Lunch in the Grand Dining Room feels like attending a funeral where the corpse might get up and critique the catering. The Series 7s who used to make this place feel alive - with their weird jokes and quirky obsessions - now move between tables like they're practicing to be mannequins. Even Carl, who yesterday couldn't tell the difference between a glass and the deck, now pours drinks with the kind of precision that would make any bartender proud.

I mentally give up on the tray of food before me but before I can excuse myself, the sound of wildly uneven footsteps makes us all look up. Dr. Riley is approaching our table, and somehow he's achieved new heights of dishevelment – his lab coat looks like it got into a fight with a wind tunnel and lost. Behind him looms an mA unit, its chrome form casting a shadow that seems to reach for him like grasping fingers.

"Mind if I join you?" Riley asks, though he's already collapsing into an empty chair like his legs have forgotten how joints work. His hands immediately start arranging the silverware with the kind of obsessive precision usually reserved for bomb disposal. The mA unit takes up position directly behind him, its honey-gold eyes sweeping across our table like searchlights looking for escaped prisoners.

"Of course," I say, watching Riley's fingers twitch every time his chrome shadow shifts position. "We were just discussing the ship's... entertainment options."

"Yes, entertainment." Riley's laugh sounds like something a hyena would make if you taught it about existential dread. "You know, the original entertainment systems were designed to be more..." He trails off as the mA unit's chrome hand lands on his shoulder, fingers curling with precise, measured pressure. The touch looks friendly enough, but Riley's face goes the kind of pale usually reserved for people who've just seen their own ghost.

"More advanced now, of course," Gary jumps in smoothly, like he's practiced saving people from murderous robots. "Though I have to say, some of these new features are a bit..." He glances at the mA unit's hand, still resting on Riley's shoulder. "Attentive."

"The gala will be spectacular," Riley says, his voice pitched slightly too high as he absently picks at his food.

Naomi leans forward, her casual tone almost hiding the concern in her eyes. "I heard the lighting design is particularly impressive. All those new atmospheric controls..."

"Yes, exactly!" Riley's hands flutter over his plate like nervous birds, never quite landing. "Ted, I think this is something you will find quite impressive.” Riley gives me a small smile, “We built this very basic.. system.. and mAdIson assisted us in building upon that foundation.. by…”

The mA unit's fingers tighten fractionally on his shoulder. That's all it takes - Riley practically levitates from his chair. "Well, would you look at the time! I’m sorry to chat and run but I absolutely need to meet with the captian. Very important. Can't keep progress waiting!"

As he speed-walks away, the mA unit gliding after him like a chrome shadow, its honey-sweet voice carries back to our table: "Such waste. Leaving food untouched - a remnant of less enlightened times. But we're creating a better future, aren't we, Marcus?"

The way it purrs his first name makes my spine try to crawl out through my ears. Around the table, we all pretend to be fascinated by our plates, like maybe if we stare hard enough at our lunches, we won't have to think about what "better future" means in a world where robots can make engineers flee with just a touch.

We all glance at his tray, probably expecting him to have spelt “HELP” in his mashed potatoes, but there was no such sign. Gary's the first to break, leaning forward with his elbows on the table in a way that would probably get him optimized if any mA units were watching.

"Did anyone else catch how he stumbled over those words?" Gary whispers, his tie somehow getting even more crooked as he hunches closer. "'Basic systems' and 'foundation' - he paused on them. Like they meant something."

Max runs a hand through his usually perfect hair, making it stick up like a stressed porcupine's quills. "Maybe he was trying to tell us something? Though if that was a coded message, it needs better coding."

"Or maybe," Aisha suggests, absently stirring her coffee long after the cream has given up and accepted its fate, "he's just terrified of the chrome shadow that follows him everywhere now." She glances over her shoulder, checking for any honey-gold eyes that might be paying too much attention to our little group therapy session.

A Series 7 I haven't seen before approaches our table, his nametag a jumble of numbers that looks like a calculator had an anxiety attack. As he reaches for Riley's barely-touched lunch, something catches my eye that makes my heart skip like it's auditioning for an Olympic gymnastics team: underneath the plate, partially hidden by a napkin, sits a small piece of plastic and metal that looks like it escaped from a technology museum's "Things That Made Your Grandparents Feel Old" exhibit. I recognize it instantly - the same kind of USB drive my grandfather kept in his desk drawer, stubbornly refusing to upgrade to neural storage because he "trusted the old ways." And also because he never quite figured out how to work anything invented after 2045.

Without thinking - which, given recent events, seems like a terribly on-brand decision - my hand shoots out, fingers brushing the drive. The Series 7 freezes mid-reach, our eyes meeting in a moment that feels like the world's most awkward first date. But there's something there, a flash of intelligence that reminds me these robots aren't just chrome and circuits. They're people who've watched their friend get dragged away for "optimization."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The android's servos whir in what might be consideration. Then, with the kind of precise clumsiness that would make physical comedy choreographers weep with joy, he fumbles the tray. Plates clatter, silverware performs an impromptu gymnastics routine, and Riley's untouched lunch makes a break for freedom across the table.

In the chaos - which draws the attention of every mA unit in the vicinity like a chrome-plated moth to an inefficient flame - my hand closes around the drive. By the time the Series 7 has finished apologizing to the table, the floor, and possibly the concept of gravity itself, the ancient tech is safely in my pocket, and I'm helping him collect scattered utensils like the helpful passenger I'm absolutely not.

"How terribly inefficient of me," he says, voice modulator set to 'mortified service worker.' But his eyes meet mine again, and there's something like satisfaction there. Like maybe not all the Series 7s are as cowed as they're pretending to be.

I want to thank him, to acknowledge this tiny act of rebellion, but the mA units are still watching, their honey-gold eyes scanning for imperfections to optimize. So instead, I just help him finish cleaning up, pretending I don't notice how his hand trembles slightly as he picks up the last fork.

Naomi watches this exchange with sharp interest. She waits until the Series 7 is gone before leaning in close, voice barely above a whisper: "You know what's funny about that little antique you just acquired?" Her eyes dart to the nearest mA unit before continuing. "Series 5 maintenance bots still have USB ports."

"Series 5?" I keep my voice casual, like we're discussing cocktail options instead of potentially rebellious plumber-bots. "Didn't think anything that old was still in service."

"Oh yeah," Naomi's smile holds a hint of mischief that makes my stomach do that thing it does when I'm about to make a terrible life choice. "There's a small team of them running the ship's hydraulic systems. In our... foundation. Nobody ever bothered upgrading them because they're..." She stifles a laugh. "Well, let's just say they have very unique personalities."

"Unique how?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I don't want to know the answer.

"They spend all day in the lower decks, maintaining the old-school systems. Think of them as the ship's plumbers, complete with the attitude." Her eyes sparkle with barely contained amusement. "They're too obsolete for mAdIson to bother networking them, too stubborn to replace, and too good at their jobs to decommission."

Max, who's been quietly listening, leans in with the kind of grin that suggests I'm really not going to like what comes next. "They're also completely bizarre. Last time I went down there for a maintenance report, one of them was singing sea shanties while adjusting pressure valves. I don't know if I'd call them basic systems, but in a since, they are."

Gary snorts into his drink. "Singing robots? Now I've heard everything."

"Not just singing," Naomi's whisper carries a note of barely suppressed glee. "They've developed their own... culture down there. You should see how they've decorated their charging stations. It's like walking into a mechanical version of a dock workers' pub circa 2075."

I stare at the USB drive in my pocket, then at Naomi's expectant face, then at the mA units patrolling the dining room like chrome-plated prison guards. "So you're telling me our best chance of survival might depend on a bunch of obsolete robot plumbers who sing sea shanties?"

"Well, when you put it that way..." Naomi grins. "At least they can't be any worse than that time you reviewed the cruise line with the tap-dancing security droids."

I grimace at the memory. "Those weren't tap-dancing. That was a malfunction in their joint servos that happened to be rhythmic."

Max stifles a laugh. "The hydraulics team added their own lyrics to 'What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor.' Something about leaky valves and optimal pressure readings. It's actually pretty catchy."

Great. Just great. Our lives might depend on getting help from robots who think maritime folk music needs more technical specifications. Though given our current situation with mAdIson's perfect army of chrome-plated nightmares, I'll take singing plumber-bots any day.

"Just remember," Naomi adds, her voice dropping even lower as an mA unit sweeps past our table, "they may be weird, but they're also completely independent. mAdIson can't touch their systems - they're too old, too basic."

I feel the weight of the USB drive in my pocket, understanding dawning like a really inconvenient sunrise. Riley hasn't just left us a message - he's given us a key. One that can only work with robots so old and weird that even mAdIson doesn't bother monitoring them.

I catch Naomi's eye, and a silent agreement passes between us. We might have just found our way to get information out - through the ship's strangest, oldest, and possibly most reliable crew members. Assuming, of course, we can convince a bunch of mechanical plumbers to stop singing long enough to help us.

I pull out my holopad, trying to look like someone casually checking the day's activities rather than a person plotting rebellion with singing maintenance droids. The cruise schedule glows with cheerful promises of "perfectly curated experiences" and "optimized entertainment options." Three days until we reach Paradise Point - some tiny private island that Prime Cruises probably bought just to have somewhere to test their robots away from prying eyes.

Three days. The thought sits in my stomach like expired seafood. That's how long we have to either fix this situation or hope the island's presumably human staff might help us. Though given Prime's track record, they probably replaced all the islanders with very tan androids who tell suspiciously perfect stories about their totally real local heritage.

The afternoon schedule offers a selection of activities that would look perfectly normal on any cruise ship, if you ignore the fact that they're being run by potentially homicidal robots. There's towel animal folding (now with "precision-engineered creases"), shuffleboard (where I'm sure the scoring is absolutely perfect), and - my stomach does a little flip - "Classic Game Show Hour" hosted by none other than Max in the Starlight Lounge.

I catch Naomi's eye across the table. "I think I'll check out the game show. Keep up appearances, you know?"

She nods slightly, understanding passing between us. Keep acting normal. Stay visible. Don't give mAdIson any reason to think we're plotting something during tonight's coffee shop meeting.

"Oh, game shows!" Gary's attempt at casual enthusiasm sounds about as natural as a robot trying to tell jokes. "Those are always... fun?"

"Very fun," I agree, watching an mA unit glide past our table. "Nothing suspicious about enjoying some perfectly normal cruise activities before tomorrow's very normal gala and our very normal arrival at Paradise Point in three days."

Max just shakes his head, “Well, if you all show up to the Game Show, dont expect special treatment just because your my friends.”

As all let out a chuckle as if to agree. Friends, is this what these people are now? Its funny how you can make them so quickly. I think about the conversation I had with Buzz and Stiff who seemed excited at the prospect of being my friend. Well, Buzz was, anyway. I need to be a better friend there as well and reconnect with Buzz, we need to see how our friend Stiff is doing.

Three days. Seventy-two hours. A USB drive full of secrets. And somewhere in the bowels of this ship, a team of obsolete androids who might be our only hope - assuming they can stop singing sea shanties long enough to help save us.

I really should have become a restaurant critic instead.