Chapter 15
MAD
DATE:
7088.03.11,
RECON
ERA
CRSS
Reckless
HYPERSPACE
I
was hiding, my
arms wrapped
tight around
my knees, my
face
buried to
hide
the burning in my cheeks
that
just
wouldn’t
fade.
“Melissa.”
“LEAVE
ME ALONE!” I screamed
back.
I
wasn’t trying very hard. The
minute the memories started flooding back, I fled to my room. Then
into the bathroom when Forty-Five overrode
the lock
after
I refused
to
open the door.
“Client
requires supervision.”
I
blushed even harder, feeling just like the child I
was
when I
hallucinated.
“I’M FINE!” I cried back, “For
the last time, I
was drugged! Just give me…a couple of centuries in here.”
“Calculations
suggest client sustainability in isolation is... less than three
hours,” came the dry reply.
Tears
leaked out of my eyes. ‘So
much for a dignified,
end out in the black…’“YOU
ONLY HAVE ONE DAY OF DATA! I AM NOT LIKE THIS!”
“Correction.
Six days’ worth of data indicate that client has several issues
that compromise survivability over a long period of time.”
I
groaned, trying to dry my eyes with my arms, but
he kept going.
“Query.
Client survived childhood.”
“OH,
FUCK YOU!” I screamed through the door, not wanting to admit that I
had
more memories of hospital visits than family gatherings - usually
because I tried to 'fix' things.
“Lack
of appropriate response indicate client has history.”
I
slapped the panel next to the door, having it hiss open. He was
sitting against the wall next to the entrance to the bathroom, legs
loosely drawn up. He
lazily rolled his head to look at me.
I
shoved my face in his, snarling, “You’re
starting to get on my nerves. You shouldn’t have this amount of
awareness of
my conditions.”
He
didn’t straighten up to his usual military attention, instead
just straightening out his legs.
He titled his visor at me, the white ring lights dim and flickering.
“Statement. If my awareness were lower, client
would have
been vented out
the airlock.” He tapped his helmet casing. “Data suggests you
were attempting to access ‘Hokey
Pokey’ ice cream.”
I
punched his arm, the jarring impact bruising my knuckles. “Screw
you, asshole. You should have just let me vent
myself.”
‘Would
have been a kindness rather than going through this
His
hand wrapped around my wrist, bringing my extremity
to his face plate. “Evidence,” he said slowly. “That client has
a tendency of being
careless with
herself.”
I
stared at his hand on my wrist. It was trembling. Just barely. A
micro-shudder in the servos.
“You’re
shaking,” I accused
him, yanking
my wrist out of his grip. My
hands closing in on his thick limb, I
held
it
up to
my face. “Did the droid infect you again? Did
you knock something out of alignment? Do
you need-”
He
tugged his arm out of my grip, almost
lethargically. “Negative.
Reserves
critical. No maintenance in the last 72
hours.”
“What
reserves?” I asked, kneeling closer and trying to check his helmet,
tilting his head to the side. “Do you need to get out of the suit
sometimes? Or… did I hallucinate that too?”
He
instantly refocused on me. The
dim lights that were his eyes flashed a deep
red. “Query.”
“I…”
I hesitated, blushing. No longer trusting my own memory. “I may
have had a dream where I saw...” I swallowed
hard, the memory of warm skin clashing with the metal giant in front
of me. But I also thought back to the bodies of my parents in the
cargo bay. “I dreamt
I saw…your
armour was
cracked open and flesh was spilling out… Though
with the water being poisoned, I don’t know how much of the last…
week
has been real…”
I
waited
for a response, and saw that his ring lights were watching me
carefully.
“Client
has had several night terrors including
body horror themes.
Highly likely a dream occurred of what you are describing.” He
leveraged
himself off the floor,
heaving his large frame up. He was lumbering and clumsy, until
a loud hiss of hydraulics locked his limbs. “Client
is to stay in captain’s quarters while maintenance is performed,”
he
said, his
body now
locked into the stiff posture I was familiar with. “Do not deviate
from instructions. If
client wishes to prove survival instincts...stay here.”
“NO!”
I scrambled up to match his height, though considering he was head
and shoulders taller than me… it didn’t help much. “Don’t
even
try to put me in timeout. I am NOT a child!”
“No
indications
were made that you are a juvenile.” He looked down on me, leaning
forward slightly. “However, continued non-compliance will trigger a
mandatory mental capacity reassessment”
I
gritted my teeth, my eyes flashing, I poked him hard in the chest.
“Your mental capacity is what needs to be reassessed, smartass.
That diagnostic report you fed me at Grantham’s was absolute
junkshit.
There’s no fucking way you’re a Class-2 of ANYTHING, let alone
Combat Protocols. My estimates put you
at LEAST in the Class-4 range!”
“Compatibility
error,” he said quietly, moving away from me. “Query. Reason for
report fabrication when engaged on an escort mission, for someone of
such...pedigree.”
“Because
you’re hiding,” I said, crossing my arms, and stopped
him
from leaving the room. “And I can take a pretty little guess as to
why.”
“Query.
Guess.” Head
jerking back to mine, his
eyes flashed a deeper red.
‘Because
you’ve Awakened and you’re scared.’
I
opened
my mouth to say it… but then snapped it shut. Did I really want to
ring that bell? Shoot that bullet? Let the cat out of the bag? What
would he do to me if he thought I knew his secret? Did I actually
stumble on a secret? He could actually kill me.
Cold,
metal fingers lifted my chin, so my eyes were back on that black
glass. I could see the weird rictus grin on my face. I
looked wild. My hair was matted with sweat, my eyes wide and staring.
I
looked like I had seen the void and it had looked back.
“Query,”
it
dropped its
voice, the tone shifting to something lower, darker.
I
swallowed hard, trying to wipe the derangement off my face, casting
my thoughts back to my parents’ bodies. “Th-that…you’re
a mokomokai,”
I
whispered, the old word for a preserved head tumbling out. An
ancient, sacred custom of my people from
Ancient Terra.
“Uh,
a relic. Someone
stole
your bits from some
ruined military depot, your
home,
stuffed it all in the first shell they could and… sold
it to the highest bidder.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Forty-Five
froze. The black glass stared down at me. For a second, I thought he
was processing how to kill me.
He
stepped forward, forcing me back
against the wall.
“Client
is observed to be… dangerously
intuitive.”
He
leaned closer, his
voice
a
rough, digital whisper in
my ear. “Such…
vocal observations are ill-advised in future.”
He
pulled away, letting me go. Leaving me with my eyes wide and just
slightly shrinking away from him. I
rubbed my chin, his fingers had been firm but not bruising. I made
him angry...and he didn’t hurt me.
“Your
discretion… is appreciated,” he drawled, the words elongating as
if he were slurring, his
head loose on his shoulders.
“Perhaps… reporting such ‘stolen and illegal’ technology
might rightly be assumed as… volatile
intelligence.
Considering your… chemical and
mental instability.”
“Are
you threatening me?” I asked in wonder.
“Negative.
Diplomatic attempt,” he paused next to the door, leaning heavily
against the wall to tower over me, the
wall groaning under his weight.
“Suggestion.
Ship
secrets remain...ship
secrets.
Capabilities
outside of a generic security sentinel is… conveniently omitted
from
reports.
Mutually
Assured Destruction.”
“And…if
I don’t,
you won’t
tell everyone about… my ?”
I cocked a hip, crossing my arms tightly across my chest.
“Current
observations may result in client being forced to undergo intense
psychiatric and medical intervention.” He
tilted his head at me again, his ring lights scanning me from head to
toe. “Client might find themselves…grounded.”
I
bit my lip, glaring
down at my boots. A
stalemate. We were both hiding what we were, from those that would
lock
us up… or pull us apart.
I
huffed out a laugh, smiling softly. “We are more alike than you
realise… Deal, Taniwha. I pretend you’re a dumbass, cheap droid I
got from the discount bin, you pretend I’m a competent, healthy
human
pilot who’s just
going
on
a job.”
“Parameters
acceptable,” he rumbled, his shoulder sliding slightly as he pushed
off the wall. “Remain in cabin, Captain. Operational functions
critically low.”
The
title hit me like a gut
punch.
A phantom echo of a sneer, accusing me of playing dress-up. Of
thinking I was better than the ‘help’.
He
lumbered out of the bedroom, leaving me drenched in cold sweat,
scowling at the closing door. “Don’t call me Captain…” I
whispered to the empty room.
I lasted maybe four hours in my room before I got
bored. I was now lounging on the couch, a rom-com playing on the
large projected screen on the opposite wall and my damaged tablet on
my knees. The voices just background noise as I worked, making sure
the device was still functional. I also hoped that I had some
evidence of the things we did over the last week.
I couldn’t find the pictures of the wreck or my
flight logs, and crucially, I couldn’t find my virus hunter program
either. It wasn't just erased; the directory was... hollowed out.
There were no residual fragments, no trash files. It was as if
something hadn't just deleted the code, but consumed it. There were
enough remnants there for me to think something just took a massive
bite and left crumbs in its wake. For me, it was proof that
Forty-Five’s infection
happen. The disintegrating
animoticon of my little chibi self replaying over and over in my
mind.
I thought back,
racking my brain
through the slippery hallucinations and the
firmer memories. On the wreck, stuffing
my bag…
I looked around,
trying to think where I put the knapsack full of relics,
really wanting to analyse that flight recorder.
My eyes fell on the closed galley door, something
I was not used to. I tried it before, finding it manually blocked.
Jerk Nanny bot probably didn’t want me to try anything dangerous
while he was ‘passed out’ from charging. Deep down, I knew I was
pushing things with him. His...departure from normal protocols should
have me worried, concerned for my life. But I kept thinking back to
the conspiracy theories back in the Golden Ring, the emergence of
sentient artificial life. I could study it up close…
I sighed, rubbing my face. I estimated he would
need eight hours to recharge, so I still had less than four hours by
myself before I had to go back in my room. Maybe I should try being
nice, and hope he’ll stick around even after Grantham’s contract
ends.
I moved around the living areas, searching the
bedroom first (and tidying as I went) before poking my head in both
the lab and office. They were still untouched, making me frown. I
knew my bag wouldn’t be in the infirmary since Forty-Five had to
force me in there in the first place.
I ended up in the cockpit. I was just loading up
the ship’s internal surveillance logs, searching for the timestamp
of when I was thrown back in the airlock, when a shadow fell over me.
The background noise of the show had stopped without me realising. I
hadn't heard a footstep. I hadn't heard a clunk of metal on metal.
The silence oppressing.
A heavy metal hand landed on my shoulder, spinning
the chair around. I barely stifled a scream. Twin red lights zeroed
in on me.
“Client was instructed to remain in quarters,”
the voice rumbled from the chest speaker. It sounded… less
distorted and slow than before, but low and dangerous. ‘He was
back already?!
“I was trying to get some work done, you
overbearing nanny!” I scrambled to my feet, shoving at his immobile
chest, a sense of humiliation fuelling a deep-set anger. So much
for being nice… “I’m
a fucking adult, not a toddler. I’m looking for my bag.”
“The ship’s is required to-”
I jerked violently at the title, hissing up at his
face. “Do NOT call me that. I am a pilot. I have no crew.”
His eyes flashed brighter for a moment before
leaning over me, using his height to intimidate. “ is
to be medically
cleared before attempting to pilot the ship.”
“I wasn’t-”
I bit my tongue, trying to get my temper under control. “I’m
not trying to override the autopilot. I just want my bag. Either let
me get it,
or by the lag,
help me find it and I’ll gladly sit in whatever fucking room you
want me to stay in.”
“Negative.”
The tone was final
and commanding. “Client has repeatedly shown a clear lack of
self-preservation when not under
direct supervision.”
“I will
dismantle you, I swear, if you even try to stop me from doing
my job.” I stepped closer,
our toes nearly touching,
drawing myself to my full height.
His head tilted
unnaturally. “Client stated
similar threats prior to
medical intervention.” He stepped backwards, spreading his arms
wide, exposing the seams I
threatened to pull apart, his
tone smug. “Attempt.”
That wasn’t a
defensive subroutine. That was arrogance. Pure, unadulterated ego.
Standard bots don’t engage
and they decidedly
do not
taunt back.
Since when do algorithms feel satisfaction? It required a theory of
mind - an
understanding of
psychology - to
know that helplessness would sting more than a physical blow. Another
mark towards ‘Awakened’.
But for now...I
narrowed my eyes at him. He was goading me. Distracting me…
Underestimating me.
“You…hid my bag, didn’t you?”
He stilled, his
head straightening up again. His visor somehow darkened, the lights
dimming as if drawing power inward. A low, vibrating hum resonated in
his chest - a sound like a drive spinning up, or a taniwha
about to pounce on its prey.
One beat. Two beats. Three.
“Location of
client’s bag unknown.”
“Oh machine
gods,” I gasped, a wide
grin breaking through my anger. I felt my eyes go wide, I
pointed a finger at him. “That’s
your tell. Three seconds. You buffer before you lie!” My
accusation took a second register in my brain, my elation immediately
deflating, my jaw dropping, my
voice squeaking. “Wait,
you can LIE ON
THE SPOT?!”
Core Tenet Number
Four: A unit cannot knowingly state a falsehood. It’s hard-coded.
It’s the bedrock of human-machine trust. If he could bypass that...
what else was gone? The obedience chip? The inhibition against
harming humans? A machine that can lie is a machine that can plot.
And he wasn't just lying by omission; he was staring me in the face
and fabricating reality.
He watched me for
a good second before a low, static-filled sound escaped his chest. It
took me a moment to realise it was a chuckle, and
not a growl. He stepped in,
closing the gap forcing me back against the console.
“Observation…”
he rumbled, his voice dropping that terrifying octave again. “The
client is spending a dangerous amount of time analysing
my...performance.”
He leaned down, the dim lights cycling before settling on a dull
white. “You might find it hazardous to your continued well-being.”
The
sound of his voice vibrated
in my ribcage. “Including
your insistence on investigating unmarked wreckage and droids.”
I leaned
backwards, my hands bracing
my body against the console.
He was threatening
me.
Did...my hunter program
really do something to his protocols? This was far beyond just ‘rogue
programming’. Was this
something I did… or was he always this way? Masked behind his
‘dumb’ bot routine?
This wasn't
glitching syntax or a corrupted logic gate. This was a calculated
power play. He was weaponizing his physical dominance to silence me.
My Demon Patch was designed to hunt viruses, not install a
personality complex with a penchant for coercion. Unless... the patch
didn't add anything. Unless it just stripped away the shackles he was
already wearing. Was I looking at the virus, or the cure?
I smiled wildly,
the mystery and threats
igniting a fire I thought was
long extinguished. I ran a
finger up his chest. “You’ll find that those kinds of threats
have...an opposite effect on me.” I leaned forward, pressing my
hand against his upper chest. “If you want to...keep your little
robot secrets...work on that buffer.”
He was
immobile under my hand,
watching me carefully, his twin lights cycling rapidly.
I bit my lip,
tilting my head. He wasn't moving, and I wasn't backing down.
I pushed off the
console, forcing my way into his personal space to slide past him.
There was barely room; my body brushed against his armour, intimate
and defiant, as I squeezed through the gap.
“I could help
you out,”
I whispered, pausing just as I cleared him. “If you ask me nicely.”
I stalked off,
disappearing into my office. Once
the door shut, I slid down the wall until I hit the floor. I buried
my face in my knees.
“Mel,” I
whispered into my arms. “You absolute idiot.”
Forty-Five stood rooted to the spot, the heavy
cycling of the air intake in his chest the only sound in the cockpit.
He pressed two fingers against his chest where she had run her
finger. He stared at the closed office door.
He slowly turned back to the stars beyond the
reinforced glass, lowering his arm to his side.
“Calculation,”
he muttered
quietly.
“Fuck.”
But still.
