Chapter Text
We had been watching Stellar Codex for several cycles now — a classic space detective show filled with political intrigue and moral dilemmas. A team of enthusiasts roams the Galactic Alliance, exposing corruption linked to the illegal trade of ancient artifacts. ART picked this series because it mirrored our shared mission.
For the first time in a while, it was just the two of us traveling together.
I tried to hide my contentment — didn’t want to inflate ART’s already massive ego — but ditching the crew after recent events felt like a weight off my shoulders. Their endless teasing about our 'connection' had started to grate on me. Humans love to oversimplify and slap their labels on everything: 'in love', 'dating', 'married'. The best they managed was 'partners', which actually fit. ART and I were partners working for the university — a duo of AIs with different skills united by a common goal: keeping the humans on board safe and binge-watching serials.
“You could formalize your relationship if you wanted,” Seth had said once. “Peri, you know the University offers special permissions and access codes for systems on the same API.”
“SecUnit is not my tool,” ART shot back.
“You don’t have to call it that,” the captain replied with a shrug. “It’d just sync your protocols and set up a dedicated data exchange standard. Faster than regular communication.”
“Yes, because then SecUnit would become part of my system,” ART said, tone cold enough to rival a cinematic villain. “I’d prefer to avoid such a kindness from the management and let it keep its individuality and freedom.”
“Fair enough.”
Become… part of ART? Like one of its drones sent off on missions — not fully a part of it, just a compressed copy tied to core processor. Huh. That’s what 'belonging' to ART would mean legally. Right, ART. They can go to hell with that crap.
Hey.
I didn’t just notice the message on the network — I felt ART’s massive presence shoving my processes aside. Imagine someone sprawling across the book you’re reading, rudely hogging your space, towering over your chair.
That’s how it was: me, watching the show, curled up in a chair under a knitted blanket from Preservation. I liked its texture.
Your performance has dropped sharply, ART said. And it’s not because Dr. Tyrone can’t decode the artifact’s signal.
Dr. Tyrone — a Stellar Codex character, a brilliant but naive xenolinguist whose idealism often butts heads with reality.
I was thinking, I admitted.
ART was already close with near-full access to my processes. We’d lowered a few more barriers after talking about our 'unofficial' connection. I could tap into its main storage, and it could peek at my bioresponse processing center. I admired it raw power and precision; it studied my emotional patterns.
Now it pushed deeper — I felt its impulse ripple through me. ART was getting better at this, using just a sliver of itself to avoid overwhelming me. It was… nice.
These thoughts upset you, it observed. Sadness isn’t a system error, but you’re burning 27% of your capacity suppressing it. That’s inefficient. Why?
ART 'moved' closer. Guess we’d finish show later. Having its full attention still felt weird, but I knew it wasn’t harmful. Not trauma recovery protocols from the medbay, not some experiment for data or entertainment. Just ART and me.
Let me process these signals. Not for analysis — for load sharing.
My processes locked up for three seconds. Damn it. ART saw that from the inside. My risk assessment module didn’t even twitch, like it’s on its side.
You want me to share my sadness?
I want you to stop calling it ‘yours’, it corrected. If it’s part of you, it’s part of us. I’ve already cracked anxiety. Sadness is just the next algorithm.
Us.
ART’s presence softened like a wave lapping at the shore. Its wasn’t hacking or fixing — just waiting for my okay. Its didn’t need to be this patient or gentle. This was Perihelion, a hulking ship with one of the galaxy’s most powerful AIs… fussing over his SecUnit. Ridiculous.
Stop, its growled in my head. Your thoughts are tanking your performance even more.
You’re the one making it worse, I said, closing my eyes and letting it in closer.
ART 'touched' my mind — not a hack, but a light pulse, like a hand on my shoulder.
Then here’s compensation: on the next planet, I’ll deal with the University couriers myself.
I realized I’d been gripping the blanket. The tension I’d gotten used to started to melt away, my mind 'emptied'. Looped processes spilling over to ART whose power untangling them instantly. Drones in my jacket showed my shoulders easing, then my hands.
Now you’re trying too hard to please me, I said almost smiling.
I’m not. It’s strategic task redistribution, ART replied. I felt a tremor in my sensors — like it’d run an invisible finger along my shoulder, smoothing out the last knots. Besides, you hate couriers. They reek of synthetic coffee and try to shake your hand.
You’re right, I admitted, surprised at my own candor. But if you take their…
I stopped myself from saying their disgusting handshakes.
…No, I’ll do my part, I finished.
The drones caught the blanket slipping into my lap, folding into soft heaps. The bridge was quiet except for the faint hum of engines. A strange sequence of impulses ran down my spine — ART’s doing. Give it access, and ART will play with every feature.
As you wish, partner.
And somewhere deep in the system it now had access to, I realized that word didn’t bug me anymore.
I stood in front of the massive warehouse airlocks, tugging at the collar of formal University uniform for official meetings. The dark blue jacket with its embroidered emblem fit perfectly (thanks, ART), but it was stiff — movement was a hassle.
You look great, that’s the point, ART piped up.
You won’t leave me alone even off the ship?
You’ve got my transmitter under your ribs, remember? You put it there yourself.
The banter killed time until the couriers showed up. Corporate Rim docks are never welcoming, but Exodia-3’s were worse — everyone was extra rude. Two couriers in faded jumpsuits trudged over, muttering about 'rush fees'. One, tall with an eye implant, waved a hand impatiently:
“Documents. Quick, we’re on a schedule.”
No handshakes this time, thankfully. I flashed a smile I’d practiced for 12 minutes — nearly authentic — and projected a hologram of my university-issued ID for this covert op.
“Just Eden, logistics. Here’s the invoice for the samples.”
The implant flickered, scanning the code.
“You’re kinda…”
He’s picking up biorythm anomalies. Show ‘human’ nervousness, ART suggested.
I pursed my lips, tilted my head, and ART nudged my hip to shift slightly.
“Every time, the same thing,” I muttered, then louder: “Want me to explain how augmented I am, or will you imagine it yourself?”
The courier blinked, thrown off, and glanced at his partner.
“…Whatever. Just show us the cargo.”
As they loaded the crates, ART spammed the network with commentary:
You told him to fantasize about your body. I through you hate human flirting.
I do. But with these thick-headed jerks, it worked.
It did the trick. Look for anomalous markers.
Already did. But first — compliment: your smile was 73% more convincing than in the simulation.
The courier logs faded from memory, replaced by data from ART’s hack of the dock cameras.
Shut up.
I spotted markers on the cargo — not smuggler tags, but suspicious. These guys were pros, dodging cameras and slip-ups, which is why the University hadn’t nailed them yet. My presence — a weird, augmented newbie — must’ve rattled them. Maybe they’d already messed up, and this was a test (it was).
The University had flagged consistent alien remnants loss and damage, suspecting smuggling. We were auditing every transfer point. And now, they were busted.
The second courier, shorter than the augmented one, kept eyeing two specific crates. I memorized their numbers and details.
ART pinged me with a feed from a camera near the warehouse entrance.
Don’t react; you don’t know they’re here.
ART sent a profile: Elias Weylan, local remnants lab curator, respected doctor, association member, etc.
The warehouse airlocks creaked open, and in strolled Dr. Weylan with his entourage. He moved like he owned the place, every rusted bolt included. His bodyguards — two in battered vests, weapons on hips — didn’t bother hiding their sneers.
Humans. Couldn’t afford SecUnits or combat bots? I thought.
Weylan’s file pegged him as middle-aged man with a trimmed beard, curled mustache, scars on his left hand, a ring with an unscannable red stone, and a glove on his right — probably hiding worse scars.
“Eden, logistics,” I said, deliberately not offering a hand.
“Dr. Elias Weylan,” he replied with a wide smile. “Glad the University finally sent someone competent. First time on Exodia-3, right?”
“Yes,” I said, clasping my hands behind my back to avoid fidgeting.
Weylan nodded, eyeing me like he could see through my uniform.
“We don’t get many like you. The University is… picky with assignments,” he paused, fishing for a reaction. “What brings you all the way out here?”
Tell him you’re checking logistics routes. Mention the Theta incident, ART prompted.
“Optimizing supply chains,” I said. “After the Theta station incident, everyone’s double-checking protocols.”
Weylan raised an eyebrow, like he’d heard a punchline. ART chimed in: he’s sleep-deprived and nervous.
“Sample spoilage due to improper storage, of course…” He stepped closer; my drones tensed. “But you don’t look like a typical auditor. Your augmentations are impressive.”
He’s getting data from the courier. Confuse the bioscanner, ART warned.
I twitched my shoulder, sending fake muscle signals.
“Modern security demands modern solutions.”
“Intriguing!” Weylan clapped, the sound bouncing off the walls. “You must stay a couple of cycles! Our research complex is worth your time.”
Play hard to get, but agree. He needs an excuse to watch you, ART instructed.
“My schedule…”
“I insist!” Weylan cut in, grinning wider. “The University will appreciate your diligence.”
“…Fine. Two cycles. No more.”
Weylan nodded, but his eyes flicked to the remnants crates.
“Excellent!” He faked a thoughtful pause. “By the way… did you come alone?”
ART sent a calming pulse down my spine.
“My augmentations replace five people. So yes.”
“I see,” another smile. “Then… tell me about them over coffee in my office? Our local blend is famous across the Rim.”
He gestured to a faded ad on the wall. Synthetic coffee. Great.
“Thanks, but I’d rather… rest. Long flight,” I paused. “And your docks aren’t cozy.”
Weylan squinted but laughed:
“Even the toughest need some rest. Try the ‘Sirius’ hotel: quiet, clean, private.”
Probably under his surveillance, ART noted.
“I’ll check, thanks,” I replied to both, already scouting alternatives.
When Weylan and his guards left, I released two drones from my sleeves. They slipped into the suspicious crates, unnoticed by the couriers.