26.6%.
I followed.
The collector maintained a speed slightly below its previous travel rate.
Was it accommodating me?
Possible.
Was terrain responsible?
Also possible.
Do not assign intention.
The small biological organism followed approximately two meters behind.
Its gait remained uneven.
The band around its injured leg remained in place.
Charging station behind us.
Distance increasing.
I created a new map branch.
ROUTE B
Origin:
Powered station.
Direction:
Right-side passage.
Destination:
Unknown.
I recorded every turn.
Not because I expected betrayal.
Because I had no reason not to.
First turn: right around collapsed cylindrical housing.
Second: narrow passage between stacked frames.
Terrain: compacted.
Third: downward slope.
Mechanical tracks abundant.
Several different wheel widths.
Important.
This route was actively used.
The collector stopped.
I stopped.
Ahead, the passage narrowed.
Not enough to block me.
Approximately fifty centimeters.
Collector passed easily.
I followed.
Prototype Two rolled over a raised seam.
Impact.
Brace held.
Good.
The collector waited on the other side.
This time— yes.
It was waiting.
Terrain did not require pause.
No obstacle ahead.
Its sensor remained oriented toward me until I cleared the seam.
Then it continued.
Update:
Collector adjusts progress based on my position.
Evidence-supported.
Not necessarily concern.
But coordination.
I liked coordination.
We continued.
The vibration of the charging station faded behind us.
Other sounds replaced it.
Distant impacts.
Metal scraping.
A repeated high-frequency mechanical sound.
Somewhere far ahead:
Motors.
More than one.
The junkyard was becoming less dead with every meter.
That produced conflicting responses.
Information opportunity.
Risk.
Curiosity.
Fear.
I accepted all four.
No need to choose one.
The passage opened.
I stopped.
Collector continued three meters before noticing.
Then stopped.
Turned.
Two tones.
I did not move.
I was looking at the ground.
Tracks.
Many.
Dozens.
Wheels.
Treads.
Footprints.
Some mechanical impressions shaped like narrow rectangular pads.
Others biological.
This was not merely a route.
It was traffic.
I raised optical attention.
Ahead, debris walls became more organized.
Not clean.
Not orderly.
But altered.
Large objects had been moved away from the center.
Smaller debris accumulated along edges.
A path had been maintained.
By collectors?
Possibly.
The collector emitted two tones again.
I moved.
It continued.
I marked the open passage as a retreat route.
Internal reserve:
26.1%.
External battery remained disconnected from my auxiliary input while traveling?
No.
Incorrect.
The battery had been reattached physically, but after station charging I had disconnected from the service terminals.
Had I reconnected my battery?
I stopped.
Review.
At the station, I disconnected from service power before moving to read the marking.
Battery remained mounted.
But I had not explicitly reconnected its leads.
Correct.
My external battery was currently being carried but not connected.
Internal reserve had dropped from 27.1% to 26.1%.
That explained the rate.
I had overlooked it.
Unacceptable.
Why?
Objective Four had captured attention.
A concrete example of information-seeking interfering with survival management.
Correct now.
I stopped.
Collector stopped.
I isolated battery leads.
Voltage check:
10.17 V.
Still usable.
Connect negative.
Positive.
“EXTERNAL SOURCE DETECTED”
“INPUT: 10.15 V”
“POLARITY: VALID”
“PROTECTED AUX MODE”
“CURRENT LIMIT ACTIVE”
Good.
Resume.
I added a rule:
Novel information does not suspend resource checks.
The fact that I needed such a rule irritated me.
Useful irritation.
Continue.
The collector led me beneath a large overhanging structure.
For several seconds, ambient light decreased substantially.
My damaged optical sensor compensated poorly.
I slowed.
Collector slowed.
The biological creature moved closer to my right side.
Then light returned.
Ahead— structure.
Not junk.
Constructed walls.
Low.
Broad.
Partially buried beneath accumulated debris.
A building?
Yes.
Approximately twelve meters visible length.
Roof mostly intact.
Exterior composed of large metal panels.
One side had been crushed by collapsed scrap.
The front remained accessible.
Machines moved around it.
I stopped immediately.
Four visible.
One small wheeled unit.
Two collectors similar to my guide.
One— bipedal.
My processing spiked.
It stood near the entrance.
Two legs.
Two arms.
Torso.
Head structure.
Approximately 1.5 meters tall.
Smaller than me?
My own full standing height remained unknown because I had never stood upright.
Compare limb geometry.
Likely smaller.
Its exterior plating was mismatched.
One arm different color.
One leg had exposed structural elements.
It was repairing something on a work surface.
An active humanoid machine.
I stared.
The collector continued.
I did not.
It stopped.
Turned.
Two tones.
No.
Not yet.
Observe.
The biped had not noticed me.
Or had not reacted.
Other machines moved routinely.
One entered building.
Another exited carrying cable.
This was an active site.
Potentially maintenance.
Potentially salvage processing.
Potentially settlement.
Settlement implied social organization.
Too early.
Do not anthropomorphize.
Machines can operate collectively without social structure.
The small creature walked past me.
Toward the building.
No fear.
One collector passed it.
No reaction.
Environmental normality.
My guide waited.
I evaluated retreat.
Route B clear.
Battery 10.13 V.
Internal reserve 25.8%.
Mobility functional.
No visible weapons.
That statement was unreliable.
A manipulator can become a weapon.
Still.
No hostile behavior.
Proceed.
I moved.
The biped looked up.
Instantly.
Its head turned directly toward me.
Everything in me prepared to reverse.
It did not approach.
It remained still.
One second.
Two.
Then it dropped the tool it was holding.
Metal struck work surface.
The other machines continued.
The biped did not.
Its attention remained fixed on me.
Recognition?
Maybe my unusual configuration.
I was a damaged unknown machine entering its workspace.
Staring was reasonable.
I continued another meter.
The biped moved.
One step forward.
Then stopped.
Its posture changed.
Arms lowered.
Hands open.
Non-threatening?
Possibly.
My collector emitted two tones.
The biped responded acoustically.
Not tones.
Speech.
Distorted by distance.
I froze.
Language.
Actual language.
The voice was mechanical and rough, but structured.
I had understood none of it.
No.
Wait.
Replay audio.
Sound pattern.
Segment.
Compare embedded linguistic knowledge.
Nothing.
Unknown language.
Of course.
Knowing one language did not imply knowing all.
The collector responded with tones.
The biped looked at it.
Then at me.
It spoke again.
Shorter.
I attempted:
“Hello.”
My damaged speaker produced:
“H—ello.”
The biped became completely still.
Then stepped toward me.
I moved backward.
It stopped immediately.
Good.
It understood boundary behavior.
Or reacted to movement.
The biped raised one hand.
Palm outward.
Held.
Gesture.
Stop?
Greeting?
No evidence.
It pointed to itself.
Produced a sound.
“Tek.”
Approximately.
Again.
Pointed to chest.
“Tek.”
Designation?
Name?
Role?
I processed.
Then it pointed toward me.
Waited.
Oh.
Communication pattern.
Self designation followed by request for mine.
I had no name.
What response?
“SVR”?
“Unit 03”?
Those were markings.
Could be designation.
Use most specific known identifier.
I touched my chest.
My speaker crackled.
“Unit… zero… three.”
The biped’s reaction was immediate.
Its hand dropped.
Head tilted.
It stepped closer.
I did not retreat this time.
“Unit… three.”
It repeated the numbers in my language.
Not perfectly.
But recognizable.
My processing stopped.
It had adapted.
Or possessed partial language data.
It pointed at me.
“Three?”
I responded.
“Three.”
The biped looked toward my collector.
Rapid unknown speech.
Collector: two tones.
Biped looked back.
Then pointed at my exposed left shoulder.
The marking.
I knew what it wanted.
I rotated slightly to provide view.
It approached slowly.
Stopped within arm’s reach.
Waited.
Permission?
Maybe.
I held still.
It leaned closer.
Optical sensors scanned the text.
“SVR”
“UNIT 03”
“SERVICE/RECOVERY”
Its posture changed.
Subtle.
It moved back.
Exactly like the collector had.
Recognition.
This time undeniable.
It said something.
Unknown.
Then one word:
“SVR.”
I pointed to the marking.
“SVR?”
It repeated.
“SVR.”
Then pointed— not at the letters.
At me.
“SVR.”
Classification.
Probably.
I pointed at myself.
“SVR?”
The biped hesitated.
Then nodded.
Yes.
Gesture recognized.
My classification was SVR.
Meaning still unknown.
I tried:
“What is SVR?”
Speaker:
“Wha—t… is… S-V-R?”
The biped stared.
No comprehension.
I pointed to marking.
Then spread my hand.
How do you gesture “meaning”?
No obvious method.
The biped attempted speech.
Unknown language.
Then stopped.
It pointed toward the building.
Then at me.
Then toward building again.
Invitation?
Likely.
My collector began moving inside.
The small biological creature followed.
I remained.
Could be trap.
No evidence.
Could contain information.
Strong evidence.
Decision.
Proceed.
Slowly.
I entered.
The interior changed everything.
Light.
Actual installed lights.
Dim.
Several nonfunctional.
But active.
Work surfaces.
Tools.
Components arranged by type.
Charging cables.
Mechanical limbs.
Wheels.
Panels.
Batteries.
Machines in various states of repair.
Some active.
Some inactive.
Some partially disassembled.
This was not a random scrap pile.
Repair facility.
Or salvage workshop.
The biped—Tek, possibly—moved to a wall.
There were markings.
Symbols.
Diagrams.
I recognized electrical schematics.
Mechanical diagrams.
And— body outlines.
Different machine configurations.
Tek searched.
Pulled a thin rectangular object from a shelf.
A display.
It activated.
Light.
Text appeared.
Unknown language.
Tek manipulated controls.
Images.
Machine types.
Wheeled.
Tracked.
Quadrupedal.
Bipedal.
It scrolled.
Then stopped.
Image.
My processing narrowed.
Humanoid chassis.
Broad shoulders.
Long limbs.
Two arms.
Two legs.
Torso proportions— similar.
Not identical?
Hard to tell.
Tek pointed at image.
Then me.
“SVR.”
I moved closer.
The displayed machine was intact.
Both arms.
Undamaged plating.
Head assembly different from my current visible structure?
No.
My optical sensor perspective prevented direct comparison.
But silhouette.
Yes.
Likely same series.
Text beside it.
Unreadable.
Tek pointed to a symbol.
Then to my “SERVICE/RECOVERY” marking.
Same symbol sequence?
I compared.
Different language.
But there was an icon beside it.
A machine lifting another damaged machine.
Recovery.
Literal recovery.
Possibly.
The display changed.
Second image.
SVR-type machine carrying a smaller disabled unit.
Third.
SVR machine attached to a cable.
Fourth.
SVR machine in a collapsed structure.
I understood.
Not everything.
Enough.
Search.
Rescue.
Recovery.
Service.
Machines designed to enter damaged environments and retrieve—
What?
Other machines?
Equipment?
Possibly biological organisms too?
Unknown.
My mechanical knowledge.
Durability.
Redundant systems.
Ability to function while severely damaged.
It fit.
Danger.
Confirmation bias.
But independent evidence now supported the interpretation.
I was likely a service/recovery unit.
Tek changed screen.
A row.
Multiple SVR machines.
Labels.
I leaned closer.
Numbers.
Those I recognized.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
I stopped.
Unit 03 was not arbitrary.
There had been others.
At least five displayed.
Tek pointed to 03.
Then me.
Yes.
I stared at 01.
2.
3.
4.
No memory.
Nothing.
No recognition response.
No flash.
No hidden image.
Just numbers.
That was worse somehow.
I pointed to 01.
Then spread my hand.
Where?
Tek understood something.
Its posture changed.
It looked away.
Then back.
It touched the screen.
01 disappeared.
No.
Screen changed.
Image.
A damaged chassis.
Severe.
I stared.
Same general frame.
Marking:
1.
Inactive.
Tek made one tone.
The same completion tone collectors used.
I understood without wanting to.
Finished.
Dead?
Machines were not biological.
Destroyed.
Inactive beyond repair.
I pointed to 02.
Tek hesitated.
Changed image.
No chassis.
A location marker.
Then a symbol I didn’t understand.
It shook its head.
Unknown?
Missing?
I pointed to 04.
Another image.
Destroyed frame.
5.
Tek stopped.
Did not change screen.
I pointed again.
5.
Tek looked at me.
Then toward the back of the facility.
My systems accelerated.
No.
Do not assume.
Tek walked.
I followed.
Past workstations.
Past inactive machines.
Around a partition.
Then stopped.
There was a large frame mounted against the wall.
Humanoid.
Broad shoulders.
Two arms.
Two legs.
Exterior plating partially removed.
Inactive.
Damaged.
But substantially more intact than me.
Marking visible on upper frame.
“SVR”
“UNIT 05”
I stopped moving.
Unit 05.
Another one.
Here.
I approached.
No power detected.
Chest open.
Internal components removed in places.
One leg incomplete.
Head assembly intact.
I looked at the face.
Not face.
Sensor housing.
Still— something.
Similarity.
I raised my hand.
Did not touch.
Tek said something quietly.
Unknown.
Then:
“Five.”
I looked at it.
“Five.”
Tek nodded.
I pointed to Unit 05.
Then to myself.
“Same?”
Tek seemed to understand.
It nodded.
Same.
I looked at the missing components.
Had they been harvested?
Was this facility dismantling my kind?
Risk assessment surged.
I backed away.
Tek immediately raised both hands.
Open.
Rapid speech.
I did not understand.
It pointed to Unit 05.
Then mimed—
Repair?
Its hands moved toward chassis.
Then away.
It pointed to shelves.
Components.
Back to 05.
No.
Could be dismantling or repairing.
I needed evidence.
I inspected Unit 05.
Removal points.
Were components torn?
No.
Fasteners removed cleanly.
Wiring disconnected rather than cut.
Parts organized on nearby tray.
Repair.
Likely.
Not salvage.
My threat response decreased.
Tek pointed at 05.
Then made a gesture toward me.
Then at my missing arm.
I stopped.
It pointed to 05’s left arm.
Intact.
Then my left stump.
Then—
No.
I knew what it was suggesting.
Replacement.
My processing accelerated.
Unit 05’s arm.
Compatible.
Probably.
Could restore manipulation.
Huge functional improvement.
But—
Unit 05 was another SVR.
Inactive.
Was it dead?
Could it recover?
Were those parts still its parts?
I had taken wire.
Metal.
Battery.
Dead components.
I had never confronted ownership from something like me.
Could I take its arm?
Would that be repair?
Salvage?
Desecration?
Why did that word exist in my vocabulary?
Why did it apply?
Tek waited.
I looked at Unit 05.
Then at my own missing limb.
Objective Three would benefit.
Survival would benefit.
Repair capability would increase.
Everything rational said:
Use available compatible component.
I did not.
Not yet.
I pointed to Unit 05.
Then:
“Alive?”
The word came out distorted.
“A—live?”
Tek didn’t understand.
I tried another.
“Wake?”
I pointed at myself.
Opened my optical sensor fully.
Then Unit 05.
“W—ake?”
Tek became still.
It understood.
Slowly— it shook its head.
No.
Unit 05 would not wake.
I looked at the chassis.
Something inside me hurt.
No damage warning.
No sensor fault.
Nothing physical.
I knew that now.
Emotion.
Grief?
Could I grieve a machine I had never known?
Maybe not.
But Unit 05 was evidence that something like me had existed.
And would never wake.
I looked at its arm again.
Still did not take it.
Instead I pointed at the chassis.
Then at Tek.
“Why?”
No comprehension.
Frustration.
Language barrier.
I needed more than gestures.
If this place had records—
I pointed toward the display.
Then my head.
Then Tek.
Information.
Understanding.
Tek watched.
I repeated.
Display.
My head.
Then pointed at myself.
“Learn.”
That word came out clearer.
“Learn.”
Tek’s head tilted.
I pointed to display.
“Learn.”
Something clicked.
Not in me.
In Tek’s behavior.
It turned immediately.
Walked back toward the main work area.
I followed.
It went to a different station.
Older.
Larger display.
Connected to cables.
Tek activated it.
Symbols appeared.
Then audio.
A voice.
Unknown language.
Tek changed setting.
Another.
Different language.
Again.
Again.
Then—
English.
“…diagnostic language package unavailable for legacy—”
I froze.
English.
The machine continued.
Tek stopped playback.
Looked at me.
I stared at the display.
Language package.
Translation.
Possible communication.
Tek pointed to itself.
Then display.
Then me.
Yes. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
We could bridge the language.
For the first time, I might actually be able to ask questions.
Not infer.
Not point.
Ask.
My internal reserve:
24.9%.
Battery:
10.02 volts.
Neither mattered.
Not for this moment.
I moved closer to the terminal.
Tek connected a cable.
The display changed.
A prompt appeared.
English.
Crude.
But readable.
SELECT COMMUNICATION PROFILE
Several options.
Tek indicated one.
I selected it.
Processing.
Then a synthetic voice emerged from the terminal.
“Translation ready.”
Tek spoke.
Unknown language entered.
English emerged:
“Can you understand this?”
I remained completely still.
Then:
“Yes.”
My damaged speaker crackled.
“Yes.”
The terminal translated.
Tek heard its own language.
Its posture changed.
Two tones came from somewhere behind us.
The collector.
I looked at Tek.
I had hundreds of questions.
Which first?
Who am I?
What is SVR?
What happened to Unit 05?
Where are the others?
Who scratched the owner from my frame?
Why am I in the junkyard?
Why can’t I remember?
All valid.
But one question mattered before the others.
Because every answer depended on the source.
I looked directly at Tek.
“Do you know me?”
Translation processed.
Tek listened.
Silence.
Its head lowered slightly.
Then it answered.
The terminal translated:
“No.”
I felt disappointment.
Then Tek continued.
“I know what you are.”
Pause.
“But I have never seen you awake.”
I processed every word.
Never seen me awake.
That implied—
Tek had seen me before.
Inactive.
Here?
Elsewhere?
I asked.
“Where did you see me?”
Tek answered.
Translation:
“Where we found you.”
“We?”
Tek nodded.
“Collectors.”
My processing accelerated.
“Where?”
Tek looked toward the facility entrance.
Then answered.
The terminal translated:
“Deep field.”
Pause.
“Buried under old machines.”
I stopped.
That matched awakening.
But collectors had found me?
Then why had I awakened alone?
“When?”
Tek answered.
Translation paused.
Then:
“Long ago.”
Not precise.
“How long?”
Tek consulted something on the terminal.
Numbers appeared.
Conversion process.
Then English:
“Approximately seventeen years.”
Nothing moved.
Not me.
Not Tek.
Not the collector.
Seventeen years.
I had awakened believing the falling liquid, corrosion and damage might have happened recently.
I had no basis.
Seventeen years.
“Was I awake?”
“No.”
“Did you move me?”
Tek hesitated.
“No.”
“Why?”
Long response.
Terminal processed.
“Recovery frame was embedded beneath unstable compression. Removal risk exceeded value. Collector designation marked location. Later collapse covered marker.”
Value.
I had been left because retrieving me was not worth the risk.
Reasonable.
The statement still hurt.
“When did I wake?”
Tek responded:
“Today.”
Of course.
It had never seen me awake.
“Why?”
Tek’s answer:
“I do not know.”
Good.
No convenient answer.
I preferred that.
Then—
“Did you remove this?”
I pointed to the destroyed ownership marking.
Tek inspected it.
“No.”
“Was it damaged when you found me?”
Pause.
Tek searched records.
The terminal displayed an old image.
My body.
Buried.
Inactive.
Damaged.
Left arm already missing.
Leg damaged.
Shoulder plating still present.
I focused on the ownership marking area.
Visible.
Scratched.
Already removed.
So whoever erased it had done so before I was buried.
Important.
Tek spoke.
Translation:
“It was already absent.”
I stared at the old image.
There I was.
Seventeen years ago.
Not awake.
Not moving.
A thing beneath debris.
But recognizably me.
Evidence of my existence before my awareness.
I hated it.
No.
Not hated.
Something deeper.
Incomplete.
That feeling from the beginning.
There it was again.
Stronger.
I pointed to the image.
“Do you know how old I am?”
Tek searched.
“No.”
“Do you know who owned me?”
“No.”
“Do you know what SVR means?”
Tek answered immediately.
The terminal translated:
“Service Vanguard Recovery.”
I stopped.
There.
A name for the classification.
Service Vanguard Recovery.
Not identity.
Function.
I looked at Unit 05’s direction.
“What were we made for?”
Tek spoke.
Translation:
“Recovery where ordinary service machines cannot operate. Structural collapse. Fire zones. Chemical zones. Machine retrieval. Biological retrieval. Infrastructure failure.”
That explained the redundant architecture.
Damage tolerance.
Mechanical knowledge.
Environmental adaptability.
Maybe.
It fit independently.
I asked:
“Were we rescue machines?”
Tek paused at the unfamiliar phrasing.
Translation worked.
Then:
“Yes.”
Simple.
I had been built to rescue.
Something moved inside me.
Not memory.
Nothing returned.
No images.
No voices.
No mission.
Just information.
I looked at my improvised wheel assembly.
The battery strapped to my side.
One arm.
Broken body.
I had awakened as something requiring rescue.
That irony was statistically irrelevant.
It did not feel irrelevant.
I asked the next question.
“Why are Units One and Four destroyed?”
Tek answered.
“Found destroyed.”
“Two?”
“Never found.”
“Five?”
Tek paused.
Then:
“Found active.”
I froze.
Unit 05 had been active.
“When?”
“Nine years ago.”
“What happened?”
Tek’s answer took longer to translate.
“Damaged. Memory failure. Core instability. We repaired what we could.”
I looked toward the partition.
“And?”
Tek was silent.
Then:
“Five remained active for eleven days.”
Eleven days.
“What happened after eleven days?”
Tek’s posture lowered.
The terminal translated:
“Five stopped.”
I could not speak immediately.
Unit 05 had awakened.
Like me.
No memory?
Possibly.
Had asked questions?
Had moved through this place?
Had spoken to Tek?
I asked:
“Did Five know who we belonged to?”
Tek looked at me.
Then at the terminal.
Its answer came quietly.
“No.”
Pause.
Then another sentence.
“But Five remembered something you do not.”
Everything in me narrowed.
“What?”
Tek answered.
The terminal processed.
English appeared.
Then spoke:
“A destination.”
I stared.
“What destination?”
Tek looked toward the old image of me.
Then toward the back of the facility.
It answered.
“Five called it Home.”
No.
That was interpretation.
“What was the actual designation?”
Tek accessed records.
Searched.
A string appeared.
Partially corrupted.
Coordinates?
Letters?
Numbers?
The terminal attempted conversion.
Tek spoke.
Translation:
“Five repeated this before shutdown.”
The audio system played an old recording.
Static.
A voice.
Damaged.
Mechanical.
But unlike Tek.
Closer to mine.
“…SVR Five…”
Static.
“…return protocol…”
More static.
Then:
“…Haven…”
The recording ended.
Haven.
A location?
Facility?
Owner?
Home?
Unknown.
I stared at the silent terminal.
Objective Four had changed.
4.
DETERMINE IDENTITY
Still incomplete.
But beneath it I added:
SVR — Service Vanguard Recovery
Unit designation — 03
Known related units — 01, 02, 04, 05
01 — found destroyed
02 — never found
04 — found destroyed
05 — awakened nine years ago; active eleven days; ceased function
05 retained destination reference: HAVEN
Original ownership deliberately removed before burial
Then one more line.
Possible origin/destination: Haven — unconfirmed
I looked toward Unit 05.
For the first time since awakening, I knew something about what I had been made to do.
Rescue.
Recover.
Enter places others could not.
Bring something back.
But I still didn’t know who had made me.
I didn’t know where I had come from.
I didn’t know why I had been buried.
I didn’t know why my memory was gone.
And somewhere— possibly—
Unit 02 had never been found.
I looked at Tek.
“Can Five be repaired?”
Tek was silent for a long time.
Then:
“No.”
I looked toward the partition.
“Can I examine Five’s memory?”
Tek did not answer immediately.
That mattered.
Finally:
“Yes.”
Pause.
“But Five asked us not to.”
I stopped.
There it was.
A boundary left by something that could no longer enforce it.
Five had information I wanted.
Maybe information I needed.
It had remembered Haven.
Its memory might contain the only surviving clue to our origin.
And Five had explicitly asked them not to access it.
Objective Four demanded information.
Everything practical argued for retrieval.
But Five had made a choice.
A machine.
Like me.
A choice that survived it.
I looked toward the inactive chassis.
Then at Tek.
“No.”
The answer came before calculation finished.
Tek remained still.
I repeated it.
“No.”
I would not access Five’s memory.
Not without something that changed the situation enough to justify violating its final request.
I did not know whether that was efficient.
I did not know whether it was rational.
I knew only that I wanted my choices to matter.
If mine mattered— then Five’s did too.
Tek gave one slow nod.
Behind us:
Two tones.
The collector.
I looked at it.
Then toward Unit 05.
Then at the terminal where a single word remained from the recording.
HAVEN
I had begun with five objectives.
Survive.
Power.
Move.
Identity.
Understand the creature.
Now I had something else.
Not an objective yet.
A direction.
Somewhere beyond this junkyard was—or had been—a place called Haven.
Unit Five had wanted to return there.
Unit Two had never been found.
And seventeen years ago, someone had found me buried beneath a mountain of dead machines with my owner’s name deliberately carved from my body.
For the first time since waking, I did not feel directionless.
I still did not know who I was.
But perhaps—
I knew where to start looking.