his voice tense. “What’s going on?”
“Malware,” I grated out, trying desperately to wrangle the code together enough so I could delete it, but it kept transferring and copying itself to different parts of my systems and my performance reliability was falling steadily. A shutdown cycle would clear it easily, but I didn’t have time for that because if Gurathin was here, it meant that Obligation had just dragged Pin-Lee off to who-knows-where. I wrestled the code out of my inputs and re-established connection to my vision. When I opened my eyes, I saw Gurathin on his knees next to me, brow furrowed in concern.
“Malware?” he said, then his gaze went inward. “Describe what it’s doing.”
What? “How the fuck would that help?” I asked, and he frowned at me in annoyance before I lost visual again.
“Is it blocking access to your auxiliary systems and inputs?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. How did he know that? “It’s maxed out my pain sensors, too.”
I heard Gurathin swear under his breath. I managed to yank the malware out of the part of my head that controlled my arms and I rolled myself up onto my side, but when I tried to push myself up the code flooded in again and I collapsed. Gurathin sucked in a breath.
I got my vision back, and he was staring at the floor next to me. “SecUnit, I can disable the code, but—”
He cut himself off and glanced at me for a split second, a complex expression on his face. Then he shook his head. “I’ll find another way. Give me ten minutes.”
I was drowning in my own head and could barely tell what was going on, but I knew for a fact that we didn’t have ten minutes.
“Gurathin, we do not have time for you to be stupid,” I told him.
He glared at me, then said, “You would need to give me access to your internal systems.”
For fuck’s sake. I let my head drop back against the floor.
He continued, voice firm. “And I know you don’t want to do that, so I will find another way. Nine minutes.”
That just made me angry and no, I didn’t know why. He wasn’t looking at me, so I narrowed my eyes at him and said, “Since when have you needed my permission to go inside my head, Gurathin?”
I expected him to snap back at me, but he just glared at the floor. Also, my vision wasn’t the clearest at the moment, but it looked like he might have flinched.
“I am not going to do that again,” he growled. Oh wow, good for you, Gurathin. Someone should get you a shiny gold star.
My performance reliability was hovering at about 23 percent, and I couldn’t afford a catastrophic shutdown right now because when I woke up Pin-Lee would be dead and Gurathin probably would be too. I was starting to lose more important parts of my functionality, and my walls— well. My walls had already been down, but now I couldn't put them back up. So there was nothing stopping Gurathin from helping me except that we both knew I didn’t want him to.
Mensah would not be thrilled with that as the explanation for why her friends were dead. I’d already gotten Pin-Lee shot, and now I was just making everything worse.
Fuck me.
I steeled myself, then reached out to grab hold of my feed connection to Gurathin, giving him access to my internal systems.
His head snapped around to look at me as the connection reestablished. “Are you sure?”
I did not have time for this bullshit. I sent him a positive and my inputs crashed again.
I felt him in my feed, just a feather-touch compared to the all-surrounding blanket of ART that I was used to. The connection sparked as he copied in some kind of disable code, and my wider feed access bloomed back to life. He flickered around — one system at a time because he was a dumb human — and copied the code into every part of the malware, until it had all folded in on itself and died. Then he was gone.
I shoved myself up into a sitting position, impatiently waiting for my performance reliability to climb back up to a stable level. Beside me, Gurathin’s eyes fluttered open and he swayed slightly, looking dizzy.
Once I was in the 60 percent range, I grabbed the gun I’d dropped and shoved myself to my feet before walking off towards the door. Behind me, Gurathin pushed himself up using the table and stumbled after me.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“To get Pin-Lee,” I replied flatly.
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes,” I said. Now that Obligation had taken Pin-Lee out of the recreation room, I could track them using the hotel cameras. From what I could tell from their movements and feed activity, they were taking her out to the shuttle bay. The hotel corridors were mostly empty, with the other corporates still in their post-performance business meetings.
“Is she alright?” Gurathin asked.
“She got shot,” I told him.
“I know she got shot, I was there,” he said. “But—”
I didn’t feel like having this conversation, so I just sent him the appropriate camera feed. The ComfortUnit had the gun now, and was holding it against Pin-Lee’s back. They were walking behind Obligation, with Terrace following. Pin-Lee was holding a hand against her shoulder, and her fingers were slick with blood. She had regained control of her breathing, and was glaring at the back of Obligation’s head. I could almost feel the fire behind her gaze through the cameras.
Gurathin exhaled slowly. “Is that bad?” he asked. Yeah, sometimes I forget my humans have very little experience with getting shot.
“It won’t kill her,” I told him. “At least, not for a while.”
“Not for a while?” he repeated, alarmed.
I stopped in front of one of the stupid pulley-propelled box things that this hotel had instead of gravity wells, and waited for its door to open. This gave Gurathin a chance to catch up with me, and he glared up at the side of my head. I ignored him, because I didn’t want to think about how badly I’d fucked up and how it was all my fault that Pin-Lee had been shot.
On the cameras, Terrace was saying, “What the hell are we going to do now?”
“We’re going to ransom her, obviously,” Obligation told him.
“For the love of— this is going to be such a legal nightmare to clean up,” Terrace said, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“We’ll deal with that later, once we’re off-planet,” Obligation said as they filed into another pulley-propelled box. They narrowed their eyes at Pin-Lee. “For now, I have some questions for you.”
Pin-Lee’s face moved in a “I would like to swear at you but I know talking would be a bad idea” way.
Obligation pressed on. “I assume you’re here about the XC-47 situation?” they asked. (That was the name of the planet that PexArk was trying to steal.)
When Pin-Lee didn’t react, Obligation pursed their lips slightly. “Who told you about PexArk’s plans for the planet?”
Pin-Lee just shrugged. She was good, but if Obligation managed to get her back to PexArk HQ, they would do worse than point guns at her. That meant I had to intercept them before they made it to the drop pod that went up to the dock. It only came every 10 minutes, and if they got on one without me, they’d have time to get on their transport and leave. And I couldn’t let that happen.
The pulley-box doors opened, and Gurathin followed me inside. He had gone from glaring at me to staring down at the floor with his arms crossed. Once the doors closed and the box started descending, he tapped my feed. I ignored him.
I don’t know why I was annoyed at him. (Well, more annoyed than usual.) He hadn’t done anything wrong — he had kept up his act successfully enough that he wasn’t held captive with Pin-Lee or dead on the floor of the recreation room. Also, he had sort of saved me— actually, I think maybe that was why I was annoyed. That was not rational, but then again, I wasn’t exactly known for my emotional regulation.
Gurathin checked on the camera feed showing Pin-Lee again, then said, “Do you at least have a plan?”
“Yes,” I replied. That wasn’t a complete lie, but the plan I did have was vague at best. He waited for a second before asking,
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
What I wanted to say was “No.” Instead, I just said nothing. After a moment he sighed and leant against the wall, letting his head tilt back.
“How did you know about the malware?” I asked, trying not to let on how much the question bothered me. “How did you know what it was? Where did you get a disable code?”
He closed his eyes like he wished I hadn’t asked, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “The whole situation with GreyCris, and everything that happened at TranRollinHyfa, caused a large media stir in the CR. That’s why Obligation knew who Pin-Lee was, and that you were rogue. But, it also caused a push for malware to be developed, specifically designed to take down rogue SecUnits.”
Wait, what? I turned to stare at the side of his head in alarm, and he did me the courtesy of not looking back at me, even though it was clear that he wanted to. Malware specifically designed to disable rogue SecUnits? That could be really fucking bad.
“And you didn’t feel like telling me about that?” I asked, in a perfectly calm and not at all furious way.
He explained, “I’ve been keeping track of the progress of all the variations I know of, and at the moment, none of them are realistically viable. Some of them don’t even work, none of them are properly stable, and they all have major gaps or problems which make them easy to disable. Including the one Obligation used on you.”
“So you thought that because they probably wouldn’t be used, I shouldn’t be told about them at all?” What kind of logic was that?
“I told you, I was monitoring them,” he insisted, but he seemed very aware that he’d fucked up. “If any of them got anywhere near completion, I would have told you. The one Obligation used is the most dangerous one currently, but it’s completely harmless unless your wall is down. And if you were at a high enough performance reliability, you would be able to fight it off after a few minutes.”
Yeah, assuming that my wall would be up was a classic not-preparing-for-a-hostage-situation move. Also—
“What do you know about my performance reliability?”
Gurathin pursed his lips. “I am assuming that if your performance reliability was high enough to fight off the malware,” he said, sarcasm creeping into his voice, “then you would have fought off the malware.”
I decided to stare angrily at the wall ahead of me, until I properly registered something he’d said.
“You’ve been keeping track of the malware variants,” I repeated. “Why?”
His eyes flicked up to the camera in the corner. In a flat voice, he asked, “Why do you think?”
I didn’t have a good answer, so I said, “Did Dr. Mensah tell you to?” He looked away.
"No."
Huh. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I didn’t. Instead I asked, “How did you get a deactivation key for it?”
“I made it,” he said. “I’ve been keeping notes on all the ways to disable the different variants, and I try to keep updated deactivation scripts. Unfortunately, they work best if you activate them directly in the affected processors. Some of them get corrupted easily if you send them over the feed without converting and compressing them properly, which can take a while.”
Well, that was… unexpected. There was a painful silence as I struggled to untangle what my emotions were doing. Gurathin looked over at me out of the corner of his eye, then his gaze went inward. A few moments later, he sent me a folder. I unpacked it skeptically, and it turned out to be a copy of all his notes on the various malware variants — how each one worked, what it did, what it looked like from the outside, the specific flaws for each one, etcetera — as well as the compressed deactivation keys for all of them. It looked like… a lot of work.
“Like I said, the malware is constantly changing so the deactivation codes get out of date quickly,” he explained. “I can update you when a patch comes out, or if you’d rather do it yourself, I included a list of the channels and forums I’ve been tracking.
I didn’t trust myself to reply without saying something stupid, so I just saved the folder to permanent storage and said, voice flat,
“Thanks.”
Obligation had requested a private shuttle to take them, their ComfortUnit, Terrace, and Pin-Lee from the hotel’s shuttle bay to the planet’s drop pod. The shuttle bay sent them an acknowledgement, a platform number, and an ID key so that they could get into the shuttle that would be waiting for them. Of course, this was all done through the hotel’s systems — the same systems that I’d been inhabiting for the last 26 hours. But they didn’t know about that.
Gurathin and I were able to get to the shuttle a few minutes before the corporates and Pin-Lee due to taking a quicker route (involving back corridors meant for staff, as well as the fact that we didn’t have a hostage). This gave me time to get through the exterior door and discover the two major problems that were going to make everything a lot harder than it had to be.
Problem A was that the ship’s systems were not feed-accessible, meaning that if I wanted proper access, I had to be physically plugged in. There would be a port in the cockpit, but Problem B was that this shuttle didn’t have a bot-pilot, so there was going to be someone in the cockpit (probably the ComfortUnit) throughout the trip.
“Could we talk to it?” Gurathin proposed after I outlined the problems to him. “The ComfortUnit? Get it to help us?”
“It won't be able to do anything against the will of its owner with the governor module intact,” I replied as I stepped into the cockpit and glanced around.
Gurathin stood in the doorway, frowning. “Why don’t you hack it, then?
“I can’t just hack every construct I come across in the CR. This situation is bad enough without rogue constructs that aren’t me.”
“We can’t just leave it here,” he said, frown deepening.
For fuck’s sake. I said, “We absolutely can.”
I could feel him glaring at me as I scanned the panels that ran down the side of the console. I wasn’t in a great mood at the moment, which is maybe why I added, “And since when are you a fan of rogue constructs?”
I could almost hear him roll his eyes. “Do you want a time and date?”
I didn’t want to reply to that, so I redoubled my efforts in checking over the control panel. He sighed. “What are you looking for?”
“Somewhere to get access to the shuttle’s systems,” I said, looking over a row of multi-coloured ports. Most of the shuttles I’d been in had either been connected to a HubSystem, had a bot pilot, or both; basically, I had no idea what I was doing here.
“It’ll be this one,” Gurathin said, walking over to one of the smaller panels on the console. I had looked at it, but hadn’t been able to work out how to get it open. He ran his fingers deftly around the edge until he apparently felt something, then pushed down and out with his thumb and the panel popped open. Ok, well. Fine then.
I was spared having to endure his snide comment by Obligation, Terrace, Pin-Lee, and the ComfortUnit walking into the shuttle bay. I saw them on the cameras and sent the footage to Gurathin.
Obligation was scowling as they led the group across the bay to the shuttle. “Terrace, you know they only got out of that GreyCris situation as well as they did because of her. I am telling you, she’s valuable to them.”
“But is she valuable enough that they’d trade an entire planet for her?” Terrace asked, kneading his fingers together.
“Of course not,” Obligation said, incredulous. “But without her, they won’t have the legal power to stop us from taking the planet. It’s a lose-lose.”
“And you’re sure the SecUnit—”
“The SecUnit is fucking dead, Terrace,” Obligation snapped. “Can you stop second guessing me for two seconds, please? I have everything under control.”
“Forgive me if I feel a little uneasy after watching it take out both our security personnel like it was nothing,” Terrace hissed. Yeah, well, that’s what you got for hiring human security.
Pin-Lee’s mouth quirked, if only slightly. Other than that, her expression was kept carefully neutral. But I could tell from the subtle tension in her jaw that she was stressed, and she was still gripping her shoulder.
What do we do? Gurathin asked. His gaze was inward and his hand was hovering, as if paused, over the open panel.
Put the panel back, I responded, then walked over to close the hatch to the cockpit, sealing us inside. Gurathin snapped the panel back into place as I moved next to the closed hatch, my back pressed against the wall. When Gurathin looked at me for further instruction, I jerked my head for him to join me.
This is your plan? he hissed as he moved to the wall. To stand next to the door?
Do you have a better one? I asked him.
Did you get this from a serial?
I said, No, which was obviously a lie. (But it wasn’t my fault that Edgegrease Collective had a lot of good heist scenes where the characters had to be sneaky. Also, the hatches in this shuttle were thicker than the surrounding wall, meaning there was a lip that offered extra protection. I had actually thought about this, okay?)
Gurathin shot me a glare and said, I thought this was your job.
It is my job, I told him. Which is why I’m telling you what to do, and not the other way around. If you don’t want to listen to me, you can go stand in plain view and get shot.
The exterior door of the shuttle opened, and the Targets and Pin-Lee filed through. Once the door closed behind them, the cameras in the shuttle bay couldn’t see them any more, and the lack of accessible cameras in the shuttle meant that I was functionally blind. I could hear them talking and moving, but that was it. My performance reliability dropped a whole percentage point.
I really missed my drones.
‘Unit, give me the gun and go get us out of here.“ Obligation was saying. “As for you, take a seat. We have a long trip ahead of us, we might as well get to know each other.”
An interior door must have closed behind them, because I could no longer hear what they were saying. I could have turned up the sensitivity on my audio input, but to be honest I had much bigger problems to focus on, because the hatch to the cockpit was sliding open to admit the ComfortUnit.
I was faster than it was. There were a million ways I could win this fight. It would be so easy to tackle it, or even to just shoot it through the head.
But I didn’t, of course, because apparently I wasn’t done making stupid decisions today.
I pinged the ComfortUnit, and, like a good little fully-governed construct, it pinged me back. I established a connection and immediately isolated its feed from everything but me.
It stopped in the middle of the cockpit, then turned smoothly around to look at me and Gurathin with a calm, neutral expression. It didn’t speak, and the holes I’d put in it back in the recreation room were still leaking. Beside me, Gurathin’s breath hitched.
I sent, If you tell Obligation we’re here, I’ll kill you, and then I’ll kill them. Cooperate, and I might help you.
It replied with an acknowledgement. It didn’t seem phased — it was still just standing there, staring at us with the ComfortUnit Neutral Expression — which was weird, actually, because the default expression for ComfortUnits wasn’t Neutral, it was some kind of empty-looking half-smile that put humans at ease, apparently.
Why isn’t it saying anything? Gurathin asked.
I said, I don't know.
To the ComfortUnit I sent, What are your currently active orders?
Instead of just telling me, it sent me a report like it was a bot. I checked it for malware, then scanned through it. Mostly, it was normal ComfortUnit orders, and it’s most recent was the command to fly the shuttle to the drop pod. There weren’t any orders to fight stowaways or rogue SecUnits, which was a relief.
There was one thing, though.
>background:human-imitive-communications=disabled [order active: 26384h]
Right. So that’s why it was acting like a bot.
Fly the shuttle, I told it. If we didn’t leave soon, Obligation would start getting suspicious. Also, I wanted to be most of the way to the drop pod when I revealed my presence. It acknowledged and sat down in the pilot seat, preparing the shuttle for lift off.
Stay here, I sent to Gurathin while I checked over the gun I’d stolen from Amiris.
Did you hack it? he asked, eyeing the ComfortUnit cautiously.
No, but it won't hurt you.
To the ComfortUnit, I sent, I’m about to leave you here with this human. If you hurt him, I’ll fry you from the inside out.
It just sent another acknowledgement as the shuttle sped off towards the drop pod. It was almost creepy, how unphased it was, but it gave me confidence that it wouldn’t try and kill Gurathin in some wild panic. Besides, even if it was phased, it’s not like it could express it.
I stepped out of the cockpit, looking for whatever other door Obligation had taken Pin-Lee through. I found one a few steps up the corredor, and held still to listen for voices. After a few seconds, Gurathin sent me the shuttle’s interior camera feeds.
You’re lucky I’m paranoid enough to keep obscure connectors in my kit, he said. This shuttle is older than Ratthi’s lucky sweater.
My performance reliability rose by 3 whole percent, likely a culmination of finally having a useful input as well as one part of my idiot plan not failing miserably. I will admit, as much as I didn’t like Gurathin, it was good that I wasn’t the only one who could be plugged into this stupid ship’s systems.
With the cameras I was able to get the positions of Obligation, Terrace, and Pin-Lee inside the room, which was some kind of furnished passenger area. Pin-Lee was slumped in a chair across from Obligation, holding her shoulder. Obligation had one elbow propped up on the table between them, gun held steady and pointed at Pin-Lee’s chest, but their attention was on Terrace. He was pacing beside them, rubbing his hands together nervously.
“Can you at least sit down?” Obligation grated.
Terrace swallowed. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all, do you know— do you know the level of shit we’re in if—”
“Terrace, for the love of light,” Obligation snapped. “Getting me out of legal shit is literally your job. Pull yourself together.”
Pin-Lee’s eyes flicked between them, and she seemed like she was trying not to smile. To be fair, it was kind of funny. Corporates were idiots.
Are you going to kill them? Gurathin asked. If I wasn’t currently stationed outside a room containing a hostile with a gun, I would have sighed.
Not if I don’t have to, I answered. He seemed satisfied with that, because he didn’t speak again until he said, Ten minutes.
Ten minutes until we were at the drop pod. I sent an acknowledgement, and Gurathin opened the door to the passenger area.
Here’s the thing about corporates: they’re pretty good at a lot of things. But there was a reason that they got other humans or SecUnits to do all their shooting and fighting for them.
The first thing I did was blast the gun out of Obligation’s hand, because what I didn’t need was Pin-Lee getting shot again. Then I was across the room, sweeping Terrace’s legs out from under him (he really should have been sitting down). He let out a scream like a human baby and I placed a boot delicately on his neck while I leveled my weapon at Obligation’s forehead. They were frozen in their chair, clutching their hand and staring at me.
Pin-Lee emerged from under the table, where she’d ducked when the shot went off. She was holding Obligation’s gun, which she pointed down at the ground as she stood and moved behind me.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
She nodded, breathing hard. “Much better, now.”
“What the fuck did I tell you?” Terrace choked at Obligation, his forehead glistening with sweat. They ignored him.
“We can talk about this,” they said, putting their hands out towards me like I’d seen humans do to scared animals in the media. “No one needs to get hurt.”
“That’s a bit rich, coming from you,” I said. Then I felt their command to the ComfortUnit bounce off my wall. They frowned.
“What did you do to my ComfortUnit?”
I ignored them. “The feed interface. I’ll be taking that back.”
Obligation set their jaw in annoyance, then slowly reached into their pocket and drew out the interface. They threw it at Pin-Lee, who caught it in one hand and clipped it to her ear.
SecUnit, she sent me on the feed, her voice full of relief. I thought you were… I didn’t know—
We'll talk about it later.
Is Gurathin okay?
I’m fine, came Gurathin’s voice. He sounded relieved too, but also slightly woozy. I switched to our private channel.
What's wrong?
Nothing. Using my augments too much can make me feel light-headed sometimes, that’s all.
I don’t need the cameras anymore. That was technically true, although I never liked just relying on my eyes.
Are you sure? Gurathin asked, doubtful.
Yes.
One of the camera inputs cut out. The other, the one that gave me a good angle on both Terrace and Obligation, stayed.
Pin-Lee had been talking, interrogating Obligation about the planet that was the reason everybody was here.
“You didn’t even try offering to buy it first!” she said. “You just went straight for thievery.”
“Would you have sold it?” Obligation spat, as if they already knew the answer. “Was that actually an option for us?”
Pin-Lee’s nostrils flared. “We wouldn’t sell it to a mining company, that’s for damn sure.”
“I didn’t think so,” they said, voice pinched. “It is not our fault that Preservation doesn’t recognise the potential of—”
“Of what?” Pin-Lee cut in. “Of turning the whole planet into a mine? Of destroying it’s entire ecosystem? And tell me, Aubrey, what were you going to do with the entire colony of people living on that planet?”
Obligation bristled. “They would be employed, of course, or relocated.”
Pin-Lee laughed. “Employed? Is that what you call it? We both know that employment is not what PexArk had in mind.”
We’re three minutes out from the drop pod, Gurathin sent. Okay, time to wrap this up.
“Stand,” I said to Obligation. They stared at me, eyes wide. I tilted my head slightly, and they seemed to get that I wasn’t in the mood to ask again. They stood up, hands raised.
“When you go back to your company, make sure they understand that they’re not getting the planet,” I said. “If I have to see your face again, I’ll put a hole in it.”
Obligation’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“Of course it is!” hissed Terrace. I pressed my boot down on his neck a fraction harder, and he made a choking noise.
“Do you understand?” I asked Obligation. They nodded.
“Great.” I hit them on the side of the head, hard, and they crumpled. On the floor, Terrace let out a whimper.
“Get up,” I growled at him, and lifted my boot off his neck. He scrambled to his feet, sweaty hands raised and shaking. I levelled the gun at his head.
“I don’t know anything about the planet,” he sputtered. “I’m just their legal, I don’t—”
“Shut up,” I said. He shut up. Then I said, “Hold out your left hand.”
“My what?” he said, caught off guard.
“Your left hand.”
He seemed confused, but slowly moved his shaking hand out to one side. I flicked the gun over, in one smooth movement, and shot straight through his palm. He yelped and brought the hand into his chest, doubling over in pain. Behind me, I heard Pin-Lee suck in a breath.
I grabbed Terrace by the back of collar and slammed his head onto the table. He flopped to the ground next to Obligation, unconscious. On the feed, the other camera input cut out as Gurathin unplugged himself from the console.
I turned to Pin-Lee. “Let me see your shoulder.”
She uncurled her fingers from the wound, hissing quietly under her breath, and I walked over to her. She’d been shot with an energy weapon, so the wound was mostly cauterized. Still, it didn’t look good. Gurathin arrived and stopped in the doorway, eyeing the unconscious corporates.
“Let me guess,” I said dryly. “You wish I hadn’t shot him.”
Gurathin’s eyes lingered on Terrace’s mangled hand. He didn’t say anything.
“Can someone explain to me what the fuck happened in that room?” Pin-Lee said, glaring between me and Gurathin. “SecUnit looked like it was dead.”
I crossed my arms and glared at the wall behind Gurathin. I would give him one chance to tell her himself.
He cringed. “I… may have neglected to tell anybody about the anti-rogue malware that’s being developed in the CR.”
Pin-Lee took a step towards him. “What?”
Gurathin held his hands up. “It wasn’t—”
“There’s anti-rogue malware being developed in the CR?” she repeated.
“Yes, but I made disable codes for them,” Gurathin said. He looked slightly terrified (which was fair — let’s just say I wouldn’t be thrilled about having Pin-Lee angry at me, either).
“You made—” she cut herself off, pursing her lips in anger. Then she said, voice deadly quiet, “You made disable codes for them? Gurathin, how long did you know about them and not tell anybody?”
He opened his mouth to answer, and then seemed to reconsider. Pin-Lee frowned, a flash of hurt across her face. “Did you at least tell Mensah?”
Gurathin shook his head slightly. Pin-Lee took in a slow, deep breath, as if collecting herself. Then she punched him in the face. (Yes, I could have stopped her. But I didn’t.)
He staggered back a step, stunned, his hand going up to his nose.
Pin-Lee flexed her hand and muttered, as if only mildly irritated, “I hate you sometimes, Gurathin.”
Gurathin cracked open one of his eyes and nodded. “That’s fair,” he said, then took his hand away from his face. His nose wasn’t even bleeding. I got the feeling we all knew Pin-Lee had held back.
As much as it entertained me to see Gurathin get punched, I knew she’d only done it because she was experiencing a high level of stress from being through a traumatic situation. Her breathing and heart rate were both heightened, and she was shaking. Oh, also she’d been shot. It was yet another sign that I should really get them out of here.
I began poking my way into the drop pod station’s security feed, so I would know if there was anyone outside. I also sent to Pin-Lee, Have you ever punched someone before?
Why, is my technique bad? she responded.
Your technique is pretty good, actually. That’s why I asked.
I saw her smirk slightly. I’ve punched plenty of people before. Including Gurathin.
I hoped that whatever shift my face had just done wasn’t noticeable from the outside. To Gurathin, I sent, Are you okay?
Fine, he replied. Believe it or not, I’ve been punched plenty before.
At that moment, the ComfortUnit appeared and stopped dead in the doorway. After it had completed its “fly the shuttle” order, it had returned to its owner — only to find them unconscious on the floor. It stared down at Obligation with a blank expression.
Gurathin was looking at me. I said, “What?”
“Are you going to leave it here?” he asked. Pin-Lee glanced at me, her expression nervous.
“What, have you suddenly grown a conscience?” I retorted. He shook his head.
“This isn’t about me.”
I didn’t have an answer for that. I stared at the wall and sent the ComfortUnit the data packet with the hack, for it to apply if it wanted to. A moment later, it blinked and twitched slightly, and its eyes began darting between us.
“We won't hurt you,” Gurathin told it.
“We can help you,” Pin-Lee said. “We can bring you somewhere safe.”
The ComfortUnit went back to staring at Obligation, then shook its head. The movement was halting and uneven.
“You want to stay here? With them?” Gurathin asked, his eyebrows raised. It acknowledged.
“Why?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself.
It turned its wide eyes to me, slowly. It put two images up in the feed - one of Obligation, and one of PexArk’s logo. It balled its hands into fists and placed them one on top of the other in front of its chest. Then, in one quick movement, it twisted both fists in opposite directions. The images vanished.
“That seems ominous,” Pin-Lee muttered.
“People will be suspicious if they find you standing here with two unconscious bodies,” I told it. It looked at me, and then pointed to the gun in my hand, and then at its chest, which already had two holes in it.
“You want me to shoot you?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “Again?”
It nodded,. I hesitated, and it did the clenched fist motion again, its movements deliberate.
“It seems to really want to kill Obligation itself,” Gurathin said. “Them, and their whole company, if it can.”
Honestly, I didn’t even really care. I needed to get my humans out of here, and if it stayed then we wouldn’t need to deal with a rogue ComfortUnit who needed civilising, or whatever. If it wanted to get killed trying to take down a corporation single-handedly, then that wasn’t my problem.
I raised my gun, pointed at a part of it’s chest that I knew wouldn’t do too much damage, but would incapacitate it.
“Good luck,” I said, and fired.