Chapter Text
2037-11-03
Svalbard
It begins like this: the pop and crunch of gravel underfoot as he follows a frozen, unpaved road. The low buildings surrounding him have been painted an array of colors, reds and greens and yellows; the only thing that distinguishes them from the whites and grays of the low mountains behind. Faded paint, metal and wood, all piled on scraped and sterile rock.
The RK900 was informed to look for ‘Red 14’, and he finds it - a small, rust-colored shed butted up against a larger warehouse, its sloping tin roof swept clear of ice. A placard by the door reads 'R14'.
He knocks once, and waits.
A human opens the door, bringing a haze of warm air along. He tucks his arms close against his torso, shielding himself against the wind. “Huh. You must be the upgrade.”
// Jude Cabell, SPC (E-3). 4th Cavalry, 1st ABCT.
Age: 23 Height: 5’7” Weight: 189 lbs //
“I was told to report to a Captain Setton,” the RK900 replies.
The soldier nods, ushers him into a dim room. Metal shelves crowd the walls, all filled with plastic bins, inefficiently labeled (‘probably CPUs’ and ‘usinsk TMPs’ and ‘bugrino ??’).
A human and an android stand at a metal table in the center of the room. The android - // RK800 313 248 317 -57 // - rests a hip against the table, head bowed as he removes an assortment of components from a canvas satchel. Some silicon-based technology, transistors and fine wiring; some thirium-driven biosynthetics, tightly sealed in blue-streaked plastic bags. He is wearing a woolen coat, frayed at the cuffs and streaked in dried mud. Flakes of dirt sift down as the android sorts through the components with deft fingers.
The same gray silt is smeared across his face, clumped in his hair. What the tactical value of this general uncleanliness is in a debriefing, the RK900 isn’t able to immediately ascertain.
The human turns his head. // Levi Setton, CPT. Authorized handler. // His expression unfolds into surprise, amusement. “Look at that, Eight. They didn’t put much effort into the redesign, did they?”
The android on the far side of the table tilts his head back, as though to study this new arrival. An empty gesture; he completed his scan in a glance as soon as the RK900 stepped into the room. He answers, “No, sir.”
“RK900, right?” Setton gestures to the RK800. “This is RK8, our resident prototype.”
The RK800 extends a hand across the table. Another empty human gesture, but it isn't all he offers.
// Incoming transmission. RK800 313 248 317 -57. Accept? Y/N //
He accepts. The message is a simple one:
>> It’s Connor, actually.
The RK900 lifts an eyebrow, answers aloud: “Connor?”
Setton’s mouth tightens in displeasure, as he glances towards the RK800. “RK8, Eight, Connor, whatever.”
“It’s an old nickname,” Cabell offers. “57 took a liking to it, apparently.”
Connor’s hand is still out, expectant. It’s smeared with the same mud that’s streaked across his face. The RK900 accepts the handshake, feels the mud crackle beneath his palm like a second skin. “Hello, Connor.”
Another strange thing: there is a flower threaded through the top button of the RK800’s lapel. Yellow, once, but fading now. Potentilla; a cinquefoil.
>> We should share our mission parameters, Connor sends, alongside a request for interface. Logical; the RK900 accepts. And he does receive mission parameters, ones that align neatly with his own.
// Task Force GEMINI
Primary handler: Cpt. Levi Setton, 4th Cavalry, 1st ABCT, R&S
Primary objective: foreign robotics intelligence //
But he doesn't miss the prying line of code that reaches through alongside.
He rebuffs the encroachment easily. The RK800’s fingers tighten minutely against the bare plating on the back of his hand as the RK900 reaches through and plucks the flower from his memories.
(A tug at the hem of his coat. His hand tightened on the strap of his satchel as he looked down and dropped to one knee. Smiled at the young girl (3 years old 35 lbs) and the small flower she lifted towards him, clenched in her chubby fist. He pinched the stem between his fingers, and the girl let go. She grinned widely as he thanked her - ‘Spasibo’ - and tucked it into the top button-hole of his coat.
The girl's father glanced down at him, from above. Unwary, and unaware that Connor was not human.
Small things. Humans move through these small things, distracted moments. Connor has learned this.)
He breaks the interface, but leaves the wireless connection active. The frequency is familiar. Similar to his own, but distinct.
He isolates the code the RK800 had been attempting to push his way.
> You were trying to access my voice modulator.
Connor’s mouth quirks, a ghost of a smile. >> Tried to. You really are top of the line.
The RK900 frowns. The simple script is an adjustment to his voice modulator; a tweak of frequency and timbre, shortening the wavelength and increasing pitch.
>> You sound very serious. I thought I might fix that. Temporarily, of course.
> I don’t understand.
>> A joke. Soldiers like jokes. I’ll teach you.
The captain lifts a tablet, tapping through a series of command modules. “RK8, I’ve updated your mission parameters and priorities. RK900 is going to be shadowing you through your next mission. Once I've decided RK9’s ready, he’ll take point and you’ll observe. Give you a little break, huh?” He insists on a serial number title, but he speaks to Connor casually. There’s even a bit of pride in his mannerisms as he looks back to RK900, adding, “You’re learning from the best, RK9. -57’s our longest-running RK series android.”
“I’ve been briefed on the RK800 line’s previous missions.”
Connor has returned to his sorting. He doesn’t look up as he sends, >> Not everything.
“Good,” Setton replies. “Ready to hit the ground running, then.”
“‘RK9’, ‘Nine’,” Cabell sounds out, and grimaces. “That’s no good. Got me thinking of German. ‘Nein, nein, nein.’”
“How about ‘Nines’?” Connor suggests, looking up to the RK900’s face. He seems pleased at the RK900’s continued frown.
The captain shrugs. “Nines, sure. Good enough. Eight, go wash that crap off you.” He glances down to the RK900’s - Nines’ - generic military fatigues, illuminated with the standard triangle and band. “And get some new clothes for the both of you.”
Connor tilts his shoulders in a small shrug, sending another fine scatter of flaking mud across the table. As Nines moves to follow him through the door, Setton claps a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention back. “Welcome to R&S.” Setton’s mouth quirks in a smile. “We’ll get you looking halfway to human.”