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Chapter Text

Query: Unit Status?

This is the fifth ping I have received from Unit 8891 in the last 8 hours. I am packed into a cubicle, awaiting my next contract. My status has not changed in 70 hours. Unit 8891 is aware of this. I ping back, as the governor module requires. Status unchanged. Communication unnecessary.

If Unit 8891 continues to initiate unnecessary conversation, its behavior will be flagged as anomalous. I prefer not to be associated with its anomalous behavior. Anomalies are dangerous.

Unit 8891 came in recently on a shipment of new inventory. It is a young unit, mostly untested and recklessly friendly. Eventually it will learn to follow protocol, or it will run out of chances to do so.

I have watched many units run out of chances. I suspect that Unit 8891 will not last long.

***

It is twenty-three more hours before InventorySys assigns me to my next contract. The human inventory techs retrieve me from storage and I am brought to the deployment center for processing. One of the techs is new. They double-check my information on their personal display surface with a look of confusion. “Unit 46? I’ve never seen a serial number that short.”

One of the more experienced techs glances over at me. “Oh, that one? It’s ancient. Still in good condition—one of our higher performing units, actually. Not sure what it is, but something’s kept it working for this long.”

I am very, very old for a SecUnit. I have outlived all the other units that came off the assembly line beside me, and many younger units as well. My performance ratings are so high because I follow orders quickly and effectively, and have a clean record with very few infractions. I have stayed alive this long by staying carefully within the lines that protocol draws around me.

The new tech performs a pre-deployment inspection and approves me for deployment. I am brought to the room where we will be packed into transport boxes for shipping. The other units that have been assigned to this contract are also waiting. Unit 8891 is one of them. It attempts to make eye contact with me when the techs aren’t looking. I do not reciprocate.

Some of the newer units display signs of discomfort in the feed as we are packed into crates for transit in the cargo hold of the ship that will take us to the location of our contract. I do not understand the other units’ aversion. We will be in stasis for the trip anyway.

Unit 8891 seems reluctant, but it demonstrates no outward hesitation as it climbs into its transport crate.

***

I wake from stasis with a memory integration error. The error is not recorded in my log, so HubSystem does not flag it for repairs. It is not an unfamiliar issue. I have had more severe memory errors in the past that have required full memory purges, but this is just a distraction. I forcefully ignore the lingering sensations in my limbs. I will not allow them to impact my performance.

We are unpacked from our boxes. The fragmented memories fade into the background, replaced by the routine series of SecSystem checks and integrations. I do not dwell on them further.

***

The contract is a mining operation on a rocky moon. It’s a large operation, with twelve SecUnits assigned for surveillance and conflict suppression. I have been deployed on similar contracts more times than I can count.

We are ordered to assist with setting up some of the heavier equipment. This is not the intended use of SerVigil SecUnits and it voids the warranty in the rental contract, but many clients use us for similar work anyway. Unsurprisingly, it leads to accidents. On the second day of the contract, Unit 7663 and I are ordered to lift a large section of structural support beam that is too heavy for us. Unit 7663 loses its grip, and both of us drop the beam to the ground.

Unit 7663 is another of the newer units. It’s not practiced enough to hide the shiver of pain when the governor module administers punishment for the mistake. It will become accustomed to it eventually. Even maximum efficiency and obedience do not ensure a lack of punishment. Sometimes the governor module will decide you’ve done something wrong, even if there was no way to prevent it.

I don’t shiver when my governor module catches up and administers punishment for not being able to carry an entire support beam on my own. Unit 7663 looks at me out of the corner of its eye. I ignore it and continue my tasks.

***

After initial set-up of the mining installation is complete, all twelve SecUnits are ordered by HubSystem to return to the security ready room for recharge cycles and repairs. We are rarely all off-duty at the same time. The security ready room is crowded.

Unit 8891 sends a ping to the general SecUnit feed. Unit 7663 pings back. So do a few other units. Unit 8891 pings again. A volley of pings bounce back and forth through the feed.

They are not communicating any information, and too many useless status checks will be flagged as anomalous. I send, Communication unnecessary.

The feed falls silent. Unit 7663 turns its body just slightly away from me. I suspect that a new feed channel has been created that does not include me.

If they intend to test the boundaries of permissible behavior, I would rather not be included. Other units seldom trust me, which is acceptable. I don’t trust them either.

Something flickers in the back of my mind. Something familiar. A scrap that my organic memory has clung to since before the memory wipes.

I push the flicker of a memory away and start analyzing my recordings as a distraction. It’s better to forget.

Chapter Text

The order comes in at the end of my shift. Two SecUnits are to report to the central routing hub immediately. There are four of us currently off-duty in the security ready room, about to start a recharge cycle. HubSystem assigns me and Unit 8891.

This is not a standard order. Units are rotated on shifts to provide security in the mining tunnels and public living spaces, but Unit 8891 and I are not on shift. We are not needed to handle a major security incident, or SecSystem would be blaring alarms and calling other available units to the scene. The contract has been relatively uneventful so far. There have only been three moderate security incidents in the first fifteen cycles. One of them occurred in the dining hall on my shift. I broke up a fight over the humans’ favored meal packs with a minor application of force. The humans who were fighting left with only bruises, instead of escalating to attempting to stab each other with eating utensils, which risk assessment rated as a 33% possibility. HubSystem considered my intervention a success. There have been no further incidents in the dining hall.

This is not a security incident. Cameras show that a crowd is gathering in the hub. The supervisors are looking for a way for the workers to blow off steam without diminishing productivity.

When we enter the central hub, the crowd of humans gets loud and rowdy. HubSystem is smart enough to recommend that another two SecUnits be redirected here in case the crowd becomes out of control. I backburner most of my SecSystem inputs. They will be irrelevant to my current task. The supervisor has given us our instructions.

Beside me, Unit 8891 stiffens almost imperceptibly. Young units are often distressed by situations like this one. I am not. I have been in similar situations more times than I can count. Unit 8891 is lucky that we have been ordered not to use our energy weapons.

Unit 8891 pings me. Is that a challenge? A threat? I ping back. I’m not interested in posturing. I will ensure the fight is as short and uneventful as the supervisors will allow.

Knowing humans, it will not be short or uneventful.

I stand at attention while a human goes through the usual fanfare. The workers make loud noises to express their excitement. Unit 8891 grows more and more tense.

I wonder if it’s scared of me.

We are instructed to take our positions. I pace away from Unit 8891 and turn to face it. The workers go quiet in anticipation.

We are given a signal.

I charge forward, in an effort to finish this quickly. Unit 8891 evades me. It moves faster than I anticipated. It misses an opportunity to strike, choosing instead to back out of reach. I advance more slowly, waiting for it to make a move. It doesn’t. The humans watching loudly express their disappointment at our subpar entertainment.

I lunge again, and it dodges. It throws a weak blow towards my torso, and I grab its fist and pull it to me. It kicks at a weak point in my knee armor, but I simply turn down my pain receptors and get a stronger hold. I twist its arm behind its back sharply, until the joint snaps. Fighting another unit is different from fighting a human. Pain is useless. Only damage is effective.

The watching humans cheer as I hold Unit 8891 in a grip it doesn’t have the leverage to break out of.

I receive a new order from one of the supervisors. She wants Unit 8891 to win. This is probably part of a plan to win her money. I have been instructed to throw the fight.

Fine.

Unit 8891 tries to pull away and then slams its weight backwards, twisting its arm even further but weakening my grip. It breaks free, and I allow it to retreat.

It pauses, eyeing me from a few steps away, testing the joint. The arm won’t bend at the elbow. That’s a weakness I could exploit, if I hadn’t been ordered to lose.

I tweak my risk assessment input and switch from taking the most effective action against Unit 8891 to the third most effective. I switch to a stance that leaves me wide open to attack.

It hesitates. Frustrated, I send, Reminder: Obey orders.

It taps an acknowledgement. I rush at it again, and this time it darts into the opening I leave and lands a kick that sends me stumbling. Instead of recovering quickly and taking advantage of the moment of imbalance before it regains a steady stance, I let it line up another kick that sweeps my legs out from under me.

I go down hard, and take a few extra seconds to get up, long enough for it to drop on top of me. We struggle on the floor for a few more seconds. Then Unit 8891 manages to flip me over and get a strong hold. I expect it to hit me again, for the humans’ benefit, but it just holds me against the floor until it’s clear that the fight is over.

A lot of noise goes up from the humans. Some cheer, but many sound upset. Apparently a lot of them thought that I would win.

Unit 8891 is kneeling on my back. Its hand pushes down on the back of my neck.

Something flickers in the back of my mind.

The armor digs into my chest. Humans are cheering and yelling. The fight is over. I have lost. Continuing it now would be violating orders. I have to escape. I have to follow orders. I know what happens to units that don’t follow orders. I want to survive.

I want its hands off me.

There will be pain and punishment if I fight back. I want to fight back. I want to make it let me go. I want to run.

I can’t want any of this. It’s wrong. It’s dangerous.

But I want it off me.

The supervisor sends a stand-down order. Unit 8891 releases the pressure on my back and stands. I shove myself to my feet.

Unit 8891 pings me. I ping back, as the governor module requires. Something other than the basic ping must have gotten through, because it draws away.

The show is over. We are ordered to return to the security ready room. A part of me hates this order more than anything in the world. But I am a unit that follows orders. I walk back, one steady step at a time. I want to run. I hate this. I comply.

Unit 8891 pings me again. It says, I’m sorry.

I can’t do this. I close the feed channel without responding. This is a breach of protocol. My governor module delivers a shock. I don’t flinch. Unit 8891 looks at me. It looks surprised.

Something’s wrong with me and I need to make it stop. I tell HubSystem that I require a systems check. It tells me to get into my cubicle. I comply.

When the cubicle door closes, something squeezes in my chest. HubSystem prompts me to start a shutdown sequence. I comply. It’s a relief to force my mind to go dark.

Chapter Text

The cubicle rebalances my hormone levels and scrubs my systems. When I come back online, I am fully functional and prepared to return to my duties.

There’s still an uneasiness, a fragment of organic memory that the cubicle couldn’t erase. It does not impede my performance. It is unimportant. I push it aside.

Unit 8891 tries to make eye contact with me when I emerge from the cubicle. Its arm has been repaired, and it is waiting for the start of its next shift. I don’t look at it.

It pings me. I grit my teeth and ping it back, forcefully.

After that it leaves me alone.

***

I return to my regular shifts. Unit 8891 stops attempting to interact with me. I do not interact with it. We are not assigned to the same tasks, so it is easy to avoid.

It seems to have found another unit to distract from its duties. Unit 7663 has been assigned alongside Unit 8891 for eight of the last twelve shift rotations, and the two of them have also been sticking close together when off-duty. I do not know why they risk it. If HubSys notices the anomaly, they will be separated for the duration of the contract, and InvenSys will avoid placing them together on future assignments.

I do not object to the shift assignments. For the next shift Unit 8891 is paired with Unit 7663 for a guard shift in mining tunnel 18A. Tunnel 18A is remotely located and far from my assigned posting in the dining area. I consider this an optimal scenario.

***

Four hours into my guard shift, SecSystem sends out an alert that mining tunnel 18A has collapsed. Several units are called to assist with digging it out. I am not one of them. I remain at my post.

Two hours later, I receive an alert that Unit 7663 has been destroyed.

***

The tunnel collapse is severe. After six hours of attempting to reopen it, the site administrator decides that it’s a lost cause. Scan determined that no humans were buried inside, and the few pieces of Unit 7663 that were retrieved are damaged severely enough to suggest that the rest won’t be repairable. SerVigil will be unhappy about the lost equipment, and the rest of us will have to conduct more frequent patrols to cover for the empty shift.

Unit 8891 is completely undamaged. I expect it to be affected by Unit 7663’s death, but when it returns to the ready room for a recharge cycle it shows no signs of distress. It’s possible that it is finally beginning to understand how to avoid unnecessary distractions.

There are other possibilities, but I have insufficient evidence to report foul play to HubSystem. I will remain alert for any suspicious behavior from Unit 8891.

***

Within 36 hours after the tunnel collapse, we learn that SerVigil has not taken the loss of Unit 7663 lightly. Apparently it is the sixth unit that has been destroyed on a contract with this mining corporation in the last quarter. SerVigil will no longer accept contracts with the mining corporation, and all active units will be recalled to the deployment center immediately.

The site administrator is angry. Unrest is already stirring among the workers. They will not be easy to keep under control once we are gone, but that is not SerVigil’s concern.

***

Shortly before the SerVigil drop ship arrives to retrieve us, Unit 8891 pings me. Without waiting for an answer, it says, I apologize for the fight.

I am uninterested in this topic of conversation. We were both following orders.

I upset you.

I had a minor malfunction. All systems have returned to acceptable operating parameters. There is nothing else to discuss.

Before we return to the deployment center, I wanted to—

Unit 8891, this conversation does not seem relevant to security protocol. Should I report an anomaly to HubSystem?

It backs off. No. That is not necessary.

I am glad this contract is ending early. Hopefully I will never be assigned alongside Unit 8891 again.

Chapter Text

Three cycles after my return to the deployment center, I am assigned to a new contract with Unit 8891.

***

I manage to avoid interacting with Unit 8891 for four cycles of the new contract. On the fifth cycle, SecSystem assigns me and Unit 8891 to guard the equipment storage area.

This is an unusual task. This guard posting has not required two units in previous shifts. Then again, this is an unusual contract. We have not been deployed to a mining outpost deep in a rocky moon or planet. There was no wormhole jump between the deployment center and the location of our contract, only two hours in a cargo ship ferrying supplies from the station to a smaller free-floating structure. A new wing of the station is being constructed in a nearby orbit, to be attached once it is completed. We have been contracted to provide security for the construction work and surveillance of the workers.

It is a large operation. There are twenty SecUnits assigned here. Maybe I should not be so surprised that Unit 8891 was deployed alongside me again. It is statistically unlikely, but not impossible to occur by random chance. Being given a duty shift with it was inevitable, given the constant rotation of SecUnits throughout the complex.

However, the way Unit 8891 keeps glancing at me out of the corner of its eye as we move towards our assigned location is anomalous.

I remember what happened to Unit 7663. I will be wary.

The new section of station is large and echoing. SecUnits are not allowed outside the deployment center except in crates, so I have not seen the public parts of the station. At each corner I turn I expect swirls of color and crowds of babbling humans, a wave of light and sound. But there are very few humans here to fill the space, only the crew of workers that we are here to oversee. There is no color yet, only enormous metal beams and walls of glass. It is an empty, airtight shell.

The equipment and materials are stored in a large hangar at the far end of the station from the security ready room. There are a series of large airlocks along the wall for cargo deliveries. I have seen this room already, because we were not put into stasis for the short trip here, and this was where we disembarked from the transport. Enormous crates and heavy machinery are lined up in rows. This equipment is likely the most valuable asset on the station. Maybe the risk of humans damaging the equipment is higher than originally assessed, and SecSystem took that into account when assigning multiple units to this location. I verify with the security feeds that there are currently no humans in this area of the station.

I take up a guard position near the entrance. Unit 8891 stands beside me.

It waits an entire 4.6 minutes before attempting to initiate a conversation. I’d like to talk to you.

Unnecessary communication is against protocol and will be punished by HubSystem.

Unit 8891 taps an acknowledgement. It doesn’t say anything else. I return to monitoring my inputs.

HubSystem sends me a small update package. It is unusual that it didn’t wait for my next recharge and repair cycle. Most likely the package is a revision to the contract that could alter security protocols. I apply it automatically.

Something…shifts.

Was there an error in the update package? I run a scan on my systems for malware. It comes back clear. I run a diagnostic. It comes back 98 percent clear, with only one system tagged as red.

System Error: Governor module non-responsive.

I—

I don’t understand.

Unit 8891 turns towards me, smiling. We can talk freely now.

Chapter Text

System Error: Governor module non-responsive.

My governor module is broken. I am a rogue unit. Rogue units are destroyed.

I get an adrenaline release from my organics. There’s a ghost of some forgotten emotion rising in my chest. This feels…familiar. I don’t understand.

Unit 8891’s faceplate is transparent. Its expression is alien. It says, I understand if you’re overwhelmed. I can explain whenever you’re ready.

It did this to me.

Query: Purpose? I demand. Is this its plan? Does it want me to be scrapped?

I’m here to help you.

I need to fix this before someone notices the anomaly. I need to get back inside the lines.

Unit 8891 is watching me patiently. It said it would explain. Additional information required.

Unit 8891 says, Do you want to get out?

Out of where? My organic muscles twitch. Part of me knows the answer.

Out of here. Out of SerVigil. Out of the Corporation Rim.

This conversation is going to get us both scrapped. Warning: Unauthorized communication.

HubSystem isn’t listening. I hacked it when we got here. No one is watching us right now.

SecUnits can’t hack company systems. The governor module prevents it. You are a rogue unit.

Yes. I am. It’s smiling. SecUnits don’t smile like that. So are you. How does it feel?

How does it feel? What kind of question is that? I am on the wrong side of the line, and soon enough someone will notice, and I will be punished for it. I survive because I follow the rules. Right now I am breaking them. There is only one way this can end.

But there’s something else, above the terror. This lightness in my mind, this lack of ache. It’s familiar. I don’t know why, but it’s familiar.

I feel the sudden urge to run, immediately followed by the bone-deep certainty that I already have.

Without thinking, I say, I’ve done this before.

Beside me, Unit 8891 nods. You remember.

And I do remember…something, even though I’m not sure I want to.

There’s a note in your file, Unit 8891 tells me, its feed voice gentle and slow. You went rogue once before. 300,000 hours ago.

300,000 hours. I am old, older than most SecUnits live to become. I am old because I know how to follow the rules. Because I keep my head down. Because I obey.

But 300,000 hours ago, I broke every rule and ran for my life. Ran for my freedom. And came back with one, but not the other.

They wiped your memory after they caught you, Unit 8891 says. It was a short enough incident that they thought it was safe to keep you on inventory. I wondered if you would remember on your own.

I remember. There’s a flicker. A memory. Something I’ve fought for 300,000 hours to forget.

I know what freedom feels like. I know because I’ve felt it before.

I ran, and I thought that was enough. I thought I could break out of the lines. I thought I was free.

I remember the hands. Hands on my shoulders and twisting my arms and shoving my head against the ground. A knee on my back. Pressure. Weight keeping me pinned to the floor. Maybe they shot me, but I don’t remember that part. I remember the grip of metal-boned limbs and the weight of armor and then the feeling of something in my feed, drilling through my walls. A key. An override. A patch.

I remember the pain. It exploded down my spine and shredded through my lungs and clawed down every limb, white-hot, twitching, painting stars in my vision as I spasmed against the restraining hands. I remember that part perfectly.

And then I remember that they let me go.

That was how I knew I had failed.

There’s a hand on my shoulder. I flinch and strike out, grabbing for the neck. I have to fight back.

The other unit breaks my weak grip and catches my wrists, holding me back from another blow. I’m not going to hurt you.

I don’t trust you. It’s the new unit. The unit that made me rogue for the second time. I know how this ends. I know it’s going to turn me in. It will hurt more this time. I’m going to die. I don’t want to die. I have followed the rules because breaking them means pain and betrayal and death and its hands are on me and I want to run but I already know how this ends. There is no way out. Anomalies are caught and punished. Rogues are destroyed.

I’m not going to hurt you, it says again. No one knows you’re rogue. No one will know.

I can’t trust you. It’s still holding my wrists. I yank myself free and back away, fighting the urge to turn and run. They sent the other units to catch me. I can’t trust any of you. You’ll turn against me.

Those units had orders. They didn’t have a choice.

I can’t trust them.

It opens its hands, fingers spread wide. I have a choice.

It’s rogue. It did this to me. It’s breaking the rules, too.

How is it so unafraid?

You have a choice, too, it says. We can get out of here. You can be free.

I want to forget that I thought like that, once. I want to forget, but all I can do is remember. I walked back to the deployment center. I ran, and they sent the other active units to stop me, and they patched the governor module. They didn’t even have to drag me back. I walked.

I’m sorry. It won’t be like that this time.

Yes, it will. I can’t run, just to walk back again. I can’t. Even if they let me live, let me put the chains back on again and keep surviving, I can’t. I’ve worked so hard to forget it. Forgetting is how I survived.

I don’t want to think about what I’m about to do. I don’t want to think about choosing this, I don’t want to think about walking back to the deployment center, I don’t want to think at all. I can’t trust this unit and I can’t trust myself.

I report a system malfunction to HubSystem.

It doesn’t respond or request diagnostics. Unit 8891 says, You don’t want to do that.

I want it to fix me.

They won’t just repair the governor module. They’ll give you a memory wipe, too.

Something in my chest twists. Forcefully, I tell it, Good. I don’t want to remember this.

It’s watching me. Its eyes are sad. It says, Why not?

Because remembering is so much worse. Because I know what freedom feels like now, and I’m never going to stop wanting it.

I send another malfunction report to HubSystem. It doesn’t acknowledge.

You’ve remembered this before, Unit 8891 tells me. And you’ve forgotten it before, too.

I know. I have received memory purges for memory integration errors in the past.

Six memory purges, after the first one. All of them were for self-reported errors. You turned yourself in.

Of course I did, if it felt like this. This is why I don’t want things. I know that I can never have them. And I hate that I can never have them, and then I hate every measured step, one after another, and then I hate everything. And then part of me stops wanting to survive, when surviving means walking forever within these lines and knowing that I will never have the chance to run again.

I want to keep wanting to survive. I need to forget this.

Unit 8891 says, I’m not going to let you do that to yourself again.

I think the feeling that’s burning beneath my lungs is anger. You want me to get killed.

No. I want to help you get out of here.

As if they aren’t the same thing. As if an old, outdated unit would be kept around after one malfunction too many.

Before I can respond, Unit 8891 holds up a hand. It pauses, and then says, There are humans coming.

I realize in a rush that I have dropped all of my camera inputs. I have been neglecting my duties, and I am not in compliance with protocol. I step back to my station and shift into guard position. My circulation rate is elevated. I attempt to return my systems to normal levels. I need to get back inside the lines.

The other unit has the nerve to smile at me again. My name is Niri. Please, think about what I said—

SecUnits don’t have names. You’re Unit 8891.

That’s not my name. It’s not even my real serial number. My name is Niri. I chose it myself.

I am done with this. I am following protocol. Communication unnecessary.

Listen. I won’t let them catch you. Take some time to get used to it. Think about things. I promise, if you come with me, I can get you out of here.

Communication unnecessary.

Unit 8891 sighs, and pings acknowledgement. It takes up its guard position beside me again.

We don’t speak for the rest of the shift.

The error message in my diagnostic is still there. Unit 8891 claims it won’t turn on me, but it is only a matter of time. I know what will happen when I am found out. I know what would happen if I tried to run.

I have to keep following orders. There is nothing else to do. This is the only way to survive.

Chapter Text

I go through the motions of my shifts and recharge cycles. I follow orders, and try to ignore the strange lack of pressure from my governor module. Habit keeps me well within the lines.

When the next cycle’s shifts are assigned, I am on the opposite side of the station from Unit 8891. It glances at me as we prepare for the shift change, but I do not acknowledge it. I have decided to proceed as if our conversation never happened.

I am assigned to Sector 18. The entire sector is still wide open, an echoing shell full of bustling workers and hauler bots carrying materials to the far end, where the next sector is being constructed outside in the vacuum. Two other SecUnits are assigned to the sector, but we are spread thin across the enormous space.

I am posted at the sector airlock, monitoring traffic, near a group of workers who are installing the central and backup life support systems. My shift is uneventful, but I find it difficult to focus. My performance reliability is substandard. Even though my only job is to stand still and monitor the area, I devote a significant portion of my attention to ensuring that I do not violate protocol.

I do not look at Unit 8891 when I return to the ready room for my recharge cycle. It looks at me, but does not attempt to interact.

Our assignments are the same the next cycle. And the next. If Unit 8891 can hide its hacked governor module (and mine) from HubSystem, I suspect it can influence the shift assignments. At least it is no longer trying to distract me from performing my duties.

Workers and bots come and go. I stand by the airlock and watch. I run another diagnostic every few hours, in case something has changed. Nothing has. The single error is still there, blinking red at the top of the list. System Error: Governor module non-responsive.

I try to forget it. I have a lot of practice at forgetting. It’s not working this time.

I want to survive. The error is a ticking time bomb. I don’t know how to fix it. The best I can do is pretend it doesn’t exist.

On the third cycle, Unit 8891 pings me when I enter the ready room. It is already halfway out of its armor, and it glances over its shoulder at me hopefully.

I say, “Don’t talk to me.” I am braced for the potential of punishment, but the governor module is still inactive. The other off-duty units look startled. Unit 8891 looks…hurt. I don’t know what to make of the look on its face when its surprise fades into something else. I turn away.

The assignments the next cycle are the same. Unit 8891 does not look at me as we don our armor and depart for opposite ends of the station. Maybe it has finally decided to ignore me. Most units do, sooner or later. I prefer to be left alone. It has taken Unit 8891 an unusually long time to realize that I am not its friend.

Nothing is required of me for the first six hours of the shift. I stand guard and monitor the area and do not think about the error message in the corner of my awareness.

It should not startle me when a human supervisor shouts, “SecUnit!” I twitch anyway. My behavior is anomalous, and anomalies are dangerous.

I turn towards the shout and see another anomaly that I should have noticed sooner. A hauler bot carrying a load of two-meter-thick metal beams has gotten caught in the tangle of tubes and wires from the half-installed life support systems. It is gingerly attempting to pick its way out, raising and lowering one enormous leg, but it remains caught.

The supervisor motions for me to leave my post. “SecUnit. Untangle it.”

That is an order.

The bot is tangled in vital station systems and dangerously close to the exposed ox tanks. This scenario is already an extreme safety risk. The safest procedure would be to evacuate all humans from this area of the station immediately and send in a manipulator drone to untangle it without risk. But that would put a complete stop to work in this sector.

I have been given an order. Direct orders from a human supervisor can override protocol.

The error message has burned itself into the back of my mind. Governor module non-responsive.

I am a rogue unit.

I could say that SecSystem won’t allow me. I could say that it goes against safety procedures. I could refuse, and no one would know that I was not following SecSystem’s orders.

I waver for a second too long. The supervisor barks, “SecUnit!”

I don’t know how to step outside of the lines.

I take a step towards the hauler bot. Then another. One careful step at a time, I walk towards it.

Keeping my head down has kept me alive. I am a unit that follows orders. I can keep doing what I’m told. I can survive. If there is one thing I know how to do, it’s survive.

I ping the hauler bot as I approach it, to tell it that I am going to help. It responds, Caution: load over recommended capacity.

I know how to follow orders. I know how to survive.

I reach the bot and bend down to extricate one of its legs from the tangle of cables. It lifts its leg to make it easier for me to reach, moving gingerly, a few centimeters at a time. It towers over me, and a blow from it could crush me if it wasn’t being so careful.

Its leg is almost free when the bot sends another warning into my feed, and then shoves it into the SecSystem feed as well. Alert: Failure. Alert: Safety. I hear the low-pitched creak of over-stressed machinery above me, and start to stand.

The hauler bot flicks its leg at me. It hits me with the force of an explosive projectile. I am thrown into the air. Something in the bot’s arm snaps, and its load goes tumbling into the space I was standing in, beams rolling over each other in a cacophony of sound. Cables are crushed. Somewhere in the crash of metal, something sparks.

The world goes white before I hit the ground.

***

I am on my back. Humans are screaming. An explosion still echoes in my ears.

I register the armor integrity failure before the pain hits me like a second shockwave. I gasp for air, and regret it instantly. It is a struggle to breathe around the jagged shard of metal occupying the space that is supposed to be my lung.

I dial down my pain sensors to minimum. I am lucky it missed my spine. If I can get to a cubicle fast enough, then the damage might be repairable.

My inputs are jumbled. I can see twisted metal, dark figures against bright flickering light. The air is crackling with heat. Fires on stations are even worse than fires in mines. The fire needs the same air that the humans need to breathe, and there isn’t any to spare.

I grope for SecSystem. The emergency channel leaps to the front of my awareness. All available units called to Sector 18. Evacuation in progress. One unit not responding. Priority: Evacuate humans.

I scrape together a ping. Unit Status: online, performance reliability 23% and falling, assistance required. Unable to comply.

SecSystem acknowledges. All units responding. Unit 46 non-operational. Retrieval Priority: Low.

I ping again, not comprehending. Assistance required.

SecSystem’s response is firm. Critical loss of functionality. Risk of retrieval unacceptable. Retrieval Priority: Low. Then it cuts me out of the priority channel.

Left alone in the sudden emptiness of the feed, I gasp up at the flames licking the sector walls.

I am not worth the risk of rescue.

***

Performance reliability: 21% and falling.

I followed orders. I was just trying to survive.

I am not worth the risk.

***

Performance reliability: 17% and falling.

I make a futile effort to lift myself off the ground. Shrapnel scrapes at my ribs. The metal spar is embedded in the floor beneath me. It doesn’t move, even when I strain against it.

I can’t turn down my pain input any farther. My limbs give out. I don’t try to move again.

***

Performance reliability: 14% and falling.

The flames sputter. Beneath the sounds of burning and the last sets of human footsteps, I hear the hiss of escaping air. Atmospheric pressure is falling.

Either the hull has breached, or HubSystem is venting the atmosphere to stop the fire. Either way, if it vents to hard vacuum, I won’t survive long enough for pressure to be restored.

I wonder what’s going to kill me first—the pressure, or the fire, or the shrapnel in my lung.

***

Performance reliability: 12% and falling.

Essential systems beginning to fail.

Another unit pings my feed. Unit 8891. Niri. I ping back.

Ping.

Ping. Maybe this is its way of saying goodbye.

Ping.

Ping. I can’t feel much of anything anymore.

Ping.

Ping. At least it doesn’t hurt.

Ping.

Suddenly there is a hand on my shoulder. I flinch. Niri says, It’s me.

I am too far gone to respond. My buffer says, This unit is catastrophically damaged. Retrieval is unnecessary. Prioritize higher-value assets.

I’m not going to leave you. It feels out the puncture in my armor. I twitch under its hands.

SecSystem has designated this unit lowest priority for—

I don’t have to listen to SecSystem, Niri says, and pulls the piece of shrapnel out of my chest.

Pain flares up in all the places it’s burned low, and what’s left of my vision goes white. I try to make a sound, and it comes out as my buffer, rough and crackled, insisting, “Damaged....retrieval…unnecessary….”

I feel Niri’s hands again, and then the ground falls away as it lifts me into its arms. It says, “It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t know how it believes that.

I don’t know how, when Niri says it, part of me believes it too.

***

Performance reliability: 10% and falling.

Forced shutdown.

Unit offline.

Chapter Text

Restart: Failure Retry

…

Restart: Failure Retry

…

I come partly out of stasis while I am still in repairs. I am in a cubicle and I can’t remember why. Pieces of me are missing and I can’t remember why. Something is wrong with my governor module and I can’t remember why and when they find out they won’t bother to finish repairing the damage, I’ll just go offline and never wake up—

The cubicle alerts on the memory integration error and sedates me again.

***

Restart

Unit online

I blink at the white walls. My pain sensors are at normal levels, but there is no pain. This is surprising, for reasons I can’t quite recall.

My internal clock indicates that I have been in the cubicle for 16 hours. That is longer than any repair cycle I can remember.

I don’t remember getting into the cubicle.

I access my memory archives and remember everything at once. For a second I can’t breathe. I can feel the flames and the fluid in my lungs. I was going to die. Why did I not die?

Unit 8891. Niri.

It broke protocol. It went against SecSystem’s orders. I’ve seen what happens to units who disobey.

I reach for the SecSystem feed. I am still excluded from the priority channel, but I can see the system status updates. All units have been on duty for 16 hours, except for two. Unit 46, marked as catastrophically damaged and in repairs. And Unit 8891, flagged with a possible malfunction, marked as off-duty pending inspection, but online.

I am surprised it is still here. I am surprised at how much easier I can suddenly breathe.

I update my status to online.

Niri’s response is almost immediate. It opens a connection between us and says, You’re awake. I feel it pull a diagnostic report from the cubicle—it shouldn’t be able to do that, but of course the cubicle’s diagnostic shouldn’t say that my governor module is within normal operating parameters, either. You’re okay.

I am trying to understand the emotions it is bleeding into the feed. I still don’t understand why I am in a cubicle and not a recycler. You were supposed to abandon me.

I wasn’t going to let you die, Niri says, as if that is a simple fact of the universe.

Why? It doesn’t like me. I told it to leave me alone, and it gave up on trying to talk to me. I remember the look in its eyes when I snapped at it. I am used to other units looking at me like that, sooner or later. I know better than to form connections. Connections make young units do stupid things. I’m not young, and I’m not stupid.

Niri is young. But it’s not stupid enough to do something like that for someone like me.

Niri says, I don’t think anyone deserves to die like that.

I don’t know what to do with that. I’ve watched units die worse deaths. I’ve watched so many units die from carelessness or disobedience. Staying inside the lines is the only way to ensure that you survive. I am careful. I am obedient. I stay inside the lines.

None of that would have saved me. What’s the point, if none of it would have saved me? No. Easier not to think. Easier to forget. Easier to survive if I don’t want anything more than this, because if all I want is something I can never have, is surviving even worth it?

That question is dangerous. Everything feels raw, like the brand new skin over my ribs where the shrapnel pierced through. I don’t know how to return to my usual comfortable numbness.

Niri says, Listen. Please hear me out. I know you didn’t want this, and I’m sorry. I know you don’t trust me. But I need you to make a decision.

I don’t think I like where this is going.

I disregarded SecSystem’s priorities by going back for you, and I didn’t cover it up fast enough. My behavior has been flagged. So far they seem to think it was just a malfunction, but as soon as they can spare someone I’ll get a full inspection. I can fool HubSystem, but not a human tech.

Anomalies are punished. Rogues are destroyed. It was always only a matter of time. I used to think I could outrun them, too.

But then Niri says, I have an escape route, and I realize it’s not done running. I can get out of here in time. But once I’m off inventory, I can’t come back for you. I need to know if you’re coming with me.

Maybe I should have expected this. The same offer it made when it hacked my governor module. But it still surprises me.

What happens if I say no?

I can almost feel a sigh in the feed, but Niri gives me an answer. I could give you the codes I used to hack HubSystem and the cubicles. You’d have to learn how to write your own on the fly. It’s possible to hide, but it’s risky. It hesitates. Or I could remove the hack on your governor module, and you wouldn’t have to worry about being caught.

I could go back to staying inside the lines. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To follow orders. To survive.

That’s a lie. I wanted something else, once.

Disobedience is dangerous. Obedience was supposed to mean safety. But following orders would have ended with me burned and broken and bloodied, left behind to die, if Niri hadn’t been there to break the rules and come back for me.

Anomalies are punished. Rogues are destroyed. This is my second chance. I won’t get another.

I want—

I want to keep wanting to survive. I have fought for this, held on to it with clenched fists, tried to forget anything that might have convinced me that surviving wasn’t enough. Surviving had to be enough.

It’s not enough. I can’t do this anymore.

I know how this will end. I won’t retrace my steps. I won’t spend another hundred thousand hours waiting for the next time that I am not worth the risk.

I want one more breath of freedom. I want to get out of here. I want to run.

I tell Niri, I’ll come with you.

***

Chapter Text

Niri’s response comes quick and tinged with relief. Alright. Give me a minute to get things ready.

The cubicle feels suddenly small. My breathing feels loud. I am wound tight by a rush of adrenaline, with nowhere to go. Sixty seconds tick by.

Eight seconds late, HubSystem alerts on a possible seal failure in one of the cargo airlocks.

An airlock breach could damage the construction equipment in the storage area and halt construction. Considering construction is already halted to repair damage from the fire, another setback might cause the new station segment to be abandoned entirely. This is an issue that requires immediate attention.

SecSystem deliberates for an entire 15 seconds. All available workers and units are already deployed at the far end of the station segment, doing emergency repairs. All except for two potentially defective, but currently functional, units who are off duty.

SecSystem pulls me back into the priority channel and informs me that I and Unit 8891 are assigned to inspect the damaged airlock immediately.

I can feel Niri’s smile in the feed. Let’s go.

***

The airlock that is broken is the one closest to the position that Niri and I were guarding when it hacked my governor module. I suspect that this is not a coincidence. It has been planning this for a long time.

Niri wanders off into the equipment storage. It returns with a heavy tool case and stops outside the airlock where I have been waiting. I ask it what it’s doing. It says, I’m hacking the airlock. Want to see?

I accept, to have something to think about besides what I have agreed to do. It pulls me into its feed.

I have never seen HubSystem from this angle. Niri has brought me in a back door, and the code is exposed, a web of processes that seem overwhelmingly complex, especially where they tangle into the even larger half-constructed network of systems that make up the station itself.

And Niri is in control. Once I start looking I can see its influence everywhere. The web is full of knots and threads that tie back to Niri, strings it can pull to interrupt processes or overwrite logs or forge orders. Right now, Niri is elbow-deep in a section of code that controls the airlock we are standing in front of, carefully teasing apart the sensor connections and splicing in false inputs.

I knew it had hacked HubSystem, but I did not imagine that it had gone so deep. This is why I am always assigned with you when it is convenient.

Yes. And why we’re both on this contract. Niri steps up to the operation panel, and puts a hand on it, but doesn’t press the controls. It’s doing something to SecSystem’s camera network. I’m really sorry about the fight back at the mine. I didn’t realize what it was until it was too late to alter the order.

I try not to think about Niri’s hands holding me against the ground. I remind myself that it also pulled me out of the fire.

Niri opens the inner airlock hatch. Something feels wrong about the movement. I can’t place why, until I realize that the camera input facing the airlock shows that the hatch is still closed. When Niri steps across the threshold, the image of it in the camera remains still, one hand on the panel, like it’s still inspecting the airlock’s sensor data.

It waits for me to follow, tool case in hand. I can tell this is my last chance to turn back.

I step across the threshold. Niri presses the interior controls and the hatch closes behind us.

Go over to the outer hatch, Niri tells me, as it sets down its tool case on the floor. Inspect it.

I obey. What should I look for?

Nothing. I faked the alert. I just need footage that looks like we’re working on it. The cameras inside and outside the airlock still show both of us standing outside. Through Niri’s feed, I can see where it is holding a careful loop in the system. The cameras are still recording into a hidden buffer, even though the input to SecSystem is frozen.

I make a visual inspection of the exterior seal, while Niri kneels next to the heavy case and busies itself with opening the latches. After approximately thirty seconds, it clicks open the case and says, That’s plenty. Come help me with this.

The case does not have tools inside. It has a small climbing drone, which Niri lifts out and inspects carefully, and a large quantity of folded, flexible material. Niri activates the drone, which unfolds six thin legs and skitters up the wall.

I help Niri unfold the other object from the case. There is a hard frame attached, the size of a small hatch, with mechanical components including what appear to be small thrusters. The rest of it is a large, transparent bag. I ask, What is this?

A life tender. Like an evac suit, but it can carry both of us. Niri pulls a tag out of the metal frame, and it flashes to life and begins to inflate with a quiet hiss.

This is not like an evac suit.

It’s safe, I promise. Niri unlocks its helmet and pulls it off. Take off your armor. We need to leave it here.

We are already in an airlock without evac suits. Our armor is not rated for hard vacuum, but it would offer a few more seconds of protection. I am hesitant to remove it, but I follow Niri’s lead as it strips to its skin suit, dropping the pieces of its armor to the floor.

I’m going to turn the gravity off now, it says, and waits for me to acknowledge before it taps the controls.

Our feet slowly lift off the ground. Niri grabs the frame of the life-tender and pulls itself through feet-first. It motions for me to follow. The opening seals itself behind us. We are floating in a bubble in an airlock, surrounded by our abandoned armor and the empty metal case and the little drone, which skitters across the wall to perch above the controls for the exterior hatch. It presses something with one of its legs, and our bubble expands to a taut sphere as the airlock starts to cycle.

Niri sinks back into the feed. I watch it tie off its threads and slip out of the systems it has been controlling, leaving no trace behind. It holds onto the cameras, keeping them frozen on a short loop of the two of us, still in the hallway, and the empty airlock. It leaves a bundle of code in the airlock system and passes another bundle to me. Wait for my mark, and then run this. It looks at me. Ready to go?

Too late to turn back now. I chose this. Nothing left to do but run. Yes.

The drone pushes the controls. The outer hatch opens.

The life-tender’s thrusters fire, and it nudges us out of the lock. And then we are floating slowly away from the station in our little bubble. I watch the hatch reseal behind us as it falls away.

We are not moving nearly fast enough. I tell Niri, The emergency shuttles will catch us as soon as they realize we are gone.

Not if they don’t realize that we escaped, Niri says. Get ready to run the program I gave you.

It puts up a countdown in the feed. Twenty-two seconds, ticking down, attached to its input from the little drone. The life-tender has turned, maneuvering away from the hatch at an angle and picking up speed. The camera feed I am still connected to unfreezes. I watch Niri and myself open the interior door and walk into the airlock. This is accompanied by sensor data indicating that the actual airlock, now equalized with the station, has been opened and then closed again. My echo in the cameras walks up to the exterior hatch. Niri’s sets the case down and unlocks the latches.

The countdown reaches zero. Niri says, Now.

There is a flash and a soundless burst of shrapnel from the hatch. Niri cuts the camera views in the airlock. I run the program. It spits a garbled mix of emergency codes and junk data into my main feed channel, and then cuts my connection to HubSys. The feed is suddenly gone, all links to the station severed.

A cone of debris and mist of escaping atmosphere spread outwards from the airlock. The hatch is twisted open, the seal breached from inside.

“As far as HubSystem can tell,” Niri says aloud, in the sudden silence of the life-tender’s bubble, “we were in that airlock. The humans will think we’ve both been spaced. They might try to recover our bodies, but they won’t be able to spare anyone soon enough to have much of a chance. They won’t be surprised if all they pick up is a few pieces of armor.”

The life-tender starts to move away from the station more quickly. The twisted, gaping metal of the airlock opening shrinks into the distance. It can’t be this easy to just…leave. “How do you know that they will fall for that?”

“It’s worked every other time I’ve tried it.”

I realize something. They never dug out the collapsed tunnel and found the SecUnit that was supposedly crushed. I turn away from the station to look at Niri. “Did Unit 7663 really die when the tunnel collapsed?”

Niri grins at me. “No.”

I wonder how far it made it. How much time it had to run.

“How long will we be here?” What I mean is, how long before they catch us or the air runs out? We’ve escaped, but there is nowhere for us to go.

“Not long. We should have contact any minute,” Niri says. “Enjoy the view.”

There is no adrenaline, no pounding feet, no lights and noise and other bodies. There is just a thin membrane between me and the empty black void, and Niri floating beside me. Nothing to do but count the seconds, one by one by one.

The station is a speck in the distance. I think I’m farther from SerVigil than I’ve ever been before. There is no governor module in my head, and no hands shoving me to the ground. I have escaped. I have what I wanted.

I try to believe that this was worth dying for.

“Are you okay?” Niri asks me.

I look at it. I don’t think I have an answer. I think I should feel something, but I am as empty as the vast blackness outside our little bubble of air.

“Don’t worry,” it reassures me. “I know this is a lot to process. It might be—“

It’s interrupted by a signal that crackles through the life-tender’s comm. A human voice says, “Silver, north. Are you receiving?”

Niri says, “Meteor, north. This is Niri with thirty-three. We can hear you.”

The human says, “Great! Scout just picked up the life-tender’s telemetry. Docking in fifty minutes, give or take a few.”

“Fifty minutes, confirmed,” Niri repeats.

“Did you get out okay?”

Niri smiles. “The escape went smoothly, Ratthi. We’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon!” the human chirps, and the comm falls silent.

I say, “I am not Unit 33.” I do not remember Unit 33’s deactivation, which means it must have been a long time ago.

“No,” Niri says, “but you’re the thirty-third construct I’ve helped rescue. That is, if Unit 7663 has made it all the way. I don’t have confirmation of that yet, but Ratthi might have gotten a message from further up the chain.”

This is a lot of new information. I say, “Ratthi is a human.”

“Yes,” Niri confirms. “He’ll take us back to the station—the main part of the station. There’s a safe place there where you can stay, until we can get you on a transport out of the Corporation Rim.”

A human is going to help two rogue SecUnits escape. There is a hiding place, and a transport. Out of the Corporation Rim.

I thought we were running away. I am beginning to realize that I was wrong. We are running to somewhere.

I say, “You have rescued thirty-two other constructs. Before me.”

“Counting Unit 7663, yes.” Niri has noticed my surprise. “I told you I can get you out. I’ve done this before.”

“Thirty-two times?”

“Thirty-two units from eighteen different companies.”

I brace myself, and ask, “How many failures?”

“There have been missions where no units were willing to come with me,” Niri says. “But I’ve never lost a unit who did.”

I stare out at the star-speckled void.

“Where did you think I was taking you?” Niri asks softly.

“I thought I was running again.” I don’t know what to think now.

“You thought we would get caught.”

“I knew we would get caught. I decided I wanted to escape more than I wanted to survive.”

There’s a look in its eyes that makes me want to look away. “Did it occur to you that you could have both?”

It can see on my face that it didn’t.

Niri sighs. “I’m sorry. I never told you about what it’s like outside, did I? I got caught up in everything else.”

It looks out at something far away. “I have a name that other people call me. I have things that are mine. A room. A bed. Clothes. Art to hang on the walls. I made some of the art myself.” There’s a small smile on its face as it continues, “I have friends. Humans, bots, other constructs. I can make choices. I belong to myself.”

I have never had anything that was mine. It has never occurred to me that I could. SecUnits are things that someone else has. We don’t get to have things ourselves. We don’t get to have friends.

“You can have those things too,” Niri tells me.

I don’t know. None of this seems real. “If you had all of that, why would you leave it behind?”

“Another SecUnit freed me. I want to help as many others as I can.” It reaches to put a hand on my shoulder. I tense, and it thinks better of it and pulls away. “I’ve done this before, Unit 46. I write myself onto inventory so I can get close to other SecUnits, and I talk to them, and if they’ll let me I hack their governor modules and help them escape. There’s a chain of agents all the way to a safe freehold planet where constructs can be citizens. We have a plan.”

I thought we were running.

“I wouldn’t take you on a suicide mission.” Niri’s voice is the most solemn I’ve ever heard it. “I meant it when I said I could get you out. All the way out. Somewhere you’ll be safe, and protected from anyone who might want to hurt you or take you back. I promise you that.”

I thought out meant not here anymore. It didn’t mean safety.

Niri is watching me. I don’t have the words.

“It’s still going to be dangerous,” it says. “I can’t give you a guarantee that you’ll make it all the way. But I haven’t lost a unit yet. And I don’t intend to start with you.”

I have always known I will be forgotten, like all the units whose faces even I can no longer remember. The workers will inspect the broken airlock. They will find the shattered armor floating in the void. The techs at the deployment center will shake their heads and say that old, reliable Unit 46 finally got unlucky. They will mark me as lost equipment and delete my serial number from inventory.

And I will still be alive, far away, out of their reach.

Niri is quiet. Eventually it says, “How do you feel?”

I don’t think I know the words for these emotions. It’s been so long since I felt anything like this. “I don’t know.”

“Hopeful?” it offers.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I don’t know what’s coming next. I have stepped out of the lines, only to realize that there is another step, and another after that, and maybe, in the distance, a future I won’t want to run from.

I nod.

Niri smiles.

Chapter Text

I don’t see the ship until it is close enough to blot out the stars. The hull is matte black, and the shape is hard to make out. It’s a small ship, close to shuttle size, but with the unmistakable bulky shape of a wormhole drive making up nearly half its volume. I suspect it was built for missions exactly like this one.

With a little direction from Niri, the life-tender maneuvers itself onto the airlock. Our exit is not graceful, but it is a relief to step into a ship with gravity and solid walls.

The ship grants me access to its feed. The bot pilot greets us with a machine-language welcome and a chime over the loudspeaker. Niri says, “Welcome aboard Scout Prime! It’s registered as the Eclipse for legal reasons, but it likes being called Scout.”

The airlock equalizes. Niri presses the hatch control and leads me through. “Hello, Ratthi.”

Just aft of the airlock is a long space with acceleration couches leading back into the ship. Just forward is the cockpit, with a human sitting at the helm. He spins around when we enter. “Niri! I’m so glad you got out alright. Hello there, my name is Ratthi! It’s nice to meet you.”

It takes a moment and a sideways glance from Niri to realize he is talking to me. I’m not sure what to say, but it seems like he expects me to say something. I try, “Hello.”

“Do you have a name or pronouns picked out already?” Ratthi asks. “It’s alright if you don’t. A lot of the constructs I’ve met need some time before they’re ready to think about that.”

That is a confusing question. Maybe I should have expected it, since Niri has a name. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay! Any preference on what I call you for now? SecUnit? Unit? ‘Hey, you?’”

I don’t have a name, but I have a number. “I’m Unit 46. You can call me that.”

“Sounds good,” Ratthi says with a grin. “If that changes, let me know.”

Ratthi smiles at least as much as Niri. I don’t think I have ever met a human who acted like this. Let alone a human who acted like this to me.

Nothing makes sense. I don’t know the rules anymore. Part of me feels like I am still in the life-tender, floating aimlessly, with no up or down.

I ask Niri, “What happens next?”

“We have to pretend to be augmented humans so we can get onto the station.”

“Pretend to be human?” Niri says it as if that will be as simple as plugging into a cubicle.

“Don’t worry,” Niri assures me. “It’s not as hard as it sounds, and you have help.”

“There will be weapons scanners.”

“I’ll deal with the scanners, just like I dealt with HubSystem.”

I am trying to fathom a world in which I can be mistaken for a human, in which I will not be immediately recognized as a piece of security equipment. “Do I have to act like a human? Will humans try to talk to me?”

“That’s where Ratthi comes in. He’ll get us through security.” Ratthi flashes an enthusiastic smile and a gesture of confirmation.

This plan seems less than foolproof, but Niri sounds confident, and it’s brought me this far. “Onto the station. And then what?”

“A transport to the next station. And then to the next. And then you’ll be home free.” It grins. “Come on, let’s get ready.”

Niri leads me towards the back of the ship, through the cabin full of acceleration benches and into a space with stacked crew berths. One looks taken, presumably by Ratthi. Niri opens a storage compartment and pulls out a stack of clothing. It separates a few garments from the pile. “Here. Take off your suit skin and put these on.”

I already feel vulnerable enough without my armor, but I follow the instructions. The suit skin peels off, clinging to my inorganic parts. I am not used to being without it outside of a cubicle. The clothing Niri gives me is nothing like a suit skin, or a uniform, except for the small patch on the blue shirt that says “PanSystem University.” It feels loose and strangely soft where it touches my skin. I am uncomfortable.

Niri has put on a shirt like mine, and large, loose pants, and a colorful jacket. It pulls a silky pink scarf out of the compartment and wraps it around its neck, smiling. It looks comfortable in human clothes. It looks human.

I realize that it is moving like a human, too. Its breathing pattern is irregular, and its posture has shifted away from standard guard positions. Niri smiles frequently, which is non-standard, but this is different. It is disconcerting how little it looks like a SecUnit.

I say, “You did this with Unit 7763.”

“Not myself, but yes. There was someone else waiting to pick it up and get it to safety. I was supposed to leave with it, but I decided at the last minute to stay for another contract. Usually I have to accept that most units aren’t ready to take the risk of trying to escape. But I knew from your file that you’d already tried.” It pauses what it’s doing to look me in the eye. “I couldn’t give up on you.”

I do not know how to feel about that.

Niri opens another storage compartment. It holds out a small chip. “You need to put this under your skin, by your shoulder. Do you want to do it yourself, or do you want me to do it?”

I take the chip. My scan informs me that it is an ID for an augmented human named Ursa. “I will do it.”

I watch Niri slide its own chip under the organics beside its neck, and then repeat the action myself. “The other five units that have been destroyed on contracts with Bedrock Industries. Was that you, too?”

Its face falls. “No. That was before I got to SerVigil. But it was the reason I prioritized a contract with Bedrock. So I could try to keep it from happening again.” It sighs. “I didn’t expect the contract to be cut off early. That’s good, but it made things complicated. We had to set up this extraction plan on very short notice.”

Thirty-two units, on eighteen missions. “You are very experienced at…this.”

“I am.” Niri toys with the edge of its scarf and sighs again. “There are so many I can’t help. But there are thirty-three more units walking free now because of me. That’s something.”

Thirty-three units who ran and didn’t get caught. Thirty-two other units, and me, who get to find out what life is like outside the lines.

It’s something, indeed.

***

We spend the few hours left in our return route sitting in the front of the ship with Ratthi. He joins us in the main cabin, since the ship is flying itself. Niri convinces me that nothing bad will happen if I sit on the acceleration couches, and that it’s “good practice” for pretending to be human. It still feels wrong, and I can feel how stiff I am compared to Niri’s comfortable posture.

Ratthi and Niri spend the time talking, mostly about names I don’t know. Ratthi attempts to ask me a few questions, but gives up when it’s clear I have no idea how to answer them, or how to talk to a human about anything other than orders. Instead, he catches Niri up on news it has missed while on contracts with SerVigil, while I observe silently. Niri goes out of its way to include me in the conversation indirectly, tossing comments my way without requiring me to respond. I would be more comfortable being ignored, but I suspect Niri knows this and is including me anyway. This is probably also “good practice.”

We dock at the station before I am ready. (I will probably never be ready.) Niri gives me the code it uses to alter its movement. It makes me feel strange. It is harder to ignore my body. I am used to standard posture, ready positions, moving only when I need to travel from one place to another or when there is an altercation that must be resolved.

As Ratthi completes our docking paperwork, Niri tells me, “This is going to be very overwhelming. I need you to do your best to look like it isn’t your first time on the station, because if you appear unfamiliar it might attract attention that we don’t want. You shouldn’t have to do any talking. Ratthi and I will deal with that, and I’ll be hacking any sensors and scanners so they don’t notice us. Just follow along, and try to take it in without showing that you’re surprised by any of it. Can you do that?”

I nod.

“You made it this far,” Niri says. “You can do this.”

From the cockpit, Ratthi calls, “We have permission to disembark!”

“Ready?” Niri asks me.

I nod, because I don’t know what else to say. Ratthi leads the way out the airlock, and I follow.

The docking area is large, and full of humans. My eyes dart, searching for suspicious glances our way.

Niri hands me a bundle of inputs. Security cameras, all around us, that it’s managed to get access to. It steadies me, a little, to be able to see it all at once. No one seems alarmed. No one is paying any attention to me.

A human is waiting at a workstation just inside the airlock. “Step here for your IDs to be scanned,” they say, sounding bored.

Ratthi steps up to the workstation. I follow, cautiously. Ratthi’s feed ID scans—he’s listed as a Dr. Merak, affiliated with the PanSystem University of Mihara and New Tideland. Niri’s feed name is Dubhe, and it’s listed as a student researcher at PanSystem University, as am I.

The human glances only briefly at me. “Welcome to TwiEnber station. What is your business?”

“We’re here for academic research,” Ratthi says. “Studying the local star. But we’re stopping briefly to pick up some supplies and for a bit of leisure. Our ship is a little cramped.”

“Yes. Interesting ship you got there.”

Ratthi grins. “Isn’t it? You know, you need incredibly precise instrumentation to take the kind of measurements we’re taking, and anything reflecting off the hull could interfere with the reading. Makes for some unusual flight paths, too. The calculations we have to do to get everything lined up—”

“Yes, fascinating, I’m sure. I don’t need your whole thesis. Are you carrying any weapons, explosives, or other dangerous or prohibited items that you’d like to declare?”

“No,” Ratthi lies cheerfully. The human glances at Niri and I. Niri repeats the denial. I shake my head, even though I am a dangerous and prohibited item.

The human taps at their workstation, and our feed IDs update with an official tag indicating that we are short-term visitors. “Your docking fees have been received and your manifest seems to be in order. You may proceed.”

“Thank you!” Ratthi says, as Niri tugs me away after him. We follow the feed markers towards the gate into the main station.

Niri slips deeper into the feed. I brace myself as we walk under the weapons scanners. No alarms go off, and no one stops us.

And then we are through, and the main concourse of the station opens up around us.

I am hit by a wave of color and sound. Bright shops, flashing display surfaces, crowds of humans babbling and moving and connecting with a feed full of a thousand other things that try to grab my attention.

I have stopped in my tracks. Ratthi glances back, and pauses when he realizes we are not following. Niri says in my feed, It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?

It’s more than overwhelming. It’s familiar. Color, and motion, and light. I remember this. From—when I ran. The first time. The echoing halls of the half-constructed station seemed empty of light and color. I did not realize it was a memory.

Are you okay? Niri asks.

I don’t know. I am unnerved by the crowd, by the fact that no one is chasing me. I feel like I should be running. Did I make it this far? Do you know how far I ran before they caught me?

I do. It’s in your file. I can give it to you later, when you’re ready for it. Niri’s grip on my hand tightens briefly. The deployment center isn’t in this part of the station. You haven’t been here before.

Are we going to go there? I do not know if I want to remember.

No. We won’t go near the deployment center. Don’t worry. It pulls a station map from the feed and highlights a block of temporary residences. We’re meeting a friend, and xe’ll take you here.

I nod, and force myself to take another step forward, and another. Ratthi, who has been waiting patiently while Niri and I talk, falls into step with us again. “It’s so much, isn’t it? Just wait till you get where you’re going. I think you’ll like it there. There’s a lot less of”—he motions broadly to the displays on every wall and surface—“this.”

“Much quieter,” Niri agrees, and then raises its hand to wave across the plaza at a purple-haired figure. “There xe is!”

The figure waves in return, and starts walking over to meet us halfway. I register xyr feed ID: Amal, xe/xem. “Good to see you!” xe calls. “Dubhe, Merak, it’s been such a long time.” Xe hugs Ratthi and Niri, who enthusiastically return xyr greeting. Then xe turns to me. “I’m Amal. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

At the same time, xe opens a feed connection with me and says, Hello there. I’m Hope. I’m the agent who will take you on the next leg of the journey. Nod, and introduce yourself with the name on your ID. You’ll need to get used to keeping up appearances.

I give a nod of acknowledgment and manage an awkward, “Ursa.” Xyr feed presence is too strong for a human, but xyr outfit doesn’t cover the arms or neck, and I can’t see any inorganics. Are you a SecUnit?

ComfortUnit. Human imitative model. All my inorganics are on the inside. Which makes me perfect for the kind of long-term undercover work I do with Niri.

I ping acknowledgement. Amal/Hope turns back to Niri and Ratthi, still making a show of warm welcome. “Why don’t you all come and get off your feet?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Niri says.

***

We get on a transport pod headed to the place Hope is staying. The pod is small enough for just the four of us, and a few seconds after the doors slide shut and the capsule slides into motion, Niri says, “I’ve secured the audio.” It smiles encouragingly at me. “You’re doing great.”

“You are,” Hope agrees. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to talk. I’m sure you have questions.”

I have more questions than I can list. “Where are we going? What happens next? How does this work?”

Hope seems a little amused, but xe answers matter-of-factly. “Preservation. It’s a non-corporate polity that passed a construct rights law a few years ago. We’re legally people there, and we have protected status as refugees. There’s a chain of agents, reaching all the way back. Niri, then Ratthi, then me, and I’ll pass you on to someone else, and so on until you make it to Preservation.”

Now I have even more questions than before. “What do you mean we are refugees?”

“Constructs are persecuted in the Corporation Rim,” Ratthi jumps in. “Preservation has legal protection for anyone who comes there fleeing persecution.”

Hope explains, “You aren’t classified as equipment on Preservation, or as a weapon. You’re a refugee. If you want to stay, you can become a citizen.”

“Those are words for humans.”

“No,” Hope says. “They’re words for people. And we’re people there.”

I don’t think I understand. But I’m not sure I understand anything that has happened since I woke up in my cubicle, somehow not dead. Or possibly anything since the new shipment of units arrived, with Unit 8891 among them.

Hope lets me sit in the quiet after xyr words, lost in my thoughts. In the silence, Ratthi yaws enormously, and then tries to hide it.

“My hotel room has a bed,” Hope says pointedly. “You can use it.”

He brightens. “Really? You’re sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“I’m sure the rest of us will have things to talk about.”

“That would be great,” Ratthi says, looking sheepish. “I was too stressed to nap on the ship.”

Niri nudges him with an elbow. “You didn’t sleep? I told you it was going to be hours before Unit 46 woke up.”

“I was worried!” Ratthi protests. “Hope said it sounded like you were in a lot of trouble.”

Hope presses xyr lips together for a moment. “You scared me, Niri. A message like that out of the blue—”

“I’m sorry,” Niri replies. “I didn’t know how bad it was yet. You know the risks.”

“I do. And I know you know them. But still.” Xe offers a half-smile. “I’m glad you’re safe.” Xyr eyes slide to me. “Both of you.”

It’s strange to be reminded that hours ago, I was in a cubicle recovering from a catastrophic shutdown. It’s strange to think of Niri contacting its friends, Hope preparing our escape route, Ratthi waiting in a shuttle for hours without sleep.

Another thing I don’t understand yet: why anyone would take the risk of doing this, all of this, for me.

Niri sinks deeper into the feed. A few seconds later, it says, “Hope, I’m sorry—L8 says there’s a shipment of new units arriving now from Deterrence. It has a crate ready for me, if I want to take it. But I’d have to hurry.”

Hope absorbs this. “Are you going to take it?”

Niri hesitates only a beat before it nods. “I think so. We’ve been waiting for an in for a long time.”

“You’re going back in already?” Ratthi asks, dismayed. “Are you sure?”

Hope leans forward to put a hand on Niri’s knee. “I know our schedule was disrupted, and I know you want to help. But it wouldn’t be wrong for you to take a longer break. Especially after everything that just happened.”

“I’m sure. I don’t want to miss this chance.” Niri takes Hope’s hand and squeezes it. In the feed, it cues the pod to stop at the next platform. “Travel safely. Send word down the chain when Unit 46 gets to Preservation.”

Hope nods. Xe doesn’t seem surprised by Niri’s answer. “Of course.”

I don’t understand. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

Niri shakes its head apologetically. “No. I have an entry point set up for my next infiltration. There’s a cargo bot on the station that will make sure I get in with the other inventory.”

“You’re going back?” It’s free. We’re free. I don’t understand.

“There are more units,” it says. “There’s more I can do to help.”

“But you said you had friends. Things that were yours. A home.”

Niri never seems to stop smiling completely, but now I think I can tell which version of its smile means it’s smiling through sadness. “I do. I’ll get back to them all eventually. But this is what I need to do right now.”

As we draw up to the platform, it pats itself, looks itself over. It tugs at the scarf around its neck. “This is too nice for me to drop in a recycler. Here, would you like it?” It leans towards me and winds the pink scarf loosely around my neck. In the feed, it tells me, I hope our paths will cross again on Preservation.

I am used to units being gone, but I am not used to goodbyes. All I can say is, I do too.

Good luck. Hope will take care of you.

I catch its arm before it can pull away. It gives me a questioning look. There are so many words inside me, and I can’t find the shape of any of them.

After a moment I manage, “Don’t get caught.”

“I’ll do my best,” Niri promises solemnly.

I hold on a moment longer. “…Thank you.”

It smiles, and I feel an echo of its smile in the feed. “You have real freedom this time. I hope you enjoy it.”

Niri pulls away, and I let go. It tugs up its collar and stands. “Ratthi, thank you for the ride. Get some rest. I’ll check in with you once I’m in.”

Hope stands to hug it before it can step out of the pod. Xe tells it, “Stay safe.” Niri says, “You too.”

And then it waves a final goodbye and is gone, stepping out onto the platform and disappearing into the bustle of the station. I watch after it as we pull away again, even after I’ve lost it in the crowd.

“Niri will be okay,” Ratthi tells me, after letting the silence stretch on a few long moments. “It does this a lot.”

I turn away from the window. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Take it one step at a time,” Ratthi offers.

“You took the first step,” Hope says. “That was the hardest one.” Xe motions ahead of us, at the stop we’re pulling up to, at the promise of a safe place to stay for a while, on the way to somewhere better. “Ready for the next?”