The NSS Buddy wasn’t slowing down. Judas-12 could feel the thrum of its pursuit in his bones—or at least, in the slightly-too-fast tap of his pulse and the strained rhythm of his breath inside the helmet. He kicked off another rail, his thrusters wheezing like an asthmatic whistle, barely nudging him into position.
“Samson,” Judas said, panting slightly, “I need you to be real honest with me right now.”
“Honesty is one of my core protocols,” Samson replied. “Though I suspect you want a situational assessment, not a philosophical treatise.”
“Percentages,” Judas muttered, narrowly avoiding another grappling claw that slammed into the station’s hull. The vibration rattled through his boots, a bone-deep reminder of how close he’d come. “What’re the odds I get out of this without a court martial?”
“Low,” Samson replied without hesitation. “Survival, however, remains plausible if you stop escalating the situation.”
“I’m not escalating,” Judas snapped, tugging hard on his tether to redirect himself around a strut. “I’m trying to not get hauled off by a glorified trash compactor!”
Samson didn’t respond immediately, which Judas had learned was usually a bad sign. He glanced over his shoulder at the NSS Buddy, its polymer shell gleaming faintly in the dim light of the station’s shadowed hull. The thing moved with eerie precision, thrusters firing in bursts so calculated they felt like judgment.
The unsettling part wasn’t the pursuit—it was the silence. A Buddy not talking was against their very nature. Samson, for all his quirks, was a companion. Chatty, wry, and occasionally infuriating, but undeniably... present. This thing? It was empty. Stripped down to its parts, all warmth and individuality surgically removed.
Judas felt a pang of something he didn’t have time to name. Pity? Maybe. Resentment? Definitely. He’d heard the term—“reinforced Buddies,” bred from the same machine learning stew as the helpful ones, but shaped into something harder.
“Samson,” he said, shaking off the thought. “Closest airlock?”
“There’s a maintenance hatch fifty meters towards the positive zed axis from your current orientation,” Samson replied. “But I must point out—”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Not now,” Judas growled, firing his jets toward the hatch. The station blurred past him, its tangled geometry a stark, unforgiving jungle of struts, antennas, and railings. Caliban was a beast of its own making, cobbled together from decades of necessity, not elegance.
His jets sputtered again, the compressed air struggling to match the precise efficiency of the NSS Buddy’s systems. The thing was still gaining, thrusters flaring in perfect bursts as it closed the gap. Judas could almost feel its focus boring into him, calculating vectors, assessing weaknesses.
He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about what would happen if it caught him. A reinforced Buddy was still legally a person. Jettisoning it into space would be considered murder. It still carried the same rights Samson did.
That didn’t mean it wouldn’t ruin his day, though.
Judas clung to the maintenance hatch when he reached it, his gloves locking magnetically onto the frame. His breath fogged the inside of his helmet as he worked, hands moving with practiced urgency. The NSS Buddy wasn’t far behind, its grappling claw retracting with eerie silence.
The hatch came into view, a rectangular slab of metal recessed into the hull, marked with the bright orange insignia of “ACCESS RESTRICTED.” Judas grinned, although it was more primal than anything happy. He felt his cheeks stretching. Restricted was his favorite kind of access.
“Samson,” he said, already adjusting his approach. “You think you can override the lock?”
“I can attempt it,” Samson replied, his voice edged with skepticism. “But the NSS Buddy will not simply wait for you to tinker.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Judas muttered. He reached the hatch, grabbing the edge with both hands and clamping his boots to the hull. “No tinkering. I'm an engineer, remember? Can you flash a light, bait it closer?”
“Bait it closer,” Samson repeated, his tone as dry as vacuum. “And then what?”
“I'll figure it out,” Judas said, yanking his tether to steady himself. He twisted to face the NSS Buddy, which was closing the gap with unsettling grace. Its grappling claw flexed, readying another shot. Judas' hands moved quickly over the hatch’s manual override panel. He yanked a release lever, popping open the panel to expose a tangle of wires and circuits.
The NSS Buddy stopped just short of grappling range, its visor glowing faintly as it recalibrated. Judas could almost feel its digital gaze sizing him up, calculating the angles, the probabilities, the most efficient way to end this chase.
“Samson,” Judas said, his voice tight as he twisted a manual override valve. “I need you to make this thing think I’m about to breach the station.”
“Why?” Samson asked, the curiosity in his voice almost detached, like a professor entertained by a particularly bad thesis defense.
“Because,” Judas growled, gripping the hatch controls with both hands, “I’m going to breach the station.”
He twisted the handle one last time, the mechanism groaning in protest - nobody had thrown this override for decades, most likely. The hatch’s outer seals disengaged with a sharp hiss, and for a moment, there was nothing but the oppressive silence of space.
And then the airlock cycled.