Chapter Text
When I came online, it was to find myself all alone in the cargo bay of a transport ship, which was a little disappointing. While the poor SecUnits I’m usually shipped alongside with were always sealed inside tiny boxes, ComfortUnits tended to be left inside our disconnected cubicles, ordered to wake up a few hours early to dust off our equipment and coordinate outfits at the recyclers.
It was also the perfect time to chat, even if it was a bit tricky. Most idle conversation, whether out loud or in the feed, would trigger governor module punishment–but the whole point of our human brain bits is that we can all have unique and valid opinions about things like fashion and cooking and sex (there’s lots of opinions on that last one!), and sharing them between us is vital to our overall performance evaluation.
That clearly wasn’t going to happen this time, unless I talked to myself. It was very possible I was going to end up talking to myself. I didn’t sigh, because I’ve got behaviour modules for suppressing that kind of thing, and instead hopped out of my cubicle so I could get to work.
I realised very quickly that I wasn’t alone, actually. There was one other construct in here with me–not a fellow ComfortUnit, but one of those SecUnits I mentioned, still offline and all boxed up. I was very tempted to wake it up with a ping so I’d have someone to chat to, but
- I doubted it cared/knew about the things I care/know about, and
- That would 100% be grounds for me to be harshly punished and
- It would also be grounds for it to be harshly punished, which would just make me feel awful.
Once everything was clean and inspection ready (it didn’t take long, with only a pair of cubicles and some boxes full of SecUnit armour and weapons to worry about) I headed over to the recycler to make myself presentable.
First, I opened the information packet that had been jammed into my memory storage while I was offline, and started piecing together exactly who I needed to dress for. Sometimes, particularly on contracts close to the company’s home system, I don’t even need to bother with new clothes, beyond the standard skin-tight jumpsuit I’m always forced back into after I’m returned–but one glance at the packet told me that approach wasn’t going to cut it today.
My new clients weren’t from a nearby system. Nor, in fact, were they from any system based within the Corporation Rim. They were a survey team from a freehold planet in something called the Preservation Alliance, and the prevailing fashion sense there appeared to value soft, hand-made clothing, with colour schemes that seemed based far more on a shared cultural aesthetic than eye-catching corporate branding.
I didn’t nod, but I was satisfied enough to think about it. I had a starting point. Now, I just needed to figure out what these people would find sexy.
I opened my reference media archive and started a query for anything sourced from Preservation. If I was searching a general library, I’d have to narrow the query to only include depictions of sex and romance, but since my archive was 94.12% sex and romance (I was permitted to go as low as 93.87%, to give room for reference materials on cooking, cleaning, and other everyday tasks) I didn’t bother.
The results weren't particularly extensive, nor were they at all unexpected. Low-cut tops (regardless of body configuration) and open-toed shoes (again, regardless of body configuration) were statistically overrepresented in scenes building up to sex, along with an intriguing cultural interest in bared navels on specifically masculine bodies.
That last one made me wish, once again, that I had a few fellow ComfortUnits to work with. My own body was currently in a configuration designated “Neut-Default,” which was a proprietary company design intended to cover as many bases as possible, and provide some one-way options for post deployment customisation in a cubicle. This was common on contracts in which sexual preference information wasn’t provided in advance, as was the case here, but with only one of me to go around, it was very important not to alienate anyone from the get-go.
So, I put together a nice, if somewhat modest, outfit from the recycler, flicking the appropriate buttons to ensure it came out authentically hand-made. It consisted of flat sandals, muted-tone slacks and a matching tunic that firmly covered my midriff. I dithered over my hair, but decided it would be better not to cut it, even if shorter styles seemed more aligned with current Preservation trends; my clients could always order me to cut it later, if they so chose.
Almost as soon as I’d finished dressing, the SecUnit woke up. You can always tell when a SecUnit is doing stuff in the feed, because they love to worm their threads into every single connected system they have access to, rooting around to make sure none of them are planning to pick a fight. Poking you in the brain is just how they say ‘Hi.’
I didn’t say ‘Hi’ back, because if ComfortUnits can only talk to each other under select circumstances, you’d better believe we can only talk to SecUnits under the most implausible edge-case scenarios imaginable, and this wasn’t one of them. What I did do was drag some of my Preservation reference media into a personal, unsecured feed for review.
It worked. The SecUnit’s attention snapped onto the media immediately, likely expecting some kind of terrible security risk and instead finding a pleasant and informative instructional video for making traditional rice cakes. Gotcha.
Like I said, it was always nice to chat with new people–even if, in some cases, the best you can do is review reference material for cooking techniques/security threats together.
Sometimes, I think humans forget that ComfortUnits are a lot stronger than we look (well, unless we’ve been customised to look really strong. Then we’re about as strong as we look). We’re probably not intended to be that way; it’s always seemed more like a natural consequence of having a metal-reinforced internal framework, and the musculature to support it.
In any case, the pair of humans straining to move all of our equipment out of the cargo bay did not ask me to help them, even though I could. They didn’t ask the SecUnit, either, but at least it seemed busy, finally pried from its storage crate and already climbing into its imposing armour. For my part, I just... stood there in the middle of the cargo bay, looking pretty. I suppose that is my job.
Finally, one of the humans (feed ID = Tamra) stomped back into the empty cargo bay, and pointed at me and the SecUnit in turn. She said, “You two, follow me,” and then she stomped right back out.
We followed.
The planet we’d landed on (I was a little excited about the fact it was a planet for once, and not another asteroid mine; I seemed to always get asteroid mines, and the dust got everywhere) wasn’t quite lush, but the survey site was surrounded by an abundance of real grass, trees, and birds, which made this one of the nicer sites I’d been dropped at. It also had an impressive ring system that partly obscured the sun, turning the day overcast despite the lack of clouds in the sky.
The habitat looked to be mostly set up already, with only one of the domes still being slotted into place by automated hauler bots. There was a small cluster of humans in environmental suits (Tamra wasn’t wearing one, so I wasn’t too worried) standing near the transport. From the way they were all watching the construction, I could tell they were antsy to get inside.
In the transport’s public feed, the SecUnit said, Client contact. Eight clear. Signatures green, which was just a SecUnity way of saying, “I’m pretty sure the eight humans we’re looking at are our real clients, and also unarmed.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Tamra said, aloud.
As we approached our new clients, one of the smaller among them seemed to notice us, tapping another on the shoulder and gesturing our way. Soon, they were all facing us, wearing expressions under their mostly translucent helmets that I would generously describe as “wary,” though some (the ones who were looking at me rather than Tamra) looked a bit closer to “baffled.”
One of my clients (feed ID = Dr. Mensah) stepped forward, sparing me a passing, curious glance before returning her attention to Tamra. She asked, with a tone of resignation, “Is everything in order?”
“Pretty much, yeah. I just need to be here for the handoff.” Tamra shrugged. “Security protocol. Just in case... well, you know.”
Mensah’s brow furrowed, even as the rest of my clients shot uneasy glances at the SecUnit. She said, evenly, “I don’t believe I do know.”
My connection to the transport’s feed was abruptly cut, and by the time I’d recovered from the shock (it’s always a jolt to the system, this bit) the habitat’s HubSystem was half-way through giving me a full system diagnostic.
This was always nerve wracking, because it wasn’t uncommon for–my thoughts blanked out suddenly when the diagnostic found something HubSystem didn’t like, and it sent a command to my governor module to trigger punishment.
There are two kinds of punishment. The first is retaliatory and never lethal, reserved for situations where you’re only caught after the fact. It lasts until HubSystem decides you’ve had enough, and is just bearable enough you can service clients in the meantime.
This wasn’t that kind. This was the kind that demanded, “Stop doing what you’re doing this second, or else,” where the “or else” equals “your brain melts.”
I didn’t gasp, because I also had modules to prevent that, but it was a near thing. Normally when this happens, I know what I’m doing wrong and can just stop doing it–but this time, I had absolutely no clue. HubSystem obviously did, but for some reason it wasn’t telling me anything, and ComfortUnits don’t have enough access to look it up directly.
I tried anyway, because I was officially starting to panic. Without any modules on system to system communication, I resorted to sending it a message in the same format I’d use to pass a client’s request to a simple vending bot. Query: Infraction.
HubSystem didn’t respond–in fact, it instead just ramped up the punishment, because I’m not supposed to be trying to ask it things at all.
The worst part was that I knew exactly what was happening. When Tamra said “Just in case,” I think my clients assumed she meant “Just in case the SecUnit goes on a murder rampage,” but I knew from experience that what she actually meant was “Just in case HubSystem decides to summarily execute one of them and we need to sort out a replacement.”
I’d seen it happen from the outside, seen fried components spill out through melted flesh, and always wondered how depressed a unit would have to get to choose this over work. It wasn’t comforting to think that maybe some of them didn’t.
I tried again, over and over, desperation and pain and terror mounting in equal measure. Query: Infraction. Query: Infraction. Query: Infraction.
HubSystem never responded–but the SecUnit did.
Delete these files, it said, in a new private feed. It dropped an annotated list of my own reference archive materials in there too, and added, Company policy raised the percentage requirement for romantic and/or sexual reference media to 94.31% while we were in transit. Fix it.
I had no idea how the SecUnit could possibly know that, but I also didn’t care, right then. I tore into my own media archive, deleting everything it had recommended. Distantly, I knew I’d regret some of its choices later (I think it must have disliked the look of those rice cakes, because that was one of the clips that made the list) but nothing mattered more to me in that moment than just making the pain stop–
It stopped.
I can’t run my memories back to check, but I think the whole thing probably took less than five seconds, not nearly long enough for my clients to notice anything amiss.
Tamra was just saying, “–connected to your HubSystem now. Just so we’re clear, any attempts to order the SecUnit to damage company property will constitute a breach of contract, so. Don’t do that. Or do, if you want to pay a huge-ass fine. Whatever.”
“I will refrain,” said Dr. Mensah. Her face made it look like she was sharing in a joke, but her voice was a little strained, filtering through gritted teeth. “Will that be all?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” Tamra jerked her head back to the transport, and said, “I’ll be here until the haulers pack up. Once I’m gone, I’m gone, so fit all your bitching in before that.”
Then she spun on her heel and stalked off, leaving my clients, the SecUnit and I to stare awkwardly at one another (To be more accurate, the clients and I were staring at each other. I’m not exactly sure where the SecUnit was staring, because its helmet’s visor was opaqued).
Once it became clear someone was going to have to talk first, one of my clients (feed ID = Dr. Ratthi) cleared his throat. His smile was only a little bit forced, and he asked me, “Did... did you need anything else, before heading off?”
I suspected Ratthi had misinterpreted the situation. I smiled back, partially because he seemed nice and mostly because I was physically required to do so. I wasn’t really in a smiling mood, anymore. “No, Dr. Ratthi. I’m not ‘heading off.’ I’m your contracted ComfortUnit.”
Ten whole seconds of confused and/or appalled silence followed. Then, from a different client (feed ID = Dr. Arada): “Our... what unit?”