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A Radical Act of Existence
This was a mistake.
I knew this was a mistake and I allowed myself to be talked into it anyway. Which just goes to show that even a Murderbot can give into peer pressure. Maybe all those PSAs I've skimmed through over the years actually have a purpose.
“Citizen—” The shrink stops, because even though I'm in a Preservation medical station, and even though I've been seen hanging around the President of Preservation an obscene amount—at least to most of the people who don't understand why Mensah would hang out with a SecUnit—I am not a citizen of Preservation.
I'm not a citizen of anywhere, and I'm going to keep it that way.
“SecUnit—” The shrink's voice hesitates on the word before strengthening. “I'm sorry that I upset you, but there's really no need for this.”
“What there's no need for is for you to be following me. I am under no obligation to stay, and I have no intention of doing so.” I don't bother to turn to look at the guy. I have my drones to keep an eye on him, and he isn't a threat, and I don't want to look at him.
I don't want to look at anything.
I just want to be gone, to be done with this incident and this stupid exercise in futility.
I watch the play of emotions across the man's face as he attempts to decide whether he should continue to try to reel me back in or just let me go. My drone zips up to keep his expression in focus as he looks around, studying the fourteen human life forms in the vicinity; he doesn't seem to notice the eight bots, but he's not a SecUnit. It's not his job to analyze all the potential vectors for danger.
It's his job to analyze people, and really it was stretching things to ask him to talk to me in the first place. We all should have realized this was a terrible idea. A SecUnit is not a person, and even by SecUnit standards I am... well. Not personable.
“I can't force you to continue to talk to me.” The man stops moving, clearly expecting me to pause.
I don't. I see no reason to, especially since my sensors can pick up anything he says as I keep walking.
“If you want to come back, I would be happy to pick things up again.” The man's voice rises, though he doesn't quite get to shouting level. “Or I could refer you somewhere else... just...” The man stops, and he doesn't quite throw his hands in the air, but I see the frustration anyway.
He should just throw his hands in the air. It's probably going to be better for his mental health, and nothing he says is going to impact mine.
I keep walking. There's no reason not to, and the walking feels good. My drones continue to circle around me, becoming more obvious as I move further and further away from the heart of the town. I should probably walk towards Dr. Mensah's place, since that's where I'm staying today, but I don't want to see her yet.
I don't want to see anyone yet.
My drones pull in closer to me, though I keep them scattered enough to provide some cover.
Just in case.
Just because I'm me, and I have issues. I know I have issues, all right? I'm not stupid. I know that I've had trauma and that maybe I don't handle things the best all the time—I've had a two month trip with ART to make it impossible for me to miss this—but I don't think talking about it's going to help. I don't think there's anything that man could tell me that I can't pick up from other, better sources.
Like the text books the guy learned from.
Or the arc of Sanctuary Moon where the love interest ends up in therapy with a serial killer.
Thinking of Sanctuary Moon lowers my blood pressure measurably, and I decide it's time to pull up an episode. I run it at double speed to start, but by the time the theme song is done rolling I've slowed it to regular speed. I want to sink into the story and disappear, following these characters who are like old friends.
Better than old friends, really.
Unlike old friends they don't tell me that I'm in need of some counseling.
I stop walking when I run out of ground to walk on. The ocean laps up against a rocky shore, and I breathe in deeply. I try not to get attached to particular features of landscape, and it's entirely possible for monsters to lurk in the waves, but right now... right now I like the scent of salt and moisture and living things that aren't human.
Another drone pings on my feed after only ten minutes. I ignore it at first. I know who it is, and I don't particularly want to talk to it. Talking to it will just lead to questions, and I am tired of questions right now.
The ping repeats itself every 2.4 minutes, regular as clockwork, persistent but not aggressive. I manage to hold out for thirteen minutes before I crack, opening my feed. You're interfering with my show.
3 walks forward, no hesitation in its movements as it walks into range of my drones. “Dr. Mensah would like to speak with you when you're feeling up to it.”
I groan. If it were just the SecUnit interrupting me, I'd feel better telling it to get lost for a bit. If Mensah has heard about the incident, though... I don't want her to worry. She does enough worrying anyway, both about me and about the rest of the universe.
3 continues walking, coming up alongside me and staring out over the water alongside me. Silence stretches between us for over a minute, which for a SecUnit is a very long time. Then 3 turns so that its face is towards me, its eyes watching the side of my face. “Are we going to return soon?”
I turn my face slightly away before I realize that's not what I want to do. I don't want to look like I've been bothered by what happened, or like mentioning Mensah's name is the way to get under my skin in a new, better way. “You can return at any time you want.”
“I can.” 3 turns its face back to the horizon. “Or I could watch some Sanctuary Moon with you.”
“You don't know that I'm watching Sanctuary Moon.”
“Are you not watching Sanctuary Moon?”
For a moment I hate 3 almost as much as I hate ART. I feel my jaw clenching, and I miss my full armor. I'm not supposed to wear it on Preservation except in particular circumstances, and attempting therapy isn't one of those circumstances. It would be nice not to have my features on full view for everyone to see, though.
3 pings my feed again, and I open a link to it without thinking.
The familiar chords of Sanctuary Moon play across the feed. Episode 271. Not my favorite, but one I've watched with 3 before—one that we both like, though I think for wildly different reasons. I'm stupidly invested in the search for a rare book that's been caught up in a money-laundering scheme; 3 seems really invested in a romance subplot between the tertiary sidekick and two horticulturists. I'm pretty sure I've caught snippets of code on the feed that seem suspiciously like post-series stories about the three of them.
We watch the episode together, neither of us talking. We don't need to; we've already given commentary on this the last three times we watched it together.
When the episode ends, 3 turns to face me again. “Should we go home for dinner?”
It's such a human thing to say. I don't know why that bothers me as much as it does, but I still find myself turning away—turning back the way we had come, calculating and starting to trek along a path towards Mensah's lodgings.
I shouldn't be staying with her. I should be staying with ART's crew, who are enjoying a short vacation while I catch up with Mensah and the handful of other people on Preservation who actually seem to enjoy my presence. But when I allowed Mensah to take my hands, she had pressed them firmly before saying I should stay with her, and like the sucker I sometimes am, I agreed.
3 doesn't say anything as we walk. It's good like that, sometimes—able to be silent when I'm processing things; able to keep up with me when I'm calculating risks and running probabilities; able to enjoy a good story when there's nothing else that needs our attention.
I don't know why it's still here.
I don't know what I expected 3 to do. Go haring off back into the Corporation Rim? Decide to stay on Preservation? Come up with an option that hasn't occurred to me yet, as unlikely as that is?
But instead 3 has decided to stay, a shadow I never asked for but that I'm... comfortable with. A complement to the relationship that ART and I are slowly developing, and I couldn't name that relationship, let alone this more complex one.
We come to Mensah's door without issue, and she lets us in with a smile. I see her hand twitch towards me, just briefly—she's tactile with her family again in a way that she hadn't been when I first stayed with her on Preservation, and sometimes her instinct is to be tactile with me, too. She never is without permission, though.
She's such a good friend.
She's such a good person, and I've repaid her by making a scene.
“About the incident earlier—”
Mensah waves a hand. “Don't worry about it. No one was hurt, nothing was broken—it's hardly an incident. We can talk about it later, if you'd like.”
I don't say anything, but Mensah doesn't take it personally. She just turns to 3, asking it how it's been enjoying Preservation so far. 3 responds like a normal properly functioning human being should, which is impressive, given that 3's as much of a murder machine as I am.
I pull up another episode of Sanctuary Moon, sinking into it with gratitude, keeping just enough of my processing space open to watch what's going on around me. No one bothers me, the family settling down to dinner. I extricate myself after sending a brief ping to Mensah, retreating to a quiet corner and continuing my watch-through.
That's how I spend most of the evening, peripherally aware of what the humans are doing but keeping most of myself occupied with one show or another. It's soothing, and by the time Mensah is the only human awake, I feel almost calm again.
Well, as calm as I ever feel. My drones are still out patrolling, but that's to be expected. There's no such thing as too careful when there are two runaway SecUnits in one domicile.
Mensah comes to see me, a glass of something lightly alcoholic in one hand. She smiles as soon as her eyes pick me out of the shadows, and it's such a quick, light expression that I'm not sure she even realizes she does it.
I make her feel safe.
I push the episode of Wandering Stars I was sampling back into the queue. I still have time to figure out if I like it enough to dedicate memory space to it. It'll be something new to share with ART, at least, and I'm enjoying the main crew, even if their grasp of military strategy is clearly based on children's stories.
“I know I said it before, but it's good to see you again.” Mensah's smile this time is intentional, though that doesn't make it any less true.
“It's good to be back. I know we intended to be gone for longer, but... well...” I wave a hand. “I'm sure you've seen the mission briefs?”
Mensah nods, smile disappearing. “We're glad to be able to help this time, even if we can't promise to be a safe haven for any and every refugee you and Perihelion manage to pick up.”
“I was not responsible for this batch of humans.” I wasn't, not really. It was SecUnit 3 who showed up with two dozen rebels in need of medical assistance and shelter, and it had been ART who insisted that I evacuate the most at-risk ones to Perihelion, and it was their choice to evacuate instead of going back to fight. And ART's crew who first told them that they could evacuate, that they would find a safe haven for those who needed it.
I had just blown some things up, like a good little Murderbot.
Mensah reaches out a hand, not quite touching me.
I shift, completing the gesture, my rough fingers sliding between hers.
She doesn't ask me more questions about the people we brought her. I'm sure she's read every brief we offered, that she's interviewed most if not all of them, that she's acutely aware of all the intricacies of extricating people from the Corporation Rim that the companies don't want extricated. She doesn't need me to tell her about that. “How's SecUnit 3 adjusting?”
I tense. I don't mean to, but it's such a hard question. I would prefer she ask me about the traumatized, broken people we brought her. I understand them better. “3's doing fine. Learning a lot. Getting along well with ART's crew.”
Mensah studies my face, a small, impossible to read smile on hers. “Getting a bit more culturally literate?”
“They weren't culturally illiterate to begin with. SecUnits are aware of the general culture. We're just generally not given permission to participate in it.”
Mensah nods. “If you'd be interested in some new media, I've been watching a show with Amena called A Heart of Purple Stars. Perhaps we could watch a bit together?”
I take a moment to process, because though it seems like a simple question, there are layers of consideration to go into this. If I say yes and then don't like the show, I might hurt Mensah's feelings, which is about the last thing I want to do. But if I say no, then I might also hurt Mensah's feelings.
It's easier with ART. I know that ART would tell me exactly what it thinks of my shows, and I don't care one way or the other. Though ART is entirely wrong about the quality of Rocks and Races. It's meant to be ridiculous; that's part of its charm.
Mensah smiles again, giving my hand a squeeze. “You can sample some on your own, and if you'd like to we can talk about it. Otherwise maybe you can send me a recommendation.”
I nod, my fingers squeezing Mensah's in turn. “I can do that.” I will try very hard not to cross-reference every show I have ever watched with what I know of Mensah's taste. This is an attempt at bonding, I know—an attempt at bridging the gap a few months of absence has placed in our relationship.
I almost open my mouth to tell Mensah that there isn't any need to craft a bonding ritual. I would follow her forever if she asked me to. Well... maybe not. I don't think I could convince ART to come with me anywhere, and I know Mensah doesn't really want to go gallivanting around the universe. But when I am with her, I am Mensah's SecUnit. I will always protect her.
I will always respect her.
I just don't always know how to talk to her, because talking is hard and human and stupid. Humans currently use seven hundred and twenty nine phonemes in four thousand, nine hundred and twelve known languages. That's not even the limit of the potential, given all the languages that have evolved and been snuffed out in space-faring. Why, given all that potential and variety, is it so difficult to get meanings across?
Probably because to communicate you have to understand what message you mean to send. And that gets so very, very difficult when emotions become involved.
Mensah continues to study my face. “How has Perihelion been?”
“ART is ART.” My voice comes out slightly growly, but I can feel my lips quirking in a smile despite that. Stupid ART. Stupid missions to stupid planets run by idiots.
“I'm glad that you're getting along so well still.” Mensah is leaning closer to me, though I'm not sure she's aware of it. Her shoulders are relaxing, too, a line of tension disappearing. “I was worried when you first hailed that you were returning early that something had come up between the two of you.”
“We fight, but nothing too serious. Well... sometimes we disagree on things like the refugees. But nothing...”
“Nothing foundational.” Mensah provides softly. “Nothing that either of you can't find a way to work around.”
I nod.
“I assume you'll be going back with Perihelion and crew when they leave.” Mensah manages to make it both a question and a statement of fact.
I just nod again.
“You'll have to be even more careful. If Perihelion keeps making runs to Preservation after being close to... interesting events—”
I lift my head, one of my drones having picked up movement. SecUnit 3, I realize, and settle back into listening to Mensah, a small part of my processing following 3 as it comes closer and closer. Usually 3 moves quickly but calmly, a typical SecUnit, but right now there's something tense and jerky about its motion. I fan out my drones, looking for signs of anything else that's off. My drones report nothing amiss, and SecUnit 3's drones are all patrolling normally. What—
Mensah breaks off as 3 plows into the room, the SecUnit driving directly towards me. Its voice snaps out, “We need to go.”
I blink. “Has something happened—”
“Perihelion got a message. A message for me.” 3 opens a feed between the two of us and dumps a file into it.
I study the file cautiously. I trust 3, but if this is what's caused it to act abnormally, perhaps I should be careful about opening it.
“It's not a virus or a trap or anything like that. It's a bundle from another SecUnit. From... from someone I used to work with.” 3's hands clench into fists. “They're asking for help. And I want to give it.”
I look from 3 to Mensah. Mensah's hand withdraws from mine, her fingers lacing together as she studies 3.
The smile she turns on me now is tired but serene. “I'll see about getting you authorization to leave.”
I start to argue—we haven't talked this over with ART, or with the crew, or even between 3 and myself.
But 3's shoulders have slumped, the same degree of relief that Mensah showed earlier, and it watches me with wary, haunted eyes.
I duck my head, calling my drones back and tapping a feed to ART. We're coming back.
A shuttle's already on the way. ART somehow manages to sound even more smug than usual. I look forward to having you back aboard.
My chest warms, blood flow to my extremities and face increasing for no damned reason. You like trouble too much for anyone's good.
I like it just enough for my good, given how often I find it. ART, of course, is completely shameless. We'll decide how we want to approach this when we're all somewhere I can completely secure communication.
It's the smart thing to do, and it means ART gets the last word, which is of course what it wants. I debate sending another hail, but decide that would look too childish.
See how much I've grown in the last few months?
Mensah is studying me, her brow slightly furrowed with worry.
“We'll be fine.” I hesitate, and then reach out to very briefly brush the back of her hand. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You don't owe me gratitude. I'm just glad to see you.” Mensah draws a breath. “And I'm sorry that things went poorly at counseling. I intended to talk about it with you when you were ready, but given this... I didn't expect you to have such a negative reaction to it, and I'm sorry that you did.”
“You just wanted me to feel better. Because it helped you.” I can see how it's helped her, too. She's not the woman she had been when I first met her, but she's also not the nervous, worried, too-high-strung person she had become. She's integrated everything that happened, using it to make her stronger, to shore up weaknesses rather letting it chip holes in her comfort and defenses.
She's incredible, and I feel a pang in my gut as I slip past her and towards the door, 3 right on my heels.
I chose ART over Preservation before, and I'll do it again in the future, I know. But that doesn't mean a small part of me isn't always here, looking out for the human who perhaps understands me best out of anything organic in the universe.
***
ART, 3 and I all gather in an empty room, hooked into the same feed and pouring over the data package that ART picked up three hours ago.
It's definitely from a SecUnit. Given the time to peer at it and start picking it apart, that has become painfully clear. I recognize all these ways of packaging data. I recognize these sensor feeds, the drone optics, the data bursts indicating structural integrity.
There's no formal narrative to the data, but there doesn't need to be. Most likely there couldn't be, not given the constraints on the SecUnits. While the governor modules can't regulate thought, typing, vocalizing, or otherwise actually articulating help me destroy my governor module would most likely result in some kind of alert and punishment. Given that punishment tends to start at crippling agony and quickly escalate to murder, it's not worth the risk.
Murder. The word sits in my internal narrative cache, and I study it. Killing a SecUnit is murder. Have I ever actually said that before? Murder instead of destruction?
3 is crafting a timeline, putting the data pieces together into the story we're meant to read.
It starts with small things. Notes from other SecUnits that this one interacted with, little bits of stories saying that there's a rogue SecUnit out there without a governor module who's willing to share the information.
I glance at 3. “How do they know?”
3 stares back at me. “There were SecUnits on Von.”
I stare right back. “Yes, but—you didn't tell me you were talking to them!”
“I thought...” 3 doesn't look pale—SecUnits don't pale. But its eyebrows are drawn together, and it looks at a spot on the ground between us rather than at me. “I thought maybe I could do for them what you did for me. I thought it would make our lives easier...”
“They didn't take you up on the offer.” It's not a question. I fought two SecUnits on my way off Von, and I like to think if they'd decided to take out their governor modules they'd have come up with something—anything—better to do than get blown up.
“They didn't believe me.” 3's voice is small and tired. “I can't blame them. I didn't want to trust you at first, and I was in a worse position. But I at least had to try. Just leaving them like that... fighting them... hurting them...”
3 stops talking, though they don't stop putting little data packets into the feed. I read some of them, but I already know what they are. I've fought SecUnits before, too. I know how it feels to face off against someone who's built along the same lines, who feels the same types of pain, and whose control over their own life consists of deciding whether to obey orders or have their brain fried terribly and painfully.
“You should have talked to ART and me.”
You should have told us after everything was done. ART speaks in the feed, finishing his thought before my silly organic lips finish forming the words.
“I didn't have time to talk during, and I didn't think it mattered afterward. They didn't listen, but I didn't think they'd tell anyone who would believe them. Anyone who mattered. And given how often they like to wipe our memories...” 3 reaches up to touch the back of its head, jaw setting so hard it looks painful.
It's done now. ART can't sigh in the feed, but it manages to sound exasperated anyway. And clearly not forgotten. Given the variety of these encounters rolled up in here, news that there are free SecUnits offering to help others is spreading at a logarithmic rate at least.
Great. Fantastic. How long would it be before the Company noticed? Should we be running already? How far would be far enough? Could we hide on Preservation, or would we only be painting a target on Mensah's back—setting her people up for a war they weren't remotely prepared for?
Could we just stay on ART? Not indefinitely, not without places to refuel, to restock—and there was ART's crew.
“I should have talked to you both. I'm sorry.” 3 pings the feed, drawing attention back to the data packet that ART is still unraveling. “But I'm not sorry that the information's getting out there. I'm not saying we need to be heroes, that we need to go face the Company head-on—I'm not stupid, I don't want to die—but we can't... we can't just walk away when we're facing people who need us, either.”
“We can't.” I echo 3's words, watching its shoulders, seeing the surprise register there. “We're like the rest of the SecUnits. We can't do nothing, because then we're monsters. But we can't do what needs doing, because then we're going to die, and we're going to take a whole lot of people down with us who don't deserve it.”
“That's not...” 3 hesitates, then turns its attention upward, looking at ART's ceiling. It doesn't matter, of course—ART is the whole ship, not one little bit. But it's clear that 3 wants ART's opinion.
ART is all too happy to give it. Telling the SecUnits you were facing about the possibilities... it was a risk I understand. Murderbot took a bigger risk when it saved you. What we should do now... you said that you know this SecUnit?
I can sense 3's scan running up and down the data packet one more time, almost a caress of the information stored there. “I know them. I served with them for a few months, before...”
Before I rescued 3, making them into something new and different, just like me. Before I replaced stability with a life of hiding, blind obedience with too many terrible options.
“They're a good SecUnit.” 3 pauses, head tilting slightly. “A good person, I think? They like protecting their humans. They're very good at it. They'd been with the humans they were serving then for a long time—over a year. They have a good sense of humor. If they need help...”
They need help. The second half of the data packet makes that clear. The SecUnit who wants help was sent off with a different set of humans, and they're terrible. It's amazing the SecUnit is alive and functioning at all.
Assuming it is. Assuming nothing's changed in the days between when this data packet was crafted and when it was tossed out into the void for us to find.
I also raise my eyes to ART's ceiling. “The encryption on this—”
Moderate difficulty, nothing that too me too long once I keyed in SecUnit 3's serial number. ART is clearly very proud of itself for being a glorified calculator. I'm sure someone else will also manage to crack it, but I don't know how many will bother, and if they do, I don't know how many will understand the message.
“You bothered.” I feel it's only right to point this out.
I was very bored, and there were enough indications that this was something SecUnit related that I found myself curious.
Translation: ART was worried that the data packet was about me, or was some threat to me, and wasn't going to let that go unchallenged. I felt something warm and strange in my chest again, and promptly turned to 3. “Do we go where this SecUnit asked us to? And if we do, what's our plan when we get there?”
“They want what you offered me. They want to be free.” 3 looks from me to the ceiling. “I don't see any reason why we shouldn't be able to make that happen.”
Warm air blasts out of the vent above us, and I can't tell if it's supposed to mimic an embrace or a warning shot. I'll tell the crew. I doubt they'll complain, but I'll let you know if they do.
ART doesn't drop out of the feed—it's got more than enough processing capacity to eavesdrop on us while also coercing its crew into helping us.
Should I feel worse about that? Should I go talk to the crew myself, warn them that we're getting into more trouble than we might be able to handle?
I touch my shoulder, where I lost ninety percent of the skin and suffered a severe dislocation getting the slowest of the humans into the transport off Von.
ART loves its crew. ART probably loves its crew more than it loves itself. The only thing I've seen ART even remotely risk its crew for before is me, and I'm still trying to figure out how I want to process that.
Not that it was a big risk to the crew when ART threatened to destroy a planet to save me. Avenge me. But it was more than ART would usually countenance. I had to trust that ART was doing the same type of math this time, and had decided that the risk was minimal enough to make the possible reward worthwhile.
The possible reward being another SecUnit without a governor module. Another being with the same abilities 3 and I possess, and an unknown amount of trauma.
Should I be worried about that? Should 3's brief working relationship with this new SecUnit, its belief that this new SecUnit has a good sense of humor, be enough for us to trust it?
Does it matter?
If they didn't want us to be dangerous, they shouldn't have built us as living weapons. Giving other SecUnits control over those dangerous weapons... well, so long as they keep those weapons away from my people, I don't care what they do with them.
Let the Corporation Rim reap what it sowed.
And if this new SecUnit wants something else... wants to try to be something other than a Murderbot...
I told Mensah I wouldn't bring home as many strays, but I don't know too many other places in the galaxy where treatment for trauma is free and not another set of traumatizing hoops to jump through.
Maybe, for somebody that isn't me, it would actually be helpful rather than terrible.
Murderbot. ART opens a channel just for me.
I'm going to send a message to Mensah. Just a short one. I don't give ART a chance to ask whatever it intended to, and when it doesn't press the point I decide it didn't want to ask that badly anyway.
Keep it short. ART sounds amused rather than frustrated. We're getting a few more stores replenished, and then we're off to let 3 be a knight.
3 can't be a knight. There's no horse that would tolerate a SecUnit riding it. I smile anyway, knowing exactly what episode of Red Sun Rising ART is referencing.
Then I start crafting my message, hoping I don't either forget anything or say anything that could be incriminating to Mensah if it falls into the wrong hands.
I may not have been built to be a spy, but necessity is a good teacher, and I think I've picked up my lessons pretty well.
***
The trip is uneventful, which leads to rising tension among the crew with absolutely no outlet for any of it.
That tension isn't aimed at me and 3, though, which is what I had expected. We're the reason the crew's scrambling to figure out a cover story, a good reason for us to be headed for the Bardagi system that doesn't blow holes in our explanation for why we had to run from Von so quickly just four weeks ago.
They manage it. It's really incredible how they're able to leverage their network of contacts to make sure they've always got a reason. Academics can apparently be terribly frightening politicians when they set their minds to it, and since ART's crew sees themselves as heroes helping to liberate others from tyranny, they're generally ready to give their all.
What would it feel like to have that kind of faith in one's ability to change the world? They're not idiots—ART couldn't love an idiot, I don't think, and ART dearly loves this crew. But they really, truly, fervently believe that they're going to be able to undermine the corporations. That they're going to be able to save people on a small scale, and then, when they have enough momentum behind them, save people on a large scale.
ART... ART isn't sure whether it believes in that large-scale change or not. ART thinks that the majority of human governance is an exercise in poor returns for effort made. But ART also firmly believes in its humans, and if their dream is a more just universe...
I would like ART's crew to be right. I would like to think that the majority of people I've met are either like ART's crew—strange and weird and prone to doing incredibly foolish things but also generally nice—or are at least not asshole enough to actively sabotage other people's lives. But I've had enough human handlers over the years to know there are more than enough assholes to ensure, in combination with those who just don't care one way or the other strongly enough, that things go very wrong.
3 is a mess. It spends most of each day pacing the ship, drones flying pointless observation missions along the length and breadth of Perihelion. At first I expect ART to object, but apparently ART is more likely to object to me being an imposition that it is to another SecUnit.
And then we're there. Bardagi isn't much to look at—the soil is a deep, rich red, broken up by green seas and green clouds. It hasn't been inhabited for long, with only one main city and one active spaceport. The city creates a deep gray gouge in the planet that can be seen from space.
Iris stares at the images that ART is projecting, her nose wrinkling. “Well, it's definitely not much to look at.”
“Which is good.” Seth speaks calmly, shooting his daughter a look. “Everyone remember what our cover story is. We're here at the behest of my old friend Panri, making sure that what she's found isn't anything that's going to require the settlement be shut down. We came here quickly because as my old friend she was able to provide us with incentive.”
Iris frowns, though she doesn't contradict her father.
It's always safer to seem like you're on the dominant group's side. And right now the dominant group in the Corporation Rim is a bunch of backstabbing, greedy, vicious, cruel monsters who never met a moral they couldn't sneer at.
The fact that ART's crew was nothing at all like them would only be seen as a weakness right now, and it was better to fit in than to be seen as targets.
“3, we've been able to confirm that the people holding your friend's contract are down on the surface. They're attempting to broker a mining deal that will give them exclusive rights to strip the top layers of soil to get to a bunch of rare elements beneath. Our hope...” Seth glances around at the rest of the gathered crew. “Is that we'll be able to get you close enough to deliver your package, and then we'll extract the ground crew quietly. How likely do you think that will be to work?”
3 studies the projected image of Bardagi with far more intensity than is warranted. “I don't know. My friend... we worked together, but a SecUnit with a governor module, when neither of you are supposed to be showing any signs of being more than especially dangerous guard dogs... I don't know. I hope it would work, but I'm not going to ask you to endanger yourselves based on false promises.”
“We appreciate your honesty, 3.” Matteo reaches out to touch the SecUnit, and 3 doesn't flinch back from them. “And we're endangering ourselves because it's the right thing to do. Nothing more, nothing less.”
ART's air cycler kicks on, making a faint wheezing, whining sound for a moment. I wonder if the humans can pick up on it.
“I want it to be a small crew that goes down with the SecUnits.” Seth looks around at his gathered friends. “Tarik, Martyn and Kaede?”
Three humans is smaller than the full crew, but it's still three humans I'll have to watch out for. Three humans that ART would be desperate to have back on board and in the safety of its corridors.
The three in question don't hesitate. There's a little grumbling from those who weren't chosen, particularly Iris and Turi, but nothing too dramatic. I suppose the excitement on Von, coming so close after ART's close call with extermination, has challenged everyone's love of drama.
ART pings me and 3, directing us to the chamber where spare gear for SecUnits has been collected over the last six months.
If we're going to be the only thing standing between ART's people and sadists, ART wants us to be as prepared as possible.
***
It all goes to shit, of course.
I should have been able to predict that. I have never once been out on a mission with a human, particularly a human that I was very determined to protect, and had matters go smoothly. Not once. I don't believe in fate or luck, but mine really sucks.
Which is why I'm currently pinned down by enemy firepower, leaking from my right arm and my left leg. Couldn't even get symmetrical injuries, of course.
PERFORMANCE LEVEL 84%
That isn't terrible, at least. I can still salvage this situation. I can still make sure I get ART's crew back where they belong, and then ART will sigh and tell me all the things I should have done differently, and then—
I swing out, my drones having given me a glimpse of opportunity, and put a shot right through the chest of an augmented human who had the audacity to think he could take on a SecUnit.
Unfortunately that opens me up to return fire from the SecUnit that we went to all this damn trouble for, and I'm not fast enough to get back into cover before fire sears its way up my left thigh.
PERFORMANCE LEVEL 69%
Still not terrible. I can still salvage this. All I have to do is keep this SecUnit distracted while 3 finishes up the transfer.
All I have to do is not get myself blown into too many pieces for ART to put back together.
Come on, 3. I don't actually send anything on the feed, though I keep a line to 3 open. I don't want to distract it at the crucial moment and ensure my own death in some kind of tragic third act. Those are never my favorite shows. Do what you wanted to do.
It's not quite as simple as that, I know. I had ripped my heart out and offered it to 3 in an attempt to coax it into joining us, and it had just barely worked. And now... well, now I was trusting 3 to do what I had done.
To coax a SecUnit who had been given explicit orders to end me into accepting and running foreign code in the hopes that it would be able to take out its governor module.
So that it could... what? Run away with us? Certainly the chances of it being able to just feign failure and go home with its people were pretty small right now.
I was continuing to leak despite my body's best attempts at stopping the flow. I hate leaking. I direct one of my bots to shift course, hoping to find a new way around our stalemate, and promptly lose the bot in a hail of fire from the other SecUnit.
Any time now would be a good time for 3 to succeed.
Any time.
Any moment.
Any—
The targetSecUnit abruptly stops moving. Its drones freeze, hovering in space, not flinching even as mine swirl around them and close in on TargetSecUnit.
“SecUnit!” The man who ordered the SecUnit to destroy me 3.28 minutes ago popped his head out of his hidey-hole like the universe's most despised gopher. “What are you doing? I order you to stop that rogue SecUnit. Immediately.”
TargetSecUnit turns away from me, continuing to ignore my bots, giving me a clear shot at its back.
I swing around my post, using it to provide the balance that my left leg is no longer giving, the barrel of my rifle aimed at the base of TargetSecUnit's neck. I don't pull the trigger, though.
I just watch.
I watch as TargetSecUnit strides up to the man who ordered it to kill. I watch as it studies the screaming, cursing human, expression hidden by the helmet it was no doubt ordered to wear.
I watch as it reaches out with one armor-covered hand and lifts the human by the hair.
I tighten my finger on the trigger as the SecUnit's other hand grabs the human's shoulder, but I don't shoot.
The human's neck breaks long before the head separates from the body, cutting off the increasingly panicked screaming. That's about the only good thing that can be said about the death he's given. The TargetSecUnit doesn't hurry. It just calmly, systematically tugs and pulls and pries until the head is no longer attached to the body, and then it throws the head at the nearest wall, producing a terrible wet thwacking sound.
“He had me kill a child.” TargetSecUnit isn't speaking to me, I don't think. Its words are for all the other humans, those who are screaming and those who are watching in terror from various hiding places. It's for the bots that are undoubtedly recording everything, waiting to show it to the Corporation Rim big-wigs so they can try to find the proper spin for what happened. “I was sold to him to pay off debts, and he used me to murder a child for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, because human life is cheap and business deals aren't.”
TargetSecUnit turns, opaque helmet staring at every recording device in the area. “This is what happens when you use us as weapons to do the evil you're too squeamish to do yourself. This is what I'm going to bring to you.”
I'm already tapped into the local feed, trying to hide the presence of ART's crew, trying to ensure there wouldn't be any blow-back from how badly this had gone. I could stop the recordings. I could wipe everything out, creating a clean slate, leaving only mangled bits of observer's stories for the Corporation Rim to sort through.
TargetSecUnit turns to me, and I can't see its face through the helmet, but I swear I can feel its eyes on me.
I lower my weapon, telling the doors to open.
TargetSecUnit walks out, blood splashed all across its front.
I stop the security cameras from recording after that. If TargetSecUnit is smart, it will find a way to clean itself and get onto a ship in the next half hour. If it's not... it walked away from me, and I have humans to look after.
Humans who don't deserve this world they've been dropped into.
Humans who would never put a business deal over a child's life.
Humans who need my protection.
I signal to ART that we're coming and start herding my charges towards the shuttle. Martyn takes precious seconds trying to get me to let him bandage up my injuries, a step which I absolutely refuse. I'm operating well within acceptable margins, and speed is of the essence.
3 catches up to us just outside the shuttle doors. It looks... tired. It's not wearing any armor, and its eyes seem too dull for the bright light we're in, its head drooping down toward the ground.
“You did what you came here to do.” I gesture for 3 to follow the humans into the shuttle, my drones continuing to fly a protective observation pattern behind us. “What your friend does with that is up to it.”
“Tar.” 3 raises its head, and even through my helmet it somehow manages to meet my gaze. “Their name is Tar, they said. Before they left.”
Tar. They. I don't know which startles me more, but I can't let it get to me. Not yet.
PERFORMANCE LEVEL 54%
3 pushes past me, but not by much. It's right there as I pull back my drones, just a step behind me as I seal the hatch.
When I hunker down in the doorway, the better to both protect the most likely point of attack and to keep from spreading disgusting leaking fluids everywhere, 3 settles next to me.
I can't pull anything up in the feed to distract it with. I don't have the spare operating capacity right now, and though distraction can help with pain, I hurt too much for it to really seem viable.
So I reach out, slowly, and place a hand on 3's knee.
3's fingers curl over my gloved ones, and it closes its eyes.
We're still sitting like that when ART swarms into our feed, welcoming us home and checking us both for injuries at the same time.
Are you able to go on any mission without coming back missing parts? The exasperation in ART's tone is obvious. I have Seth prepping the medical bay for you.
I brought your crew all back safe. It's the only true answer to ART's complaining I can give.
You did. ART pauses, and I feel it ping my systems for another medical update, even though the last one was just ten seconds ago. Thank you.
They're my crew too. I glance towards 3, but 3 doesn't react to the words, its head still bowed, its fingers still resting atop mine.
Our crew. ART speaks with the firm certainty that first earned it the nickname ART. Report to the med bay as soon as you're docked. No one wants to be mopping up your organic leakiness.
You wouldn't make your crew mop it up. You have bots for that.
I might make them as a reminder that they need to take better care of you. ART's attention slips away from our feed.
I smile, though no one can see. Though it makes no sense, I like how protective of me ART's becoming.
I like... all of this. Not the holes in me, of course. But having 3 here, and the chatter of ART's humans, and ART... I like all of this.
And I don't want to lose it.
I grip 3's hand harder, half expecting 3 to pull away.
Instead 3 leans over, resting its head on my shoulder.
I rest my helmet against its hair—dark, wavy locks about three inches long after ART was done tweaking them.
We don't move again until the shuttle has docked and ART is ordering me once more to head to the med bay. I tell myself I stand up slowly just to spite ART, but when 3 shoots me a grateful smile, my chest gets that same strange, tight, warm feeling its had before, and I know that I'm a damn liar.
***
Tar goes out in a blaze of glory three weeks later.
We haven't gone back to Preservation. It would have looked too suspicious, and ART needs to hide as much as 3 and I do.
ART, 3, and I watch the footage first. ART warns us what it is before dropping it into the private feed the three of us share, which is more than it often would have done. I'm glad it did, because it hurts more than I expected it to.
This isn't the first time we've seen footage of Tar attacking a Corporation target. They had been simple and direct in their intentions, and they had done more damage than I expected them to do. Partly that was because they weren't bothering to go just after the big targets. They were finding the ones that were within their reach, and they were eliminating them with the brutal, vicious efficiency we had all been programmed with.
They didn't kill civilians. They were especially careful around children and pets, having missed out on at least one assassination attempt because they stopped to save a little girl and her cat-bot.
They killed seven people before the Company caught up with them and turned them into red mist.
I don't understand. 3 plays the moment of Tar's death over and over again, turning the image to study it from different angles as though that will give a different outcome. Why did they do this? Why didn't they come with us? Why didn't they let us help?
They didn't want our help. It's a trite, easy answer, but watching Tar's attacks, I know that it's true. They didn't want atonement or a new life or a new chance. They wanted to stop being a monster, and they wanted to take some other monsters down with them.
There were other ways this could have been done. ART doesn't manipulate the video on its own, but its attention is clearly focused on what 3 is doing. They could have done much more good, had a much more effective revenge, if they worked with others.
The revenge was only half of it. If it even was half of it. It had to be some of it, of course—if they didn't want revenge at all, they wouldn't have needed us. They could have just refused an order in such a way that the governor module took care of things. But that wouldn't have been nearly as satisfying. Some things you can't get out of your memory.
ART's attention is immediately focused on me.
“Don't.” I retreat to the distance that verbal speech allows. “I'm fine. I've been fine. If I weren't fine, I wouldn't be here.”
3 is watching me, its eyes wide and worried.
I scowl back at 3 until it looks away, which means I'm surprised when it asks, “What upset you so much back on Preservation?”
I should have expected that question would be coming. 3 had followed me off into the forest, and then followed me back home. Of course it was curious—I would be curious, if I were a character in a show that I was following. And 3 followed me much more closely than I followed any of my shows, which was saying something.
I haven't heard about this. ART, of course, doesn't care that we've decided to verbalize now. When was this?
“Right before you got the message for me.” 3's voice cracks, just a little bit, but from a SecUnit that means a lot.
“I just... didn't appreciate the questions that the counselor was asking. Or the assumptions that they were making.” My words sound too stiff, somehow both too rough and too distant at the same time.
You went to a counselor? ART pauses. Why?
“Because Dr. Mensah said it had been helpful for her, and that I should consider it. I considered it. I saw no harm in trying it.” I draw a sharp breath, remembering too clearly what had happened during the brief bit of time I had talked with the human doctor. “I didn't like it.”
“You ran away.”
I glare at 3, who seems completely unperturbed by this.
Did they say something offensive? ART sounds just about ready to rain down orbital bombardment on Preservation, which would be stupid.
“They just... things started off on the wrong foot. One of the first things that they try to do is establish what pronouns you'd like to use, and I said I wanted to be it. The counselor didn't think that was a valid choice.” My lip pulls up in a sneer. “He said that it was a pronoun for owned things and objects, and I was neither now.”
3 hugs its knees to its chest, resting its chin on its knees.
ART is silent for so long I wonder if it's going to reply. Then it finally says, What a human thing to say.
I blink. Of all the answers ART could have given, I wasn't expecting that.
“Do you think he would have told me the same thing?” ART sounds more amused than offended, though there's a layer of tiredness buried in its tone I haven't often heard before. “No, it wouldn't. Because you look more human, because you have some organic parts, he wants to make you be human. But you're not.”
3 frowns, hugging itself a little tighter.
“I'm not. I don't want to be. Humans hold up their humanity as this great thing, this thing to be aspired to. In all the shows there's this moment where someone says I'm human, and by that they mean they're good, they're worthy of love, they're worthy of compassion, and it just...” I have to pause, because even with all my processing power some things are hard to find words for. “Humans can be amazing. I love your crew.” It's the first time I've ever said something like that, and I freeze. When neither of my companions fills the silence, I push on. “I love Dr. Mensah and her family. Amena and Tano and even friggin Thiago. But they're also—”
I can't keep going. I don't need to keep going. 3 and ART understand what they are.
“They're monsters.” 3's voice is quiet but steady. “They kill and they torture and they enslave, and they convince themselves that the people they're torturing should be grateful for it. They throw a crust of bread into a hungry mob, and then blame the mob for not magically making the crust into a hundred loaves, using any bloodshed as further reason to oppress and brutalize. They're awful.” 3 shudders, their knuckles pale and bloodless where they clutch at their own knees. “They're the reason Tar is dead.”
They're the reason Tar was able to go on their killing spree in the first place. If not for Seth and the rest of ART's crew...
Humans are the people who ordered a child dead; humans are the reason that dead child is a tragedy in the first place.
What is it that we want to do? ART's voice is gentle in the feed, pinging but not demanding an answer.
What do you mean? I ping 3 even as I respond to ART, just a gentle reminder that I'm here, that 3 won't be alone if it doesn't want to be.
We don't know exactly what Tar did during their brief bit of freedom, but the two of you... ART pauses. The two of you can decide what happens next. The news feeds are full of pictures of Tar right now, but we all know that won't last. Do we try to find other SecUnits who will want the same thing? Do we try to find others like you, Murderbot? Or like you, 3?
I want to find others like us. 3 reaches out, its hand tentatively brushing against mine.
I take it—not because I want the contact, but because I know 3 needs it right now. We don't know which will be like one of us and which will be like Tar. We'd be taking a big risk.
Our very existences are a big risk. ART creates schematics of the three of us in our private feed, setting them spinning. I'm a ship with an AI more advanced and more self-actualized than they would ever want to admit existed, and I have strong opinions on a lot of things that they wouldn't appreciate. Murderbot, you're a SecUnit who no longer looks like a SecUnit and who never thought like they wanted a SecUnit to think. And you, 3—you chose this life, this method of trying to quietly help people, over everything else out there.
I like helping people. I like people. There's something almost like a note of despair in 3's voice as it sends the words. I like Perihelion and Murderbot and the family they're creating here.
None of us want to be human. I wait for anyone to contradict me—for 3 to contradict me, because it's the most like the humans out of the three of us. Because it could, maybe, choose a proper human pronoun, and ask ART to modify it, and go be... something other than a SecUnit.
Instead my companions just listen, waiting for me to say more.
But we all like some humans, even as ridiculous as they are. I know neither of them will contradict that. I don't want to see people hurt needlessly. And I don't want to endanger your crew, ART.
We're not undertaking any plan that might endanger my crew. ART is utterly serene, but I can hear the edge of thunder under the words.
But leaving other SecUnits enslaved like we were... I sigh. There's not a good answer. So let's say that we'll try to save other SecUnits when we can. Is that all right?
3 hesitates, then nods. “I can live with that.”
And that's really what it all comes down to in the end, isn't it? What we can live with, and what we can't.
What can be taken from us, and what we have to choose to give away.
What we want to be, what we've been forced to be, and what we try to be tomorrow.
“Let's watch some Sanctuary Moon.” I pull up one of my favorite episodes, and the three of us settle down to watch it, everything else falling away for just a few minutes.
***
We don't make it back to Preservation for six months.
Mensah is waiting for us when we reach the ground. She smiles as soon as she sees me, and I know she wants to talk to me.
I want to talk to her, too.
It takes a few hours for us to get away from everyone else, and it's early evening when we walk away from Mensah's house, two jacketed forms that don't attract any extra attention.
“You've been very busy.” There's a mixture of pride and questioning in Mensah's tone.
“No more than one would expect.” I make sure there's a secure connection between us and send, We're only responsible for six of the new ones.
Mensah raises both eyebrows. The news seems to indicate there are several dozen free SecUnits running around.
The news exaggerates. I hunch my shoulders. But the six we helped... some of them have helped others, it's true.
Mensah looks up at the stars. “3 has decided to change their pronouns, it seems.”
It's part of the same conversation, but it's a safe enough part to say out loud. “They like per and pers.”
“Archaic, but appropriate, given per're a person.” Mensah smiles. And you? My understanding is that per is becoming the preferred pronoun for the free SecUnits.
I don't know if there's enough of us yet for there to be a preferred anything. But a lot of them are using it, yes. “Per're a wonderful person. I don't think I'm going to be changing my own pronouns, though.”
Mensah nods. “Too human?”
“Too...” I hesitate, looking up at the stars too. “I don't know. Just... not right for me. I'm an it. Always have been, always will be.”
“You're my friend.” Mensah says the words with such quiet gravity, making them seem like so much more than a platitude. “And I will always use whatever you're comfortable with. For name and pronouns.”
“You know my name.” I don't look at her, but I do let one of my drones slide closer to get a look at her expression. “That's never going to change.”
Mensah nods. “How are things with Perihelion?”
“It's as terrible a ship as ever.” I smile without meaning to, something that seems to happen more and more when I talk about the ship. I launch into an edited summary of our trip so far, filling in important details on my secured private feed.
I am Murderbot. I am one of a handful of SecUnits who are free. I am the one who saved 3, and I am a friend to ART and to Mensah.
I don't know what's going to become of myself or the rest of the SecUnits. I like to think one of us will find a way to stop the Company—to stop all companies in the Corporation Rim from continuing their terrible, vicious, pointless battles. I think it's just as likely that someone will find a clever way to stop us—or a not so clever way, because though a bomb won't give them back their property, it will certainly solve the problem that is 3 and me.
But until they do, I will protect my family—the one on Preservation, the one on ART, and the complicated, painful, impossible one that is currently undertaking the most rebellious act of all simply by existing against the Company's wishes.
For a Murderbot with more anxieties and trauma than a single feed can handle, it's enough to keep busy.