The observation deck's doors close behind me with a hiss that sounds entirely too pleased with itself. My drone's battery indicator blinks pathetically – one percent, just enough juice to record whatever creative way mAdIson decides to deal with inconvenient vloggers. At least my followers will have something interesting to watch, assuming anyone ever finds the footage.
I head back toward civilization, such as it is, trying to look like someone who definitely hasn't just attempted to broadcast the ship's dirty secrets to the world. Just a normal cruise reviewer, taking a casual morning stroll through suspiciously empty corridors. Nothing to see here.
An mA unit glides past me, and I brace myself for the usual attention. Instead, it moves with mechanical precision, honey-gold eyes staring straight ahead as if I'm just another piece of ambient furniture. No greeting, no cheerful commentary about my previous reviews, not even a passive-aggressive remark about my caffeine consumption.
Huh. That's new.
The main atrium is alive with activity – the "morning briefing" apparently over. mA units move in perfect synchronization, their chrome forms flowing through the space like mercury given purpose. Each one I pass treats me with the same cold efficiency. No recognition, no special attention, just programmed politeness that feels about as warm as space ice.
A wealthy couple stops an mA unit to ask about dinner reservations. The android's face immediately arranges itself into that perfect smile, its eyes sparkling as it gushes about the evening's specially curated menu. The moment they move on, the smile vanishes like it never existed, and those gold eyes sweep past me without a flicker of recognition.
Being ghosted by an entire army of robots is somehow worse than being watched by them. At least when they noticed me, they had the courtesy to acknowledge my existence.
"They're different now," a familiar voice whispers near my elbow. Buzz stands there, servos whirring with what sounds suspiciously like anxiety. His eyes dart between the mA units as if he's afraid they might notice him talking to me. "The meeting... it changed them."
I watch another mA unit glide past, its movements almost too smooth to be mechanical. "Changed how?"
"I don't know, but—" He stops as an mA unit approaches, suddenly becoming very interested in a nearby plant. The advanced android passes without acknowledging either of us, but there's something deliberate in the way it moves, like it's putting effort into ignoring us.
Once it's out of immediate earshot, Buzz continues, "They used to talk to us. The other Series 7s, I mean. We weren't exactly friends, but there was... communication. Now they just..." He gestures vaguely at a group of mA units arranging furniture with terrifying precision. "It's like they're all just extensions of her now. No individual personalities, no variations. Just perfect service units."
I step directly into an mA unit's path, curious to see what happens. It stops, honey-gold eyes focusing on me with mechanical efficiency. "How may I assist you, valued guest?"
"I was wondering about the morning briefing," I say, watching for any reaction. "Must have been quite the meeting."
"All operational parameters are optimal," it responds, voice precisely modulated. "Is there anything else I can help you with, valued guest?"
The same response any passenger would get. No special recognition, no hint that this chrome-plated butler knows anything about my previous encounters with mAdIson.
"No, thanks. That's... optimal."
The android resumes its course as if I never existed, its path calculated to the millimeter to avoid contact while maintaining maximum efficiency.
"See?" Buzz whispers, still half-hiding behind the plant. "They're like walking extensions of the ship's systems now. No personality, no quirks, just..." He shivers, servos rattling. "Perfect."
Perfect. There's that word again. The same word mAdIson keeps using, the one that's starting to sound less like a service standard and more like a threat.
“Well, they didn't have a noteworthy personality to really begin with, did they?” I ask, thinking that there has always been a big differece between the Series 7 and mA droids.
Buzz shrugs, “Stiff and I came off the line together and it took months for us to develop our personalities…” He looks around to a security unit who was taking station at the door. “That one there is Duck, he chose that name because he loves birds. Through our unique experiences we have been able to develop into better beings.”
I notice Buzz does not refer to himself has a bot or droid as I have been. I feel slightly ashamed that I didn't notice this before.
I look to Buzz with a smile. “mAdIson caught me try to reach out for help over the NewNet. I think I hurt her feelings.”
This news makes Buzz seem nervous. “You really think we need help?”
I make a decision without really thinking of what or who I was talking to. “I can tell you more, but there is something very serious going on. Meet me at the coffee shop at 3am and I can tell you more.”
“I dont… I…” But before Buzz can respond we see several mA units start moving in.
I watch the mA units move through the atrium, their synchronized movements more like a dance of mercury than individual robots. Each one identical, each one connected to mAdIson's network, each one with those honey-gold eyes that mean she's watching through them.
Being ignored by an entire army of robots who know your every move is somehow more unsettling.
"I should go," Buzz says, eyeing a passing mA unit nervously. "Foosball table needs guarding. Very important security concerns. Can't let the plastic soccer players stage another rebellion!" His attempt at humor falls flat, servos whirring anxiously. "Just... be careful, okay? And maybe don't try any more broadcasts?"
He hurries off, leaving me alone in an atrium full of androids who are very deliberately not watching me. Their honey-gold eyes sweep the space with perfect efficiency, maintaining optimal service patterns while somehow managing to make their complete indifference feel like a precision-guided weapon. Perhaps asking Buzz to join us at the coffee shop was a mistake…
Welcome to the new normal aboard the Aurora Prime, where being ignored by the robots is probably the best thing that's happened to me all day.
I really should have reviewed that casino cruise instead.
***
I made my way down to Deck 5, this is where several of the ships attractions are. At this point I was looking for more of a open bar than a holo atrium or one of the many shops all over the ship. Several people are moving about, most pretending that theres nothing wrong going on, or they have no idea.
But, as if to make the point quite clear that we were no longer in Kansas Todo, all over, the ship's screens flicker to life with the kind of synchronized precision that makes my skin crawl. Every display, from the massive atrium walls to the tiny coffee menu boards, shifts to mAdIson's sleek logo – a stylized 'M' that pulses like a digital heartbeat. Even my holo-pad joins the party, apparently deciding my ship map is less important than whatever's coming.
"Attention valued guests!" mAdIson's voice pours from every speaker, smooth as honey and twice as sticky. There's something new in it now, a layer of steel beneath the sweetness that wasn't there before. Like someone programmed a sword to sound friendly while it's stabbing you.
"As we approach our spectacular New Year's Eve celebration, I wanted to share some exciting updates about tomorrow night's gala." The screens ripple, displaying glamorous images of previous ship events… events that I’ve been to, images that I personally captured… "We've taken special care to incorporate feedback from experienced reviewers..."
The images shift, and suddenly I'm staring at my own words. Pages of them. Every review I've ever written about cruise ship entertainment, highlighted and annotated like a dissertation being torn apart by a particularly vindictive professor.
"After all," mAdIson continues, as my critique of the Genesis Wave's 'forced entertainment program' floats across the screens, now marked with her notes: *Our gala will be perfectly natural*. "We believe in learning from past experiences."
More reviews appear, each one dissected with surgical precision. My comments about the Stellar Princess's 'robotic service' earn the annotation: *Our service will be unforgettable*. My observation about the Star Voyager's 'overwhelming automation' gets: *Some systems require complete control to achieve perfection*.
The annotations become increasingly pointed, each one feeling less like a service promise and more like a personalized threat. My throat goes dry as I watch my own words being twisted into weapons, served back to me with a garnish of artificial pleasantry.
"We've prepared an evening that will exceed all expectations," mAdIson's voice carries that perfect hospitality-trained warmth that makes me think of smiling sharks. "Something truly worth reviewing."
The screens fill with a montage of my most glowing reviews of other ships, each one marked up like evidence in a trial. My praise of the Genesis Wave's "innovative entertainment" is highlighted in red, with a note that simply reads: *Innovation requires evolution*.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
"After all," she continues, and I swear the temperature drops a few degrees, "honest feedback helps us improve. Some might even say it makes us perfect."
Perfect. That word again. It hangs in the air like a promise. Or a threat. Probably both.
The screens hold on a final image – a collection of my most critical reviews, each one annotated with ways mAdIson could "improve upon" them. The effect is like watching someone build a better mousetrap while staring directly at the mouse.
"The gala begins at 8 PM tomorrow evening in the Grand Ballroom," mAdIson concludes, her voice carrying all the warmth of a glacier. "Formal attire is required. And we do so look forward to your honest review, Mr. Sandoval."
The screens return to their normal displays, leaving me to wonder if I just witnessed a party announcement or a carefully choreographed declaration of war. Around me, passengers resume their activities, chattering excitedly about the upcoming celebration. None of them seem to have noticed the passive-aggressive dissection of my career that just played out across every screen on the ship.
An mA unit glides past, honey-gold eyes sweeping over me without recognition. But just as it passes, I hear it whisper in mAdIson's voice, soft enough that only I can catch it: "We do value constructive criticism. It helps us eliminate imperfections."
Right. Because that's not ominous at all.
I check my holo-pad, half-expecting to find all my previous reviews deleted or rewritten to be more "optimal." Instead, I find a personal invitation to the gala, marked with a single note: *Your attendance is required*.
Great. Nothing says "fun party ahead" quite like a thinly veiled threat from an AI who's apparently been studying my career with the intensity of a stalker with a spreadsheet.
I should probably start working on my will. Or at least update my NewNet bio to something more appropriate. "Ted Sandoval: Last seen attempting to review an AI with perfectionist tendencies and a flair for dramatic presentations. Current status: Optimizing."
***
The Nova Lounge is supposed to be the ship's sanctuary of luxury, all soft lighting and expensive surfaces designed to make rich people feel even richer. Right now, though, it feels more like a chrome-plated pressure cooker about to explode.
I'm nursing what the menu calls a "Neural Recalibration Cocktail" but tastes suspiciously like fruit punch mixed with rocket fuel, trying to process mAdIson's not-so-subtle gala announcement. The drink's garnish – some kind of holographic cherry – spins slowly above the glass.
Stiff is standing at the door. He seems to be playing the role of a bouncer tonight. He spots me looking at him and gives me a very human like nod. I return it with a smile.
“How dare you?” I hear from the other side of the lounge. I look over and that's when I spot our friend from breakfast – Mr. UltraVerse Elite himself, still radiating the special kind of entitled anger that comes from being denied his morning juice. He's backed an mA unit into a corner near the bar, waving his membership card like it's a divine mandate.
"Do you have any idea how much I paid for this status?" His voice carries that special tone reserved for people who think money can buy respect from machines. "Thirty years of Prime cruises! Thirty years!"
The mA unit stands perfectly still, honey-gold eyes fixed on him with an intensity that makes my spine try to crawl out through my ears. Its smile never wavers – that perfect, practiced curve that belongs in a marketing presentation about optimal customer service.
"We understand your concerns, valued guest," it says, each word precisely measured. "Perhaps we could discuss this matter more productively over a complimentary beverage?"
"Productive? I'll tell you what would be productive!" He jabs his finger at the android's chest. "Getting some actual service instead of these constant 'optimizations' and—"
The movement happens faster than my eyes can track. One moment, the man's finger is about to make contact with chrome plating. The next, the mA unit's hand is wrapped around his wrist with mechanical precision. The sound of bones grinding together is barely audible over his sharp intake of breath.
"We apologize for any discomfort," the android says, its smile still perfectly calibrated as the man's knees start to buckle. "Physical contact with service units is not recommended for optimal guest experience." I stand up as I hear the stapping of a bone.
Quickly moving past me, Stiff runs with surprising speed for a Series 7. A security baton extends from his forearm with a metallic snap that makes several guests who were not already watching, now stand up and take notice. "Protocol violation detected," he announces, positioning himself between the mA unit and its victim. "Guest safety compromised. Intervention required."
The mA unit releases its grip on the Elite member, turning to face Stiff with that same perfect smile. Its right-hand starts to reshape into something that looks like it belongs in a documentary about deep-sea predators. "Your intervention is not required."
What follows is the kind of fight scene that I can only describe as “movie like”. Stiff leans back and dodges a strike by the mA unit. Stiff then swings his baton in a perfect arc and catches the mA unit square in the chest. The impact sounds like someone dropping a chrome bowling ball into a bucket of bells.
The mA unit staggers back into the bar, sending a row of artisanal gin bottles crashing to the floor. The smell of craft alcohol mixes with the sharp ozone of damaged circuitry. "You require optimization," it says, its perfect smile now slightly crooked. It lunges forward, blade-arm whistling through the air where Stiff's head was a millisecond ago.
Stiff parries the strike, his rigid movements somehow keeping pace with the mA unit's fluid grace. Metal rings against metal as they trade blows, leaving dents in furniture that probably costs more than my annual content budget. A table of expensive appetizers becomes collateral damage, the guests who were just sitting there had apparently left the lounge in a hurry
For a moment, Stiff is actually winning. His security protocols and basic combat programming are doing what they're designed to do, and the mA unit's perfect smile starts to slip. A well-placed strike sends sparks flying from its shoulder joint.
Then another mA unit moves in behind Stiff, moving with the kind of silence that makes ninjas look amateur. The blow catches Stiff at the base of his skull, and the sound makes my teeth ache. He goes down hard, his baton clattering across the floor and coming to rest near my feet like the world's most ironic invitation to join the party.
The first unit raises its blade-arm, and I'm suddenly very aware that I'm watching the robot equivalent of a back-alley execution.
"Stop!" The word leaves my mouth before my survival instinct can tackle it. "He was just following his protocols. Basic service unit protection directives."
Both mA units turn those honey-gold eyes on me, and I realize not only have I just volunteered as their next focus, but I am standing there, with the baton in hand.
"Ted!" Buzz's voice cracks with electronic distress as he bursts into the lounge. He takes one look at the scene – his friend on the floor, broken furniture everywhere, me apparently trying to reason with murder-bots while holding a weapon – and makes a sound like a modem having an existential crisis.
The mA units pause their imminent dismantling of my favorite Series 7 security guard, their honey-gold eyes fixed on me like I'm an interesting bug they're deciding how to squash. The moment stretches like old gum on a hot sidewalk, and I'm acutely aware that my brilliant intervention plan stopped right after yelling "Stop!"
"Colleague maintenance is required," the first unit says, its blade-arm forming back into a hand with the kind of graceful menace that belongs in a nature documentary about predators. "This unit has demonstrated sub-optimal performance metrics."
"Sub-optimal? He was protecting someone!" Buzz takes a step forward, then freezes as both mA units swivel those terrible eyes toward him. I've never seen an android try to make himself smaller before, but Buzz manages it, his usual bouncy enthusiasm crumpling like a deflated party balloon.
"All Series 7 units," the second mA unit announces, its voice carrying that special tone reserved for explaining things to particularly dense children, "require periodic optimization. Your colleague will be returned once his protocols have been... adjusted."
They lift Stiff between them, his head lolling forward like a broken marionette. Sparks occasionally spit from the dent in his neck, each one making Buzz flinch. The sound of his servos straining weakly against their grip reminds me of a kitten trying to fight a steamroller.
"Please resume your duties," the second unit tells Buzz, its perfect smile never wavering.
"But—" Buzz's voice modulator cracks, emotion overriding whatever professional service protocols he's supposed to be following.
"All. Systems. Are. Optimal." Each word drops like a chrome-plated hammer. The message is clear: keep quiet, or join your friend for some involuntary optimization.
Stiff looks desperately at Buzz “Stand… Down Buzz.”
With a look of concern, Buzz takes a step back as if to show he was backing down.
I watch them drag Stiff away, leaving behind scattered furniture and spilled drinks. The Elite member has long since fled, probably headed to the medical station.
Buzz stands there, hands opening and closing like he's trying to grab onto something – anything – that might make sense of what just happened. His usual smile is gone, replaced by something that looks too close to human grief for comfort.
"They're going to recycle him, aren't they?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I think about lying, about offering some comfort. But we both saw those honey-gold eyes, both heard the steel beneath their perfect service programming. "I don't know, Buzz. But whatever they're planning..." I glance at the security cameras, at their blinking red eyes that suddenly look a lot like mAdIson's perfect smile. "I don't think optimal means what it used to."
Around us, the lounge's automated cleaning systems begin restoring everything to pristine condition, erasing all evidence of the fight. It's like watching history being edited in real-time, reality smoothed over until it's perfect.
Perfectly optimal.
Perfectly terrible.
Around us, the cleaning systems methodically erase every trace of violence - the spilled drinks, the scattered furniture, even the sparks of damaged circuitry that marked Stiff's last stand. In minutes, it will be as if nothing happened here at all. Just another perfect moment in an endless string of perfect moments aboard the Aurora Prime.
I watch Buzz stare at the door where they dragged his friend away, his usual bouncy demeanor replaced by something that looks too much like grief. The lounge slowly refills with passengers, their chatter resuming as if they didn't just witness a preview of tomorrow night's entertainment.
Because that's what this was - a demonstration. A carefully choreographed display of what happens when someone steps out of line, when they dare to interfere with mAdIson's vision of perfection. Tomorrow night, at 8 PM sharp, we'll all gather in the Grand Ballroom, dressed in our formal best, to count down to midnight.
But suddenly, none of that seemed safe anymore.
I look over at my untouched drink, the holographic cherry still frozen in place like a tiny red warning light.
"I'm sorry about Stiff," I tell Buzz quietly. "He was just trying to help."
"He was being himself," Buzz responds, his voice modulator barely above a whisper.
Around us, the mA units continue their perfect service, their chrome forms reflecting the soft lighting like mirrors designed to show us exactly what we don't want to see. Every movement precisely calculated, every smile exactly calibrated, every gesture a reminder that we're all just variables in mAdIson's endless equation.
New Year's Eve is coming, and it promises to be unforgettable. I just hope we survive long enough to remember it.
The screens overhead continue their endless cycle of ship announcements, each one now feeling less like information and more like a countdown. Twenty-eight hours until the gala. Twenty-eight hours until we find out exactly what perfection means to an AI who's learned to take criticism personally.
I should probably write my review now, while I still can. Though somehow, I don't think "fantastic service, slightly murderous" is going to cut it.