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The thing about building a meaningful friendship with SecUnit, Ayda Mensah finds, is that there’s no pre-established framework to work with.
“SecUnit, how are you?” she says when she meets it on the concourse. To a human friend, it would be purely a gesture of greeting. A request for life updates or, in some cases, simply a formality.
When your friend is a SecUnit, and this SecUnit specifically, it’s almost universally an inquiry about the latest round of injuries.
“I’m fine,” SecUnit says.
The Perihelion taps her feed almost immediately. It is recovering from a catastrophic systems failure. A pause, for maximum impact. Again.
SecUnit’s expression tightens, and Ayda’s eyes snap to it before she remembers herself and looks away. She tries not to look into its face too much, but it’s unlearning an instinct. Human nature, to snap attention to whoever is speaking.
“Well,” she says briskly, fixing her eyes on people disembarking from a passenger transport further afield. “I’m glad you’re on your feet. Do you need to go to Medical?”
“No,” says SecUnit.
Yes, says Perihelion.
SecUnit could respond on the feed very easily. Of all its friends – and there’s certainly a lot of people who would claim the title, whatever SecUnit might think about that – Perihelion is probably SecUnit’s closest. The most like it, with an innate understanding of the working of its mind, its needs, its preferred methods of communication. Not clumsily muddling its way through things, as Ayda is.
(SecUnit never seems to hold it against her. It’s more forgiving than she thinks it knows.)
The point is: SecUnit could respond via the feed. It would be faster, for one, and its ability to communicate with Perihelion is significantly more advanced than plain old speech. So the fact it chooses to speak aloud indicates just how much it means to twist the knife.
“I thought your MedSystem was state-of-the-art,” SecUnit drawls, its sarcasm unmistakable. Its expression is doing that thing it does – not quite a smirk, but the closest thing to it when it thinks it’s scored a point.
My systems are functioning at optimal capacity, Dr Mensah, I assure you, the Perihelion hastens to tell Ayda, polite and just a touch too formal, as it so often is when addressing her. But it, too, seems incapable of not taking a jab when the opportunity presents itself. The damage to SecUnit was extensive. While I can repair its body, a cure for its irrational behaviour is outside the scope of my capabilities.
Point, Ayda thinks as SecUnit folds its arms, glaring into the distance.
“Yeah, well maybe if you weren’t such an overbearing asshole and let me do my stupid job – you know what? I’m not doing this right now,” SecUnit says.
Ayda folds her lips in on themselves, trying to conceal her smile. They bicker, these two. On and on, like it’s their primary form of communication. So different to how SecUnit was when she and it first met, still and silent, watching her passively but with eyes far too clever for the ‘automaton’ the mechanics tried to persuade her it was.
“I’m glad you’ve returned safely,” Ayda says, cutting through the tension with the same calm warmth she used to use when councillors started squabbling amongst themselves. “Both of you.”
She turns her eyes towards Perihelion, a great mass outside the station. Raises a hand, not allowing herself to feel foolish. The Perihelion is a huge ship, a powerhouse of a research vessel, but it’s far more than that. A person too, every bit as much as SecUnit is. A person she wishes to greet and welcome, despite the logistical challenges and vast differences in their life experiences. And also, realistically, whether or not it can see her waving at it from all the way down here.
It has sensors, she knows that. But they’re on a crowded station, and it might not be scanning for tiny specks of humans moving their arms a few inches for the sole purpose of trying to make it feel… well, at home. It may also be riding SecUnit’s feed, but she doesn’t entirely understand how they communicate with each other. Her brain is, quite literally, not wired to allow the same things theirs do.
This is what Ayda means when she thinks about the relationship framework. SecUnit and Perihelion are people, but they aren’t human people. There’s just no model to work with.
On the return of a human friend, Ayda would know exactly what to do. While it might vary depending on the individual, there are a limited number of options in the decision-making tree: share a drink/meal, help them home, or take them out somewhere (usually for the aforementioned drink or meal). For a lot of human people, this would involve a hug and merry chatter, depending on the relationship, but that feeling-out is as much a part of the greeting ritual as any other.
She greets SecUnit on arrival, because that part is easy for them both. But beyond that, there’s no framework to guide them. SecUnit neither eats nor drinks, and it doesn’t need help with its luggage, if it has any at all. It only goes out to see entertainment, but sitting together silently in the dark isn’t a traditional ‘welcome back’. It is also extremely unlikely to want to curl up on the sofa with her and give her the run-down of its latest adventures, filling her in on the parts of its life she missed, then catching up on all the news (and gossip) it missed in turn.
Ayda doesn’t know what it would like her to do. But when in doubt, ask. Let SecUnit decide. She’s learned that lesson the hard way.
(It still pains her to think about it, but SecUnit seems to have forgiven that too.)
“Well,” she says. “What do you want to do, SecUnit? Medical is… always available, as are your usual rooms. And I’m sure the team would love to hear from you, now you’re back.”
It tips its head to the side, looking away. Again she has to remind herself to direct her eyes away from its face, a conscious and deliberate break in Ayda’s usual pattern of behaviour. She's spent far too much of her life in metaphorical staring competitions, eye contact a powerful tool both in difficult meetings and with her own children trying to pull a fast one on her. Not a tool to be used with SecUnit.
She fixes her eyes on a nearby booth instead. SecUnit’s drones circle around her, and she wonders if it’s doing some sort of physical check. Wonders if it can tell that she spent most of yesterday at a spa with Amena, having cosmetic facial treatments applied and persuading her recalcitrant daughter to talk to her about her latest woes, both of the friendship and romance variety.
She has also been attending her therapy sessions. Just as she promised. She wonders if it can tell that, too.
SecUnit doesn’t say anything, but its drones withdraw, resuming one of their typical patterns of programming. (Ayda has no idea what they mean, she’s just accepted them.) SecUnit is quiet a long moment – running a diagnostic, Ayda thinks immediately, though of course she can’t be certain – then its lips curl into a faint smile.
It knows.
Its knowledge of her is… uncanny. Unsettling sometimes, given how guarded Ayda is with everyone else. She’s had to be. But SecUnit isn’t fooled by her human-to-human powers of obfuscation and smooth-talking. It is, as it so often says, security. It holds an unparalleled knowledge of her movements at all times – genuinely, even Ayda doesn’t recall as much as SecUnit does. This holds true even when it’s been busy gallivanting across the galaxy with its like-minded friend, apparently.
“I’ll go to my rooms,” SecUnit decides at last.
“All right,” Ayda says.
They walk in silence. But it’s a comfortable sort of silence, one that doesn’t need to be filled with chatter. It’s… nice, not to have to talk sometimes. Something Ayda has grown to appreciate, though at first she found it uncomfortable.
SecUnit, too, seems comfortable. And that is an accomplishment. It’s taken a long, long time for that to happen, and Ayda smiles to herself, looking down to hide it.
Of course, she should really watch where she’s going. She almost bumps into someone. Would have if not for SecUnit, who takes her arm in one hand and shoulder-checks the rather large man who’d been barrelling towards her with his mind deep in his feed.
It gives her a look, after. Pointed disapproval.
“Thank you, SecUnit. I should pay more attention.”
“Probably,” it drawls. But point made, it returns to their comfortable silence, tracing the familiar path to its rooms. SecUnit is an imposing person, tall and strong, its purposeful stride and warded expression an armour entirely of its own making. Most people – people who aren’t distracted by their feeds – move instinctively out of its way.
It’s a very kind person. Funny, too, in a sharp, incisive kind of way.
“I’ve been watching Worldhoppers, as per your recommendation,” Ayda says. She isn’t as good at silences as SecUnit is. She appreciates them for a while, but then it seems she can’t quite help it.
This, too, SecUnit seems to forgive.
On the feed, and apparently still listening, Perihelion chimes in. What is your opinion of it, Dr Mensah?
One of SecUnit’s drones moves out of formation towards her, probably studying her face. Judging her reaction. She’ll never quite get used to that, but it doesn’t bother her either.
“An excellent show,” she says. “I was terribly upset when the scientist died, though. It was a great relief when te was resurrected.”
“ART had a breakdown,” SecUnit says with an air of great satisfaction.
False, comes Perihelion’s miffed reply, then the next few minutes devolve into a rapid flurry of feed messages. On their shared feed, it should be noted, and nominally where Ayda can see, but it all happens too fast for her. A mix of written language, code segments, then a meme that probably secures SecUnit a point or two, though it races past before she has a chance to analyse it.
Ayda lets it go. Smiling.
There is no framework for her relationship with SecUnit. No pattern to fall back on, no established social mores to guide their interactions. SecUnit is too different. Its legal status, tenuous no matter how unjust that is. Its personhood, which is not the same as humanity, because it isn’t a human person. Its affection, expressed in ways unique to it (and, perhaps, to others like it, though Ayda doesn’t know enough of them to check).
SecUnit is a dear friend. And Ayda can say, with complete confidence, that it feels the same about her.
“I’m glad you’re back, SecUnit,” Ayda says, interrupting their feed-squabble.
It tilts its head downwards. Looks at her sideways, that strange mix of strength and keen vulnerability that always makes something ache in her chest. That always makes her contend with what it is.
A SecUnit, built for security. A free agent, guarding her both because that is its field of expertise and also the framework it knows and understands for interacting with people it cares about. A protector, not because Ayda asked it to look after her, but because she is its friend. Because, she thinks, it loves her. Will put itself into harm’s way for her sake, whether she wants it to or not. Because it’s a loyal and compassionate person, who values the well-being of others over itself.
A laudable trait, and a damnable infliction. Different when it chooses for itself, but complicated by the circumstances around its creation. Its actions are those of a brave and righteous person, self-determined and self-willed. And yet the fact remains that it is a person who was raised in slavery, as a life less important, as a person not a person at all.
It’s complicated. Ayda knows that. SecUnit definitely knows that.
“I’ve missed having you around” – too much, despite her attempt at couching it, and Ayda changes course – “and, well. I’m glad you’re back. In one piece, no less.”
SecUnit shifts its shoulders. A deliberate releasing of tension, she thinks, though the gesture looks different on its body. Half flesh and half metal, moving in ways that human people can’t.
“Yeah,” it says finally. “Yeah, me too.”