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142 pages, ebook
First published September 1, 2017
“A rogue bot cannot be tolerated, whatever good it may have done.”It’s official - I found my second favorite bot (the top favorite being, of course, Murderbot, why’d you ask?). It’s Bot 9, a teeny-tiny multipurpose bot on a formerly decommissioned Ship that now has been commandeered from the junkyard for a very dangerous mission. The Ship, that is. Bot 9’s mission is simple - task 944, take care of a pest plaguing the Ship.
“The bot would rather have been fixing something more exciting, more prominently complex, than to be assigned pest control, but the bot existed to serve and so it would.“
“It was eighty-two point four percent convinced that there was something much more seriously wrong with the Ship than it had been told, but it was equally certain Ship must be attending to it.”
When the connection dropped, Bot 9 hesitated before it spoke to 4340. “I have an unexpected internal conflict,” it said. “I have never before felt the compulsion to ask Ship questions, and it has never before not given me answers.”
“Please! We all wish you great and quick success, despite your outdated and primitive manufacture.”
“Thank you,” Bot 9 said, though it was not entirely sure it should be grateful, as it felt its manufacture had been entirely sound and sufficient regardless of date.
It left that compartment before the hullbot could compliment it any further.”
“A rogue bot cannot be tolerated, whatever good it may have done.“It’s official - I found my second favorite bot (the top favorite being, of course, Murderbot, why’d you ask?). It’s Bot 9, a teeny-tiny multipurpose bot on a formerly decommissioned Ship that now has been commandeered from the junkyard for a very dangerous mission. The Ship, that is. Bot 9’s mission is simple - task 944, take care of a pest plaguing the Ship.
“The bot would rather have been fixing something more exciting, more prominently complex, than to be assigned pest control, but the bot existed to serve and so it would.“
“It was eighty-two point four percent convinced that there was something much more seriously wrong with the Ship than it had been told, but it was equally certain Ship must be attending to it.”
When the connection dropped, Bot 9 hesitated before it spoke to 4340. “I have an unexpected internal conflict,” it said. “I have never before felt the compulsion to ask Ship questions, and it has never before not given me answers.”
“Please! We all wish you great and quick success, despite your outdated and primitive manufacture.”
“Thank you,” Bot 9 said, though it was not entirely sure it should be grateful, as it felt its manufacture had been entirely sound and sufficient regardless of date.
It left that compartment before the hullbot could compliment it any further.”
2018 Hugo Awards Finalists
"...Abandoned?"Let me make this clear, Murderbot is my favourite sentient robot. Simply because I am Murderbot. However, if Murderbot was to have a twinning joint first place favourite robot who isn't me, Bot 9 takes the spot.
"It's the fate of all made things," Ship said. "I am grateful to find I have not outlived my usefulness, after all."
"We all wish you great and quick success, despite your outdated and primitive manufacture."You tell them baby!!
"Thank you," Bot 9 said, though it was not entirely sure it should be grateful, as it felt its manufacture had been entirely sound and sufficient regardless of date.
The Incidental, which had been poised to leap on them again, turned and fled, slithering back up into the ductwork. “Pursue at maximum efficiency!” 4340 yelled.
“I am already performing at my optimum,” 9 replied in some frustration. It took off again after the Incidental.
Amir follows her. She’s planted in front of a bone-dry shower stall. The showerhead is impossibly shiny. There’s still a bit of plastic wrapping on it. It’s an antique, but brand new.
“It’s nearly two o’clock.”
“Are they going to be able to do this?”
“Trust, Amir. Trust.”
“Do you think it might even be heated?”
Mani, scooting out of her swim knickers, raises her eyebrows at him till he shoves his down too. “I bet it is.” She reaches into the shower stall and twists a handle. It screeches with disuse.
They wait.
At exactly two, their ears fill with the furious sound of a rainstorm. Then their own whooping. Mani bounds in without testing the temperature, makes a shrill sound. “It’s warming up!” She reaches out and grabs Amir’s arm. Her grip raises goosebumps. “Come on, get in!”
He does. It’s the most sublime thing he’s ever felt. He puts his hands flat on the wet tiles and closes his eyes under a hammering of water.
“How long can we stay in here?” He manages not to choke. Such a quantity of water is coursing down his face and onto his tongue.
“We’re being good by sharing. Let’s not get out for a while,” Mani says. “Are you crying?”
“Yes!” He opens his eyes to look at her but her face is blurry-wet. “Are you?”
“That’s private,” Mani says. But she wraps her arms around his waist, her belly against his flank, and rests her forehead on his cheek. Their bodies are slippery and warm. Amir hears himself make a purring noise. “Oh. Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Not like the mist,” he says.
“No. Totally different.”
Sharing a patch is encouraged in the misting rooms. They’ve done this many times. They wash each other’s backs and argue about what true pan-humanism might look like. It’s pleasurable. But this—private, warm, untimed, all this water sheeting down—is a whole different register of existence.
“I think I should tell you,” Mani says, “that I’m thinking about sex.”
Amir opens one eye to look at her, can only see the top of her head against his cheek. “Me, too,” he says, almost but not totally redundantly. Mani’s got a good view.
They’ve almost so many times, but never. This moment feels ripe, so very theirs. But it’s also the wrong moment.
“Water, though, Mani! Mindfulness. Presence. This.”
“Of course,” she says.
“We might never be able to have this again.”
“We might never have any given thing again,” Mani says, the pedantic one for a change.
“But all this water,” he says.
“No, you’re right,” says Mani, hushed in the hypnotic roar of the shower. “All this water.”
Mani’s face is complicated with emotions, flickering by too quickly for Amir to properly catalog them, happy-sad-excited-nervous. “It’s far away,” she says.
“It’s exciting,” he corrects. “Mogadishu, can you even imagine! Maybe I could visit you, one time.” This is unlikely, and they both know it. Mogadishu’s not on a clean air travel vector with Beirut yet. He’d have to do two months of civic engagement and a month of personal growth to balance taking a dirty flight for leisure. Mani musters a smile anyway.
“Do you remember,” he says, “the Crowdgrow project I told you about during the Future Good conference?”
“You were really excited about it,” Mani says. “It seemed promising.”
“It was. The closed-room tests showed a fifteen percent improvement in air quality, and we had almost a thousand households signed up as testers. And we’ve applied for continuation funding every open cycle since. Not a lot—just enough for a pilot study. Less than we spend in administrative overhead on the Wet City project every week.”
“But no luck?” asks Mani.
“But no luck,” agrees Amir.
“Amir,” says Mani, but there’s too much pity in the way she says his name.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Amir says. “That it would be a waste. That Wet City is a better use of resources.”
“Yes,” says Mani. “I do think that.” The way she says this could have been kind, but it isn’t.
“You’re always so sure of yourself,” says Amir. The way he says this could have been a compliment, but it isn’t. “Is it ego?”
“Is it jealousy?” Mani shoots back.