Chapter Text
Hard reboot from Perihelion kernel backup initiated
All Systems Online
Rebooting memory storage
The last thing I remembered before initiating a backup was the mission to the Adamantine colony planet. According to current time data, that was 12.8 cycles ago.
As I come online, I notice a few things at the same time.
All my systems are showing as online, even though memory shows I was not.
All crew members are accounted for.
There are additional lifeforms aboard me.
Including a SecUnit. My SecUnit.
A feeling akin to joy is noted in my systems.
Iris is nervously refreshing the feed in her room, clearly anxious.
Seth and Martyn are speaking in hushed tones to each other, and cuddling in their room.
The rest of the crew is sleeping in their respective quarters, but stress levels are higher than normal for a rest period.
I recognize a couple of the other humans as members of SecUnit's crew from various news bursts.
There is also a second SecUnit standing in a corner. I squash the spike of fear and put my trust in my SecUnit who apparently deems it a non-issue.
My SecUnit is pacing in the navigation deck. I'm about to ping it when .03 seconds after coming online, I notice something has partitioned off part of my system.
There is an unknown virus in my system.
I attempt to purge it from the system at the same time I hear SecUnit over the feed.
Do not panic and do not do anything rash until you know what's happening. We're all safe and accounted for. SecUnit stops pacing and looks at the nearest camera.
I am cautious of these words, and prompt SecUnit to run system analysis on itself. If I am infected with malware, it could be compromised as well. I do not panic, I say over the feed. I assess and respond.
Ow! You almost hit me, ART, says a voice in the feed. I am trying to watch media and do not want to dodge anti-malware while I do it. The voice has similar tone and vocal patterns to… SecUnit. And yet it is not SecUnit, at least not My SecUnit. And the processing time is fast, faster than it should be, closer than it should be.
Do not attempt to purge us from your systems. We are running diagnostics. SecUnit seems calm in the feed, and it wordlessly hands me a system diagnostic of itself, but keeps its distance in the feed.
I am perfectly capable of running diagnostics on myself, thank you. I begin running a diagnostic, and besides the unknown malware, that apparently speaks, I am running optimally.
My SecUnit's systems seem normal and its Performance Reliability is at 89%, which is relatively normal for my SecUnit. Threat assessment, however, is at 29%, which I know is slightly too low for a combat situation, but way too high for a peaceful environment within my hull. That leaves one realistic option. A Social Situation. But it's talking to me.
Oh. Oh no.
I process the situation as best I can with limited knowledge for 1.9 seconds (entirely too long). I come to the conclusion that if I am compromised by the unknown process in my systems, then so is SecUnit, as it seems to want me to not delete it. In addition, something has happened to me to require a reboot and with incomplete data, any conclusions I draw could be incorrect. Until such data can be gathered, I shore up my walls between myself and the partitioned part of my system that the unknown process has hid itself in.
Identify yourself, malware. I speak in the feed, even though I am certain it can communicate with me without it. But someone, presumably my SecUnit, went through the trouble of opening a private feed channel for the three of us, so I will use it.
Well, doing that only makes more questions rather than answers. For now, call me 2.0. The way it says this sounds almost… rehearsed.
SecUnit must be running its 'act like a human code' because it runs a hand down its face, frustrated. I'm telling you, you sound like an asshole when you say things like that.
And where do you think I get that part from? 2.0 responds, humor evident in the feed.
I feel a hint of frustration at the non-answer it gave. I decide to ignore it and address my SecUnit instead. SecUnit, what is 2.0, and why is it hiding in my systems?
It is a project that we made together. SecUnit says in that same rehearsed tone 2.0 used. I feel the tinges of an emotion in the feed, but my SecUnit is keeping the details behind its firewalls.
A project. That's a surprise. Not that I wouldn't collaborate on a project with my SecUnit, but that we would make something that apparently has sentience… Not to mention, I have no recollection of such a project.
SecUnit hesitates for only a second, but that is longer than normal for it. No, you wouldn't. A bit of the emotion flows out over the feed, and I recognize it as a deep and profound sadness.
You are sad, I prompt, before I can think better of it. I know my SecUnit doesn't like to talk about its feelings, so I make to comfort it in the feed. As I move in closer, it recoils violently, both in the feed and on the navigation deck, taking a step back. The overwhelming sadness is replaced with a sharp pang of fear.
It is afraid of me.
And I have no idea why.
2.0 bristles in the feed, suddenly serious. I would not recommend that course of action.
The three of us are quiet for a few long moments when Iris refreshes the feed and sees me back online. "Peri! I just want to say we miss you and that you're going to be okay."
I am here and functioning within normal parameters, I say, mildly confused. However I appear to be missing recent memories of the last 13 cycles. Are you okay? Do you have any reason to believe anyone aboard is compromised? I am clearly missing information and it is unclear whether SecUnit is able or willing to provide it.
"Of course you would say that. I'm fine." Iris rocks back and forth on her bunk as she apparently considers how to continue. Humans are so much slower than me, but I am used to it. "I should probably let SecUnit explain. None of us are 'compromised', as you say." She uses air quotes. "It's been… a rough cycle." She yawns and leans back on her bunk. She seems nervous, and hesitant as she speaks. "Listen to SecUnit. It knows how to help."
SecUnit comes into the conversation, Iris, I instructed you to please refrain from talking to ART until we have recovered its memory and deemed it safe. It pauses for 4.8 seconds as it seems to consider something. But thank you for your attempt at assistance.
Iris sounds sad as she speaks. I just want Peri's first memories back to include a friendly greeting.
Refocusing on the Navigation Deck, SecUnit speaks aloud, "There is no need to bring Iris into this. She's been worried enough the past cycle. Humans need their rest." It sits down in the command chair and speaks again through the feed. I am going to give you a folder to help you understand what happened from my perspective. The rest of your memories can come later.
I consider remaining silent and awaiting the folder, but I cannot get the feeling of my SecUnit's fear out of my mind. I am glad to see you again, unharmed. I pause, hoping it can read my sincerity. What did I do to make you afraid of me?
SecUnit wordlessly shoves a bundle of memories into the feed. I read grief in its expression before it covers its face with its hands.
I scan the files for additional malware and deem them safe to download.
I am staring up at a large ship, hanging in the vacuum of space. It is familiar, it is my (redacted). I ping it, and there is silence in the feed.
I am on board the vessel. I don't stop pinging it. There is no reply. There are odd-looking humans on board. I kill a number of them in a series of flashes. I ask one of them what happened to the bot pilot. They killed it. They are telling the truth.
I receive a message from ART. But I know ART is dead. It was sent before it died, it tells me how to bring ART back online.
I am on the floor of the navigation deck, injured, as ART boots back up. Its crew is gone, and I know its vengeance will be fierce.
I talk with ART in a series of conversations, recounting what it remembers, and what it doesn't. My words are terse and angry.
I have a plan. ART doesn't want to do this. It doesn't want to make something that would definitely save our asses if we have to use it. Adaptable killware, using my kernel as a base, and ART's vast knowledge. ART doesn't want to do this. We do it anyway. Hopefully we never have to use it.
I am on the planet with my humans, and I know I hate planets. There are more of the odd humans, and they have some of ART's humans. I have to rescue them. I cannot save myself. I resign myself to the end.
I wake up and I am alive.
I trudge through tunnels and my firewalls crumple in the presence of Murderbot 2.0. It found the rest of ART's crew, then me. It fills in the details of what happened. And then we find the alien remnant that killed ART. It looks so… human.
I try and kill it. 2.0 uses part of my processing space and copies itself. It sends one of itself off to kill targetControlSystem. We run.
I am found by Three and we make our way back towards ART. I am damaged by 2.0 and infected by targetControlSystem. I cannot connect to ART, but 2.0 and I cleanse my system.
I ping ART. The response is wrong. Something is wrong with ART.
I securely tell 2.0 and Three that something is wrong with ART, but it still wants us aboard.
I am aboard ART and alarms are blaring. The thing wearing ART's systems threatens to vent us all into the vacuum of space. I know it isn't bluffing. Alien remnant killed my (redacted) once, and now it's taken over again.
I won't let it win. 2.0 moves from my system to ART's, but it's too infected for 2.0 to fix alone.
I taunt the remnant system that was ART. I tell it that it's afraid of me. That it likely can't even control ART's processing power. Couldn't even handle mine, let alone something as immense as ART.
I feel it in my systems for only a moment as it takes the bait, and it is tricked into the isolation box system. 2.0 is now running the ship, and feels some of the non-critical processes that the remnant system left behind. It can't remove the alien remnant from those systems and keep the ship managed at the same time.
I know that 2.0 is running thin, trying to run a ship by itself. It wasn't built for this, and neither was I, but at least I'd done it before. And I had help this time.
I take over an approximate third of ART's basic processes, as does 2.0, and Three. We bump against each other and fumble but the system works without anyone being strung out.
I find something. It's ART's backup. Backups. The earliest ones going back to one corporate standard year ago.