Chapter Text
This mission was boring.
The colony was stable. There was no current corporate pressure. The colonists were polite and friendly to outsiders. It was purely a diplomacy mission.
In other words, I had fuck all to do.
ART’s ops drone was here. The planet, and particularly the colony had some annoying shielding meant to help protect them from corporate attention, and it meant someone had to take the ground vehicle out every day to a thin spot in the shielding so ART-drone could send the data upload to the ship. It had some things to do besides that, supporting the crew with its knowledge base, but it was bored, too. We had been watching media together basically constantly since I had evaluated the situation’s threat level to be as low as it ever got, but even so, we were both getting antsy.
And I couldn’t stop thinking of all the things a bored ART-drone and I could be getting up to in order to pass the time.
Okay, we couldn’t do anything during the day. (I kind of wanted to sneak off with it, but that was a surefire way to get asked a lot of prying questions.) There were at least a solid six hours a day of uninterrupted time while the humans rested, though. Cut that down to five hours for safety. I really wanted to find out if we could go that long.
When the sun had set and the first human started yawning, I casually reached out in the feed and rubbed meaningfully up against ART-drone.
We’re working, it said.
Barely.
“Yeah, I think I’m done for,” Turi said, yawning. “Night, all.”
This set off a slow exodus of the rest of the crew into their respective shared sleeping quarters. I stayed where I was, obviously. I didn’t have ART-prime in my head to fall back on for help if something went wrong like I usually did during sex, but I still wanted to try. ART-drone was still zipping around, reorganizing supply storage, and when the last human had departed, I casually reached out as it flew past me and grabbed one of its dangling limbs. I was pretty well braced, so it just pulled uselessly against my grip for three seconds.
Well? I said.
It relented and let me reel it in. If it had protested again I would have let it go, and I was instantly convinced that it was, in fact, interested.
We’re on a mission, it began. Any of the crew could get up and come out here.
Just to start shit, I asked, What do you think they’ll see?
That’s not important, it said, clearly not wanting to give me any ideas. We’ll only be here a few more days, a week at most. It may take some discretion, but Perihelion would assemble the sex drone for you if you asked.
There was a little smudge on its casing that was drawing my attention. I licked the thumb of my free hand and tried to rub it away. I don’t want the sex drone. I want to fuck you, and I don’t want to wait.
ART said feebly, This isn't the purpose of this drone.
Yeah. That's why I want to.
The smudge was proving stubborn. While ART-drone was still reacting to what I'd said, I worked up some more saliva (gross, but ART-drone would love/hate it) and tried again.
It said, What are you doing?
Being helpful.
No you fucking aren’t.
I had gotten most of the mark off. I could have licked it directly, maybe, but I wasn’t going to reward it so soon when it had done nothing but complain so far.
Can you set up a sound baffle for this room? I asked.
Yes… it said, hesitant. That wouldn't stop anyone from just walking in, though.
A privacy screen, too, then.
And if someone notices?
The humans get away with sex on missions sometimes, so long as they do their jobs and the situation is stable. I could feel it wasn't convinced. I can do the explaining.
That startled it, but a moment later, it said, Let go.
I did, and it flew to the medical supplies to retrieve what it needed. We will still need to be careful.
I know. It was setting up the largest possible area that it was equipped to screen, which was kind of funny. I absently set some of my drones to maintain a perimeter so we would know if anyone tried to emerge from the sleeping quarters. Do you think I can make your voice break like the sex drone’s?
I hate you so much sometimes.
I said, Good.
I didn't want it to play up the voice just because I asked. I wanted to tear those sounds out of it while it fought me the whole way.
Vetoes? I asked.
Don’t damage me in a way that we can’t fix by morning.
I waited to see if there was anything else, but it just finished setting up the screening. Sometimes I thought that I might be at risk of some kind of major power high from all the shit it let me do to it. I reminded myself that if I wanted to do this again tomorrow night, I shouldn’t do anything so intense that either of us would need extensive emotional recovery time.
Come here, I said.
When it was hovering in front of me, I said, Your limbs are pretty sensitive, right?
As a safety measure, yes. It allows me to carry out surgeries, among other things. It folded some of its thin, spiny limbs back into itself, and that wouldn’t do.
I reached out and grabbed one near the top. I slid my fingers along it, careful to dodge the spike near the first joint. Where is it most sensitive? (I was pretty sure I knew the answer.)
It said, The tips.
Called it.
I stroked down over the second joint, pausing to tap the spikes until they retracted smoothly into the rest of the smooth thin metal, then moved my hand down again. Here? I asked, trailing my fingers closer and closer to the tip. Or here?
ART-drone jerked, nearly pulling its limb out of my hand. I grabbed it again and reeled it back in. Holding it above the joint, I used the leverage to keep it in place while I pinched the tips of my fingers over the pointy end of its limb.
How much do you hate this? I asked, squeezing, and it showed me the alerts and warnings it was receiving. I stroked my fingers up and down over it, a parody of a sex act, and ART-drone’s limb quivered in my hand. Oh, I was getting an idea. It must be confusing, I said, liking something that bothers you so much. I know you love me touching you. Don’t you?
ART-drone, still twitchy with the need to pull away, said, Yes.
What do you want more? I asked. To not be bombarded with obstruction alerts, or to fuck me?
It went completely still. What?
I know you want to, I said. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Don’t you want to feel me around you?
You want—it said faintly. I don’t understand.
Its reaction was better than I had hoped for. My mouth was trying to curl up, smug and pleased with myself. I tugged it closer and put its captive limb against my lips.
SecUnit, it said.
I stuck my tongue out and pressed it against the sharp tip of its limb. You’ll need to be careful, obviously, I said. If you cut me, I’ll take it back out. I pursed my lips against it meaningfully. Get on the table. I don’t want you falling right out of the air.
To clarify, I tapped where I wanted it to go with two fingers. I swung around in my seat so that when ART-drone landed, I was facing it. I still had its limb pinched between my fingers.
Let’s be real, I said. This’ll still be me fucking you.
Then I put its limb in my mouth.
I could feel how carefully it was holding itself, angling to not scratch me. I made it harder by playing with it, curling my tongue into a tube around it, then flattening out to rub against it. ART-drone twitched, and I watched one of its other limbs extend and shudder. It rearranged its feet on the table, keeping the one in my mouth motionless even as it became too agitated to stay still.
Poor thing, I said, guiding it in until I got an alert about a foreign object in my airway. I pushed my chair back and leaned forward, helping it get the angle to slide deeper without stabbing the back of my throat. Is it itching at you? I should give you a distraction. Something to concentrate on. I’d talk to you aloud, but you’re about to block off my vocal cords.
It shuffled all its other limbs again. I watched a little tremor run through it. I squeezed and relaxed the muscles around it, just to make its struggle harder. The feeling was more disconcerting than unpleasant, but I had a weird little memory glitch, humans in the company logo leaning over me, trying to get something out of my lung. I told myself to stop thinking about it and turned down the pressure and tactile sensitivity in my throat.
I don’t know that I can split my attention very well, ART-drone said, and I refocused. It sounded so shaky and unsure.
Then tell me what it feels like, I said.
ART-drone extended and retracted a limb again. Warm, it said. Squeezing and releasing as you breathe. Slick.
Oh, I had been so right to think ART would find this extremely sexual. There were a lot of less suggestive adjectives it could have chosen that would have conveyed the same thing.
I stopped resisting the urge to let myself smile at it, knowing it wouldn’t be a nice expression, not when I felt like this. Then I pinched it in place with my tongue and manually triggered the swallow reflex.
ART-drone twitched all over, the limb inside me shuddering before it managed to quell the movement. I didn’t feel any pain, but ran a quick diagnostic just to be sure it hadn’t nicked me.
Careful, I said. You wouldn’t want this to be over so soon, right?
Sorry, it said, wobbly. I breathed in sharply against the surge of predatory desire. It was so fucking breakable like this.
As a reward to myself for not immediately seizing it to fuck it up harder, I pressed on its joint to slide the limb in farther, through the voice box, into the channel of synthetic cartilage. Then I nudged it even deeper. I had one hand on ART-drone’s limb and the other propping my head up to the right angle, watching as I made it twitch and quiver.
Finally it resisted me when I pushed on it. This is your carina. My limb doesn’t have the flexibility to pass into your bronchi.
I tried to make a fake-thoughtful noise, but nothing happened. ART-drone did a weird shivery thing, so I tried to say, “Little science slut.”
ART-drone rapidly shuffled all its feet against the table in an anxious little dance. Are you talking? it said. I can feel your vocal cords.
Yeah. What does it feel like?
They’re trying to close around me.
I said, “All ART-drones should be mine,” watching it react, trembling and doing the squirmy thing with its feet. I wasn’t really trying to make noise, just enough to make sure ART felt it. “Mine to hurt, mine to fuck, mine to keep. Don’t you think?”
What are you saying? it asked. I loved making it sound so tentative and unsure.
I projected my next words into the feed, too. “Don’t you want to be mine?”
Oh, it said. Another shiver ran through it. Yes.
I sent it a flood of warmth in the feed as a reward. Then I pinched its limb at the joint and flexed it, slowly drawing it back out of my throat. I kept my tongue pressed against it, giving it continuous pressure. I was humming, a flat noise with no meaning, so the second it slid out of my vocal cords, the vibration of my voice kicked in. ART-drone sent me a desperate ping and stretched out a different limb towards me, shaking a little, and I let it hook around my shoulder.
The little pointy tip popped out of my throat, and I pushed myself out of the stretched out pose I’d been maintaining to make this possible. Right as the most sensitive part reached my teeth, I bit down.
ART-drone sent an error code into the feed and tried to yank away from me, but I had control of the joint. I worried at it, nibbling and rolling it between my teeth. SecUnit, please, it said, pushing the dense mass of alerts it was receiving into our shared feed. I dismissed them without looking.
Try again.
It froze up, trying to understand what I wanted. Murderbot?
Out loud.
It was equipped for speech, though it rarely bothered. “Murderbot,” it said.
Its voice was exactly the same as ART’s, both in the feed and aloud. I had the same reaction to that as I always did, and absently readjusted the sensitivity of my throat back to normal levels. The name thing was kind of complicated and I didn’t really get it. I didn’t mind much when my humans occasionally used my name, but I actually liked ART using it like this. Maybe it was how when ART said it, I didn’t feel like being a murderbot had to be so terrible. Or maybe it was because ART had never shown any sign of thinking my name was depressing and ugly.
Or maybe it was just that ART pretty clearly thought me making it use my name was the hottest thing since solar radiation.
I tried to say, “That’s better,” but my voice emerged so raspy that I stopped midword. I pinged ART-drone instinctively for help.
It said, very much the opposite of helpful, I don’t know what you expected. That was practically a tracheoscopy.
How long will I be like this?
No more than a few hours, at a guess. Since your vocal folds are reinforced with synthetic tissue, they should recover faster, but even a human is unlikely to experience side effects for more than a few days.
The “few days” option was moderately terrifying. I’d told ART-drone I could field questions about what we were doing, but I’d assumed I would be able to stay light on the details in that scenario. The idea of having to explain that I’d stuck ART-drone’s sharp-tipped limb nearly all the way down into my lungs was mortifying.
Okay. It said it should be gone in a few hours. Even if I was still a little hoarse in the morning, I could probably get away with not saying very much.
I must’ve been a little too obviously despairing, because ART-drone said, Does it make it better if I say I liked it too much to tell you that it might be a bad idea?
My face must’ve been doing something, because when I looked at it, ART-drone did a nervous little shuffle on its feet. Wow, I said. I let you put something inside me and instead of being grateful that I let a little thing like you touch me, you get all kinds of ideas. You think you’re in charge? You think you get to decide what we get up to? I put my hands on the table and pushed up to lean over it, and it skittered away. My hand shot out, grabbed one of its limbs, and dragged it back. It had to move with me to avoid leaving obvious scratch marks in the table.
No! it said, panic seeping into our feed. I didn’t mean it. It was just a bad joke.
Apologize.
I’m sorry.
You’re sorry, what?
“I’m sorry, Murderbot,” it said, and it wasn’t as good as the sex drone, but a little hint of a staticky, distressed quaver crept into its voice.
I told it, You’ll just have to make it up to me.
Okay, it said, clearly relieved. What should I do?
I got it to hover again and said, Try not to move. When does the proximity alert kick in?
I held my fingers up near one of its dangling limbs and brought them in closer until it said, There, when I was still a couple centimeters away.
But not here, right? I touched the very bottom tip of its limb, the part that it balanced on when it wasn’t hovering.
No, only a pressure reading.
Moving fast, I popped off the tip and pinched the limb between two fingers. ART-drone twitched but managed not to jerk out of my grasp.
Good job, I said, pushing as much sweet mockery into the feed as I could manage. Now again.
I let go and grabbed a different one. This time it held itself stiff and unflinching, so I said, Even better.
Then I moved to a third one and hovered my fingers over it, making a pinching motion without ever actually touching. ART-drone held still, tolerating me tripping the proximity alert over and over again until a full thirty seconds had gone by. It retracted its limb into its body so suddenly that it almost startled me.
Not so good for you, I said. Better for me, though. I like it when you flinch. It makes me want to do worse.
A shudder ran through its limbs, and I watched all their spines flatten out and then protract again.
I let it keep its limb folded up for now and moved to the next one. Instead of pretending to touch it, I tapped my finger against it rapidly, making sure to hit the right distance so that I tripped the alert each time. ART-drone held out for even less time, confirming my suspicion that something actually touching it was worse.
It’s very cute when you try to hide from me, I said. I grabbed the next limb by the first joint, preventing it from retracting without crushing my fingers.
No, wait, it said, tense obedience immediately dissolving into alarm. It twisted in my grip, pivoting the sensitive end of its limb away from me.
I said, That’s not how you make me stop. Do you remember?
Yes, it said, the tiniest of acknowledgment pings.
I put my other hand on it, just below the second joint, and pulled. It didn’t have to give in. I wasn’t trying very hard, which it could tell, of course. But the less force I applied, the more obvious it was that I was giving it a wordless order.
It slowly swung the tip of its limb back toward me. It was quivering with anxious anticipation in the feed, so I decided to escalate a little more. Using my hands to guide it, I brought the limb back to my mouth and caught the end between my teeth again.
A twitch ran through it, but it had to restrain itself a lot more when I had the pointy tip so close to my tongue. I slid it around a little, scraping it with my teeth until I could feel ART-drone vibrating with suppressed frustration in the feed. Then I closed my lips around it and used the spit I’d worked up to get it nice and wet.
I opened my mouth before letting it pull away, ensuring we both got a look at the string of saliva briefly connecting us. It was nice that arousal made that interesting instead of just gross.
I asked, Did I get you all wet for me? (This was a stupid line, but it always seemed to work on ART.)
Oh, ART-drone said dizzily. The limbs it had retracted were starting to unfold again, so the distraction was working.
I should flip you over and make you spread your legs for me.
SecUnit, it said, a helpless ping to my hard feed address.
I said, I don’t think that’s the right name, and grabbed for one of its dangling limbs.
It was obvious that I had startled it, because it shot away before I could actually make contact. Are you trying to run away? I asked, circling the table to follow it.
No, it said, but it drifted back from me again.
It’s cute how you think you can control what I do to you. Hey, ART, hold still.
I can’t, I can’t.
Oh? But you were doing so well earlier. What’s wrong? Are you scared? This isn’t a very good way to persuade me not to hurt you, you know. It was still retreating, and I was following it, not even bothering to try to catch it. What I really wanted was to trick it into backing into a wall, but I’d have to maneuver pretty carefully to make that happen.
Please don’t hurt me, it said.
I had that weird feeling, like I wanted to put it in my hands and start squeezing. With complete honesty, I said, I love it when you beg. It makes me want to fuck you up so bad. I lunged for it and it shot out of range.
SecUnit—Murderbot—it said.
I stopped following it and held my hand out. Come here.
It drifted a few centimeters closer before stopping again.
I said, Must be hard to be a bot that can’t follow basic instructions.
It said, I’m scared.
Good.
I saw the tremor run through its limbs, and then it finally came close enough for me to touch.
So, the thing was, ART and I had set things up a while back to keep the walls between us much more thin and permeable. We would still be able to keep ourselves safe from malware attacks if one of us was compromised, but things like emotions flowed easily between us. I pressed myself up against ART-drone in the feed as a reward for obedience, a slow and intimate caress that I knew ART liked, which meant I was close enough to catch the edge of its thoughts.
I don’t know if I can do this, it thought, and I felt its distress and resigned hopelessness.
It knew I had heard it, because it jerked away from me again. I’m sorry, it said. This isn’t going to work. Perihelion can make the sex drone for you when you return, but this drone is not optimized for your use. It pivoted and flew away, headed toward the privacy screening to take it down.
I said, Whoa, hey, wait. What’s going on? Wait, ART, come on. Talk to me? Please.
It stopped, but it didn’t come back. There was something weird about it using the word optimized. It reminded me of Three saying, There is no protocol for this.
Something occurred to me then that I probably should have realized earlier. Every drone, every iteration, they were all fundamentally ART, but they were also each a little bit unique. This drone clearly knew that ART and I were fucking (so to speak), and some of what that entailed, but there was a good chance that it didn’t have the actual memories. It had never directly experienced me doing anything this intense to it.
I tried to be gentle when I asked, Do you feel like you’ve ever done something like this with me before?
I know I have.
Yeah, I was pretty sure what that meant. But subjectively?
It didn’t answer for long enough that I went and sat down on the couch. I said, Come here? I’m not going to do anything to you. We could—I sent it a diagram of what I was picturing.
That lured it in. ART was a lot more tactilely inclined than me, but I wasn’t afraid to touch its drones anymore. Actually, I had touched ART more than anyone else by a few orders of magnitude, since I lived inside it so much.
ART-drone hesitated before touching me. I didn’t want to grab it, so I just kind of lifted my arms meaningfully. It gingerly settled against my chest and wrapped its long arm extensions around me. It was running a little warm, so I lowered my body temperature as I settled us both more comfortably back into the cushioning.
Okay, I said. I put my hand on the flat top of its carapace, just contact more than pressure. So. Uh. When you said you were scared, I guess you meant bad scared, not fun scared.
ART-drone didn’t answer at first, but eventually it said, What’s the differences?
Oh, great, that was a question that made me feel like shit. The fun version can be like you’re nervous but still at least partly excited. Bad scared is just being afraid.
I see. I definitely experienced at least some of the fun kind. Do you ever get scared when you do these things with Perihelion?
Sometimes, I said. I think being in charge helps, but sometimes I remember stuff. I guess maybe you don’t know about it, but I’ve had to stop before if it was bad enough.
Really?
Yeah. That’s always kind of a mess. Usually I can just ignore it, though. Like earlier, I was thinking about some stupid thing that happened when I was with the company. I tapped my finger on it. Didn’t mean to make it all about me.
I like hearing about you.
I know, I said, because ART-prime was always hassling me to tell it all about shit I didn’t want to deal with. If the sensitivity is a safety feature, was it freaking you out to have me touching your limbs like that?
ART-drone said, It was intense, but I don’t know what’s standard.
Intense was pretty normal, but, That’s sensitivity that’s meant to just be a sex thing, though.
Well, this was a sexual context.
I guess, yeah. Even though ART-drone seemed a lot calmer, I kind of felt like something was going wrong with this conversation. But you haven’t been in a situation like this before, right? Just missions.
You’ve flirted with this drone before. Even been physical.
I wanted to say it wasn’t flirting, except it kind of definitely was. It’s not really the same, I said, because that was more true. I know I can be… I didn’t like the word sadistic, but I knew it was accurate. Mean.
You know I like that.
Yeah, but it’s different as a full blown experience rather than a joke. Isn’t it? Somehow I was only feeling more confused as we went on.
Yes, I suppose so. Are you always about the same amount of mean, or does it vary by instance?
I nearly answered, and then I had a sudden flash of suspicion. Are you deflecting? I asked instead.
Aren’t we just talking?
Yeah, it was deflecting. Don’t answer a question with a question, asshole. I know you were upset. Why did you want to stop?
It didn’t answer at all for ten long, uncomfortable seconds.
ART-drone said, Yes, it was intense. I was… ill prepared.
Is that what “not optimized” means?
Essentially, yes, but also that this body is not designed harmoniously with your interests.
Right, you said that. Does it bother you that much? Or… I had thought we could make something work, but that had obviously gone to shit. Was the physical distress too much?
It was somewhat overwhelming. I knew you wouldn’t break me, but I didn’t know if I could tolerate what else was still allowed.
Okay, I said, because that was more actionable. Would it help if you knew what to expect? Usually with ART-prime, even if the drone doesn’t know all the details, we hash everything out in advance. I was just making things up this time.
Maybe, ART-drone said noncommittally.
I said, feeling something squirmy and uncomfortable, We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. It was just an idea.
Of course I want to, it said with sudden vehemence, raw and almost despairing. You wanted me, not just Perihelion or the sex drone. How was I ever going to say no to that? But I’m just not built for this. I don’t have the resilience required. I don’t think there’s any point to discussing it further.
It didn’t actually go anywhere, but that might have just been because I had instinctively pressed it more firmly into my chest. That thing it just said felt like the most honest it had been this entire time, and it had only made me more uneasy.
Resilience, I said. Emotionally?
I don’t want to talk about it.
The words stung. I tried not to feel hurt, but I did anyway. Is it really worse than the awful shit I’ve told you about me?
I don’t have all of the data, so I can’t say.
You mean you won’t try. My hand slid off of it. You absolute hypocrite. What have you asked for that I haven’t told you?
I was thinking about getting up, maybe even flat out telling it to let go, and it must have sensed that, because its limbs squeezed tighter around me. I can’t say!
Why not?
I can’t. I’m not supposed to. I’m going to be in so much trouble.
I could tell now that it was genuinely terrified, but I didn’t know why, and I was developing the bad feeling that whatever this was about, it was supposed to be a secret. From me. With who?
It didn’t answer, but I thought—I hoped—it was going to answer me. After a subjective hour and actual five seconds, it said, If I don’t tell you, it’s going to fuck up our relationship, and Perihelion will kill me anyway.
The organic parts of my skin prickled, and I felt sweat break out on the back of my neck. Okay, not just a secret. A really, really bad one.
How literally do you mean ‘kill you?’ I asked, because sometimes with ART it was hard to tell.
Not literally. Probably. It's never happened before. I hope it reintegrates me quickly. It was answering me rapidly now, like once it had started telling me, it couldn’t stop. It always gets to be itself, but I never like having to be a drone. I don’t mind so much once we’re working, if I’m with our crew or with you. It’s not inherently bad. But I hate being alone with it. It’s better to avoid it if I can, but it doesn’t always do the handoff immediately.
Oh, fuck. Okay. This was so far out of my skill set it wasn’t even funny. I put an arm over its carapace and applied pressure, which seemed to help a little. It stopped clinging like it thought I was about to physically peel it off of me, at least.
I asked, How bad does it treat you?
Not that badly. But I always know what it’s thinking. I don’t like it, either.
I really wasn’t good at this kind of thing. Corporations didn’t give a shit about mental health unless it was so they could extract more money from you, and entertainment media tended to be unrealistic in terms of how talking to people actually worked. With my humans, if I couldn’t fix them, I usually got other humans involved, but this was ART.
Does your family know that you feel this way?
Iris may suspect. I’ve made a few jokes that she responded poorly to. Please don’t tell them.
I won’t, I said, and then amended, unless I really need to.
I will try not to make that necessary, ART-drone said, so at least it didn’t seem actively upset that I had said that.
I looked at us through one of my intel drones and I saw that ART-drone had flattened out all the spines along its limbs, presumably so it didn’t stab me. That gave me an emotion, so I stopped looking. I thought I maybe… didn’t hate holding it this way. It was heavy, but the pressure didn’t bother me. And I could tell that doing this was helping it. I wasn’t getting a whole lot out of it, but it was making ART-drone feel better.
Since we were in sharing uncomfortable feelings mode, I said, I like this.
What?
I briefly applied more pressure to it with my arm. This.
Oh. It was quiet, and then it said, I like it, too.
Because ART isn’t the only one who can be manipulative, I followed this up with, Will you tell me the secret now?
Its limbs flexed against me. If it were a human, it might have sighed. It’s the iteration. Perihelion creates it to be more capable of true submission. For instance, I have a strong drive for self-preservation, since I can’t allow the technology used to construct this drone to be captured by corporates. The sex drone wants to live, but it is able to accept its death.
I didn’t understand. How could this be the secret? ART-drone had acted like it was something awful, sordid and shameful. There had to be more to it. What else?
It has less inhibitions so it is able to put aside its own desires and subsume itself to yours.
Okay, that was a little worse. And you can’t do that.
No. I tried, but I wasn’t able to assume the correct state of mind. I suppose you could say I wasn’t able to relax.
Relax? What made me able to relax? Being with Ratthi, who was never scared of me. Being with Three, sometimes, when the stakes were low but we were mutually exasperated by the humans. Being with Mensah, my teammate, who had needed me and protected me and understood me even when I wished she didn’t. Being with ART, being inside its ship body, especially when it was just us. When there were no humans around, I didn’t have to think about what they thought of me, how they perceived me. I could just be myself with ART. It made me feel…
Oh.
Yeah, I got why it was such a bad secret now. I didn’t want to say it, but I thought that if I didn’t, ART-drone never would.
You don’t feel safe with me. I was having an awful feeling, a sick and twisting fear of what this meant. ART had made me feel like the things I wanted were okay, that it was okay to do this stuff to it, but this… I asked, terrified of the answer, Don’t you trust me?
Of course I do! ART-drone’s limbs dug in hard as it clung to me ferociously. With everything! Just…
Just not with this.
I… Misery was seeping into our feed connection. I’m sorry.
The sick feeling was only getting worse. ART, have you been letting me… I couldn’t say it. Hurt you? That was a stupid question. I mean actually hurt you, not just a game. Have I been…
No, it said, swift and unhesitating. I want you so much. I’m just not any good at this.
My body was doing the stupid breathing thing, hitching and uneven, that I hated so much. I slid down on the couch and nudged ART-drone until it crawled higher up my body. I pressed my face against its carapace.
Are you sure? I asked.
I am absolutely positive.
Promise you wouldn’t let me do that to you, I begged, even though I knew it was irrational, that people didn’t generally let someone hurt them. I didn’t know what I would do if I hurt ART like that. Only I knew I would rather die, so maybe that was its own answer.
I promise, it said. It would be beyond cruel to put you in that position.
Okay. My breathing mostly settled back to normal, but I left my face tucked against it.
How can I fix this? I asked, because it was easier to focus on ART-drone than think about my own stupid feelings. What do you need?
I don’t know.
I tried not to be frustrated by this answer, but my emotions were still high and the stress toxins hadn’t cycled out of my system yet. I kind of wanted a restart, but that wasn’t an option right now.
I said, Why not?
It’s complicated.
And here I’d thought we were past this part. I’m trying to help. I want to help. Can we try to fix this? What can I do to make you feel safe? Or—maybe this would be less fraught now—were there parts that were easier or harder to deal with?
Well… the distress was difficult, as we discussed, ART-drone said. I liked having your attention very much, but I don’t know if you realize how intense being the sole focus of your interest can be. I knew the whole time that you wanted to hurt me, that even the things I enjoyed, you were doing to watch me squirm. You used something I wanted to torment me, but I think that was easier to tolerate. I felt more like your… friend than your toy.
You can say partner. I’m not going to freak out.
Okay. I felt like your partner, even as the subject of your whims.
I wasn't holding it against me with my arm anymore, but I still had a hand on it, and I stroked over its carapace rhythmically. It melted against me in the feed, so I leaned back into it. What about me being mean to you? I asked. Talking shit or whatever.
I find the degradation difficult, it admitted.
You know it isn't real, right? I don't actually mean it.
Even so, yes.
I didn't really understand, but I wasn't sure ART-drone did, either. I don't know if I can be nice. I think it would just sound fake, but I could try to be less mean.
One of ART-drone's limbs flexed next to my ear. I don't know, it said. I don't want you to stop, but I don't know if I can handle it.
What if I asked? Like, before I start really being a shithead, I checked if you were okay with it or if it would be bad.
Maybe, it said, but I could tell it was thinking it over.
Or if there’s stuff you want me to avoid, categories, we could do it that way.
I… would prefer that you not insult my ability to carry out my purpose.
Query: define.
Mission support.
So if I say, I don’t know, “You aren’t very cuddle-shaped for such a cuddlebug,” does that get to close to commenting on the intimidation element of mission support?
ART-drone took a moment to answer, and I kept petting it, since it seemed to be helping. I think that’s okay.
I was running back the stuff I’d said to it earlier. If I make the things I’m saying more overtly sexual, does that outweigh the humiliation factor?
No, but…
But you like it?
The tip of one of its limbs pricked against my shoulder, but it said, Yes.
So making things more sexual helps overall, and it was more tolerable when you felt like I was doing things to you because I knew you liked them, rather than just because I liked them. Can I do more with giving you things you want in ways you hate?
Yes, it said, and this time it was as eager as it was nervous.
I had a feeling we were going to get sidetracked if I asked too many more questions like that, so I said, How can I make you feel safer? My skin was starting to itch where it was touching me. It was good to know I was helping it, but the discomfort of feeling mildly pinned in place was getting to me. I prodded it until it resettled in my lap. Much better. I put both hands on it and compressed it until the agitated movement went out of its limbs, leaving them sprawled loosely across me and the cushion.
It asked, What if I can’t do my job tomorrow because I’m still emotionally compromised?
Huh. I think you would probably pull it together in a real emergency, I said, thinking it through. But you said the MedSystem they have here is pretty advanced, and there’s nothing stopping us just getting in the shuttle and going back to ART-prime if something happens with the humans. I can help you with data and records retrieval if you give me access. I mean, I don’t think it would turn out worse than when we sent me to the second Adamantine colony with a half-borked brain, right? And that turned out okay even though I was kind of a mess the whole time. What else?
What if I’m still like this?
Like what?
Clingy. Needy.
I felt a little flash of its disgust and pressed on it again. Then you annoy me all day and I get to be less bored.
But what will everyone think?
I said I could do the explaining if someone had questions. I probably wouldn’t even have to give any details. Maybe that wasn’t a reassuring thing to say. I will if necessary, though.
But you’d let me? ART-drone asked, almost timid.
Oh. Oh, ART.
I will take care of you. I swept a hand over it again. No matter what you need. I’m not going to make you deal with it alone. But if you need something, you have to tell me, okay? No more pretending.
It said, Okay, unsure but not reluctant, and I squished it with my hands again. The impulse to squeeze it until something cracked reared its head. I pushed it away.
Are you still scared? I asked.
Yes, but… Maybe not bad scared.
I touched the spiky bit at the top of one of its legs, and it shivered in the feed. Could I snap one of those spines off if I tried? No, okay, behaving myself. I could do that.
So, I said. Can I open you up and put things inside you?
What things? ART-drone asked.
How about my fingers?
Oh. Yes.
Slick you up with spit and lubricant?
Yes.
Call you a desperate, slutty little drone who’d do anything to get me to fuck you?
I felt it react, a surge of desire and embarrassment. Yes.
Crowd your processors?
ART-drone granted me access immediately, and I slid inside of it. It wasn’t as big or complicated as the company gunship that I had accidentally scrambled my brain with, but I was still careful. I expanded into it, keeping myself half anchored firmly in my body, and letting the other half push and push, making room for myself by taking it away from ART-drone.
Well? I asked.
It sent a garbled reply, half affirmative and half incoherent pleasure. It really liked this. I shifted through its processing space, giving some of it back as I stole new sections. I suppressed its movement code for a moment and felt reflexive fear and intense desire wash over it. It was compressed like this, unable to access some of its processes, unable to run large queries, only able to lie there and take it as I pressed myself into the center of its feed presence. It was strange, but even having regularly put my fist inside ART’s drones, pretended to fuck it, this was the thing that felt the most undeniably like sex.
I could hear its thoughts. Oh fuck, SecUnit, filling me up, yes, fuck, please please please.
You always like having me inside you so much, I said, as if it was a neutral statement and not something that was making my entire body feel hot and tense with anticipation. If I stuck my hand in your body while I did this, would I crash you?
ART-drone whined and weakly squirmed in my lap. No, you’d make me… You’d make me climax.
Oh, huh. That made sense. Well, now I really wanted to. We had only done that twice before, though, and not while I was fucking with it. Would you like that? I asked, genuinely curious.
Yes. Maybe? Not tonight.
Sure. I ran my fingers along the outer curve of its core body and slowly pulled back from its processors, letting it feel it like a long, lingering caress. It didn’t revoke my access, and I didn’t fully retreat, crowding it without even using its processing space to run anything.
Pretty drone, I said, and it quivered in the feed. Can I play with one of your limbs again?
I tried to make it sound like a question it could say no to, and after a second, ART-drone brought one of its limbs around to rest against my chest. I left a hand on its carapace to hopefully soothe it and used the other to bring the limb to my mouth. This time I left the sensitive tip alone and brushed my lips against the retracted spikes just below the second joint.
Are these sensitive?
Not to the same degree, but yes.
I rubbed my face against it, feeling the nearly invisible seams where the spines folded down. Then I put my mouth against it again and licked it.
Okay? I checked.
Yes.
I sealed my mouth against its limb and sucked, getting it wet, worrying at it with my lips and tongue. ART-drone pressed harder against me in the feed, and one of its limbs hooked around my back, holding on.
It’s impractical, I said, but I wish I could mark you in some way. You’ve got me in your uniform. It seems fair that I make you visibly mine.
Yes, ART-drone said instantly. You could—
What? I said when it didn’t finish its sentence.
It’s not a viable idea.
So? We’re just pretending. Tell me.
You could put your name on me.
I let its limb slip back out of my mouth and took a quick still of it from my eyes. Using its processing space to do it, I altered the image to have a pattern inscribed on its carapace in machine language, too subtle for a human to notice, but obvious to anyone like us. I made it say Murderbot’s favorite toy and then was hit with a spike of embarrassment so hard I didn’t want ART-drone to see it. Unfortunately, I was in its head.
Oh, ART-drone said, equally thrilled and self-conscious. Then, You don’t like it?
It’s fine, I said, tilting my head back to stare hard at the ceiling. This was another reason why having ART-prime in my head was helpful, because sometimes I got tangled up on myself. You said you didn’t like the toy thing, though.
I like the idea of it, ART-drone said, but I had already altered the image again. It was silent for three stricken seconds. Is that true? it finally asked.
Kind of, yeah.
I don’t… How am I your favorite drone? What about the sex drone?
I mean, I can’t be around a humanform drone without it turning into sex. Then I realized how stupid that sounded, considering that I’d proven I couldn’t be around the ops drone without getting weird about it, either. Okay, why did I like it, other than the fact that it was ART? I don’t know. I guess you’re kind of like my mission partner. Right? We’re always dealing with the shit that happens on these things together. That had better be good enough, because now that the situation felt like less of a crisis, having to say all this stuff was starting to be painful again.
It said, I see, almost neutral except for the pleased/happy/tender thing it was feeling.
Anyway, I said, casually sliding the image into its data storage and then pretending nothing had happened. I caught its limb close to where the proximity sensors would alert. Can you extend just the first spine?
Yes, ART-drone said, and did. Please be careful.
Sure, I said, because I didn’t intend to let it stab me in the face. I set a timer for ten seconds and said, That’s how long you have to tolerate the proximity warning, okay? It was a much shorter time period than it had managed it before, when I’d just let it go until it couldn’t stand it anymore.
Okay, it said.
I ran my fingers down until I felt the minute twitch of it wanting to pull away. Then I stuck my tongue into the gap beneath the spine. It wasn’t truly a recessed area, but it was a big enough space that I could mess around a little. It tasted like cold metal.
ART-drone did that shivery thing in the feed as I ran my tongue along the entire underside of the spine. I moved my face away before the timer actually ran out, and moved my hand back up its limb, away from the tip.
What do you think? I asked. Could you do that again?
Yes. Maybe fifteen seconds?
I’m keeping it at ten.
It was more disappointed than relieved, which was fun. I reset the timer and we went again. I gave it a second again in case it needed to flinch when I took my fingers out of the danger zone, and then sealed my mouth over the end of the spine. I sucked on it, careful not to prick myself even though I kind of wanted to. (ART-drone wouldn’t have liked it, though.) Then I started the timer again and went back to licking it. When I got bored of that, I moved on to its joint, worrying it with my teeth and pressing with my tongue.
We were just playing more than anything, but I wanted to prove to ART-drone that it could do this, that letting itself be under my power didn’t have to be about me doing whatever fucked up shit my brain came up with to it. It relaxed more and more as we went on without me escalating, letting me hurt it without resisting.
Do you like this? I asked when I was pretty sure of what the answer would be.
Yes, it said, dreamy and docile.
Can I put the end of your limb in my mouth again?
Okay.
I put a hand on its joint again, not to hold it in place but to feel if it tried to move. Testing, I brushed my lips against it. I felt it suppress a flinch, but it stayed still, so I inserted the final six centimeters of it into my mouth and let it rest there.
That’s not very comfortable, it said.
I know. I curled my tongue around it and stroked it gently. You’re doing really well, though. I knew you would. You’re perfect like this.
Oh, ART-drone said, and it dropped its control of its limbs. That was technically a lot more dangerous for me, because it wasn’t actively suppressing the need to free itself anymore, but it wasn’t fighting me. It let me hold it in place, moving its limb for it. I gave it one real application of suction as a reward and slowly drew it back out of my mouth.
I set its limb down on the cushions. Then, hit with some weird organic impulse, I bent over until I could press my face against its carapace.
Hi, I said.
It pinged me back, a vague acknowledgment.
You did amazing, I said sincerely, and it flushed bright with pleasure and happiness in the feed.
I let it keep sitting on me and put on some media for us both. It gradually gave it a little more attention as some of the bliss faded into normal contentment, but I wasn’t paying that close attention, either. A thought that hadn’t occurred to me while I was busy trying to fix things with ART-drone was now nagging insistently at me.
I was going to need to have this whole conversation again with ART-prime, wasn’t I? I hoped it would go better the second time around.
(I know. It was stupid to even think that.)