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Not long after docking at Preservation Station, ART notified me that there was a package waiting for me, and that it had sent a drone to retrieve it. It turned out to be a shallow, square box, 15cm thick and 35cm on the other two sides. It was made of a flimsy wood-pulp substrate that flexed and bent in my fingers when I took it from the drone. It had been reinforced with a layer of pale blue paper and two ribbons that didn’t improve its structural integrity enough to be significant.
What is it? I asked ART in the feed.
It’s a package, ART answered, as if I couldn’t tell that much.
I had never gotten physical mail before. My threat assessment module hovered at around 15%, which struck me as low, but ART cut in as soon as I started to scan for trackers. Don’t be an idiot. It’s a gift from your humans. Before I could object, ART added, And I scanned it thoroughly before bringing it aboard.
What?
Why? I asked. Was this some Preservation holiday that I didn’t know about? That seemed to happen a lot; they had more holidays than anywhere I knew about in the Rim, including a special day for each of the system’s stars. I was lucky enough to have missed most of them, and presumably I had missed this one too, but this time they had been persistent enough to deliver this box instead of just not mentioning anything.
The thought of a gift made me uneasy, partly because it always meant reciprocation in the media I watched, and the idea of picking non-stupid gifts for everyone was terrifying. I could feel an eager hum from ART in the feed, but it could wait while I processed.
It is customary to tear the paper, ART said, ignoring my question.
That’s stupid. The package’s exterior was designed to appear seamless, but when I turned it over, it was easy to find the folds that held it together. I didn’t feel like destroying anything right now, especially something which had so obviously been done with care, so I removed the paper in one creased sheet and then opened the box. The top lifted off with no resistance.
I could feel ART vibrating with anticipation, which was irritating.
Inside was an assortment of items. Scattered across the top layer were three memory cards, each about the size of a thumbnail, but different brands and colors, in clear plastic cases. A cursory scan revealed media files. I decided I would do a thorough inventory later, fished them out of the box, and set them on the fold-down table next to the bed.
Next I picked up a small, grey, drawstring bag made of surprisingly soft material. I opened it and found a pair of opaque, reflective glasses. Ratthi had worn something like these on the surveys, but they were even less practical on a station or ship. (They also didn’t comply with security standards, which I had warned him of several times.)
I hesitated, then put them on. Huh. The reflective lenses reminded me of the opaque faceplate of my old armor, and I felt the organic layer of my face relax just slightly. I left them on and adjusted my vision filters to compensate for the lower levels of light.
Another small box was wedged into the corner of the original box, black and matte, the kind of thing I’d seen containing jewelry or expensive memorabilia in station malls. Inside, however, were three tiny drones. I recognized the chassis as that of common intel drones, but each of these had been outfitted in a different way, for some specialized function that I couldn’t discern visually. I thought the middle one might have vacuum-capable propulsion.
Under that box there were two tickets to a recitation on the station, three cycles from now, by one of Preservation Alliance’s most well-known poets. I wasn’t sure why there were two tickets, but they were on the aisle, so maybe I could leave the other one empty as a buffer.
The rest of the box was filled with folded purple fabric. I picked it up, and it fell out of its folded square to reveal a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt. I stretched it out to get a good look at what was painted across the back: the title card for The Rise And Fall of Sanctuary Moon, with the colony’s cityscape against the clouds.
ART was still watching eagerly, and had been quiet for a suspicious amount of time. How much did you have to do with this? I asked.
It was Amena’s idea, it answered, but it sounded smug enough that I knew it had been involved.
Why? I asked again, a little more forcefully than I intended to.
It is customary for humans to give someone small gifts of appreciation on the anniversary of their birth. It paused, then added with more sarcasm, There is often a party. However, your humans thought you would prefer to omit that.
I frowned at the box through the tinted lenses of Ratthi’s glasses. I know what a birthday is. But I don’t have one. ( I had a first date of activation, I assume, which isn’t exactly a birth, and anyway I don’t remember it because of various memory wipes. Not that I care about that, or anything.)
Art pushed a clip into my feed and opened it. It was footage from Argument Lounge several months ago. In it, I was sitting in my usual chair, probably watching media, when Amena popped in to ask, with no warning whatsoever, “SecUnit, when did you hack your governor module?”
I remembered that. It was a strange question, even for her.
I replied, “Forty-one thousand, four hundred and seventeen hours ago.” Why had I even answered? Maybe I was surprised. I had turned to squint directly at her, trying to discourage her from asking anything else, but she hadn’t noticed. Instead she made an exasperated face (whatever, she could do the math herself) and made a note in her feed, then said “Thanks!” and left again.
I had archived that interaction as nonessential, and wouldn’t have referenced it if ART hadn’t produced the clip. It felt like a tenuous connection, but I ran a query against both Preservation’s calendar and CR standard, and - yes, the date I had given her was five standard Preservation years (and two days, when this package had been sent) ago.
It took me a minute to process this. That isn’t a birthday, is what I came up with.
ART had lost some of its smugness, but it couldn’t help but sound like a know-it-all even when it was trying to be earnest. No. But it is an important anniversary.
I didn’t say anything. I was glad they had decided to skip the party, or whatever usually happened. These emotions were complicated, even for me, and I didn’t think all of them were good ones.
Much like a birthday, I believe they wish to celebrate the event that led to you being part of their lives.
I still didn’t say anything. I wondered, fleetingly, where ART had gotten that line, but the box was distracting me. On the bottom was a small card. I could tell it was painted by hand, the front dark blue with a crescent moon left in negative space. I picked it up, but hesitated until ART tapped my feed.
Inside, “Happy Sanctuary Moon Day'' was written in the center, in heavy handwritten letters, dominating the page. Around it was an unruly array of short messages from all of my humans, also handwritten, in varying styles. They ranged from three paragraphs of disgusting affection from Ratthi, wedged into one corner with tiny, condensed letters, to Amena’s uncomfortably earnest (and very curly) “We love you, Third Mom,” surrounded by tiny hearts, to Gurathin’s pragmatic “Let me know how they work,” (with a postscript of “Third mom??” because he couldn’t help being an asshole) in a tidy line near the bottom.
“Thank you for everything” had an illegible signature, but one that I would recognize anywhere. Indah, for some reason, had drawn and signed a sketch of a drone wearing a hat. I had to look twice at that one.
“‘Sanctuary Moon’ Day?” I was baffled enough to say it out loud. That was definitely not a real holiday, even on Preservation.
...Perhaps Amena realized it would be insensitive to mention your governor module directly. ART seemed slightly chagrined, maybe realizing it had overshared by showing me that clip. I wouldn’t have immediately made the connection myself. But surely the others wouldn't have either. Did they really just go along with this ridiculous premise? Why?
I put the rest of the things back in the box, and puzzled over this fictional holiday while I removed my crew uniform and pulled on the purple shirt instead. But - that's right, Mensah knew Sanctuary Moon had been the first thing I had watched, didn’t she? She must have advised her offspring on a gentle delivery.
It made me feel like a person, I’d told Mensah. I remembered standing in ART’s medbay just after it had adjusted my configuration, hating how human I looked. How much harder it would be to pretend I wasn't a person. It seemed like a long time ago.
There were still days when I felt like I was pretending I was a person . When I didn’t think it was a good thing, or a true thing, and the sham could unravel at any moment. But I looked at the shirt, and the box it came in - the gifts from my favorite humans - and decided, secretly, that maybe it could be worth celebrating anyway.