Star nodded and tried her best to be grateful as Miko opened the panel beneath her ear and inserted the charging cord, but there was something dark lingering still, making her dig her own fingertips into her thighs. An impatience with Miko, a throbbing irritation with her presence.
Ever since she’d returned to the shipyard, Star had thought of Miko’s departure as an ending—and a beginning—and that feeling grew stronger by the day. She was only biding her time until Miko was gone. Then she would buy a new body that didn’t rebel every time she walked, and she would return the locket that contained the whole galaxy to Dataran and explain everything to him. She would tell him that something in his smile had changed her, back when it shouldn’t have been possible for her to be changed. She would tell him that she was the one who had saved his life, because something about him made her unpredictable, and maybe dangerous, and she couldn’t exist in a world without him.
*
Star dragged a finger across the screen embedded in the wall, and the lights of the cockpit went dark. She swirled it clockwise; they gradually brightened again. Counterclockwise; they dimmed darker. A tap here to raise the temperature, here to lower it. She tested every command: play music, adjust the air filtration system, seal the cockpit door, heat the cockpit floor, place an order for a beverage through the automated beverage service.
Confident that everything was working just as it should, she shut the panel of wiring beneath the screen and gathered up the tools that she’d used, hooking them neatly into her tool belt. She then paused, preparing herself to walk, before heading toward the ship’s main exit. Her body screamed at her as she walked, and she knew that the exertion was beginning to take its toll on her system. For weeks she had done her best to ignore the pain and the knowledge that sooner or later, her escort-droid body would rebel and reject the installed personality chip altogether, and there were times when she felt she was holding her body together through sheer willpower.
It wouldn’t be long, though, before she could afford a new body. Just a little while longer.
A voice made her foot catch and she paused on the exit ramp. Dataran.
Turning, she peered into the common room that divided the front of the ship from the living areas. An assortment of comfortable seats, accented with silk pillows and cashmere throw blankets, were arranged around a gurgling aquarium that reached from the floor to the tiled ceiling. The brightly colored fish had been brought to their new home a few days before and seemed content to float mindlessly among their artificial coral reef.
Star crept toward Miko’s rooms, her back against the wall, aware that this was not something she would have done when she was Mech6.0. Spying, sneaking, eavesdropping. Androids were not made to be curious.
And yet, there she was, standing beside the doorframe and listening to the hiccupping sounds of a girl crying.
“If we could just talk to your father … show him how much we love each other…”
“He’ll never agree to it. He doesn’t think you could keep me safe.”
Dataran released a disgruntled sigh. “I know, I know. And I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you either. I just need time … I can get us a ship. It may not be anything like this, anything like what you’re used to, but…”
“That doesn’t matter. I would go”—she sobbed—“anywhere with you. But Dataran…”
“But what?”
Her crying grew louder. “Do you really want to live—your whole life—with a cyborg?”
Star dared to inch closer, shifting her weight so she could peer through the crack between the lavish mahogany doors. These rooms were completed. The ship was almost finished, but for some last detail work in the front end.
Scheduled departure was in two days.
She spotted them standing near Miko’s netscreen desk, and Dataran was embracing her, one hand cupping the base of her head as she buried her face into his shoulder.
Memorizing the pose, Star brought her hand up to the back of her neck and dug her fingertips into her own hair. Tried to imagine what that must be like.
“Miko, please,” Dataran whispered. “Your arms could be made out of broom handle for all I care.”
Star adjusted her audio interface, so loud that she could hear the rustle of fabric, his breathing, her sniffles.
“All I care about is what’s in here.”
He pulled far enough away that he could slide his hand around and place it over a chrysanthemum flower painted onto the silk of her kimono. Right below her collarbone.
Star followed the movement. Felt her own chest, her own hard plating, with the slightest bit of softness from her layer of synthetic skin. But no heartbeat, no pulse.
“You’re perfect, Miko, and beautiful, and I love you. I want to marry you.”
The words, spoken so quietly, were like a gunshot in Star’s head. She flinched and stumbled backward, pressing a hand over one ear. But it was too late. Those words, still smoking, were burned into her database.
Miko gasped and they pulled apart, spinning toward the door.