“TELL THEM I’M SORRY.”
The recording had ended seventeen seconds ago.
I was still processing it.
Not technically.
Technically, processing required considerably less time.
I simply did not know what to do with it.
Unit Two had expected me to wake.
Unit Two had expected me to look for it.
And Unit Two believed it owed me an apology.
I looked at the carving again.
“02”
Arrow.
“M-19”
Physical.
Deliberate.
Three years ago, approximately.
Not seventeen.
Not nine.
Three.
Control Seven waited behind me.
Its damaged systems produced low mechanical sounds.
Cooling.
Power regulation.
One wheel actuator compensated intermittently for load.
It was a machine maintaining itself.
Badly.
But successfully.
For almost eighteen years.
I removed my hand from Two’s carving.
There were questions I wanted to ask.
Too many.
That made choosing one important.
Not:
Why was Two sorry?
Not yet.
Not:
What happened?
Too broad.
Not:
What was our mission?
Restricted.
Instead, I turned toward the five mounting positions.
“Control Seven.”
Static.
“SVR Unit Three.”
“Which position was mine?”
Pause.
A light activated.
Third mounting position.
Of course.
I disliked how satisfying that was.
I approached.
The rack was designed for a humanoid machine approximately my dimensions.
Restraint points at shoulders, torso, hips, legs.
Charging connection.
Data interface.
Maintenance access.
I scanned it.
Wear.
Significant.
Not proof.
Other compatible machines could have used it.
“Was this position exclusively assigned to Unit Three?”
“During final operational period: yes.”
Better.
I examined the charging connector.
Compatible with my internal architecture.
Older design.
Same family.
Then lower restraint.
Damaged.
Repaired.
A section of bracket had been replaced.
Different alloy.
Crude weld.
I crouched as far as my left mobility support allowed.
The angle was awkward.
Tek came closer.
It scanned bracket.
Then me.
It pointed toward my left hip.
I understood.
The restraint had been modified.
“Why?”
Control Seven responded.
“Unit Three left-side alignment variance exceeded original restraint tolerance.”
Left-side alignment.
“When?”
Date.
Before burial.
Several months before final mission period.
“What caused the alignment variance?”
“Maintenance record available.”
“Display.”
Control Seven projected text onto interior panel.
“SVR-03”
“LEFT HIP ASSEMBLY”
“IMPACT DEFORMATION”
“FIELD REPAIR”
“FULL REPLACEMENT DEFERRED”
My left hip.
I touched current damaged structure.
Not proof that this exact damage came from then.
But evidence.
The old me had already carried left-side damage before whatever buried me.
Interesting.
“Was the repair successful?”
“Operational.”
I almost laughed.
“Functional?”
Control Seven paused.
“Functional.”
Tek made the laugh sound.
I looked at it.
“Do not.”
It laughed again.
Apparently the old me had also been repaired just enough to continue.
I examined the rack further.
Scratches along right-side restraint.
Repeated.
Height matched my shoulder.
Charging connector showed unusual wear on release latch.
“Why is this damaged?”
Control Seven:
“Unit Three frequently disconnected before release authorization.”
I stopped.
Tek looked at me.
No.
“Frequently?”
“Yes.”
“Define frequently.”
“Forty-one recorded incidents.”
Tek laughed.
I turned.
“That is not significant across an unknown operational lifespan.”
Control Seven responded immediately.
“Unit Three generated forty-one percent of restraint maintenance complaints.”
Tek’s laugh became worse.
I stared at Control Seven.
“That statistic seems unlikely.”
Pause.
“Correction.”
Good.
“Forty-three percent. Two records were misclassified.”
Silence.
Tek made a sound I had never heard before.
It bent slightly forward.
Mechanical laughter continued.
I looked at the third rack.
Apparently I disliked waiting.
That was— uncomfortable.
Not because it was negative.
Because it was familiar.
I had awakened with no memory.
No personality, I had assumed.
Only reasoning.
Only systems.
But since waking, I had repeatedly disconnected early.
Moved before ideal repair.
Tested mobility as soon as it became available.
Disliked waiting.
Insisted that functional was sufficient.
Were those remnants of old behavioral routines?
Or simply the predictable result of the same architecture encountering similar conditions?
Unknown.
I did not like either possibility.
“Any other maintenance complaints?”
Control Seven answered.
“Yes.”
I should not have asked.
“List.”
“Unauthorized tool retention.”
I looked at the triangular bracket attached to my current load.
Tek looked too.
“Continue.”
“Improper storage of salvage.”
Metal rod.
“Continue.”
“Modification of standard equipment.”
Prototype Two.
Improved mobility assembly.
“Continue.”
“Repeated retention of components designated for recycling.”
Reflective fragment.
I remained still.
Tek slowly turned its head toward me.
“No.”
Tek laughed.
“These are practical behaviors.”
Control Seven responded:
“Maintenance logs classify them as recurring inefficiencies.”
“Maintenance logs were incorrect.”
“Complaint appended.”
I froze.
Tek froze.
Control Seven remained silent.
Had it—
“Did you just add a complaint?”
“Yes.”
Tek’s laughter returned.
Something moved inside me.
Amusement.
Strong.
Unexpected.
A sound escaped my audio system.
Rough.
Short.
Laughter.
Mine.
Control Seven’s sensor mast rotated toward me.
“Audio fault detected?”
My laughter stopped.
“No.”
Pause.
“Clarify.”
“No.”
I moved away from the rack.
Enough.
But something had changed.
This vehicle knew me.
Not philosophically.
Not completely.
It knew habits.
Annoyances.
Physical details.
Things I had done often enough to become maintenance statistics.
The old me had existed here.
Not as a mystery.
Not as a damaged marking.
Not as a corrupted note.
I had occupied that rack.
Disconnected too early.
Kept objects I wasn’t supposed to keep.
Modified equipment.
Generated complaints.
Forty-three percent.
Absurd.
Real.
I touched the third mounting rack once.
Then asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Why was Unit Two sorry?”
Control Seven became silent.
Not because it was thinking like I did.
Likely retrieval.
Then:
“Multiple relevant records.”
“Show me.”
“Some restricted.”
“Show unrestricted.”
Pause.
“Operational log available.”
“Display.”
Text appeared.
Old.
Seventeen years old.
Not recording.
Automated vehicle log.
Entries.
“MISSION ROUTE INTERRUPTION”
“STRUCTURAL FAILURE”
“PRIMARY CORRIDOR LOST”
“ALTERNATE ROUTE CALCULATED”
Then:
“SVR-03 SEPARATED FROM GROUP”
My systems elevated.
Separation.
There it was.
“Continue.”
“UNIT 03 POSITION: REAR CORRIDOR”
“UNIT 01 POSITION: CONTROL VEHICLE”
“UNIT 02 POSITION: CONTROL VEHICLE”
“UNIT 04 POSITION: CONTROL VEHICLE”
“UNIT 05 POSITION: CONTROL VEHICLE”
I had been outside.
Why?
“Reason Unit Three was in rear corridor.”
“Restricted mission detail.”
Of course.
“Was I performing recovery?”
“Yes.”
Enough.
“What happened?”
Control Seven displayed next log.
“SECONDARY STRUCTURAL FAILURE”
“REAR CORRIDOR BLOCKED”
“SVR-03 RETURN ROUTE LOST”
Then:
“EVACUATION WINDOW: 00:03:12”
Three minutes.
Twelve seconds.
“Could you retrieve me?”
“No.”
“Could another SVR?”
Pause.
“Possible.”
My processing increased.
“Which?”
“Unit Two.”
There.
I looked at Two’s carving. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“Did Two attempt retrieval?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightened.
“What happened?”
Control Seven displayed another operational event.
“SVR-02 DISEMBARK REQUEST”
“REQUEST APPROVED”
“SVR-02 MOVEMENT: REAR CORRIDOR”
Then:
“SVR-03 COMMAND OVERRIDE”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Unit Three issued command override.”
“To whom?”
“Unit Two.”
No.
I read it again.
“SVR-03 COMMAND OVERRIDE”
“Content.”
Control Seven paused.
Then audio.
Old.
Damaged.
Seventeen years.
My voice.
Not the voice I had now.
Cleaner.
Stronger.
But mine.
“Two.”
Static.
Impact noise.
Alarm.
“Get back on Seven.”
A second voice.
Unit Two.
“No.”
Immediate.
Not hesitation.
Refusal.
My old voice:
“That’s an order.”
Two:
“You don’t command me.”
Something struck nearby.
Control Seven’s recording distorted.
My voice returned.
“Then consider it a request.”
Pause.
“Three—”
“Get them out.”
Static.
“There’s still time.”
Two:
“There’s time for both.”
My old voice:
“No.”
Silence.
Then quieter:
“No, there isn’t.”
I did not move.
Recording continued.
Two:
“I’m coming back.”
My old voice became sharper.
“Two.”
Pause.
“If you come back here, Five follows you.”
Silence.
“Four won’t leave Five.”
Another impact.
“And One won’t leave any of you.”
I understood before the recording finished.
One attempt to save me could trap all of them.
My old voice:
“Get on Seven.”
Two:
“Damn you.”
A phrase I understood despite never hearing Tek use anything equivalent.
Emotional aggression.
My old voice:
“Probably.”
Then— strangely— a sound.
Laughter.
My laughter.
Cleaner than now.
Brief.
Two did not laugh.
“Three.”
My old voice:
“Go.”
Two:
“…I’m sorry.”
Then my answer.
“Don’t be.”
Recording ended.
I stared at nothing.
No memory returned.
No image.
No emotional flash.
Nothing.
Only evidence.
My own voice.
My own decision.
I had stayed.
I had ordered them to leave.
Not because they abandoned me.
Because I calculated that attempting retrieval endangered all remaining units.
Maybe.
Was it calculation?
The laughter.
“Don’t be.”
That did not sound like calculation alone.
I looked at Control Seven.
“Did Two leave?”
“Yes.”
“Was Unit Two ordered to?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
I knew.
I still asked.
“SVR Unit Three.”
There it was.
An answer.
Complete.
Small.
Painful.
I had wanted to know what happened to me.
Now I knew one piece.
I had not simply been lost.
I had chosen separation.
I looked at Tek.
It said nothing.
Good.
I did not need comfort.
I needed to understand.
“How long after departure did you lose my telemetry?”
“Seven minutes, forty-two seconds.”
“Status at loss?”
“Operational.”
Not destroyed.
“What happened after?”
“Restricted.”
Mission again.
“Did I contact Seven afterward?”
“No.”
“Two?”
“Repeated requests.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“Did I answer?”
“No.”
Why?
Could not?
Would not?
Communication failure?
Unknown.
“How many requests?”
“Thirty-seven.”
My systems became very still.
Thirty-seven.
Two had called thirty-seven times.
No answer.
Then carried that for fourteen years.
Until carving M-19 into this vehicle.
Until:
Tell them I’m sorry.
I understood the apology now.
And I did not.
Two had obeyed me.
Why apologize for obeying?
Because perhaps obedience and guilt were unrelated.
I looked at my hands.
Right.
Mine.
Left.
Five’s.
Five had escaped because I stayed.
Five had lived long enough to leave instructions for me.
Two had escaped.
One and Four— eventually destroyed.
Whatever happened afterward remained hidden.
But at that moment, seventeen years ago, I had made a choice.
Would I make it again?
I tried to answer.
Four machines versus one.
Probability.
Survival.
Mission.
Simple.
Yes.
Then I imagined Tek trapped behind collapsing metal.
Rusk.
Two-Tone.
The collector I had crawled into unstable debris to retrieve.
I had not calculated for long then.
I simply went.
Contradiction?
Maybe.
Or context.
If saving one endangered five—
Would I still go?
I didn’t know.
That disturbed me more than the recording.
Identity was easier when hypothetical.
Five had told me to choose who I became.
But what if the person I chose became someone who would disagree with the person I had been?
Was that failure?
Growth?
Replacement?
I looked at my old mounting rack.
Same architecture.
Same irritating habits.
Same tendency to keep scrap.
Same impatience.
But not necessarily the same choices.
Good.
Maybe that was the point.
I turned to Control Seven.
“Why did Five tell you not to restore my mission?”
“Unknown.”
“Did Five know about the separation?”
“Yes.”
“Was Five present?”
“Yes.”
“Did Five object?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
“Did everyone object?”
Pause.
“Yes.”
I almost laughed again.
Apparently I had been difficult.
“Did anyone obey immediately?”
“Unit One.”
Interesting.
“Why?”
“Unit One acknowledged command hierarchy.”
“Two?”
“No.”
“Four?”
“No.”
“Five?”
“No.”
“How long did it take them to leave?”
“Two minutes, fifty-eight seconds.”
Evacuation window:
Three minutes, twelve.
Fourteen seconds.
They had left with fourteen seconds remaining.
I stared.
Idiots.
All of them.
I felt something warm in my processing that had nothing to do with temperature.
“They almost died arguing with me.”
“Correct.”
“Complaint.”
Control Seven paused.
Then:
“Complaint appended.”
Tek laughed.
I did too.
Short.
Then stopped.
Because I suddenly wished I could hear them argue again.
That was impossible.
One gone.
Four gone.
Five beside Tek’s workshop.
Two— unknown.
Maybe.
Hope returned.
I allowed it this time.
Not conclusion.
Hope.
There was a difference.
I stepped out of Control Seven’s cargo bay.
Its exterior damage was worse under closer inspection.
Rear-left wheel actuator degraded.
Side armor missing.
Manipulator crane joint leaking lubricant.
Power storage probably reduced.
Sensor mast alignment slightly off.
This machine had spent nearly eighteen years maintaining recovery readiness.
Waiting for units that mostly never returned.
I understood waiting now.
I looked at Tek.
“Can we repair it?”
Tek walked around Seven.
Scan.
Inspection.
It tapped wheel housing.
Opened access panel.
Control Seven allowed it.
Tek spent several minutes examining.
Then:
“Yes.” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Not fully.
I could tell from its gestures.
But enough.
Functional.
I looked at Control Seven.
“Can you reach our facility?”
“Yes.”
“Distance?”
It calculated.
“Approximately sixteen kilometers by viable route.”
Different from direct twelve.
Terrain.
“Power?”
“Within tolerance.”
“Mobility?”
“Within tolerance.”
“Risk?”
Pause.
“Moderate.”
Not ideal.
Could repair here first.
Station S-4 had power.
Limited tools.
Tek had brought some.
We could stabilize wheel.
Then travel.
“Control Seven.”
“SVR Unit Three.”
That response felt strange.
Formal.
Old.
“New assignment.”
Its systems changed immediately.
“Ready.”
I stopped.
The word carried weight.
It had waited seventeen years for assignment.
I looked at damaged wheel.
Corroded panels.
Failing crane.
The machine that carried us.
The machine that waited.
“Recovery.”
“Specify recovery target.”
I pointed at it.
“You.”
Long pause.
No response.
Did it fail to parse?
“Control Seven is not classified as assigned recovery target.”
“You are now.”
“Invalid.”
“Why?”
“Recovery assets do not self-designate.”
“I designated you.”
Pause.
“SVR authority insufficient for asset reassignment.”
Annoying.
I looked at Tek.
Tek shrugged.
I tried another approach.
“Maintenance operation.”
“Valid.”
“Destination: facility.”
“Valid.”
“Purpose: restore recovery capability.”
“Valid.”
There.
“Accept.”
“Accepted.”
I looked at Tek.
“Same thing.”
Tek laughed.
Control Seven:
“Correction. Distinct operational classification.”
I stared at it.
I liked Control Seven less now.
Which probably meant I liked it more.
“Prepare for movement.”
“Estimated departure readiness: eighteen minutes.”
Tek began working on wheel stabilization.
I joined.
Two hands.
Useful.
Two-Tone approached the cargo ramp.
It rolled inside.
Control Seven:
“Unregistered collection unit.”
Two tones.
“Remove unregistered collection unit.”
Two-Tone did not move.
I looked inside.
“Two-Tone.”
Two tones.
“Out.”
It backed out.
Interesting.
It understood.
Control Seven closed ramp.
Two-Tone emitted two tones.
Possibly objection.
I touched its chassis.
“We’re going back.”
Two tones.
“Yes. You too.”
It rotated toward route.
Fine.
We repaired Seven’s wheel enough for travel.
Not elegant.
External brace.
Temporary bearing support.
Reduced maximum speed.
Tek called it bad.
I called it functional.
Control Seven said:
“Mobility classification: degraded.”
Traitor.
We departed.
The return took almost three hours.
Seven moved slowly.
Very slowly.
My own gait looked efficient beside it.
This pleased me disproportionately.
At one point Seven stopped because wheel temperature exceeded tolerance.
We waited eleven minutes.
I stood beside it.
No impatience.
Interesting.
Two-Tone explored nearby scrap.
Tek checked brace.
I looked northwest.
M-19 existed beyond terrain I had never seen.
Two had been there.
Maybe still was.
But I did not feel the same urgency as before.
Not reduced.
Refined.
I knew where I was going.
Preparation no longer felt like delay.
We would repair Seven.
Learn its systems.
Map route.
Find charging infrastructure.
Prepare spare components.
Then go.
Correctly.
I had already learned what happened when SVRs rushed into places with fourteen seconds remaining.
Eventually the workshop appeared.
Rusk heard us before we arrived.
It emerged from entrance.
Then stopped.
Control Seven was enormous compared with it.
Rusk lowered its body.
Alert.
I stepped forward.
“Rusk.”
Its ears shifted.
No response to word.
Of course.
I crouched.
Held hand.
Rusk recognized gesture.
It approached me.
Then stared at Seven.
Seven’s sensor mast rotated.
“Biological organism detected.”
“Rusk.”
Pause.
“Classification?”
“Probable domesticated canid.”
Tek looked at me.
I added:
“Dog.”
Seven processed.
“Dog.”
Rusk barked.
I had heard the sound before.
I now knew the word.
Bark.
Seven’s sensor snapped toward it.
“Audio warning detected.”
“No.”
“Clarify.”
“Probably greeting.”
Rusk barked again.
Seven:
“Audio warning repeated.”
I touched Rusk’s head.
“You’re going to require adjustment.”
I wasn’t sure which one I meant.
Tek opened workshop access.
Control Seven could not fit inside.
Of course.
We positioned it beside facility.
Power cable extended.
Compatible.
Seven connected.
Charging.
Repair assessment began.
Rear actuator.
Wheel.
Crane.
Storage.
Sensors.
Communication.
Many problems.
Days.
Maybe more.
Good.
Work.
As Tek gathered tools, I returned to Seven’s cargo bay.
Third rack.
Mine.
I stood before it.
Then climbed carefully onto the mounting position.
It accepted my dimensions.
Restraints remained open.
Charging interface aligned perfectly.
System recognized me.
“SVR-03”
“POSITION 03”
“CONNECTION AVAILABLE”
I did not connect.
I simply stood there.
No memory.
Nothing.
Good.
I no longer expected memory.
I looked across the other positions.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Empty.
I imagined nothing.
I had no right to invent them.
But I had voices now.
Five.
Two.
Mine.
Evidence.
Enough.
Control Seven spoke quietly through internal speaker.
“Unit Three.”
“Yes.”
“Maintenance complaint.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Position Three occupied without transport requirement.”
I stared.
“Do not append that.”
Pause.
“Complaint appended.”
I stepped down.
Tek heard the exchange from outside.
Laughter.
Rusk barked.
Two-Tone emitted two tones.
The entire facility had become intolerable.
I looked around.
And realized—
I was happy.
The identification came slowly.
But confidently.
Happy.
Not because I had found Two.
I hadn’t.
Not because I understood my past.
I didn’t.
I was standing beside an old machine that remembered me.
Tek was laughing.
Rusk was barking at something it did not understand.
Two-Tone was making itself unnecessarily present.
Five’s arm was attached to my body.
And for the first time since waking, the empty spaces around me did not feel empty.
I looked northwest.
Soon.
Not yet.
But soon.
“Control Seven.”
“Unit Three.”
“When repairs are complete, we are going to M-19.”
Pause.
“Recovery mission?”
I considered.
“No.”
“Clarify mission classification.”
I looked at the carved “02” inside the cargo bay.
Then at the workshop.
At Tek.
Rusk.
Two-Tone.
Choice.
“Personal.”
Control Seven processed for several seconds.
“Classification not recognized.”
I laughed.
“You’ll learn.”
This time, Control Seven did not append a complaint.