Network Effect (The Murderbot Diaries, #5)

by Martha Wells

(In company terms that’s a PSELSR, which is a terrible anagram.) (I don’t mean anagram, I mean the other thing.)

But we’d been lucky, and I hate luck.

“No hugging,” I warned her. It was in our contract. “Do you need emotional support? Do you want me to call someone?”

(Just a heads-up, when a murderbot stands there looking to the left of your head to avoid eye contact, it’s probably not thinking about killing you, it’s probably frantically trying to come up with a reply to whatever you just said to it.)

Just clients. And if anyone or anything tried to hurt them, I would rip its intestines out.

This would have all been a lot easier if I wasn’t so worried about the stupid humans.

It’s always nice when a human looks relieved to see you.

Ugh, self-determination sucks sometimes.

Ugh, emotions.

I felt something build in my chest. I pulled the recording of my conversations with ART, the way it said “my crew.” It was bad enough that ART must be dead, it wasn’t fair that the humans it had loved so much were dead, too.

The good thing about being a construct is that you can’t reproduce and create children to argue with you.

I said, “I am not. You’re emotionally compromised.” (I know, but at the time it seemed like a relevant comeback.)

This was a vid conference link for humans trying to figure out how screwed they were, not a professional newsfeed production. ART had dissolved the edges and corrected the color just to show off. Next it would be providing theme music and a mission logo.

I was unimpressed, having heard ART’s “villain of a long-running mythic adventure serial” voice before, but all the humans got quiet. Amena shifted uncertainly and looked at me.

(Showers are nice and I wanted to stay angry.)

“Why do you call it ART?” Amena asked. “It said its name was Perihelion.” I told her, “It’s an anagram. It stands for Asshole Research Transport.” Amena blinked. “That’s not an anagram.”

“Anyone who thinks machine intelligences don’t have emotions needs to be in this very uncomfortable room right now.”

(The wibbliness was why I trusted Arada. Overconfident humans who don’t listen to anybody else scare the hell out of me.)

“Is the explorer armed?” Ratthi asked worriedly. “I hate being shot at.”

Ratthi always stating the obvious

And it hit me then that ART had been desperate and terrified since the moment the Barish-Estranza explorer had sidled up and done whatever it had done. It had tricked its captors into taking it to me not because it had some kind of grand strategy but because it needed me. I hate emotions.

💙

She yawned. “Okay, third mom.”

💙

Arada’s risk assessment module was as bad as mine.

ART put the contact on hold and said, Clear. And then it did one of my what-the-hell-have-the-humans-done-now sighs.

(If I got angry at myself for being angry I would be angry constantly and I wouldn’t have time to think about anything else.) (Wait, I think I am angry constantly. That might explain a lot.)

You don’t have to thank me for doing my stupid job. But it is nice.

(Normal = neutral expression concealing existential despair and brain-crushing boredom.)

I was getting tired of being told what to do. Self-determination was a pain in the ass sometimes but it beat the alternative by a lot.

As Ratthi put it, “You’d think they could at least pretend to give a damn.”

“As you said, our SecUnit is very effective.” Okay, I forgive her for putting her hands up.

The problem with gunships is they want to shoot at stuff.

Humans and constructs were full of overwrought emotions like depression, anxiety, and anger (was anxiety an emotion? It sure felt like one) and I had no idea what ART was full of, except how much it cared about its crew.

(Foolproof is another weird word. Shouldn’t it be smartproof?

ART replied, only to me, It is safer. I’ve lost my crew, I won’t lose you.

💙

(I know, it’s a logo, but I hate it when humans and augmented humans ruin things for no reason. Maybe because I was a thing before I was a person and if I’m not careful I could be a thing again.)

I am actually alone in my head, and that’s where 90 plus percent of my problems are.

ART didn’t hesitate, or argue. It had gone through the same threat assessment I just had, except faster and a million percent more homicidal.

Whatever, it was better than trying to make a sneak approach in a gigantic drop box that probably arrived on the surface with automated warning sirens and, considering the effort Adamantine had put into branding this place, possibly its own theme music.

Apparently the organic parts of my brain were doing a lot more heavy lifting than I gave them credit for.

So 11 O'clock?

(Confession time: that moment, when the humans or augmented humans realize you’re really here to help them. I don’t hate that moment.)

Being abandoned on a planet + locked up and forgotten with old equipment + no feed access were my top three issues and it was a little overwhelming to have them happen all at once.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, I can’t sit here and argue with myself all day.

There is a lot about what is going on here that I don’t understand. But I am participating anyway.

That's life

Oh, I had a bad feeling.

It didn’t seem inclined to argue. “Your clients told me I could go with them to Preservation.”

I’m very glad to meet you, Perihelion.” It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, Dr. Mensah, ART said, and actually managed to sound like it meant it.

It's like Peri is meeting SecUnit’s mommy