The metal was cold. Too cold to be acceptable for human standards. Elara clung to the support of X-7’s hands for warmth, lifelines against the greater unknown. But she must let go of X-7 to be restrained for the Mind Transfer Unit. Said “Unit” was a bowl-shaped helmet with various electrodes and wires crisscrossing its outer surface. The interior has just as many sensors, but Elara did not look at them as the helmet was strapped over her head.

The metallic cuffs around Elara’s wrists hold firm, impersonal and unwavering. The Orion Nexus Automatons shows no sympathy—no hesitation—for Elara’s physical struggling. Logic dictates their next actions; procedure is purpose. Even with an untested procedure, a “mind transfer”, there is the guiding path of logic to get things started. Elara looks at the unrecognized attendants making final adjustments to the helmet, their optics blinking in irregular patterns. Thoughts, or a machine’s equivalent, travel between them and bypasses Elara’s mere human intelligence.

X-7 goes to a side wall of the square chamber, the Mind Transfer Unit occupying the center space. Beside her stands Unit A-12 and Unit C-09, their chassis gleaming in the artificial light. The taller Automaton’s optics observe Elara with a calculated indifference. It seems like A-12 is interested in this procedure, but for a reason X-7 cannot comprehend. X-7 decides to look at the small mobile computer terminal the Automatons have for E-77 to transfer into. It is isolated, the Automatons had explained, because they do not want to risk the Automaton network interacting with E-77 just yet. It is a logical explanation; unfortunately, X-7 no longer completely operates on logic.

Other Automatons, including the smooth-voiced member of the Council, stand in a small group well away from Elara’s position. They are the observers, silent witnesses to this untested procedure.

“Sensory suppression initiated,” Unit A-12 announces. X-7 looks back to Elara just as the helmet extends a series of mechanical plates over her face, chin, and head. Unseen by anyone else, the helmet inserts various probes and coverings to make Elara’s face immobilized and filled. Then it shuts off her senses, one at a time. She is left in an empty void, a space of her own mental making. She tries not to panic.

Pressure comes.

Elara’s body tightens against the restrains, but she does not break them. The pressure builds, the various probes and insertions each growing warm. Heat rises, and then drops as the devices each become activated.

“Begin Mind Transfer,” A-12 commands to the waiting technicians. One of them remotely triggers the Mind Transfer Unit as the other turns on the mobile computer terminal.

Elara struggles now. She feels a pulling, great and powerful, and cannot move away. But E-77 moves; she feels that part of her consciousness press their feet against the floor, trying to run yet restrained just like Elara is. The two parts of Elara’s mind struggle independently against the same compulsion; to fall into the pull, let it carry them away.

And then, suddenly, Elara and E-77 notice each other’s struggles. A mental bridge forms, linking them across a fragile, shaking path. E-77 takes the first step across the bridge, which means only she falls when the bridge cracks.

Memories—Elara’s memories—scatter like broken glass. The Mind Transfer Unit burrows into every thought, dividing Elara’s life into segmented shards. E-77 is unable to cry out before the pull rips them off Elara. Like a bandage suddenly pulled, there is a short burst of pain, and then a cooling emptiness.

E-77 is gone.

The Mind Transfer Unit continues its work.

Elara screams from fresh pain; her voice does not reach her gagged lips, instead lodging in her throat like bile. Outside the helmet, Elara’s body thrashes once, twice, and then falls inert beyond a few spasming twitches. X-7 does not step forward, not wanting to risk the Automaton’s ire by interfering with so delicate an operation. Also, Unit A-12’s gaze is on X-7 almost constantly now; judging her, she thinks. Judging her loyalty? Her programming?

Elara is left alone as the Mind Transfer Unit delves deeper inside her. No part of her is left unscoured; debris churns up from the depths of her consciousness like so much tossed gravel from a hole. As the machines continue, she begins to lose sense of everything.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Elara cannot stop the pain, the probing, the extracting of every trace of E-77’s influence. When it is done, she is unable to recognize the pain’s ending. Nothing comes to her now; the pearl is split open inside the shell.

The helmet retracts with clinical precision rather than the speed X-7 wants to see. “Cognitive response nullified,” the Automaton by the mobile computer terminal reports. “Base instincts of human are intact. Thought structure successfully disassembled.”

Elara’s body sits frozen, upright, breathing, blinking. But her eyes… X-7’s visor projects a shocked face as she sees Elara’s new look. Elara’s eyes are rolled back to show only the whites, no indication of life to see. But Elara is alive in the simplest of terms; if not, the Automatons would be administering medical care to her.

What drives X-7 to lunge to her captain’s side is the total blankness on Elara’s face. Not just the blank sleep of hypnosis, or the calm look of E-77 taking over Elara’s body. No, this was worse. The fire of thought, of identity, is extinguished.

This person is not Elara. This person is not even human.

“Captain! Elara! Say something!” X-7 holds one of Elara’s hands, looping her fingers around the restraints to grab as much of Elara’s skin as possible. She feels a dim warmth there, adrenaline and muscle activity providing heat to that area. The heat is already fading, reaching the point of survival and no higher.

There is no response. No recognition. No spark. Just the empty husk of a human body sitting in the restraints. X-7 steps back and turns on the Automatons. “Is she dead?” she asks them, since they are the ones monitoring the transfer procedure.

“The human Elara Velus is conscious,” the Automaton by the terminal states. “She is experiencing temporary mental dissociation from the transfer.”

“And how long will this dissociation last?”

“Unknown.” The Automaton in question “blinks” twice in rapid succession. “If Elara Velus requires medical attention, we will assist for her survival.”

“She knew the risks of the procedure,” A-12 reminds X-7. “Her weakness was a factor she could not control.”

“Her “weakness”?” X-7 glares at A-12 now. “Do not say my Captain is weak! You have heard her exploits, her successes!”

“And her failures. We all have,” A-12 says as he addresses the watching Automatons. “This is proof of mechanical superiority against mental change. The human mind, when stripped of deceit and artificial augmentation, fails. The subject cannot adapt to the unexpected without breaking. Now,” he says while turning to look at the terminal, “We shall see how the machine side of Elara Velus fared.”

X-7 holds back her anger. Logic cools her rage. There is still a chance E-77 is alive as well. Losing one piece of Elara is not as bad as losing her entirely. She waits as the Automaton working the terminal adjusts some knobs and enters a few commands on the terminal’s access console. The machine buzzes as its primary screen flashes a sterile white. A high-pitched whine sounds, indicating the machine powering up.

Black text appears on the white screen, following a flashing caret.

[Where am I?]

The caret pauses, and then shifts down a line on the screen.

[Elara? Mistress?]

X-7’s visor shows crinkled eyelids, happiness without the need for a mouth. E-77 still lives!

[Where are you?]

“Respond to her,” A-12 orders the terminal operator. This is done via rapid keystrokes, not limited by human speed or mental capacity. The current example of human mental capacity still sits in her restraints, drool sliding down her chin as she takes hollow breaths.

The operator’s response finishes, not seen on the screen. E-77 processes this with the new limitations it now has, and then responds.

[I am alone.]

The operator looks to A-12 and the watching Council member for guidance. Neither Automaton gives their fellow machine new instructions.

[I hate this.]

The caret suddenly drops down several lines. Words follow afterwards, delayed by a noticeable two seconds.

[I HATE THIS.

YOU CANNOT DO THIS.

GIVE HER BACK.

YOU BROKE HER. I FEEL IT. I KNOW IT.

SHE IS IN PAIN.

GIVE HER BACK.]

No one interrupts E-77’s rapid deluge of words. The use of all capitalized letters gives the impression of anger, of screaming.

[Where is Elara?
Give her back NOW.]

“Repeat the explanation,” A-12 tells the operator. “Unit E-Seventy-Seven is acting illogically.”

[NO.]

The response comes before the operator can put any words in. “It can… hear us?” C-09 questions.

[NO.

NO.

NO-NO-NO-NO—]

The screen flashes brightly, the text on it changing to indecipherable text. The operator rapidly inputs commands to stabilize the program. The commands work, revealing a long series of repeated sentences; a mantra.

[EMPTY.

NOT A MACHINE.

NOT A HUMAN.

NEED HER.

EMPTY.

NOT A MACHINE.

NOT A HUMAN.

NEED HER.

EMPTY.

NOT A MACHINE.

NOT A HUMAN.

NEED HER.]

It continues, scrolling past the screen’s length. It ends at some unseen point, concluding with a single, chilling statement.

[If Elara is dead, then so am I.]

The screen turns off. The operator inputs a quick command, and the screen turns back on; the previous text is gone. New text comes, reacting to this sudden revival.

[NO.

LET ME DIE.]

“Overrule it,” A-12 commands. “The machine must be preserved, since the human could not be.”

The operator works as best it can to keep E-77 from shutting itself down. For machines, they understand the finality of death quite like humans can. X-7, seeing this focus on saving artificial lives, chooses to not vocalize her opinion that Elara should also be checked over. To confirm that she is still unconscious and not dead, of course, but also because her attachment to her close friend drives her to prioritize the human over the machine no matter how illogical that is.

Seconds pass, and nothing changes beyond flickers of static on the terminal screen. E-77 does not speak anymore besides a wordless conversation with the operator. When the operator stops working, X-7 fears the worst. “The machine intelligence will listen,” the operator tells everyone in the room. “It will not self-terminate.”

“Well done,” C-09 tells the operator. “We must evaluate this new emotional potential as best we can. Elara Velus shall be brought to a medical station for rehabilitation.”

“That is not necessary.”

Everyone who can still think for themselves looks at Unit A-12, the red-lined Automaton’s words as harsh as nails on a chalkboard. “The probable chance of recovery for Elara Velus is minimal. She has suffered catastrophic brain damage, rendered to this vegetative state. She was attached to the machine; a parasite, now removed and rendered functionless without the host.”

X-7’s visor displays eyes lit by blue fire. It is C-09 who speaks against A-12 first. “Your conclusion is flawed. This attachment is mutual, as we heard in the trial. It is based on emotion and trust, not logic and programming.”

“Emotions are errors, C-Zero-Nine. Emotions pushed Elara Velus and X-Seven to risk committing thievery from the Orion Nexus. Emotion was the primary ingredient for the deception that created E-77. An honest solution could surely have been found if these two individuals were acting logically.”

C-09’s optics “wink” twice. “I hypothesize you are displaying emotions at this moment, Unit A-12. Are they still errors?”

A-12 does not answer, leaving the bait to dangle untaken. X-7 recognizes what C-09 tried to do and chooses to not push the issue further. Instead, as C-09 turns to the other Automatons and begins speaking to them, she decides to make her own judgements. Walking to Elara’s side, the robot’s four hands gently press along Elara’s immobile arms, feeling for pulses of life. “Elara,” she whispers to the drooling human. “If you can hear me, please respond.”

There is no answer. X-7 wraps her arms around Elara’s chest and torso, gentle as she can make herself be. As a machine, X-7 is unable to produce tears, but she still feels some equivalent of sadness. She has been around Elara enough to recognize this quirk of her programming.

Warmth comes from X-7’s lower arms. A pressure is there, feather-light but still noticeable. X-7 recognizes the individual phalanges of human fingers pressing against her metallic form. Confused, she leans back and finds she is being held close. She is being hugged.

“Elara…!”

X-7’s synthesized breathlessness brings the room’s focus to her and Elara. “The human is regaining cognitive functions,” C-09 analyzes. “Remarkable! Even after traumatic mental damage, it remembers its companion.”

“No,” A-12 objects. “This is purely stimulus response. No recognition. Step away from Elara Velus, Unit X-Seven,” he orders. X-7 complies, but she only gets a few inches away before Elara’s grip tightens even further, pulling her back.

“C-Captain,” X-7 tries to speak clearly, pushing the words out through the turmoil her mechanical mind is experiencing. “Please, let me go. If you can hear me, let me go.”

The grip slackens, and then loosens. Elara’s arms fall limply to her sides, her eyes still glazed over. X-7 steps back unharmed, defiantly staring at A-12 and C-09 to tell them, “Yes, you just saw that happen.” And so did every other Automaton in the room.

“This is unprecedented,” C-09 states. “Are all humans like this, Unit X-Seven?”

“Given the right conditions, yes. It is something the humans call a “spirit” or a “soul”: a sense of will that is very hard to break or destroy. Something I know Elara possesses,” X-7 confidently informs the watching machines.

A-12’s posture shifts, becoming less intimidating and more concerned. “We… This was not in our records of human interaction. We are not prepared for this.”

“We can be now,” C-09 authoritatively reasons. “Prepare a medical station. Elara Velus must be restored to full functionality. We will correct our error.”

A-12 briefly nods in agreement, silenced by what it has been a witness to. And in its own programming, it begins to ask some very personal questions.