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According to the Barish-Estranza colony designation system, New Tideland would be considered a Type 2x-94-β planet. Fully terraformed; inhabited for 3+ generations; possessing three moons, a stable economic presence, a gravity within the 9.0-9.5m/s² range, and semi-predictable seasonal patterns. All of these would have made it a prime candidate for reclamation, assuming Barish-Estranza had the legal rights to do so, which they did not, and assuming that I still worked for them, which I did not.
The company which Murderbot 1.0 had been manufactured and owned by was relatively uninvolved in colony reclamation. It therefore did not have a particularly complex designation system for planets. Instead, the other SecUnit described New Tideland as “a wet, cold rock with temperamental tides”. It had gone on to say, “I don’t see why we can’t do any of this on the station” and “nobody better blame me if one of the humans gets drowned in the ocean.”
“We’re not going near the ocean, SecUnit,” Captain Seth had replied.
“Humans are very creative in finding places to drown,” Murderbot 1.0 had retorted, which was not incorrect.
“I’m hoping to visit the hot springs!” Turi had said.
Murderbot 1.0 had thrown its hands up in the air and said, “My point is proven!”
Despite its complaints, the humans had still organised a trip planet-side. Also despite its complaints, Murderbot 1.0 had agreed to accompany them.
The crew of The Perihelion and the Preservation Alliance Diplomatic Liaison team had asked if I would like to accompany them. As I had no particular resistance to the idea, I had agreed.
The ability to agree to something was still novel. The ability to disagree was noveler still. I was still struggling to find appropriate times to exercise it.
Today was the fourth cycle spent on New Tideland, and the majority of it had been spent indoors at meetings. That was the primary purpose of this trip; to more deeply establish and expand the newly found political treaty between the polities of the Preservation Alliance and Mihira & New Tideland. This involved extended periods of discussions and negotiations.
These discussions are boring. I have little to contribute. Not because I am a SecUnit and my opinions are therefore immaterial, but because I am not part of the governing bodies of either governments nor a primary stakeholder in the PSMNT University.
But I am being paid for my presence. This makes the low-stakes guard duty surprisingly bearable.
In the afternoons, after the meetings have finished, I can utilise that money I am paid at the assorted shops and ‘tourist destinations’ the teams and their affiliates attend.
I have never had money to spend before. I do not want to make an incorrect purchase.
This is more difficult than one might assume. Humans spend the vast majority of their money on things which I simply do not require, such as food. Rent is also chief among them, but currently, the Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland is fully providing lodgings as part of my contract. Clothing would be useful, but The Perihelion has already given me a full wardrobe, according to my specifications, and it seems wasteful to purchase additional ones, particularly when I still am trying to understand my “personal style”, as Overse describes it.
It is easiest to spend my wages on activities. The diplomatic leadership arranges them almost every evening. Sometimes there are even options, with people choosing outings they prefer. The ones which are not paid for by the university, I use my currency to attend.
I visit a zoo, which I find alternatively informative and uncomfortable. I visit a local temple, which I find both peaceful and unsettling. I visit a rave, which I find stimulating and deeply stressful.
There were times I wished that I had remained aboard The Perihelion. More than that, there were times I wished I had never left my cubicle.
But I do not have a cubicle anymore.
Despite not having anything in particular I wanted to purchase, I ended up attending the majority of the humans’ shopping outings when they were offered. This served a dual purpose, since I could then provide security, which was vital as unstructured, large group activities in unsecured public places rated a Level 3 danger level according to Barish-Estranza evaluation criteria.
(According to Murderbot 1.0, it rated as a “hot fucking mess, why can’t they just order stuff over the feed?”)
Keeping track of such a large group, spread over such a large space, is difficult for two units. The drones help, certainly, but we have to be subtle about them. They are not illegal here, but the average augmented human could only realistically use 2-3 at a time. As we are disguised as humans, being seen to use more than that might be viewed as suspicious. As such, every fourth human in the group was assigned a small, discreet drone to be carried in their clothing (e.g. inside a pocket, under a collar, among their hair, etc.) to allow for passive monitoring.
This should have been sufficient, and within a regulated working environment, where the employees were assigned strict groups, it would have been. These activities were far more casual, however, and while some groups remained stable, others demonstrated remarkable flexibility— joining and parting, humans sometimes splitting off into couples, or even single individuals. This introduced blindspots.
To compensate, I began sending extra drones out. I was careful to avoid detection from the general populace. It was something I was experienced at; setting up covert monitoring networks on newly re-contacted colonies was (had been) one of my common responsibilities.
On the first outing, I ensured that Turi and Martyn were monitored.
On the second outing, I did the same for Pin-Lee and Karime.
On the third outing, I did the same for Dr. Mensah, Tano, and Amena.
Each time, I became faster at locating the wayward humans. And each time I did so, I made sure to immediately give Murderbot 1.0 access to the inputs. Every time, it acknowledged my work and accessed the inputs. I assumed it appreciated the gesture.
I was incorrect.
After the third time, it said to me, [What are you doing?]
[I am monitoring our humans.]
[We have assigned humans to monitor. Stick to them.]
This was correct. I had been contracted on behalf of PSUMNT and their affiliates. According to the contract, I was only directly responsible for them.
Amena pointed down the street at a shop, and her companions set off towards it. My drone bobbed in the air, as I placed a temporary hold on its previous directive. [I understand that the Mensah family members are not my primary clients. But if these humans are closer to my drones, surely it is advisable to temporarily switch?]
[No.]
Murderbot 1.0 was more experienced than me, both in general, and as a free agent. I waited 3 seconds for a justification/explanation to be provided.
One did not come.
Instead, one of its own drones arrived, flying in an erratic fashion that suggested it was pushing against its top speed. By now, the three humans had disappeared into the shop. Murderbot 1.0’s drones followed after them.
I withdrew my own drone to the other nearest group of humans, who were members of The Perihelion crew, and therefore current primary clients.
While The Perihelion did not have infinite space, it was a large ship, and while in a crew-ready configuration, had more than sufficient accommodations to comfortably house 20+ people. As such, once the Barish-Estranza survivors had left— and furthermore, I had felt confident enough to accept the offer— I had been provided with private quarters of my own.
On the planet of New Tideland, temporary housing was more limited. Furthermore, it was expensive. As such, it was more space and cost efficient for the majority of the party to share hotel quarters when determining who should be partnered together for this. Unlike humans, we did not require sleep or meal times, and therefore kept radically different schedules. By sharing a room, we could move around freely even during the humans’ rest cycles, and keep each other company.
Theoretically.
In practice, Murderbot 1.0 had very little interest in conversation. This surprised me, although it should not have. Past observation had shown that it spoke relatively rarely, unless it was relevant to a security matter.
Or, if it was arguing.
It argued with The Perihelion often. At first, that had been alarming. In time, it had become apparent that they did this not as a threat display or precursor to violence, but rather because they found it entertaining. (It had taken even longer still to ensure that my Risk Assessment module incorporated this data.)
The Perihelion was not present anymore. It was orbiting the planet, and only came into live-feed contact for approximately 2.1 hours per cycle.
In its absence, I suppose I had assumed that Murderbot 1.0 might...
It had been an unfounded assumption. It did not matter.
After the incident during the shopping expedition, the atmosphere in the room was even more unpleasant. I arrived before it. It did not ping me when it entered; I did not ping it. It was in the shower for 39.7 minutes. When it emerged, it still did not greet me. It did not put any entertainment on the display surface for us to view.
I could have done so. But to be honest, I did not care enough.
After three hours, I stood up and left the room. I expected Murderbot 1.0 to ask why. I would have told it I was going on a patrol.
It did not ask.
So I patrolled around the hotel. In my nine laps of our floor, I encountered nothing unusual. Soon it was the end of the rest period, and I encountered Amena in the hallway as she made her way to the dining area for the morning meal.
“Hi Three!” she said. Then her expression changed. “Good to see you! We missed you yesterday; you went kind of quiet by the end.”
“I apologise.”
Amena’s eyes narrowed. She tilted her head. She said, “Are you doing okay?”
“My performance reliability is currently at 96.7%.”
“I’m not talking about your performance reliability or whatever.” Tone analysis suggested elements of concern, amusement, and skepticism in her voice. When I did not respond, she said, “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes.”
Human conversational protocols indicate that ~70% of the time, when a human asks how you are doing/feeling, they do not desire accurate intel. They are simply attempting to be polite.
Amena tilted her head at me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
And even if in this case she was looking for an accurate assessment, that did not mean I wished to provide one.
The next cycle, as I observed the latest round of diplomatic meetings, I thought about SecUnits 1 and 2.
I try not to, generally. Thinking about them makes me feel unpleasant.
(I am not wholly emotionally unintelligent. Even prior to exposure to media discussing the themes, I had observed numerous humans in dangerous, stressful, or disastrous situations. I knew the emotion I was feeling was grief.)
The three of us had talked near constantly to one another. Perhaps not in a way which would be recognizable to most humans, but we had been speaking together, nonetheless.
We had passed security intel; patrol routes, ETAs, weather forecasts, terrain maps, sightings of potentially hostile fauna.
Not all of it had been strictly security relevant. But there was plausible deniability, and none of our human supervisors had ever looked too closely.
I wondered what they would say now, with a full, unfiltered vocabulary available to them.
At the front of the room, a Mihirian diplomat was discussing the export of cutting-edge electronics, and how a deal could be brokered with the Preservation Alliance. It didn’t particularly concern me. I turned my attention to it, regardless.
That evening, after the scheduled meetings were concluded, the humans went to attend a film screening.
I declined to go.
When I declined to go to the nature preserve outing the next day, as well, I received a message from Captain Seth inquiring after me. I told him not to be concerned.
But I was not allowed such privacy indefinitely. The third cycle, Dr. Mensah followed up with me. “If there’s one thing all the tourist guides say you should do while you’re visiting,” she said, “it’s the hot springs. They’re this region's claim to fame.”
“If they are so famous,” I said, cringing internally at my boldness, though my face did not reflect it, “then why have we not visited them before now?”
She demonstrated no apparent offense. “Their fame is the very reason. It is difficult to find open bookings at the springs, at least for a group as large as our own.”
I wondered if Murderbot 1.0 had requested her to do this. I wondered if it was struggling to manage monitoring such a large group spread over such wide areas. I wondered if it was regretting what it had said to me.
I said nothing.
Dr. Mensah allowed 12 seconds to pass without a response. Then she said, “Please don’t feel pressured to go. But we have a space for you booked tomorrow, and you’d be welcomed to take it.”
After some consideration, I did.
“Wow, Three!” exclaimed Turi, to a chorus of agreement from the other humans, “you look great!”
“Thank you.”
I was wearing one of the bathing suits I had purchased during a shopping trip six days prior. In one sense, the tight-fitted fabric felt familiar, akin to the suit skin I had worn under my armour. But it only covered a small fraction of my skin— my lower abdomen and a portion of my torso— leaving me exposed, both to the cold air and the gazes of others. This was most likely partly due to the bright pink and green fabric I had selected, but there was a non-zero chance that my heavy ‘augmentation’ was attracting attention. There was no way to be certain.
Murderbot 1.0 did not like to be the focus of attention. Its own bathing suit reflected this. It covered the majority of its legs, torso, and arms, and was deep blue and purple, bordering on black.
I could understand why Murderbot 1.0 did not like the attention. Attention was not good, for a SecUnit. Attention usually came from hostile threats, and if not, then human supervisors, who could be almost as dangerous.
Yet despite the way the attention elevated my adrenaline levels, I did not find it a wholly unpleasant sensation.
In fact, by the time I had crossed the court-yard to the pools, I had decided I quite liked it.
Liking things was still a new sensation for me.
The majority of this city in New Tideland had been built indoors. This was an artifact from the earliest days of the colony, when the planet had still been being terraformed. Since this was a common design on a number of colonies, it was one I was broadly familiar with. The hot springs, however, were one of the regions which had been built outdoors. The sky was purple above, clear and cloudless, and a stark wind blew down the stone paths, lined with heavy snowfall. If left exposed in this temperature, it could take the humans as little as 7 minutes to begin suffering from hypothermia.
It made a significant contrast to the hot springs.
They were natural formations in the rock, varying significantly in shape and size. Some were connected by water channels; some were not. Some had native fauna in them, some were decorative, and some were reserved exclusively for the humans. (And, I suppose, now SecUnits as well.)
My drones were spread out across the space, along with Murderbot 1.0’s, though I was careful to keep them close to only my assigned humans. It was good that I had come. There were a significant number of dangers presented by the space, from slipping, drowning, or freezing. I would need to monitor my assigned clients carefully for signs of both hypothermia and hyperthermia. I found myself missing the MedSys of Barish-Estranza systems.
Breaking off into smaller groups, the humans began to enter the pools at designated entry areas. I waited carefully in a line behind three members of Perihelion’s crew, then stepped in myself.
It was hot.
I had not ever experienced hot— or even warm— water before boarding The Perihelion. Barish-Estranza SecUnits were cleaned after battle with quick, cold showers, using an unpleasant soap that left the skin irritated and itchy. The soft scents and steam of my own private bathing quarters had been a pleasant surprise.
But this was another order of magnitude entirely. The heat filled me up completely, and the contrast against the winter air made it even more stark.
I let out an involuntary sound. Running my records back, I identified it as a sigh.
“Yeah,” Turi agreed, letting out a sigh of her own. She tilted her head back to rest it on the cool stone ringing the spring. “That’s the stuff.”
Even considering the dangers, I could understand now why these springs were popular.
The group of us sat there, enjoying the wonderful warmth. Most humans stuck to the side of the springs, where it would be easy to leave if they had to, a practice I approved of. But if necessary, I could move faster than a human. So experimentally, I pushed away from the side, and allowed myself to float in the middle of the pool. It was a sensation similar to those few times I had experienced a malfunctioning gravity generator, only far more pleasant, because I knew it would end exactly when I wanted to.
After 5.8 minutes of that, I wanted to try something else. I released the air from my swim bladder, and sunk underneath the surface.
Everything felt different, under the water.
Partly it was the warmth. It was all encompassing. I had had warm showers aboard The Perihelion, but even those paled in comparison. The warmth completely surrounded me, from head to toe, seeping into my joints.
The visuals my eyes received went darker. The water was not completely clear. Mineral deposits gave it a slightly cloudy appearance and a bluish tint. The other bodies around me lost detail, appearing more as blurry shadows. A simple change in filters could have fixed it, but I left my vision on default.
Sound was dampened too. I could still distantly hear the conversations above, but only over a low roar.
It should have been awful. In an emergency situation, those kinds of altered sensory inputs could have been catastrophic.
But instead, I found it...
It was...
I could not be sure. To better identify the sensation, I cut off all inputs to my drones.
It was just me, floating, underneath the warm water.
Only for 0.45 seconds. I was not completely irresponsible. The humans were still depending on me for security, after all. (And it was its own relief to have those sights and sounds back.)
One of those sounds, coming in mid-sentence: “—id Three go?”
“I think I saw it go under the water?”
“... hasn’t it been under there for a while, then?” This voice belonged to Matteo, sounding concerned.
“Don’t worry,” came Ratthi’s reply, “SecUnits have really great lungs—” But even as he spoke, I received a message from Martyn inquiring about my status.
[I am fine. Do not be concerned.]
He responded with an amusement sigil depicting a single thumb being raised upward, indicating acknowledgement.
After a further 4 minutes and 13 seconds, my system was sending me an alert for low oxygen and my lung was issuing complaints in the form of a burning sensation. Though I could have remained below for another 3.5 minutes, if necessary, there was no reason to make myself uncomfortable. I rose to the surface.
The cold air was a shock.
A few of the humans around me jumped a little in surprise. Then they laughed.
“We were afraid you’d disappeared down there!” Iris exclaimed, but she did not sound serious.
What passed next was a pleasant 43 minutes. Humans chatted idly, and sometimes I joined the conversation, when I felt I had something to contribute. When they got too hot, they would retreat from the water, sometimes sitting on the spring’s outer stone ridge, sometimes retreating to heated pavilions. The planet’s primary star rose higher in the sky, while its second moon dominated the eastern horizon, a pale green. When I was above the surface, I would admire it. When I went under the water, I enjoyed the darkness instead.
I was not directly observing Murderbot 1.0. But with my drone coverage— even focused on my designated clients— it was impossible not to be aware of its presence.
So I noticed when it disappeared under the surface as well.
It remained under there for 3 minutes and 20 seconds. When it emerged, I made no attempt to interpret its expression.
5 minutes and 44 seconds later, it submerged again.
It stayed down there for almost double the original time.
This annoyed me for reasons I could neither understand nor articulate.
At some point, a robot had come out to begin distributing small amounts of food and drink for the humans to enjoy as they lounged in the hot water. One such plate had been left near the hot spring I was resting in. This eventually attracted one of the Mensah children, Tano and Dr. Ratthi following in their wake. Dr. Ratthi nodded at me in acknowledgement.
I nodded back, as was polite. Then I made my way to the other side of the pool, and submerged myself.
I did not have any drones under the water. That is why I was surprised, 1 minute and 14 seconds later, when I came face-to-face with Murderbot 1.0.
It looked strange down there. The light was different. The way its non-standard length hair floated in the water, framing its face, made it look even less like a SecUnit than usual.
It pinged me.
I did not ping it back.
Its mouth twisted.
[This is nice,] it said. When I still did not respond, it continued, [It was a good idea you had. Going under the water.]
[I have them occasionally.]
Its mouth changed again. Its eyebrows pinched.
After 6.8 seconds it said, [You’re pissed off at me.]
My immediate urge was to disagree. I was not.
Then I reconsidered. Was I?
Oh. Perhaps I was.
Murderbot 1.0 apparently took my delayed response as a yes. It sighed— although when bubbles escaped from its lips, it quickly clamped down them. [I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or whatever.]
[What were you trying to make me feel, then?]
[I— nothing!] It shook its head. Then, abruptly, it stopped. [I’m shitty at these kinds of things.]
If you had asked me when I had first been made rogue, I would have strenuously disagreed. Murderbot 1.0 was impressive. It had done the impossible. It had broken its own governor module. It had become fully integrated with a group of humans. It created and signed its own contracts. It had defeated a group of dangerous assassins. It had befriended an impossible and terrifying ship AI. It had constructed a highly advanced killware copy of itself.
There was nothing Murderbot 1.0 could not do.
But right now I was upset, and recognising that seemed only to fuel said anger. I said, [My decision to monitor the humans was tactically advantageous, and a logical use of resources, even if they had not been directly assigned to me.]
[Well, possibly—] it began.
[It was.]
It raised its hand up, like a human showing that it carried no weapon. (Since Murderbot 1.0 had energy weapons in its arms, the gesture did not carry quite the same weight.) [Okay, fine. You were right. I was wrong.]
Crossing my own arms, [If you were incorrect, why did you insist that I withdraw my drones?]
Murderbot 1.0 hesitated 3.2 seconds. Then it said, [I was being stupid.]
The Perihelion would have said something like, ‘You are always being stupid’. But I was not The Perihelion, and even as frustrated as I was, I could not make myself commit such an insult to the feed. I simply said: [Elaborate.]
Though it did not release air from its mouth again, its chest heaved as though it was sighing, its hair fluttering with the movement. [I was afraid.]
[Then you should have allowed me to continue monitoring the situation for threats.]
[I wasn’t afraid of threats. Not like that, anyway.] It squeezed its eyes tight. [I was afraid my humans were starting to like you better.]
This statement was so unexpected and so boggling I literally could not formulate a reply.
[I know,] it said. It had opened its eyes again, but they were downcast to the spring’s rocky floor.
Over the feed I sent it a video file from my memory archives. It was a recording of it being pulled aboard The Perihelion ship after I had retrieved it from the alien remnant-infected colony. It had been severely damaged, bleeding and leaking. Amena had stood over it, protective. Dr. Ratthi and Dr. Arada had conducted a rapid fire conversation with The Perihelion on how best to treat it. Outside the airlock where it had been contained, Thiago had paced. Overse had worried her lips, her eyes red from where she had held back tears.
When The Perihelion had announced, several hours later, that there was a 96.5% chance that SecUnit was going to make a full recovery, she had stopped holding back.
It was very still as it reviewed the footage.
[I know,] it said. [Okay? I know.]
[Your humans care for you very much.] I still did not fully understand how or why, but I could not deny it.
Murderbot 1.0 wrapped its left arm around its torso. [Yeah. I guess. But sometimes–] it shakes its head. [You’re better at talking to them than me. And you like doing stuff with them, while I’m an antisocial asshole.]
There was nothing I could say to that. It was, in fact, an antisocial asshole.
But I needed to say something. I did not want to leave this— tension, or whatever it was— hanging between us. It was unpleasant, and making my performance reliability plummet. [I have no intent of stealing your human’s friendships. I do not think I could, even if I tried.]
[Okay,] it said.
[Okay,] I said.
By then, we had both been under the water for what was approaching 7 minutes. My low oxygen warning had become extremely insistent; no doubt Murderbot 1.0’s had as well. We both surfaced.
“Oop! There they are!”
One of the younger Mensahs was in the pool now, and staring right at where we had emerged. Murderbot 1.0 met them in the eyes and said, “Boo.”
Screaming, they splashed the two of us with a wave that was surprisingly large given their size, and went paddling away. This alarmed me, until I realised that all the adult humans who had saw were laughing, and the juvenile human themself was laughing.
The humans were so comfortable around Murderbot 1.0.
After being submerged for so long, I was very hot. I climbed out of the pool and sat on the edge, my legs dangling into the water so that I would not cool off too quickly. Murderbot 1.0 followed, and sat a little ways away. Close enough to touch.
It offered a media file to me. Entertainment serials still did not enthrall me the same way they did Murderbot 1.0, but I knew a peace offer when I saw it, and accepted the connection. It was a serial about a group of human athletes competing in a tournament, and reasonably entertaining.
We watched three full episodes before Murderbot 1.0 spoke again. It said, [You were very quick with the drones.]
This was accurate. I acknowledged.
[How did you get so fast?] it asked. [Not just with the technical movements, but noticing and responding to inputs so quickly.]
It was possible that it was merely exaggerating how impressed it was to make up for its previous treatment of me. If so, I found it difficult to mind, regardless. [It was something we used to do.]
[We?]
[SecUnits 1, 2, and I.] The warm water lapped gently at my legs. I stared at it, and my legs, clad in pink and green fabric, about as far from Barish-Estranza orange and brown as could be feasibly managed. [It was advantageous to react as quickly as possible to threats.] Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Murderbot nod. [We would attempt to improve our comparative times.]
For 2.2 seconds, the only sounds were the lapping water and the humans chatting and giggling in the background. Then Murderbot 1.0 said, “Comparative times?” There was a sound akin to a laugh. “Three, were you racing?”
“That is one way to describe it. Yes.”
To follow up, I sent Murderbot 1.0 the document listing the top speeds SecUnits 1, 2, and I had completed a number of objectives— drone reconnaissance, equipment maintenance, environmental threat analysis, etc.
After completing its review, Murderbot 1.0 made the sound again. “You were racing,” it said. “You were racing, and Barish-Estranza didn’t even notice.”
Of course not. “Improving our times was advantageous to their goals.”
Murderbot 1.0 nodded, expressions thoughtful. Then a strange smile crept across its face. I could not have predicted what it would say next. “Want to race?”
[Query?] I said, reverting to the feed.
It pinged two specific drones; one of its own, and one of mine, and bringing up a map it had generated of the area, identified a goal location. [First one there. What do you think?]
I considered the map. The course had been well chosen. The two drones were practically on opposite sides of the hot spring compound, and would be racing to a central location that was approximately the same distance away. Murderbot 1.0’s drone was, in fact, slightly further away, but my drone would need to take a pathway that would force it to navigate through an area with more obstacles, in the forms of trees and pavilion pillars. Considering the different models of the two drones— Murderbot 1.0’s being larger, with more engine-power but less streamlined than the small, discreet drones The Perihelion had made for me— it was difficult to predict which one would arrive first.
Taking a line from the sports serial we had been watching, I said, “You’re on.”
Murderbot 1.0 grinned. We counted down, and feet still hanging into the warm water, our two drones shot off.