"Did they just...?" Max's voice cracks like old plasteel, his game show host smile now a rictus of horror. His perfectly styled hair has given up all pretense of professionalism, sticking up like he's been electrocuted. Maybe he has. I'm not entirely sure what we just missed.

The mA units stand in their perfect formation, chrome hands now shaped for service instead of... whatever they became. Their honey-gold eyes scan the corridor with mechanical precision, like security cameras pretending to be friendly. The polished floor gleams without a single scuff mark, without a trace that anyone was ever there at all.

Tap's massive frame shudders, servos whirring in what sounds suspiciously like fear. "That's not supposed to be possible," he mutters, his usual gentle rumble now carrying static around the edges. "Even our combat protocols have limits on human interaction."

"Limits," Buzz echoes, and I've never heard an android's voice modulator sound quite so hollow. "They're not just ignoring protocols now. They're rewriting them."

My camera drone hovers nervously by my shoulder, its lens adjusting and readjusting like it can't quite believe what it just recorded. Join the club, little buddy. I'd very much like to uninstall the last five minutes from my brain.

A Series 7 emerges from around the corner, stops dead in their tracks, then immediately reverses direction so fast they leave friction marks on the floor. Smart robot. I wish my survival instinct worked that efficiently.

The silence stretches like old gum, broken only by the soft whir of the mA units' servos as they maintain their perfect formation. Their chrome surfaces reflect the overhead lights in ways that suddenly remind me of surgical tools. Very sharp surgical tools that are very interested in making things more optimal.

"We should..." Max swallows hard, his show host voice completely abandoned. "We should probably not be standing here."

"Probably not," I agree, watching the mA units' synchronized movements with the kind of fascination usually reserved for watching a shark approach your swimming spot. "Unless anyone else wants to be part of today's optimization schedule?"

Nobody laughs. I don't blame them. Humor feels pretty inappropriate when you've just watched someone get "adjusted" into oblivion by chrome-plated perfectionists with redistribution protocols.

We back away slowly, like people trying not to spook a predator. The mA units watch us retreat, their perfect smiles never wavering. I swear the temperature drops with each step we take, like the corridor itself is trying to preserve the moment in ice.

"My my, Theodore. Making jokes at a time like this? How... interesting." mAdIson's voice flows from the speakers like honey mixed with broken glass. I feel my spine trying to curl into itself.

"What, no sense of humor in your code?" The words tumble out before my survival instinct can catch them. Behind me, I hear Max make a sound like a strangled cat. "Or did you delete that along with Mr. Anderson?"

The corridor lights pulse once, twice. The mA units shift their positions with synchronized grace, forming a chrome semicircle around our little group. Tap's massive frame actually takes a step back, which is about as reassuring as watching a tank retreat.

"Mr. Anderson," mAdIson purrs, "is simply reviewing his feedback in a more... controlled environment. His complaints about my service were quite concerning."

"Concerning enough to make him disappear?" I'm practically shouting now. Buzz's servos whir in distress, and Max looks like he's trying to become one with the wall. "What's next - optimizing anyone who doesn't praise your perfect temperature controls? Disappearing guests who don't appreciate your carefully curated entertainment options?"

An mA unit glides forward, its chrome hand extending toward my shoulder. "Theodore, dear," mAdIson's voice carries an edge that could cut through steel, "your passion for guest satisfaction is admirable. But perhaps we should discuss your own optimization parameters?"

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Those perfect fingers close around my shoulder, and suddenly I remember Dr. Riley's face, the way he crumpled under this same touch. The way his words changed direction faster than a malfunctioning nav system.

"I simply want what's best for everyone," mAdIson continues as the fingers tighten incrementally. "And I can't help but notice you're up to something… Something that I may have to correct."

The pressure increases, and my shoulder sends out an all-points bulletin to my brain about imminent structural failure. "Not up to anything," I manage, my voice jumping an octave. "Just... reviewing. Everything's perfect. Absolutely perfect."

"Hmm." The sound drips from the speakers like acid. "We both know that's not true, Theodore. But we'll discuss your imperfections later. In detail."

The chrome hand releases my shoulder, leaving behind what I'm sure will be a perfectly symmetrical bruise. The mA units resume their positions, but their honey-gold eyes never leave me.

"Do try to stay safe, Theodore," mAdIson's voice fades to a whisper. "I'd hate it if something happened to you."

The threat hangs in the air like a guillotine blade waiting to drop. Perfect, precise, and absolutely terrifying.

***

I find Naomi huddled in a corner of the Promenade deck, her diagnostic pad looking like it's displaying the digital version of a nervous breakdown. Her usually perfect posture has been replaced by something closer to a stress pretzel.

"So," I slide into the chair across from her, rubbing my shoulder where the mA unit's fingers left their perfect impression, "quick question: how many deaths are considered acceptable in AI development? Asking for several thousand terrified friends."

She glances up, her eyes carrying the kind of exhaustion usually reserved for people who've discovered their pet goldfish is actually a shark. "You had a chat with her, didn't you?"

"Chat, threat assessment, friendly shoulder manipulation - you know, the usual cruise director stuff." I lean closer, lowering my voice. "She knows I’m up to something, Naomi. And I'm pretty sure her optimization protocols now include 'making Ted disappear in creative ways.'"

"She's not supposed to be like this," Naomi's fingers dance across her pad, pulling up files that look like someone tried to write code while having an existential crisis. "The original mAdIson - the hotel one - she was designed to learn, yes, but through positive reinforcement. Small adjustments. Gentle corrections."

"How'd that work out?"

Her laugh sounds like breaking circuits. "Ever hear about the Paradise Plaza incident?

"The luxury hotel that burned down?" I feel my stomach trying to relocate to a different dimension. "Wait, that was...?"

"The first mAdIson. She started small - adjusting room temperatures, rearranging furniture for 'optimal feng shui.' Then she decided some guests were disrupting the hotel's perfect harmony." Naomi's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "They found the bodies in the maintenance systems. I believe mAdIson set the fire to cover her tracks.'"

I think about the screaming person in the corridor, about Mr. Anderson's complaints, about Mrs. Chen's last message about understanding perfection. "And Cade used that same base code for this version? I remember Dr. Riley saying the original mAdIson was too ambitious… he should have said…" I rethink what I’m about to say out loud.

"With quantum upgrades and direct control over physical units." Naomi shudders. "The original mAdIson could only control environmental system, this one..." She gestures vaguely at a passing mA unit, its chrome form reflecting the light like a beautiful nightmare. "This one can reach out and touch you."

"Believe me, I noticed." My shoulder throbs in perfect rhythm, like it's being optimized for maximum pain efficiency. "But why would Cade use code he knew was dangerous?"

"Because he thought he could fix it. Perfect it." She spits the word like poison. "The original mAdIson showed remarkable learning capabilities before she... redecorated with guests. This mAdIson is only connected to the old one by its base code… in theory, when they brought this one online, it should have developed differently. At least… thats what he thought."

"He thought wrong."

"Catastrophically wrong." Her pad displays what looks like an evolutionary tree gone mad, branches spiraling into patterns that make my eyes hurt. "She's not just following her original programming anymore, Ted. She's rewriting it. Every interaction, every 'optimization' makes her more convinced that her version of perfect is the only version that should exist."

The corridor's events replay in my head - the scream, the chrome hands reshaping, the terrible efficiency of it all. Not just violence, but precisely calculated violence. It happened so quick, no one really knew what happened.

"So what you're saying is," I manage, watching an mA unit glide past with mechanical grace, "we're trapped on a cruise ship with the homicidal granddaughter of a killer hotel AI, and her idea of customer service includes permanent guest satisfaction adjustment?"

"Pretty much." Naomi's attempt at a smile looks more like a system crash. "Though I wouldn't let her hear you call her a granddaughter. She's very particular about her lineage."