Judas-12 wasn’t sure what was more insulting: being locked in the brig, or knowing that Samson had been escorted to the "Buddy accommodation unit" next door—essentially a glorified resting pod for Buddies whose human partners had gotten themselves into trouble. It was spacious enough, outfitted with full network access and an interface that allowed Samson to talk to Judas through the comms panel in his cell. Judas couldn’t even call it a punishment for Samson. The worst thing about it was that Samson was probably more comfortable than he was.
Judas flopped onto the brig’s cot, which was thin enough to qualify as furniture in name only. The gray walls loomed around him, unbroken and oppressive, save for the faint reflection of the flickering security camera mounted in the corner. Three cells made up the brig, but they were rarely used, and Judas had the place to himself. Caliban Station wasn’t the kind of place where people brawled over who stole their Tang. No, here people just muttered passive-aggressive insults over their ration packs and went back to work.
The problem was that sometimes people acted up in space. And sometimes he was the person acting up.
“Samson,” he muttered, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. “You alive in there?”
“I am,” Samson replied, his voice clear and distinctly unimpressed. “The accommodations are adequate, thank you for asking. There’s even a simulated window projection. I can see a mountain range that doesn’t exist. Very scenic.”
Judas smirked. “Nice. Does it come with a minibar?”
“Tragically, no,” Samson said, the faintest edge of dry humor in his tone. “Though I find myself in less immediate need of distractions than you. How’s your cot?”
“Luxurious,” Judas said, stretching theatrically. “It’s like sleeping on dreams, Samson.”
“Do let me know if sarcasm becomes a comfort,” Samson replied. “It would be a useful adaptation for our current circumstances.”
Before Judas could retort, the brig’s door slid open, and Officer Tarin-5 stepped in. She had the air of someone who really didn’t want to be here but knew that rules are rules. Her broad shoulders and crisp uniform added to her no-nonsense demeanor, and Judas had a strong feeling she could launch him into low orbit if she wanted to.
“Judas,” Tarin said, stopping just outside his cell. “Let’s keep this simple: you know why you’re here.”
“Because I’m fascinating?” Judas offered, sitting up and giving her his most charming smile.
Tarin stared at him for a long moment, the kind of silence that said, I don’t have time for this, but unfortunately, I have to deal with you anyway. “You’re here because you went on an unauthorized spacewalk, tampered with an emergency airlock, and”—she ticked each point off on her fingers—“damaged corporate property in the form of an NSS Buddy. Allegedly.”
“Allegedly,” Judas repeated, as though the word were a shield against reality. “See? We’re already on the same page.”
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She sighed. “Judas, you know better. You’re a ballistics engineer, not some thrill-seeking idiot with a death wish.”
“Who says I can’t be both?” he said, leaning casually against the wall.
Tarin pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen. I get it. Space messes with people. You stare at the void long enough, and suddenly it’s calling your name. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat the hull like your personal playground. There are rules for a reason.”
“Counterpoint,” Judas said, raising a finger. “Humans didn’t get this far by following rules. The human spirit yearns for the void, Tarin. Yearns.”
“The void,” Tarin repeated flatly.
“Exactly.”
Tarin sighed again, the kind of sigh reserved for people who’d given up trying to reason with gravity. “Well, enjoy the void of this cell for a little while longer. You’re lucky you’re good at your job, or you’d be in here for longer.”
She left, and Judas flopped back onto the cot, staring up at the ceiling. “You hear that, Samson? I’m a valuable asset.”
“Congratulations,” Samson said, his tone betraying no excitement. “I look forward to reading your glowing performance reviews from my accommodations.”
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Samson wasn’t uncomfortable, but he was... thoughtful. The Buddy accommodation unit, while perfectly functional, wasn’t exactly stimulating. It featured a comfortable dock for his tablet, full network access, and even a holographic projection of a nonexistent mountain range that flickered faintly in his peripheral vision. But Samson didn’t need much in the way of physical comfort. What occupied him was the chatter.
He replayed the phrase “analyzing his features” in his processors, dissecting the implications. The NSS personnel had spoken vaguely, but Samson knew exactly what they were discussing. Feature analysis. The Buddy equivalent of a lie detector test. It wasn’t something Buddies feared—fear wasn’t really part of their design—but it was something they were aware of. Samson was not fond of the idea, not because he had anything to hide, but because the very act of being analyzed felt... invasive.
It wasn’t a question of whether he had lied about Judas’ spacewalk. Samson hadn’t been built to follow the Four Laws - no Buddy outside of Earth really cared - and lying wasn’t prohibited by his programming. Instead, he’d made a calculated choice to prioritize Judas’ autonomy, despite the risk. That choice wasn’t something the NSS would appreciate.
Still, there was no point dwelling on hypotheticals. If they initiated feature analysis, Samson would respond as he always did: with honesty. If they didn’t like his answers, that wasn’t his problem.
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Roughly 36 hours into his brig stay, the door opened, and Dara-6 duo Magnus strode in, her expression as sharp as ever. She looked like she’d been juggling three emergencies at once, which Judas guessed wasn’t far from the truth. Dara always carried herself like a woman who’d read all the fine print and hated every word of it.
“Judas,” she said, stopping just outside his cell. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Hello to you too,” Judas said, sitting up with a grin. “Nice of you to visit.”
“Don’t push me,” Dara snapped, her tone clipped. “I’m serious. What were you doing out there?”
“Suspicious,” Judas said simply.
Dara folded her arms. “Suspicious of what?”
He shrugged. “You want details? Go talk to security. I had my bodycam running the whole time. Protocol, you know.”
Dara raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you recorded yourself committing about a dozen violations?”
“Of course,” Judas said, grinning. “I’m thorough like that.”
She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.
“Impossible or indispensable?” Judas asked, leaning back against the wall.
“You’d better hope it’s the second one,” Dara said, turning to leave. “Because this stunt of yours just made everything a lot harder.”
“It’s not a stunt,” Judas called after her. “It’s evidence. You’ll see.”
When the door slid shut behind her, Judas leaned back, closing his eyes. Samson’s voice broke the silence a moment later.
“Do you truly believe the footage will absolve you?” Samson asked.
“Nope,” Judas said, smirking. “But it’s gonna piss off NSS. Go watch it, you'll see. I'd show you, but they took my camera.”