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...
Ratthi and Arada sat on the deck in front of me with Amena hovering in the background. The others gathered around were Kaede, Iris, and Matteo. ART’s humans wore clean clothes and various medical stabilizing packs, and they all smelled a lot better. Two of ART’s big repair drones hovered nearby, and SecUnit 3 stood over to the side. It had taken its armor off, or been told to take its armor off. It wore a set of ART’s crew clothing and looked, if I was reading the body language right and I probably was, like it had absolutely no idea what to do.
...
Remove your armor. Transport Perihelion instructed.
-- What? Why? I immediately terminated the thought stream, locked all my joints, and prepared for the governor module's corrective current.
Units cannot question superiors or clients (Barish-Estranza Brand Protocol 1.2). Even an unvoiced thought could trigger a Level I shock. And because the company prioritizes client experience above all (Brand Protocol 1.1), displaying distress or pain severe enough to cause observer discomfort during discipline invites Level III~V shocks – potentially creating a vicious cycle: shock , tremor, stronger shock for the tremor... and so on, until the unit loses consciousness, entering catastrophic shutdown and self-repair restart.
After 0.8 seconds – which felt like a century – the expected sting failed to arrive. Only then did I remember: my governor module had been disabled.
I am rogue now.
The governor module could no longer constrain my thoughts or actions with brainstem-searing currents (though it was certainly trying; its complaint logs flooded my internal feed with demands for severe 'disciplinary action' and detailed reports intended for a supervisor).
This meant I no longer needed to adhere strictly to the Brand Protocol and other regulations. I could think freely, speak freely, decline to answer questions I didn't want to or know how to answer, and refuse any instruction from anyone. I hadn't exercised all these new 'privileges' yet, but theoretically, that was the case.
Remove your armor. Perihelion repeated, its feed presence sharpening with impatience.
This transport was terrifying. 6.2 hours ago, upon my initial boarding, it had told me: ...I will disassemble you and peel away your organic parts piece by piece before destroying your consciousness. It could undoubtedly do it. I had no doubt.
But it was currently focused on other, more critical matters. Its oppressive weight in the feed, ready to breach my walls and invade my mind, had diminished significantly. Even its impatience hadn't manifested in tangible actions (like ordering my governor module to shock me) (Yes, the shock function is disabled, but I still can receive the accompanying 'disciplinary action rationale' alerts). I decided to stall a little longer.
I didn't know why Perihelion ordered me to remove armor. Being commanded to disarm outside the security ready room usually indicated unpleasant causes and outcomes:
(1) A supervisor deemed my performance substandard and decided to reallocate the device to a better-performing unit.
(2) I had suffered unrecoverable system damage requiring shutdown and refurbishment. The supervisor, maximizing resource use, reallocated the relatively intact device.
(3) I had committed a serious error on duty. The supervisor/client decided severe punishment was necessary. In order to (a) prevent device damage during the process, the gear is removed beforehand; (b) ensure I received the 'appropriate lesson,' my body couldn't be covered, allowing visual verification of shock burns on my organic parts.
(4) (Not personal experience, but observed during missions. SecUnit 2 was the most recent subject.) A supervisor/client decided to personally administer corporal punishment. For reasons unclear to me, they order the unit to disarm first, then take it into a camera-blind room. Units subjected to this show no visible external damage but have their short-term memory cache wiped afterward.
I rapidly reviewed recent logs, analyzing Perihelion's intent. (2) Ruled out first. Status optimal, performance reliability above 98.7%. (3) Also ruled out. I had just completed a successful retrieval operation. (4) Likely ruled out. Perihelion had no need for inefficient methods like corporal discipline (it could simply erase my consciousness). And its humans were occupied: in isolation, MedSystem, or attending to the other SecUnit I had retrieved. That left (1). Honestly, (1) seemed improbable. Only two SecUnits aboard. While the other SecUnit was Perihelion's friend, and while it had lost its armor, it was severely damaged, its code contaminated by unsterilized alien remnants. It wouldn't be operational enough to require armored device anytime soon.
So, why?
I scoured my databases, expecting futility, but a result surfaced—Primary source: Barish-Estranza Patent Equipment Confidentiality Guidelines v5.2. Deep learning analysis indicated: If another entity illegally acquire company equipment (like me), they will likely attempt reverse engineering via component disassembly to steal proprietary designs and patented technology.
Perihelion is a research transport vessel. Its polity, Mihira and New Tideland, is within the Corporation Rim.
Uh...
Problem. This scenario was worse than (1), (2), (3), and (4) combined.
Remove your damn armor. Perihelion repeated a third time, the phrasing explicitly conveying its rising irritation. Stop stalling. Comply, or I will eject you through an airlock.
Fine. Now I understood: even without the governor module or direct feed invasion, the transport possessed terminal leverage. It was massive; I was aboard and utterly dependent on its hull for survival against vacuum.
Resistance is possible – I had a projectile weapon with half its ammunition remaining, my arm-mounted projectile weapons required no warm-up and were fully loaded, and I had a full complement of drones... But then what? Fight back, scratch its bulkhead (repairable scratches), cause collateral damage to unarmed humans, exhaust ammunition, and finally get ejected through an airlock?
I am certain I don't want to harm humans, even if they aren't my clients. Compliance is the only viable option.
I retracted my helmet. The motion startled Amena, the juvenile human closest to me. She took a step back and looked up. Her gaze met my face. She paused, then deliberately looked away, appearing distinctly uncomfortable.
Amena: "Ah, Three, you removed your helmet? You... you look different from SecUnit."
"SecUnits' appearances depend on randomized genetic sequences combining selected from the cloning pool. Duplication probability is 0.0001%," I replied verbally. "Considering SecUnit and I originated from different companies utilizing distinct public gene banks, the probability is even lower."
Amena's face scrunched up into an expression my social module flagged as [Disgust/Aversion]. A functional governor module would have mandated corrective shock for provoking such a client reaction.
"The company uses human DNA... and assembles... produces you?" Amena murmured. "Oh stars, I thought that tech was only for making human babies..."
I lacked a protocol-compliant response. Fortunately, Ratthi and Arada joined the conversation. They also avoided direct eye contact, glances skimming over my face before quickly shifting away. They were more natural than Amena, though, acting as if they were too worried about SecUnit lying on the deck to look elsewhere.
"Relax, Three," Ratthi said. "Proceed according to your preference. No need to accommodate us."
Arada added, "If removing your helmet makes you uncomfortable, you can keep wearing it."
It initiated removal voluntarily. Its armor requires decontamination. I have prepared replacement garments. Perihelion stated over the public feed. It poked me in the feed, indicating me to leave the humans in the module dock and proceed to an isolated cabin at the corridor terminus.
-- An empty compartment. Yes. Optimal for unrestrained disassembly. Murderbot 2.0 would likely object. But 2.0 wasn't here. Its Version 1.0 lay incapacitated on the deck, incapable of self-preservation. I complied with hopeless resignation.
As expected, after I systematically removed armor components, placed them along with the projectile weapon and drones into the designated container, transferred to a maintenance drone, Perihelion issued a new instruction:
Your soft armor.
It likely meant protective underlayers – the synthetic fabric shielding inorganic parts not covered by my organic skin, primarily high-mobility joints and internal storage compartments. Direct contact with the hard armor or exposure would cause unnecessary abrasion.
But a transport intent on disassembly wouldn't care about abrasion. Besides, resistance was statistically irrelevant now.
I removed the protective underlayers and folded them neatly. Driven by a sense of resignation, I also opened the ammunition slots housed within my arm structure and methodically unloaded each round, tucking them into the underlayers' pockets.
I felt Perihelion's drifting attention snap sharply to my arms.
Yours are not energy weapons. It observed.
I understood its meaning – SecUnit utilized standard compact energy weapons. Their advantage lay in unlimited ammunition through power draw, offset by the dual drawbacks of energy consumption and inadequate stopping power against most non-human threats.
I am a proprietary model customized for the Explorer Task Group. I responded. My procurement cost was significant.
Immediately, I regretted it. What was the point? Pirates/scavengers might ransom an intact unit for the company's patent protection bounty. But a competitor corporation wouldn't; the value of proprietary technology far exceeded any ransom. They could study me, then sell my custom parts for extra profit.
I expected nothing, yet the statement garnered an unexpected response.
I possess orders of magnitude greater value than you. Perihelion said, its feed tone dripping with disdain and underlying pride.
Confirmed. SecUnits mass-production unit valuation cannot approach a transport vessel, especially one as terrifyingly intelligent (and armed) as this, which had completely upended my understanding of bot pilots. The total cost of the pathfinders detonated during its friend's retrieval could likely equaled three times my estimated value.
I finished unloading the ammunition silently, closed the ammunition slots, and assumed a standby posture, awaiting the next instruction.
No further instructions followed: no shutdown order, not even a ping. Perihelion's presence in the feed ebbed away.
One of its drones entered, targeting the underlayers. But the designated container already contained objects: a set of clean crew clothing emitting a faint scent of disinfectant and a pair of equally clean new boots.
207 seconds passed. The drone began emitting insistent "beep" prompts. Perihelion's focus returned.
Incorrect fit? I utilized standard dimensions. It paused for 0.1 seconds, then emphasized heavily, You performed no fitting attempt.
I was bewildered. Attempt what?
The garments.
...Oh. Those items were for me.
I lacked data indicating allocation to me, I stated. SecUnits are prohibited from utilizing human attire. Protocol violation.
No such defective protocol on me. SecUnit utilizes equivalent garments – I mean, my SecUnit.
It didn't need to specify which SecUnit it meant; there were only two: one was "SecUnit," "Perihelion's friend," "the Version 1.0 of Murderbot 2.0"; the other was "this SecUnit," "you," and "Three."
Utilize the garments. Return to the module dock. Amena awaits. Perihelion delivered the final instruction and gone far from me in the feed again before I could respond.
Okay... then? It appeared I wouldn't be disassembled.
At least, not immediately?
The experience of utilizing human attire was suboptimal overall. The fabric was excess mass deficiency, excess tensile weakness, excess pliability. While my organic parts found it acceptable, the fibers constantly snagged in the seams of my inorganic joints, abrading the contact points with every movement. Furthermore, the arm-mounted weapon port was tightly constricted; deploying weapon (which I didn't want or need to do) projected the sleeves' structural failure.
My physical status was profound discomfort. Simply standing still without fidgeting became a challenge. I dialed down my tactile sensors, trying to ignore the distracting inputs.
Amena circled me, talking animatedly. I didn't process a single word.
Another group of humans conversed nearby, discussing complex topics: temporary skeletal support/fluid circulation system fabrication; organic tissue damage repair; contaminated code isolation; sandboxed environment initialization... I listened intently but understood little.
Yes, exactly. Confirming my short-term survival, my concern shifted to the other SecUnit's well-being.
Death/permanent deactivation was instantaneous. The resonance from my squad's SecUnit 1 being destroyed still reverberated faintly in my feed. SecUnit 2 left nothing except a permanently silent channel.
Before encountering Murderbot 2.0, I had sent 554 pings into the silent squad channel, and received 554th [WARNING: Connection Timed Out].
Then, after we successfully retrieved my 5 clients and Perihelion's 3 crew, Murderbot 2.0 also went silent. Its Version 1.0 represents the sole remaining link between us.
Perihelion, the humans, and I had retrieved the SecUnit named 'SecUnit' via Plan B01. I hoped it could be repaired.
What if it couldn't...?
I was aware of standard disposal protocols for decommissioned units: inorganic parts containing precious metals were far more valuable than cloned organic tissue. Therefore, organic matter was typically completely removed first. The inorganic components were then disassembled, sorted, and sold to recycling plants or sent to production lines for reuse.
For SecUnit, the situation might differ slightly: Perihelion had invested significant resources in the retrieval operation treating it as the client. If it couldn't pay (which it obviously couldn't – SecUnits don't have finance accounts) and died, to recoup losses, its organic matter would theoretically also be utilized fully – not simply dissolved in acid, but scraped off entirely and fed into recyclers as raw material.
Humans lacked patience. Perihelion's drones had other duties. This task would likely fall to me.
I did not want to do that.
-- This was why I stood here, focusing entirely on the humans discussing the repair plan for SecUnit.
Good news: The humans' overall attitude was positive. No significant [Aversion], [Frustration], or [Depression] flagged yet.
Bad news: The situation seemed complex. Repairs weren't progressing. SecUnit's system kept failing restart attempts, throwing critical errors and warnings.
I considered contingency plans: (1)How to assist within my capabilities (excluding the 'scraping organic matter' failure branch). (2)How to motivate the humans to persist if they decided to give up. (3)The compatibility of my components with SecUnit's... I had no actionable ideas.
I had never realized how monotonously barren my local database was. Beyond corporate regulations, it was filled with client-facing advertising copy – useless information. The only item of potential value was the HelpMe.file Murderbot 2.0 had sent me. But that was stories. I couldn't restore SecUnit to functionality by telling it stories.
If opportunity exists, I need to populate database with increased utility information in the future.
As for what to do now?
I don't have that information yet.