Chapter Text
I cycle to gradual consciousness inside my transport crate. The sensation of cold plasteel under me is at odds with the hot outside air leaking in. It’s dark. And there’s no feed, the emptiness of an uncultivated planet greeting me like a gaping hole. I feel stiff and there’s a taste in my mouth that isn’t blood but isn’t not-blood either.
This is normal.
What isn’t normal is the wide, uninsulated space on the floor I find myself sprawled on. As I try to right myself, rough patches pull at me. Has the lining from this crate been torn out? But then I’d have cut myself during transport, especially as I must have been jostled hard enough to be knocked over. Which is normally hard to do as SecUnits keep their joints locked during shipping. Yet I can’t find any surface damage.
There's more things that are not normal. For one thing, as I check my arms and legs, I realize what I'm wearing is not a skin-suit. Which is standard for transport. What I’m wearing is thicker. But not armor. Thicker and softer. There’s padding on my joints and an extra layer over my torso. But this is definitely not armor. It’s too comfortable.
There's more—I cant see. And yes it’s pitch black in here but I have my vision filters for that. Except I can't find them. I’m also—sweaty? And breathing too fast for just waking up from stasis.
I am also hurting.
Badly. So badly that I have trouble believing I’m not leaking as I feel over my body. So badly that it doesn’t compute when I can’t find any gaping holes or burnt-off flesh. I remember belatedly I have pain-sensors I can dial down for that. But I can’t find them either.
What the… I could just be hurting so badly I've misplaced them, that happens. It's why you have to start early dialing them down. And I’m late now, sore all over, like I’ve been fried by my governor module. Except, not just my governor module, no, like all my systems banded together to fry my organics. Touching my head is nice, my fingers cool to the skin on my forehead. Again, no external sign of damage. In my torso some patches are sore and hard, possibly signs of internal bleeding. Possibly I'm not remembering right where all my clunky bits are supposed to be.
Still, I hurt. Have I done something wrong? Is this the effect of prolonged governor shocks or something? I check my logs to see what happened but can’t find them. Then I try my Governor Module logs to see if any punishments were logged and they’re not there. Neither areThreat and Risk Assessment.
As for the feed, and the transport-crate’s interface that I can't find. Maybe they are out there, and it’s my feed-interface that is offline.
Well, I’m obviously fucked. This can’t be the start of a new mission. I must have suffered catastrophic damage. I should have been in a cubicle. Or in an incinerator. If I’m not, does this mean I’ve been assigned a bunch of humans too stupid to understand the difference between a transport crate and a cubicle? I hate it when that happens.
Stupid humans.
Those systems are pretty fucking important to my function you know—how am I supposed to run security if I can’t even find my clients? How am I even awake? And what is that screeching?
Oh, I think it’s humans screaming. I can’t understand them right now, because my language module is offline too. Of fucking course. I try to set a background program to get my processes back in order. But apparently backup is also down, so instead I work on opening my crate.
Huh. My arms feel like lead, and I know I’m scratching the door in front of me—I can feel pushback in my biceps, but there’s no sensory data from my fingertips. I fumble around in total darkness, until my crate’s door opens a crack, providing some much needed illumination. Now I can at least see my numb fingers, or a blurry outline of them. Even if they still provide me with zero feedback.
I decide violence will do, and shove myself forward against the door that falls open to the side. I can’t seem to get my legs under me, however, and my momentum propels me forward as I come tumbling out. At least my arms come up fast enough to catch me, saving me from the indignity of landing flat on my face.
I’m staring down at some type of soil. So I am on a planet. When I swing my still-calibrating gaze up I spot three blobs, probably humans, at the far side of a wide corridor covered over with flora. And they seem to be under attack by a delinquent drone. An enemy?
Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just malfunctioning. Despite my language module not wanting to wake up, I think I make out some of the words, and they seem to be trying to talk it down. Oh. Wait. My tagging system is malfunctioning too, but if I’m down on a planet I’m on contract. And if I’m out on contract these humans have to be my clients. Because if they are not, I should already be dead because my governor—
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck?
I should have realized when I couldn’t find my governor module logs. Or, at least when I used the F-word, which should have meant a reprimand. My Governor Module is offline.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t panic Murderbot! Except, of course, I’m not panicking. I’m a SecUnit. Dealing with unexpected shit is my job. Even if my systems remain stubbornly offline (this would have been a good time for an adrenaline flush), I can just keep doing my job.
At some point my systems will repair themselves, or I will get to a cubicle and I will get repaired. I mean, it’s kind of weird that my governor module, which is supposed to be the thing that keeps me on the job, was the last thing I noticed was broken. But I’ve done my job half-functional before (I think?). It’s going to be fine.
Okay, where to start? Well, my feed interface is definitely down, but at least I’ve now located it. It doesn’t appear too badly damaged— less badly than, say, my memory files. Possibly because the interface is mostly a piece of hardware with code so simple I can repair the glitches without even needing internal storage. Then I, without moving from the floor, very gently connect to the drone’s feedID.
The drone says to me: [WHEEEEE!!!]
I flinch back and try to cover my ears with numb fingers. (Which is weird, SecUnits don’t flinch, and I know perfectly well that you can’t make feed-sounds stop by covering your ears. That’s just stupid.)
Fuck. That drone is as loud as a wormhole-drive core.
No, louder. It’s so loud— this cannot be a normal drone. Not even a normal bot. It’s consciousness is way too big. It’s like they stuck a BotPilot inside a drone. But a BotPilot with a consciousness as big as a star-system, if a normal bot-pilot was as big as, ugh. Me?
And the giant, terrible entity says: [I’m an airplane!!! Wheee!!]
As it zooms over my clients, who react by making placating gestures with their hands. Only one of them ducks when it comes back around, way too low, once again.
Humans— no survival instincts whatsoever! I’m going to have to go over there and neutralize the threat before it hits something. Or someone.
I try to scramble to my feet, but they’re still not working right. I guess this is what it feels like when humans complain about sleeping legs? Yeah— only that’s not supposed to happen with SecUnits. So, alright. Panicking just a little bit. But, I have no time for that right now. I’ll just shoot the damn incoming nuisance of a projectile that’s endangering my clients.
“Peepeepee Cotoyoseh!” One of the humans yells.
The botPilot actually answers, stopping its deranged giggles to make a sound like clearing its throat. The pause after that is just plain theatre, but at least it’s at a normal volume when it answers: [You are assuming, dear Iris, that I have any control at all over what’s going on. Yaaay!]
Which, ugh. That’s not good. At least it admits to being out of control. But why did it sound happy about it at the end there? Never mind. I have to shoot the thing: I try to deploy my arm guns.
Nothing happens.
The Bot-drone comes down again, bee-lining for one of the humans. They, in an amazing feat of reflexes, manage to jump to the side in the nick of time. Which is very lucky. The drone is a little bigger than my head and sharp enough to cleave right through mushy human bits. I grimace and try to formulate a different plan. Oh, it is probably for the best that I can’t shoot. I just noticed my targeting system is offline too.
Enough is enough. I pull myself to my feet, leveraging my elbows on the transport crate, then when I’m standing, throw one leg out in front of me. The momentum, more than any muscle or hardware, makes it straighten. But it works. I take another lurching step, then start speeding up. By the time I’m across the clearing I’m going close to my top-speed.
The drone has reached the crest of its ascent once more and is now speeding up, or falling down, once more. It’s aiming once again at my clients. I try to do some basic calculations, find my hardware unresponsive and use my poor, overclocked human bits. They suggest I throw my weight to the left, which I do. Aiming for a rock that I use as a step-up, I send myself flying through the air.
I nearly miss the drone, but flailing out with my arms I manage to snatch its wing. By some miracle my fingers lock tight, and I can swing myself up and against it. We crash to the ground together, only narrowly missing my? three clients.
From here, I’m about ninety percent certain I can’t miss even if I don’t have my targeting systems online. We slide across the ground in a cloud of smoke, I twist around and lock my legs around the drone, then use my fingers to pry open a gun port on my other arm and— I’m slow okay? My legs still aren’t working right, but my arms are worse, somehow. I extend the nozzle too soon somehow and get the gun stuck in its housings. By the time I do get them deployed, I’ve got my direct order.
“NO! SecUnit, don’t shoot it!”
From Iris. Or the one the bot-drone called Iris before. I lie back and very pointedly not-stare at her. “The drone is malfunctioning. It is a safety hazard.”
I know there’s a good buffer phrase in there somewhere, about how not following safety protocol will nullify warranties or whatever, but my stupid buffer is offline too.
“SecUnit, that’s Peri!”
I frown, and make a catastrophic mistake.
“Who the fuck is Peri?”