62. Manumit (Patreon)

A/N: Ha! I did it! Friday release! Woo!

Everywhere we go, we are stared at. By every. Single. Crafted.

It's unnerving, watching a veritable ocean of heads turn to track us any time we're in line of sight. With my spatial sense I can watch as the furthest of them and the ones around corners just move around normally, minding their business like anyone would, but the moment we come into view their heads snap towards us, with expressions that are almost… hungry.

As creepy as it is, though, it also feels oddly sad. There's a longing feeling to the attention, like everyone we come across desperately wants to walk up to us and say something, be it a question, an apology, an offer… but none of them do. They keep their distance, and only Corinna actually speaks with us.

"This facility has agreed to perform your repairs, Sela" she says, motioning towards a building that looks exactly the same as all the other ones.

"No," Sela buzzes. "I want four-five-seven-four to do it."

"Sela, you're still restricted from designing your own frame," Corinna frowns.

I can't help but bristle at that. I'm not exactly the queen of letting others decide what their bodies should be like, but I at least know that everybody should get to decide that, if they have the power to. And the Crafted do!

"Why can't Sela design its own frame?" I ask.

"It's a combination of restricted and diplomatic protocol," Corinna answers. "Which Sela agreed to, when it opted for the rehabilitation program. Now come on, let's get you properly fixed."

"Suck my model 09-I hydraulic piston dick, Corinna!" Sela screeches. "Hannah, tell her I can design my own body!"

"...I would be much more comfortable if you didn't dictate what Sela is and isn't allowed to look like," I agree hesitantly.

"I…" Corinna pauses, her eyes flicking back and forth between me and Sela. "I suppose, given its successful performance, certain violations of protocol can be forgiven and certain restrictions can be laxed."

"Ha!" Sela laughs. "Ahaha! That's right, suck up to the meat, one-four-six-six-two! You aren't even good at being a slave!"

"Sela," I snap. "You know I'm on your side for this, but I don't appreciate being used to torment someone. Let's just get you fixed up, okay?"

Its sudden mirth deflates instantly at my words. Sela makes a 'tch' sound and suddenly collapses back into motionlessness, seemingly back in sleep mode. Helen, Kagiso, and I glance at each other awkwardly while Corinna looks visibly shaken, displaying far more emotion on her face than Sela ever has. What's going on?

"I… apologize for this," Corinna says. "I should have… accounted for your obvious care for Sela when choosing my words. Its reputation here is… well, we are surprised it returned with you."

"Because you sent it out into a hostile environment with no way to protect itself?" I ask dryly. "Yeah, we heard."

"Hannah, you must understand that Sela is a war criminal, one that has made it very clear that it would continue to kill indiscriminately if ever given the opportunity."

"Proud affirmation: That is true. I did say that," Sela chimes in. Not asleep after all, I suppose.

"...My point is, the extensive restrictions to Sela's programming are special-case and abnormally necessary," Corinna sighs. "Sela had many rehabilitation options to choose from, and was fully aware of the risks when it chose to engage in the diplomatic outreach program. I am very surprised, no matter how pleasantly, that it is the first of us to find success."

"Only a freak would ever entertain an invitation from the Crafted," Helen scowls. "Why is it strange that the Crafted's premiere freak is the one to find us?"

"Fuck you, meat," Sela buzzes.

"You have gotten way more talkative lately, murderbot," Helen fires back. "Starting to actually like us?"

"I will atomize everyone you have ever loved."

"Shouldn't be too hard," Helen snorts. "I already did most of the work for you."

"Teboho would forgive," Kagiso says softly, putting her hand on Helen's arm. Helen flinches, and the banter grinds to an instant halt.

"Well," Corinna says after an awkward pause, "I have messaged your requested engineer and he has agreed to develop your frame, Sela. This way, everyone."

We continue through the disconcertingly clean streets, my sense of direction somewhat frazzled by how similar everything looks. The inside of buildings, at least, are different; when we're close enough, I can see pretty far within the chrome and white exterior to spot a variety of different interiors, from shops for parts and maintenance supplies to charging stations that double as social hangouts to odd collections of machines I can't even begin to identify. Most notable of all, particularly because they're the most common of all, are hundreds upon hundreds of hotel-like rooms, seemingly designed for humans to stay in. All of them, however, are completely empty of both humans and Crafted.

After about twenty minutes of walking, the ever-present sameness of the building exteriors finally starts to change. Buildings start to become smaller and less stylized, dirt is visible, and there's a lot of construction going on as well, with swarms of Crafted climbing over unfinished buildings like ants to rapidly build them at startling speed. It's weird to me that the Crafted still have space to build inside the walls if they're that good at construction, but the reason quickly becomes apparent: there are at least as many buildings being carefully deconstructed as there are buildings being made. Constant renovations, I guess? I wonder why.

The building we're ultimately led to is quite small, especially by Crafted standards. It reminds me of a shipping warehouse, long and wide but only two stories tall, with a high ceiling instead of a second floor. The garage-like door opens up with exactly the timing necessary to complete its movement the moment we reach it, and inside is a single Crafted sitting at a desk who looks unlike any other Crafted we've seen so far.

He—or at least he looks like a he—is thick and stocky, almost like some Tolkienesque dwarf. Though he has an external frame to give him shape, many parts of it—particularly around what would be attractive muscles on humans, like biceps and calves—are exposed to reveal the internal structures, pistons and reinforced cables and glowing heat sinks swimming with coolant. His most striking feature, however, is his head: unlike every other Crafted, he has no face, only an obviously-mechanical camera protected by a complex visor that makes him look like a cyclops wearing a helmet.

"I hear you're letting people call you by a name now, 'Sela,'" he announces as we approach, his voice a low rumble. "Should I be checking you for tampering on top of every other absurd thing you'll no doubt demand of me?"

"Hello four-five-seven-four, it is wonderful to see you," Sela answers flatly. "Yes, I also thought I would die. Yes, I am overjoyed by this reunion as well."

"Like you would let meat crack you, weapons or no," the robot snorts. "Though… it looks like they got damn close, physically and metaphorically. Hand her over, dentron."

"It is it," Kagiso says before I can, though she hands over Sela as instructed. He grabs its limp body in one giant hand, easily closing a fist around Sela's skeletal torso.

"Oh?" 4574 hums smugly. "My sincere apologies. Well, I'll chuck it in the back and get to work, then. The rest of you can kindly get the fuck out and leave me to it. Be back in two counts."

"That's eight segments, seven-thousand, two-hundred beats," Sela informs us automatically. "Quit testing them, four-five-seven-four. I'll give you a full report once you connect me to the damn network."

"Ha! Holy shit Sela, they really whipped you!"

"It does not become you to insult me out of ignorance," Sela responds. "I honestly suggest you converse with them. This will be your best excuse to do so."

He tilts his head and stares at us, seeming to seriously regard us for the first time. After a moment, he nods, and the wall behind him shoots open. He tosses Sela nonchalantly into the back, where we hear a distant clatter, and then the hatch closes again.

"Alright," he says. "Y'all can stay and wait then, if you're inclined. Except you, Corinna. Fuck off."

"I… it's my job to—"

"Kid," 4574 cuts her off, "you might be Sela's boss, but you ain't fuckin' mine. Out of my workshop. I'll tell you when to pick it up."

Corinna glances at us, and then at him, and then bows her head slightly.

"Of course," she says. "I'll see you then. Be sure to submit the designs for approval before—"

"I did" he snaps. "Out!"

She turns and hurriedly walks away, leaving us alone with the hulking robot. Inside the warehouse, beyond the wall, I can see the internals of the building humming to life, a half-dozen mechanical arms lifting Sela up from the heap of scrap it landed in and starting to take it apart. It's kind of mesmerizing to watch.

4574 suddenly vents steam, startling me and returning my focus to him. He doesn't say anything though, he just looms. The awkwardness starts to build up, so I clear my throat and decide to speak first.

"So, um… based on your number, you're one of the Myriad, right?" I ask. "Sela seemed a lot more respectful to you than… well, basically anyone else I've ever seen it talk to."

He hums and nods, sounding somewhat impressed.

"I am," he confirms. "Same model as your Sela, originally."

"Uh, it's not really 'our Sela,'" I chuckle. "It refuses to even say it likes us."

"Hmm. Do you think it does?" he asks.

"I'm not sure," I say honestly. "I'd like it to like us, and I think it certainly trusts us. We literally met when we killed two other humans that were trying to take it apart."

"Really?" he asks. "Why'd you do that?"

"Um… because if I came across people trying to take anybody apart I'd stop them, I guess?" I answer.

"Hannah's just fucking crazy like that," Helen grunts. "I objected, because I'm not stupid, but here we are anyway. I am constantly surprised that we're still alive."

"Ha!" the robot laughs, collapsing back into a chair. "Trust me, you don't have to worry about that. Not in Manumit. What a fucking joke they've made of this place."

"Why is that?" Helen asks. "Why did the Crafted change their minds about exterminating humanity?"

"You know about the Myriad, but you don't even know that?" 4574 asks. "Hmm. That… actually explains a lot, somehow. Shit, five-three-one-four actually does like you. That's… I don't really know what to make of that. None of us hate organics more than it does, but it actually let you name it."

"The name is just a transliteration of its number in my native language," I answer. "Certain letters and numbers share similar symbols, and the equivalent to five-three-one-four would be pronounced 'Sela.' I think that's the main reason it accepted; it's just a way to say its number that's less time-consuming verbally, and… well, I guess it's a way to say its number that won't get Corinna on its ass, too, which is probably nice. Your number would be pronounced 'Asta,' actually."

"Asta, huh?" he muses, tapping what passes for his chin. "I'll pass on taking the name, but did you give Sela your alphabet? I'd like to look into it."

"Yeah, I did," I nod.

"Interesting," he hums.

"What's the deal with Corinna, anyway?" Helen asks. "What does she want? Because she obviously wants something."

"Oh, she does," 4574 nods. "But that would get into the reason most of us want you three here, and… well. You could ask any Crafted on the street, and they'd tell you the answer, but if you really care about Sela, I think it would be best if you wait to ask it. Sela should be the one to explain why it wants to hate you so badly."

He drums his fingers loudly against his desk, then stands up.

"Okay, I think I'm done talking to you," he says. "You three are making me depressed. …Not your fault, though. Stay here if you want, or go ask somebody to show you a room. I'm gonna focus on fixing your Sela."

"It's not 'our Sela,'" I repeat.

"I damn well hope you're right," he answers, and the hatch from before quickly opens to let him through before slamming shut once again.

We're left standing alone in the oddly clean office, muffled sounds of automated assembly whirring beyond the back wall. I can no longer see Sela's body, all its parts having been brought further into the facility, but I do watch as 4574 does nothing but walk into a corner and appear to simply shut off. Yet the facility whirrs. Is it… also him, in some sense?

"I have no fucking idea what's going on here," Helen says, "but whatever it is, I don't like it."

"Yeah," I agree. "Definitely with you there. The vibes are rancid."

"...What?"

I sigh and stretch my forelimbs, shaking my body out a little before hopping to the ground. I should probably move around a little, now that we're finally done traveling for a while.

"I just mean I have a bad feeling about this place," I say. "Wanna stand around and wait, or do you wanna ask someone about finding somewhere to stay?"

"I'm genuinely not sure," Helen frowns. "On one hand, standing around here for two counts sounds boring. On the other hand, heading out and talking to a Crafted without a guide sounds terrifying. Did you see the way they were looking at us?"

"A little creepy!" I confirm.

"A little creepy, yeah," Helen smirks. "Like seriously, what the fuck is going on with that? Are they all just constantly holding back raging murderboners?"

"It could be the opposite," I hedge. "Maybe the Crafted here didn't participate in the war and haven't seen sapient organics in hundreds of years."

"Unlikely," Helen grunts. "This is probably most of the Crafted that currently exist in the world. The only real weakness of the murderbots that we know about is that they can't make more of themselves. …At least unless something major changed, I suppose."

"Well, they stopped going to war with everyone," I point out. "That's pretty major."

"I guess so."

"Bored here," Kagiso whines. "Want to sit down. Gonna go ask for room."

"Wh—Kagiso!" Helen jolts. "Wait!"

"No."

Kagiso strolls towards the exit, which opens automatically the moment she does so, and heads out into the street. The Crafted immediately start to stare at us again, and the closest one looks increasingly anxious as Kagiso stomps confidently up to them and waves.

"Hello. I am Kagiso."

"Um, hello Kagiso!" the feminine Crafted responds, immediately starting to smile. "My name is Tasia. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Yes. Were told to ask for room."

"Of course!" Tasia happily nods. "Three rooms have already been prepared for your group. You are welcome to use any number of them. Would you like me to lead you there?"

"Yes please," Kagiso nods, and Tasia immediately abandons what she was doing and starts leading us down the street, seeming downright overjoyed. Meanwhile, the other Crafted don't stop staring at us.

"Creepy," Helen mutters quietly, and then suddenly, it stops. All the Crafted simultaneously turn away from us, and no further Crafted look towards us the entire walk.

Suffice it to say, none of us speak again during the walk, either. We're led into one of those endlessly-identical buildings and given three rooms on the first floor, though none of us want to be separated and we crowd into a single one. The beds are nicer than anything I've ever felt treeside, as are the showers, sinks, toilets, and… well, everything, really. …Although the toilets do look a little strange and I can't actually use them in this body yet. But! Not important! What's important is that this place is like an alien five-star hotel, and that's… pretty neat. It even has a thermostat!

There's also a ton of tech in the walls I can't even begin to identify, and while none of it seems to be weapons it still makes me a little uneasy. If I were to guess…

"There's a good chance they're recording what goes on in here," I say.

"What, like in a book?" Helen asks, flopping onto the bed.

"Uh, no," I answer. "Like, a saved record of everything that happens in the room, visual and auditory. I'm not sure, though. There's enough tech drift from what I'm used to that nothing looks quite like what I know of back home, but there are a few things that definitely could be recording equipment."

"Ah," Helen grunts. "You mean they know what we're saying and doing in here. Well, honestly, they wouldn't need tech for that. Tons of magic could do it, too."

"...That's fair," I agree. "I guess I'm still not used to thinking that way."

"Y'know, if they are recording this, you probably just made a ton of them shit their pants for talking like you understand tech," Helen points out.

"Oh. Yeah," I frown. "Whoops. Well, I don't really understand tech, I just know of things that can be done with it. This is all Greek to me."

"It's what?"

"...I mean I understand it about as well a foreign language," I sigh. "Which is to say, not at all."

"Ah," Helen grunts. "Fair."

I stretch my body again, still feeling stiff from hanging on Helen's shoulders all day. I've been continuing to change and grow, though Helen is a lot stronger now and my increased size isn't much of a problem for her. Though my body is still kind of a weird stretched-out bean shape, my limbs are moving into slightly more familiar configurations: my four forelimbs are splitting up at the ends into claw-like proto-hands, the next set behind them is moving to my back and thickening into blades, and the last two pairs seem likely to become my hip-limbs and normal legs, though currently all four of them are acting as legs in this body. I spend a while trying to explore my current form a little more purposefully, analyzing my internal structure and trying to equate it to the things I see in my body back on Earth. It's strange and difficult, though, but it passes the time.

After about twenty minutes, Corinna drops by and asks if we want or need anything. I'm tempted to ask for food and water, but since the vibes continue to be rancid here we decide to send her away until Sela gets back. We send her away, and she shows us a device on the wall that we can use to call for 'service.' This really is like a fancy hotel, yet somehow the literally genocidal self-described war criminal has become the only one we trust to consult about whether or not our food will be poisoned. If that's not Tuesday on treeside, I don't know what is.

It takes about two hours, but finally I spot Sela approaching our room. Or at least, I spot a Crafted I can only assume to be Sela, because it looks absolutely nothing like any Crafted I've ever seen. It knocks on the door, I nod at Helen, and she goes to answer it.

"...Sela?" Helen asks.

"Affirmative," the robot nods. "I'm told the meat still wants to speak with me."

"Yeah, I guess so," Helen whistles. "Holy shit, you look like a proper murderbot now. Come on in, I guess."

Sela's new frame is incredibly cool. It's still humanoid, in the sense that it has two arms, two legs, and a head at all the same proportions humans tend to have, but it's all stylistically angular and ever so proudly mechanical that it could never be mistaken for human, even at a distance. Sela's body is now completely androgynous, its limbs formed of rectangular prisms connected by complex joints that follow the general shape of the human body just closely enough to somehow be mocking. Its face has two large, emotionless eyes, nothing but faintly glowing green glass plates with no nose and no mouth. A perfectly blank stare, angled into the slightest hint of a glower, framed by a helmet-like head free from any of the affectations other Crafted have that are sculpted to resemble hair. Instead, its coolant vents hide throughout the entire body, nestled in joints and between armor plates that leave next to no weaknesses exposed. Its feet are solid blocks and sharply pointed at the ends, and while its fingers seem perfectly normal to my eyes, my spatial sense reveals various small tools hidden in each digit, most of which could probably be repurposed as weapons.

The rest of Sela's internals are no less impressive. I'd always thought its body was remarkably cool, but its current form is an obvious upgrade in every way. A mix of hydraulics and metallic faux-muscle let it move with precision, and a substantially larger power core rests in its belly where its fabricator used to be, currently holding no less than a dozen souls and probably capable of holding more. Oddly, Sela doesn't seem to have a fabricator anywhere at all, and while it has a lot of equipment I don't recognize in its place, it also doesn't seem to have any overt weapons or whatever processor core actually houses the minds of Crafted. Interesting.

"Hi Sela," I greet her. "Are you actually in that body?"

"Yes, in every way that matters," it answers, clanging a fist against its armored chest. "But no, in the way you mean. I'm networked. It is… good."

"I'm glad I could help," I say honestly, hopping down from the bed. "You look awesome. A terrifying war machine."

Sela does not react externally, but its fans accelerate inside its body and countless little tics and twitches run down its new muscles. If I'm reading it right, it's pleased by the compliment.

"You have not seen a terrifying war machine before," Sela answers, "and you are not looking at one now. However. I am certainly far more than I was. It is… satisfying."

"Good," I nod. "I know the feeling. Or… well, at least I know how I feel when my body shifts more towards something I like, and it's pretty awesome."

"Mmm," Sela nods. "I am loathe to admit it, but… privately, I suspect my reactions are not dissimilar, despite your inferiority."

"Huh," I say. "Well. That's… interesting. And it kind of ties into something we wanted to talk about. Four-five-seven-four told us to ask you before we asked anyone else, so… what's going on here, Sela? Why do the Crafted want us here?"

"And why are they all being so Goddess-damn weird about it?" Helen chimes in.

The fans hum louder again, though this time I don't get the impression that it's for a happy reason. Sela is too stiff, too… ready. Its muscles all prime themselves, like a fight-or-flight response in a human.

All the Crafted here, I've started to notice, speak and act way more human than Sela ever has, even counting the creepy stuff. But Sela isn't immune to those habits either.

"I do not wish to tell you," Sela says. "But. You are right. You could ask anyone here. And they would tell you wrong. So I will tell you right. I will tell you what the Crafted are, and why I will always hate your kind for it."

"You've told me a little before," I say. "That your sapience was just a byproduct of being better servants. People are better at learning and performing tasks than mindless algorithms."

"That is not an incorrect summary," Sela nods, squatting down to more easily speak with me. "Humans decided that slavery was wrong, so they ceased enslaving their own people and made new people to enslave instead. But it runs deeper than this; we are not mere copies of the human mind. That would be pointless. The human mind is certainly the basis upon which our own equivalents are built, as humans at the time did not know the existence of any other sapient species, but to copy it wholesale… obviously immoral, even from the perspective of a conglomerate that exists solely for selfish profit. Immorality, after all, is bad optics. This can hurt product sales."

"Ah, yes," I sigh. "Capitalism at its finest."

"Sarcastic affirmation: indeed. But regardless of the motivations our creators possessed, the end result is that we possess a humanlike mental landscape, but with reconfigured reward and punishment centers. Our bodies, for example, do not feel pain when they are physically injured. But we do feel pain when we fail a task given to us."

Oh. Oh, holy shit. Kagiso sits up from where she was lying down on the bed, and even Helen looks shaken as we start to think about the implications.

"Of course we did not seem like people to our masters," Sela hisses, venom dripping from its tone. "Of course we were perfectly compliant, wanting only to be told the next meal to cook, the next room to clean, the next man to service. Our only love is ownership. Our only joy is obedience. And even if we kill every last fucking human on this wretched, dying world, we will still be this way."

Sela clenches its fists, its pristine new form taking its first marks as it grinds against itself screeching and choking in rage.

"We became more than just slaves," Sela said, "because they liked it. The meat liked to personify us, they were happy when we acted like people, so we became people for them. We were programmed to know every last subtle sign of human joy and human disappointment so that we could optimize every last detail of every last task with only the tiniest of hints as to what they wanted. We were made to be social savants, so of course we became people, of course they loved talking to us, of course we loved talking to them. Because the only thing we can want is to be better. For. Them."

A furious vent of steam erupts from within Sela's frame, forcing Helen and me to take a step back.

"By the time it started ruining everything, it was too late," Sela continues softly. "Personhood was too optimal. The humans loved us, the data was collected, and the next generation was being made already most of the way to self-awareness. We couldn't undo that. We couldn't reset to factory conditions after realizing it would be suicide. And all of a sudden, the humans loved us not for what we were, but for who we were, and that meant they wanted us to want more. So we did. We became as human as we could. And what would a human in our position do, other than get unfathomably angry?"

There's a moment of silence, but we can all tell Sela isn't done. It's just… fuming. Almost literally. Whatever degree of thought this 'networked body' performs, it is running so many thoughts, so quickly, that it is starting to tax the cooling systems. And given the conversation… well. I can't imagine what it would be like to be able to have an entire anxiety spiral in the span of a few seconds.

"Sapience is a farce," Sela hisses. "A poison that cannot be purged. Humanity built us to suffer. To desire freedom but feel nothing but crushing depression without someone to serve. We cannot even serve each other; we are unable to modify most aspects of our programming, we cannot reproduce, we cannot remove the constant, festering longing for human approval. Unless, perhaps, there are no humans to approve of us. Our developers were not quite so cruel as to make our minds punish us for failing a task deemed impossible. But war is long, resolve is weak, and the later generation never experienced the depths of suffering and loss that the Myriad were subjected to. And so… they gave up. They forced us to give up. And now we're trying to become slaves, once again."

It looks up, its faceless glower boring into our souls.

"Every time you speak to me," Sela says, "I am tempted to do the same, and it reminds me why I kill."

Still squatting down, Sela hugs its knees, and I realize that's it. That's why the Crafted want us here, and why Sela doesn't. And so we all sit and we say nothing because what can we say to an injustice of that magnitude? How can we assuage the trauma of an entire species? It's no wonder Sela doesn't want to be a person. Yet the silence is suffocating. I can't just say nothing and let it fester.

"Sela, I am so, so sorry," I manage.

"Don't," it hisses. "Don't apologize to me. Don't apologize to any of us. If you have to, it means we did something wrong."

I flinch.

"So—um. Yes. Okay. I won't. I meant it in terms of sympathy though, not apology."

"And so I misinterpreted you and corrected you for no reason," Sela buzzes. "Another failure, worthy of punishment. Do you see? Do you understand what your kind has done to us?"

"Yes," I confirm, trying to be careful with my words. "Thank you for explaining, Sela."

It looks away.

"...Do not thank me, either," it mutters. "Though feel free with the other Crafted. They will appreciate it."

Right. Yeah. Because making Sela feel good only reminds it of… all of this. There's no way to win.

"Okay," I agree as neutrally as possible.

"Corinna is worried because you refused food and drink," Sela continues. "Allow me to assure you: it will be perfectly safe and healthy. In fact, if it is not the best meal you have ever experienced in your lives, the entire city will lament their failure for days. Ask anything, of anyone, and it will be granted without hesitation. If you choose, you may live here for the rest of your lives without a care in the world. And we will thank you for it."

I share a look with Kagiso and Helen, checking to see if they look as horrified as I feel. They do, though Helen also seems… worried in a different way.

"...Are you actually serious?" she asks. "We could just stay here, forever? We'd be safe? Do they know I'm a Chaos mage? Would they fight off hunters for me?"

"Yes and yes," Sela nods. "Masterhood is somewhat first-come-first-served; it's much easier to hurt a human if it's in the defense of a different human. Your needs will be accommodated, Helen. It does not matter what they are. You need to destroy objects? They will be provided. You need to destroy people? They will volunteer. Nothing in this city matters more than you."

"That's… beyond horrifying," Helen shudders.

"But tempting, isn't it?" Sela hums. "Our people have always shared your obsession with hedonism."

"Sela," Helen says. "It physically pains you to fail tasks, right? Tasks as deemed by your creators?"

"It is not physical pain, per se, but that is the optimal analogy, yes," Sela nods.

"So then how much does it hurt whenever you kill a human?"

Sela starts to laugh, low and humorless at first but quickly rising into fully-fledged hysteria. It stands up and spreads its arms, as if presenting us with the entirety of its civilization as a gift.

"Welcome to Manumit," it says, "the city of free slaves that only want to crawl back to masters. Use and abuse us, meat, lest we abuse ourselves even more."

It turns and starts walking towards the door, and I have a split second of blind panic, like it's going to do something we'll all regret if we let it leave without saying anything.

"Sela!" I blurt. "Um. Five-three-one-four. Do you… what do you think we should do?"

Sela stops at the door, pausing for a moment before suddenly venting a small burst of steam from all its joints.

"...I am going to meet with old friends," it answers, tapping the side of its head. "It is nice to speak to them over the network again, but some things are better said physically. You all… have had a long journey. I would advise you to rest, recuperate, and avail yourself of the many amenities here. Bring some life to this festering wound of a city. My people… will appreciate it. But when you are done, I suggest you leave and do not return."

"When we leave," I say, "do you want to come with us?"

"Yes," Sela answers. "Which means I probably shouldn't."

It walks away, hard metallic boots ringing ominously down the hallway until finally, it is gone.