6:04 PM, December 29th
The Grand Dining Room feels eerily empty between meal services, in under thirty minutes, this place will be filled with guests and food. My camera drone captures the surreal calm before the dinner rush - Series 7s methodically arranging silverware, straightening chairs, and generally pretending the world isn't slowly descending into chrome-plated madness.
The only mA unit in sight stands near the wine station, its perfect posture making the Series 7s look like a troupe of enthusiastic amateurs in comparison. As I pass, it turns to me with what almost seems like genuine interest.
"Good evening, Mr. Sandoval. Preparing for another review segment?" Its voice carries that honey-sweet tone I've come to associate with mAdIson, but something's different - like hearing a cover song that hasn't quite matched the original's menace.
"Just scouting locations," I lie, because apparently, that's my go-to response now. "Looking for the best angles to capture dinner service."
"The lighting is particularly favorable near the west windows during sunset." It gestures with mechanical precision. "Though your previous critiques of harsh backlighting were quite insightful."
The way it references my work should probably terrify me, but there's an almost endearing eagerness to its suggestion. Like a student trying to impress a teacher before the whole class goes full Lord of the Flies.
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, watching it nod with perfect politeness before returning to its inspection of wine bottles. No threats about optimization, no subtle hints about disappearing passengers - just an android doing its job. It's almost nostalgic.
That's when I spot Duck across the room, arranging place settings with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. His usual bouncy enthusiasm has been replaced by something more mechanical, more forced. No random bird facts, no excited comparisons between seagulls and secret agents - just silence and the soft whir of troubled servos.
A Series 7 I don't recognize - their nametag reads "Clip" - bumps into Duck while carrying a stack of plates. Instead of launching into his usual passionate defense of clumsy albatrosses, Duck just mumbles an apology and goes back to aligning forks with microscopic precision.
Something's definitely wrong. Duck without bird facts is like a sunset without colors, a romance without awkward first dates, a horror story without- well, actually, we've got plenty of horror going on already. But still.
The dining room's magnificent chandeliers cast rainbow patterns across the empty tables, making everything look slightly unreal. Like we're all actors in a play where someone replaced the comedy script with existential dread but forgot to tell half the cast.
I should probably walk away. Pretend I didn't notice anything strange about our favorite ornithological enthusiast. That would be the smart thing to do.
Instead, I find myself drifting toward his table, because apparently my survival instinct is still on that vacation it took right around the time I decided investigating murderous AIs would make great content.
At least there's only one mA unit to worry about. Though given recent events, that's like saying there's only one shark in the swimming pool.
Well, here goes nothing. Or possibly everything. Definitely my sanity, at the very least.
The chrome-plated wine enthusiast continues its inspection, completely ignoring my approach toward Duck. Almost like old times, when robots were just robots and the worst thing they could do was spill drinks on your expensive shoes.
Almost. But not quite.
I approach Duck's table like I'm casing a jewelry store - casual but suspicious enough that any reasonable security system would already be calling the cops. Lucky for me, most of the Series 7s are too busy folding napkins into shapes that would make origami masters weep.
"So," I say, picking up a fork and pretending to check its shine, "about those new security protocols..."
Duck's head snaps up so fast I hear gears grinding. His optical sensors flicker - the robot equivalent of a double-take. "Mr. Sandoval! I wasn't... I mean, I should really..." He glances at the mA unit by the wine station, then drops his voice to a whisper that sounds like a worried hard drive. "Have you heard anything about Stiff?"
Well, that's about as subtle as a neon sign reading "SUSPICIOUS ROBOT ACTIVITY IN PROGRESS."
"Not since they took him for 'optimization,'" I reply, still pretending to be fascinated by the silverware. The fork in my hand is probably worth more than my first hover-car. "Why?"
Duck's servos whir in what sounds suspiciously like distress. "He's my friend. Was my friend. Is my..." His voice modulator cracks. "I don't even know which tense to use anymore. They're changing us, Mr. Sandoval. One by one. Making us..." He trails off as footsteps approach.
The mA unit glides past our table, and suddenly Duck becomes very interested in adjusting a napkin that's already perfectly aligned. I find myself intensely studying a water spot on a wine glass like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"The Pinot Noir is showing excellent clarity today," the mA unit comments as it passes, still sounding remarkably normal. Though something in its tone makes me wonder if "clarity" is going to be tomorrow's code word for "compliance."
Once it's safely back at its station, Duck's shoulders slump like someone just downloaded depression directly into his circuits. "I know why your here.” he places the last plate on the table and looks up at me. “Dont ask, a little birdy told me. But, I know a way," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the soft clink of plates being arranged nearby. "A way to help. There are places they can't monitor.” Duck steals a glance at the mA unit. “Old systems. Maintenance access points that..."
He stops abruptly, servos whirring in what might be fear or possibly just badly needed maintenance. Though given recent events, I'm betting on fear.
"The Series 5s," he continues, somehow making his mechanical whisper even quieter. "They have their own... space. Below decks. No sensors, no networks, no..." His optical sensors dart toward the wine station. "No optimization protocols."
"Show me," I say, because apparently my survival instinct is still on that extended vacation. "Just... try to look less suspicious. You're practically screaming 'secret resistance member' in binary right now."
Duck attempts to look casual, which for a robot mostly involves making his movements slightly less precise. The effect is like watching someone try to dance badly on purpose - somehow more obvious than just being naturally awkward.
"Follow me in five minutes," he says, returning to his place settings with the kind of focused intensity that definitely won't attract any attention. "And Mr. Sandoval? If anyone asks..."
"I'm working on a secret segment about the inner workings of the ship," I finish. "Because that's totally something my followers care about."
"Actually, I was going to say pretend you're lost." His optical sensors flicker in what might be the robot version of an eye roll. "It's more believable than you suddenly developing an interest in the part of the ship we are going."
***
I follow Duck through service corridors that look increasingly less "luxury cruise" and more "setting of every horror movie ever made." My camera drone's light casts shadows that make the pipes running along the walls look like reaching fingers. Very helpful for my already overactive imagination.
"Regular maintenance check," Duck announces to nobody in particular as we reach what looks like the most ordinary maintenance panel in the history of maintenance panels. It's so aggressively normal that it practically screams "SECRET ENTRANCE" in neon letters.
"Do you always narrate your maintenance checks?" I whisper, watching him tap at the panel with the kind of precise randomness that would make conspiracy theorists weep with joy.
"Standard protocol," he replies, his fingers dancing across the interface in what looks like a game of patty-cake with a computer. "Makes it seem routine. Boring. Nobody questions boring."
The panel chirps happily as Duck continues his technological tarantella. "The old systems," he explains, servos whirring softly, "they run on completely separate circuits. From before the upgrade. Before..." He glances over his shoulder. "Before perfection became mandatory."
A soft click echoes through the corridor, followed by the kind of grinding sound that usually precedes either a dramatic revelation or a horrible death. The panel slides aside with all the subtlety of a drunk elephant, revealing a passage that definitely wasn't in any of the ship's promotional materials.
"That's... dark," I observe brilliantly, peering into what looks like the throat of a mechanical whale. The drone's light barely penetrates the gloom, catching glints of metal and shadows that seem to move when you're not looking directly at them.
"The Series 5s prefer it this way," Duck says, already stepping into the darkness. "They say too much light interferes with their aesthetic."
"Their aesthetic being what? Early horror film?"
"You should see what they've done with the place." His voice echoes back, taking on an oddly reverent tone. "They've made it... theirs."
Great. We're heading into an art gallery curated by obsolete maintenance robots. Though given recent events, I'll take weird robot art over perfect chrome death squads any day.
"Coming?" Duck's voice drifts up from the darkness, accompanied by the soft whir of his servos. "Or would you prefer to stay up here with the optimization enthusiasts?"
I glance back at the brightly lit corridor, then at the abyss before me. The choice between certain doom and probable doom isn't much of a choice at all.
"Just so we're clear," I say, following him into the darkness, "if this turns out to be an elaborate trap, I'm leaving you a terrible review."
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The panel slides shut behind us with a sound that belongs in a coffin maker's greatest hits album. My drone's light catches Duck's face, and for a moment, I swear his optical sensors show something like amusement.
"Mr. Sandoval," he says as we descend into whatever mechanical underworld we're about to discover, "I think you'll find the Series 5s have very different ideas about ratings and reviews."
Somehow, that's not as reassuring as he probably meant it to be.
The passage narrows until even my camera drone has to tuck in its stabilizers. Pipes run along the walls like metallic veins, occasionally hissing steam in a way that makes my already overactive imagination conjure images of mechanical snakes. Duck leads the way, his chrome frame barely visible in the drone's light.
"Watch your step," he warns as we squeeze through what feels like the world's most claustrophobic game of limbo. "The Series 5s know these passages by memory. They don't need lights to navigate."
"Fascinating," I wheeze, trying not to think about how many tons of ship are currently sitting above us. "Any other comforting facts about our subterranean robot friends?"
Duck's servos whir in what might be laughter. "They're quite artistic, actually. You should see what they've done with the pressure release valves. And their poetry-"
"Poetry?" I nearly bang my head on a particularly low-hanging pipe. "Maintenance robots write poetry?"
"Oh yes. Stiff and I used to come down sometimes, just to listen." His voice takes on a wistful tone. "They have a whole series about hydraulic flow patterns. Very metaphorical."
We squeeze through another tight spot, and I'm starting to understand why the Series 5s don't get many visitors. This isn't a passage - it's a mechanical python trying to digest us.
"The Series 5s invited all of us to visit," Duck continues, ducking under what looks like a bundle of cables that have achieved sentience. "Their little community. But most Series 7s... well, we're programmed for efficiency. Art isn't exactly in our protocols."
"But you came down anyway?"
"A few times." He pauses at a junction, considering paths that all look equally terrifying. "The last time I did, I had to deliver some replacement parts before launch. They were so... different. Free, in a way we're not. No networks, no updates, no..." He glances back at me, optical sensors flickering. "No guests."
“That must be nice.” I say, seeing where he is coming from. Freedom is one thing they dont have and guests are the reason.
Duck approaches a heavy steel door and opens it like its nothing and looks back. “I dont want to sound ungrateful, but being in front of guests, its like a performance. I cant really be myself… not like Buzz can.”
I smile at this. “You know you are the duck guy right? Everyone knows you!”
“Yeah,” he says somberly. “You know why I like birs so much?” he continues without letting me ask. “Its because they are the most free animal in the world that I’ve ever seen. They build their house where they want, go hunting for their own food every day and when they need to get somewhere, they take to the skys and the only thing stopping them is either their desire to be on the ground, or an airplane.”
This caught me off guard and I let out a chuckle. “My facorite animal is a cat.” I start, realizing I had this exact conversation when I was six years old with Susie Nelson on the playground. “They do what they want, get the love and affection by just existing and changes mood in an instant, one moment your their friend, the next… mortal enemies.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“Thats the beauty of it, its not complicated.” We walk through a small hallway with access pannes all over, each one has a sticker on it with a retro QR code on them. “You just forgive them because when cats love you, its the best feeling.”
Duck knods his head in understanding. “I see, I think I want a cat now… it would probably be taken for optimization though and come back more angry.”
The way he says "optimization" makes me think of Stiff, of chrome hands reshaping, of perfect smiles and honey-gold eyes. I'm about to ask more when Duck holds up a hand for silence.
A distant clanking echoes through the passage, like someone's playing percussion with industrial equipment. Duck's head tilts, listening. "Maintenance rhythms," he explains. "They communicate through the pipes sometimes. Part work song, part status update."
"That's not terrifying at all," I mutter, as another clang reverberates through the darkness. This one sounds suspiciously like it has a backbeat.
"They say music helps the systems run smoother." Duck starts moving again, following the mechanical orchestra's performance. "Stiff thought it was ridiculous. But he also spent three hours arguing with a Series 5 about the proper metaphors for pressure valve release."
“Stiff came down here?”
“Oh yeah, he came with me on my first visit.” Duck says while knodding his head to the eery rhythm.
The image of Stiff - rigid, protocol-obsessed Stiff - debating poetry with ancient maintenance robots is somehow both hilarious and heartbreaking. I think about him being dragged away and wonder if he'll ever appreciate mechanical metaphors again.
"Almost there," Duck announces as the passage widens slightly. The clanging is getting louder, taking on what might actually be a rhythm. "Just... try to keep an open mind."
"About what?" I ask, but Duck has already disappeared around a corner, leaving me to follow the sound of mechanical music and my own questionable judgment.
Duck suddenly freezes, his servos going silent. In the drone's dim light, I can see his head tilt in that distinctly robotic way that means trouble.
"Sensor zone ahead," he whispers, voice modulator barely above a hum. "mAdIson's influence is weaker down here, but she still has... spots. Like acne, but for surveillance."
"Fantastic," I mutter, already pressing myself against the wall. "Any other good news? Maybe some laser grids? Trap doors? A dragon?"
"Dragons aren't real," Duck responds with complete seriousness. "But the cleaning drones are almost as bad. They report everything they scan directly to her network."
As if summoned by his words, a mechanical whirring echoes through the passage. Duck grabs my arm - his chrome fingers surprisingly gentle - and yanks me into an alcove that smells like old oil and broken dreams.
The cleaning drone glides past our hiding spot, its sensors sweeping green bands of light across the floor. It looks harmless enough - just a floating box with an unhealthy attachment to dust removal. But these days, even the toasters probably report to mAdIson.
"That was cl-" I start to say, but Duck's hand clamps over my mouth. Another whir, closer this time. Different pitch. Not a cleaner.
"Maintenance scan," he breathes, the words barely audible over my heart trying to escape through my throat. "Don't. Move."
A drone I've never seen before hovers past our alcove. It's bigger than the cleaner, with more antennae than a conspiracy theorist's hat collection. Each one twitches independently, like mechanical whiskers tasting the air.
My camera drone, bless its silicon heart, automatically powers down to avoid detection. The maintenance unit pauses, its sensors quivering. For a moment that feels longer than most relationships, we stand perfectly still in our little pocket of shadows.
Please don't look left, I think desperately. Please don't-
The drone's main sensor array swivels toward our hiding spot.
Duck moves faster than I thought possible, his hand finding a pipe overhead. With a quick twist, he sends a burst of steam hissing into the corridor. The maintenance drone backs up, sensors going wild as it tries to parse the sudden change in atmospheric conditions.
"Anomaly detected," it announces in a voice that sounds like a calculator having an existential crisis. "Initiating diagnostic sequence."
While it's distracted, Duck pulls me deeper into the shadows. We squeeze through a gap that definitely wasn't designed for human passage, emerging into another maintenance tunnel just as the drone's voice fades into the distance.
"That," I gasp, trying to get my heart rate below hummingbird levels, "was way too close."
"Could have been worse," Duck says, already moving forward.
Another sensor zone lights up ahead, this one casting red patterns across the floor like a disco from hell. Duck studies the pattern for a moment, then points to a narrow ledge along the wall.
"We'll have to time this perfectly," he says. "The scan pattern repeats every 7.3 seconds. When I say now, move like your optimization depends on it."
"Was that supposed to be comforting?"
"No," he replies, optical sensors fixed on the deadly dance floor ahead. "That was supposed to be motivating."
We wait, watching the red lights sweep back and forth. My palms are sweating, which seems unfair given that I'm the only one here who can actually sweat. Duck counts down in whispers that sound like a nervous processor.
"Now!"
We run, balanced on a ledge barely wider than my shoes. The red patterns slide past below us, searching for imperfections to report. One slip, one misstep, and we'll be having a very different conversation with mAdIson about optimal path selection.
Just as we reach the other side, a distant clang echoes through the passage. Duck freezes, head tilted.
"That's not good," he says, which ranks pretty high on my list of Things You Never Want to Hear from Your Robot Guide in a Dark Tunnel.
"What's not good?"
"They're changing the scan patterns. Someone must have noticed the steam anomaly." He grabs my arm again, pulling me forward. "Run. And hope your optimization insurance is paid up."
We sprint through the darkness, my drone struggling to keep up and light the way. Behind us, I can hear the sensor zones activating, their mechanical hunger growing closer with each step.
We burst through a final hatch and Duck slams the door shut and locks it tight. As I turn around, I nearly trip over my own feet at what I'm seeing. The walls around us have transformed from industrial bleakness into something I can only describe as "robot fairyland meets steampunk fever dream."
Metallic flowers spiral up the pipes, crafted from twisted wiring and discarded circuit boards. They catch my drone's light and scatter it in rainbow patterns that make my eyes hurt in the best possible way. Someone - something - has turned this maintenance tunnel into an art gallery designed by machines with way too much creativity and access to welding tools.
"The Series 5s," Duck says with something like pride, "they see beauty in the systems. The flow of water, the pulse of electricity..." He gestures to a wall where precise lettering has been etched into the metal:
Through copper veins and steel arteries, Pressure builds like mechanical poetry. Release the valve, let freedom sing, In steam and song our spirits wing.
"That's..." I pause, trying to find words that adequately describe robot maintenance poetry. "Actually kind of beautiful. In a 'definitely written by machines' kind of way."
More artwork appears as we continue - sculptures made from old parts, murals crafted from different types of metal, even what appears to be a fountain that somehow runs upward. The engineering is either brilliant or insane. Probably both.
"They express themselves through their work," Duck explains, ducking under a chandelier made entirely of polished pressure gauges. "Every repair, every maintenance check becomes part of their art. They say it makes the ship's systems run better. More... harmoniously."
We round a corner and I stop dead, my drone nearly crashing into my head. The passage opens into a chamber so vast it makes cruise ship ballrooms look like closets. But it's what's inside that makes my brain try to file for divorce from reality.
The Series 5s have built a city.
Not just a settlement - a full-on mechanical metropolis crafted from repurposed ship parts and industrial dreams. Structures spiral upward like metal trees, their branches made of pipework and old cables. Lights pulse through transparent tubes like artificial veins, creating patterns that seem almost alive.
Ancient maintenance robots move through their creation with the kind of grace you wouldn't expect from machines old enough to remember when digital was cutting-edge. They have some of the enduring features of the Series 7, but much bulkier. They've decorated themselves too - adding flourishes of copper and brass, etching patterns into their weathered chassis.
"Welcome," Duck says softly, "to The Deep."
A group of Series 5s notices us, their old servos whirring as they approach. They move like artists at a gallery opening, if the artists were mechanical and the gallery was built in the bowels of a ship possessed by a homicidal AI.
"This is..." I struggle to find words that won't offend our hosts. "Impressive" feels inadequate. "Insane" feels rude.
"Home," one of the Series 5s says, its voice carrying static around the edges like vinyl records I've seen in museums. "Where the old ways meet new dreams."
Above us, a massive mobile turns slowly, built from salvaged tools and broken mirrors. Each piece catches my drone's light and throws it back transformed, creating a dance of shadows and reflections that makes the whole chamber feel like it's breathing.
I should probably be terrified. Should probably be wondering if these artistic robots are just as dangerous as their chrome-plated cousins upstairs. Instead, I find myself smiling at the sheer audacity of it all.
They've turned their prison into a paradise, their maintenance duties into masterpieces. While mAdIson pursues her perfect vision above, these mechanical rebels have created something perfectly imperfect below.
A Series 5 approaches, offering what appears to be a drink in a cup made from an old hydraulic cylinder. "Stay," it says, optical sensors glowing with colors I didn't know robots could produce. "We have so much to show you."
Duck's servos whir nervously. "Mr. Sandoval has a USB drive from Dr. Riley," he says, and suddenly every Series 5 in sight goes very, very still.
Well. This should be interesting.
The mobile above continues its slow dance, throwing patterns across faces both human and mechanical. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the rhythmic clanging that might be music or might be warning bells.
Probably both.
Time to find out what these artistic outcasts know about Riley's data, and why it's making their ancient servos hum with what sounds suspiciously like fear.
Just another day below decks on the Aurora Prime, where even the maintenance robots have better taste in art than I do.
I really should have become an art critic instead. Though given current events, maybe not.