by Martha Wells
She smiled. “Thank you.”
(And that was that.)
Mensah’s family were also weirded out by the idea that I would be providing security, and were afraid I would be, I don’t know, scaring legitimate visitors and killing people, I guess. And granted, while I have been a key factor in certain clusterfucks of gigantic proportions and my risk assessment module has serious issues, my threat assessment record is pretty great, like 93 percent. (Most of the negative points came from that time I didn’t know that Wilken and Gerth were hired killers until Wilken tried to shoot Don Abene in the head, but that was an outlier.)
Mensah’s family also thought they didn’t need security, which, maybe before GrayCris, that had been true. But as it was, during the festival I only had to deal with five incursions, four by outsystem newsfeed journalists with recording drones. I took control of the drones (I can always use a few more) and notified the local Rangers who drove off the human journalists. The fifth incursion was the one that got me in trouble with Amena, Mensah’s oldest offspring.
Since the festival had started, I had been taking note of a potential hostile that Amena had been associating with. Evidence was mounting up and my threat assessment was nearing critical. Things like: (1) he had informed her that his age was comparable to hers, which was just below the local standard for legal adult, but my physical scan and public record search indicated that he was approximately twelve Preservation standard calendar years older, (2) he never approached her when any family members or verified friends were with her, (3) he stared at her secondary sexual characteristics when her attention was elsewhere, (4) he encouraged her to take intoxicants that he wasn’t ingesting himself, (5) her parental and other related humans all assumed she was with her friends when she was seeing him and her friends all assumed she was with family and she hadn’t told either group about him, (6) I just had a bad feeling about the little shit.
You might think the obvious thing to do was to notify Mensah or Farai or Tano, the third marital partner. I didn’t.
If there was one thing I understood, it was the difference between proprietary and non-proprietary data.
So, on the night when Potential Target invited Amena to come back to his semi-isolated camp house with him to “meet some friends,” I decided to come along.
He led her into the darkened house, and she stumbled on a low table. She giggled and he laughed. Sounding way more intoxicated than he actually was, he said, “Wait, I got it,” and tapped the house’s feed to turn on the lights.
And I was standing in the middle of the room.
He screamed. (Yes, it was hilarious.)
Amena clapped a hand over her mouth, startled, then recognized me. She said, “What the hell? What are you doing here?”
Potential Target gasped, “What—Who—?”
Amena was furious. “That’s my second mother’s … friend,” she said through gritted teeth. “And her security … person.”
“What?” He was confused, then the word “security” penetrated. He stepped away from her. “Uh … I guess … You’d better go.”
Amena looked at him, and then glared at me, then turned and stamped out the door and down the steps to the path. I followed her, and he backed away as I passed him. Yeah, you better.
On the dirt path, lit by the low floating guide-lights, I caught up with her. (Not so much intentionally, but my legs were longer and she was putting more energy into stamping her feet than gaining distance.)
She said, “How did you know where I was? What were you doing, hiding under the porch?”
She thought I wouldn’t get the domestic animal reference. I said, “Wow, that was rude. Especially considering that I’m your second mother’s”—I made ironic quote marks—“‘friend.’ Is that how you talk to your bot-servants?”
My drone cam showed her expression turn startled and then a combination of sulky and guilty. “No. I don’t have bot-servants! I didn’t know—I never heard you talk.”
“You didn’t ask.” Had I not been talking? I had been talking to the kids on the feed, and to Mensah. Maybe with the rest of the family it had been easier to pretend to be a robot again. I added, “No one else approached that house. He lied about meeting other humans there.”
She stamped along in silence for twelve point five seconds. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not some kind of idiot, and I don’t fuck around. If he’d done anything I didn’t like, I was going to leave. And if he wouldn’t let me leave, I have the feed, I can call for help whenever I want.” She was scornful, and way overconfident. “I wasn’t going to let him hurt me.”
I said, “If I thought he was going to hurt you, I’d be disposing of his body. I don’t fuck around, either.”
She stopped and stared up at me. I stopped but kept my gaze on the path ahead. I said, “Mensah is a planetary leader of a minor political entity that has managed to get the angry attention of major corporates. Her situation has changed. Your situation has changed. You need to grow up and deal with it.”
She took a breath to say something, stopped, then shook her head. “He wasn’t a corporate spy. He was just someone…”
“Someone you don’t know who showed up out of nowhere at a massive public festival attended by half the continent and whatever offworld humans happen to be wandering through.” I knew he wasn’t a corporate spy (see above, disposing of bodies) but she sure didn’t.
She was quiet for sixteen seconds. “Are you going to tell my parents about this?”
Is that what she was worried about? I was insulted and exasperated. “I don’t know. I guess you’ll find out.”
She stamped away.
So, in retrospect, I could see that hadn’t gone so well.
* * *
Our vehicle rumbled through the dark, up the low hill to the camp house, which was a pop-up two-story structure with broad covered balconies off both levels. It had been placed near a couple of large trees with frilly leaves that curved over the roof. It had been built by Mensah’s grandfather, while her grandmothers and other assorted family members had been working on the original planetary survey and terraforming. The colonists who hadn’t been living in orbit on their ship had all stayed in temporary structures at that point, that were moved seasonally to avoid destructive weather patterns in the parts of the planet that had been habitable at that time.
There were other pop-ups, large and small, planted all over the hills around us, the nearest twenty-seven meters away. Lights were on inside the house and one light floated above the beacon spot for the vehicles. I would have worried about the lack of lighting if I hadn’t had thirty-seven drones on patrol in the immediate area.
(Drones had picked up previously identified humans and augmented humans returning to the other houses or passing through the area, and I’d conducted safety checks on unidentified humans encountered for the first time. I was cataloguing power signatures on some small mobility devices used by non-augmented humans for medical reasons; I hadn’t seen these anywhere in the Corporation Rim, though maybe that was because I hadn’t spent much time hanging out on planets with human populations not exclusively engaged in corporate slave labor. (The entertainment media showed planets that weren’t all corporate slave labor, I had just never been on one.)) (The drones had also tracked the five younger kids on a completely illicit expedition to a nearby creek where they had performed some kind of ritual that involved jumping out at each other from behind bushes and rocks. They returned to the house without being caught by the adult humans or older siblings and were now collapsed in their upstairs bunk room, watching media.)
(The house actually had secure sealable window and door hatches, WHICH NO ONE USED, but at least this made it easy for my patrol drones.)
As the vehicle settled into its spot, Mensah said, “I’m just going to sit outside for a bit. Why don’t you go on back to the festival? There’s a few more plays tonight, aren’t there?”
I try to avoid asking humans if there’s anything wrong with t
hem. (Mostly because I don’t care.) (On the rare occasions where I did care, it would have meant starting a conversation not directly related to security protocol, and that was just a slippery slope waiting to happen, for a variety of reasons.) But humans asked each other about their current status all the time, so how hard could it be? It was a request for information, that was all. I did a quick search and pulled up a few examples from my media collection. None of the samples seemed like anything I’d ever voluntarily say, so before I could change my mind I went with, “What’s wrong?”
She was surprised, then gave me a sideways look. “Don’t you start.”
So there was something wrong and even the other humans had noticed. I said, “I have to know about any potential problems for an accurate threat assessment.”
She lifted a brow and opened the vehicle door. “You never mentioned that on our survey contract.”
I got out of the vehicle and followed her toward a group of chairs next to the house, scattered around in the grass under the trees. The shadow was deep so I had to switch to a dark filter to see her. “That was because I was half-assing my job.”
She took a seat. “If that was you half-assing your job, I don’t want to see what you’re like when…” The smile faded and she trailed off, then added, “But I suppose I did see you when you were doing your best.”
I sat down, too. (Sitting down with a human like this would never not feel strange.) Her expression wasn’t upset, but it wasn’t not upset, either. But I could tell my smartass comment had taken us down an awkward conversational avenue where I hadn’t wanted to go. I wished I was ART, who was good at this kind of thing. (The thing being getting you to talk about what it wanted you to talk about but also making you think about what it wanted you to talk about in different ways.) (I wasn’t kidding when I said ART was an asshole.) “You didn’t answer the question.”
She settled back in her chair. “You sound worried.”
“I am worried.” I could feel my face making the expression whether I wanted it to or not.
She let her breath out. “It’s nothing. I’ve been having nightmares. About being held prisoner on TranRollinHyfa, and … you know.” She made an impatient gesture. “It’s completely normal. It would be odd if I wasn’t having nightmares.”
I hadn’t seen much of the recovery phase of trauma (my job was to get the client to the MedSystem before they died; it took care of all the messy aftermath, including the retrieved client protocol) but in the shows I watched, recovery was featured a lot. There was a trauma recovery program that Bharadwaj had used in the Station Medical Center, and the big hospital in the port city had one, too.
I wasn’t the only one who thought Mensah should go get the trauma treatment. I was probably the only one who knew she hadn’t. (She hadn’t exactly lied; it was more a way of letting the other humans assume she had.) But the treatment wasn’t like a one-time thing with a MedSystem; it took multiple long visits, and I knew she had never made time for it in her schedule. I said, “Is that why you’re afraid to go off-station without me?”
So there were two positions on whether the Preservation Planetary leader needed security. The first was the one 99 percent of the population shared, that she did not unless she went on a formal visit to somewhere like the Corporation Rim. And to a large extent, they were right.
The crime stats on Preservation Station and the planet were pitifully low, and usually involved intoxication-related property damage or disturbances and/or minor infractions of station cargo handling or planetary environmental regulations. Mensah had never needed on-station or on-planet security before this, except for the young Preservation Council–trainee humans who followed her around and kept track of her appointments and handed her things occasionally. (And they did not count as security.)
The other 1 percent was composed of me, Mensah’s survey team, all the humans working in Station Security, and the members of the Preservation Council who had seen the GrayCris assassins try to kill her. But that incident had been kept out of the newsfeeds, so hardly anyone thought Mensah needed a security consultant let alone a SecUnit.
But GrayCris was not doing so hot now due to their hired security service Palisade making an extremely bad decision to punch my ex-owner bond company in the operating funds by attacking one of its gunships. (The company is paranoid and greedy and cheap but also ruthless, methodical, and intensely violent when it thinks it’s being threatened.) Relations between the two corporates had deteriorated since what we call The Gunship Incident, with GrayCris assets getting mysteriously destroyed a lot in supposedly random accidents and its executives and employees getting blown up or found stuffed in containers way too small for intact adult humans and so on.
And once GrayCris had started to cease to exist, even my threat assessment had dropped drastically, but Mensah had still wanted me to continue to provide security. I thought she was humoring me, and taking the opportunity to pay me in hard currency cards which I would need if/when I left Preservation, and giving me practice in being around humans in a setting where I was not categorized as a tool and/or deadly weapon. (Yeah, I assumed it was about me, but humans assume everything is about them, too. It’s not an uncommon problem, okay?)
But for a while now I had been thinking it was about something else.
Her mouth twisted a little and she looked away, over the dark hills and fields toward the lighted windows of the other camp houses and tents. She said, “I suppose it was obvious.”
I said, “Not obvious.” Not to most of the humans, anyway. I had a feeling that Farai and Tano knew, but weren’t sure what to do about it.
She shrugged a little. “It’s hardly surprising that I feel safer with you. It’s also easier to be around people who understand what happened, what it’s like to be in that situation. That’s you and the rest of the survey team.” She hesitated. “Farai and Tano understand, but I haven’t explained to my brother and sister and Thiago and the others why I can’t just rely on them for emotional support about this, as usual.” Her face turned grim. “They don’t understand what it’s like to be under corporate authority.”
That I got. Humans in the Preservation Alliance didn’t have to sign up for contract labor and get shipped off to mines or whatever for 80 to 90 percent of their lifespans. There was some strange system where they all got their food and shelter and education and medical for free, no matter what job they did. It had something to do with the giant colony ship that had brought them here, and a promise by the original crew to take care of everyone in perpetuity if they would just get on the damn thing and not die in the old colony. (It was complicated and when I watched their historical dramas, I tended to fast forward through the economics parts.) Whatever, the humans seemed to like it.
But she was right, these humans had no concept of what it was like to live under corporate authority. And they really didn’t know what it was like to be the target of a corporate entity that wanted to kill you.
I replayed my recording of Mensah talking to Thiago and Farai at the party. Mensah had been abducted from Port FreeCommerce at a meeting for the relatives of the murdered survey members. Maybe the noisy party, where the other humans who would normally help her had been distracted, had just started to feel too similar.
I said, “You need to get the trauma treatment.”
Her voice sharpened. “I will. But I have some things to finish first.” She turned toward me. “And I want you to go on that survey mission with Arada. They need you. And it’s a wonderful opportunity for you.”
It was too dark for her to see my expression. I’m not sure what it was but you could probably describe it as “skeptical.” (Ratthi says that’s how I look most of the time.)
With that confident planetary leader I am totally convincing you of this tone, she added, “And you know Amena and Thiago are going, too. I’ll feel better if you’re there to keep an eye on them.”
Uh-huh. “What about you?”
She took a breath to say she�
��d be fine. I knew her well enough to know those exact words were about to come out. But then she hesitated. The drone I had watching her face increased magnification, its low-light filter rendering her features in black and white. Her expression was intense and fierce and she was biting her lower lip. She said, “I hate feeling so weak. I just need to stop. And I need to stop leaning on you. It’s not fair to you. We need to be apart so I can … stand on my own feet again.”
I didn’t think she was wrong, but I still wasn’t used to things that were unfair to me being a major point of consideration for humans. It also sounded vaguely like the break-up part of the romance scenes on the shows I watched, most of which I usually skimmed over. I said, “It’s not me, it’s you.”
She huffed a laugh.
And then I sort of blackmailed her.
* * *
Part of my problem now was that Mensah, who was way too honest about this kind of thing, had later told Amena that she had asked me to keep an eye on her, which Amena interpreted in some hormone-related human way I’m not sure I understood. Thiago, who is not an adolescent and has no excuse, interpreted it as Mensah not trusting him to take care of his niece.
Amena is on the survey because her education requires an internship in almost getting killed, I guess. Due to our previous interaction, she really didn’t want me specifically tasked to watch her.
(Possibly I had been too emphatic with her about Potential Target. After spending my entire existence having to gently suggest to humans that they not do things that would probably get them killed, it was nice to be able to tell them in so many words to not be so fucking stupid. But I didn’t regret doing it.)
An attempt by Amena to go around Mensah and appeal to Farai and Tano had failed spectacularly, in a three-way comm call that became a four-way when Farai had called Mensah to join in on the discussion. (I’m not sure what happened past that point. Even I hadn’t wanted to watch it.)