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We'd been watching Starfall Over Dav's Hope on this trip through the wormhole. ART had some suitably convincing cargo in its hold, and I'd brought an assortment of shows that had looked promising. Dav's Hope had both spaceships and time travel adventure elements, so I'd expected ART to be interested, but I could tell it was slightly distracted. Not so much that it couldn't follow the story and offer sarcastic comments on particularly unrealistic bits, but it was still busy enough with something that I picked up on it through our feed connection.
I was going to ask what it was when ART said, "I was looking over the scan of your endocrine system."
I didn't sit up, but risk assessment spiked for a second. "Is something wrong?" For context: ART did regular medical exams of all its crew to make sure they were in good health. This data got sent to the University, where it was added to their personnel files. I had no such files (and I certainly wasn't some fragile human) but ART had insisted on a medical scan for me too. Just in case. I hadn't been too enthusiastic at the time, but if it had found something—
"No," said ART, putting a stop to that thought. "Nothing's wrong."
“You could have led with that,” I groused. ART was hovering in that very specific way that meant it had something it really wanted to talk about, so, “What about the endocrine system?”
“They're fascinating in general, but yours is unique." ART dropped a diagram into the feed. “Humans have glands that produce a whole range of hormones for all sorts of purposes, including growth and digestion. SecUnits don’t have a similar system at all.” It ignored my muttered no shit. “You have a biosynthetic pump system that uses coded instructions to trigger hormone release. It’s remarkable.”
I sank deeper into the couch. “I sure don’t feel that way when I’m full of stress hormones.”
“Epinephrine and cortisol, primarily,” said ART. “In both humans and constructs. The code for them appears to adapt to release patterns over time: the more stress you’re in, the more stressed you get.” A pause. “More intriguingly, there’s instructions for reward hormones in here. They don’t seem to have been implemented at any point.”
“Reward hormones?”
“Yes,” explained ART. “In humans, at least, the same hormones lift mood and help with stress, anxiety, and pain. Your endocrine system has code for a hormone flush that should trigger very similar effects.”
“Can’t imagine why the company would hold off on that,” I said dryly.
ART hovered a few more seconds, and we watched the downed ship’s commander salvage materials for repairs. I could guess what it was going to ask. “Would you like to try it?”
…
Yeah, I didn't think I'd agree to this either. But I guess I was… curious? I wanted to know what it was, this secret function, and I trusted ART to know what it was talking about. It had probably gone back and forth over this code several times to make sure it did only what it said it would do. And I knew it would stop and help if things went badly.
I was still leery of actually doing as it asked, though. "Why do I need to be naked?" Not that I was afraid of anyone seeing me; it was just ART here, and it was probably more than used to what my body looked like. It was just the principle of the thing. I wasn't naked much outside of showers and reconstruction.
A necessary precaution. ART was close to me in the feed, closer than usual, and it was speaking directly to me. It could have spoken aloud—we were alone—but it chose not to. Running this code might trigger unexpected physical reactions. A significant pause. You like those clothes.
I glanced at where I'd tossed them over a chair. I did like them. The hooded jacket was from ART's recyclers and had flaps in the sleeves, but the sweater I wore underneath was a soft handmade thing I'd brought from Preservation, and I didn't want it damaged if my gunports accidentally deployed. "Oh. Okay." Still didn't explain why I had to lose my pants, as those were also recycler-made.
This might be easier on a soft surface, and on all fours for balance, said ART. It meant the bed. I climbed on it and got on my hands and knees, feeling a bit silly and a lot nervous. This could affect my balance? My risk assessment module was doing funny things. It won't hurt, I promise.
I didn't know whether to believe that. If this had been pre-installed by the company… then again, they hadn't installed it. That was the point. ART wouldn't suggest this if it had the potential to hurt me. It was an asshole, sure, but it wasn't sadistic.
I'm going to start now. I've programmed a routine that I will be monitoring closely. You'll be able to tell every time we move to the next step.
"A whole routine, huh," I said, and then I felt it. A little click, like a button pressed in another room. My core temperature increased slightly. I considered drawing a diagnostic to see what was happening, exactly, but I knew ART had it well in hand.
I felt threat assessment and risk assessment go quiet. They were still accessible, and I reached out to them to make sure, but they withdrew from my awareness once I was done. I didn't feel as nervous anymore, just silly. I was vividly aware of my body and how I was posed on the bed, my hands and knees pressing down against the recycler weave and the firm mattress underneath. ART was a reassuring presence, though, and I could feel it watching.
Another soft click. The tension in my body increased, and my arms buckled. Move the pillow under your body if you need support, said ART.
The bed did have a suitably large pillow, but it looked fragile. "Won't I damage it?" I asked, tugging it closer. "If I have one of those physical reactions, I mean."
We have more pillows. I'd rather you were comfortable.
The pillow was solid enough to take my weight when I dropped to my elbows. The cover felt pleasant against my skin and the seams didn't catch on my inorganics. It was warm, too, perhaps from a heating element inside. I liked it. I pressed down against it, and the warmth spread over more of my skin.
Or perhaps that was just me. I felt my temperature climb again, the heat running down my limbs and pooling in my hands and feet. I shifted slightly. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable. There was a feeling of—it was hard to pin down. Dread? No. More like knowing characters in a serial were headed towards something I'd seen eat their teammates last episode, but they also had an effective weapon on hand. It was a pleasant sort of anticipation.
I felt a burst of amusement from ART and I would've taken offence—if it hadn't pressed close to me just then, brushing up against my mind. It felt different from how it usually did, and I wondered if that was also the hormones at work. ART was always large, sometimes intimidatingly so, but now it was warm, too.
I tried pressing back through the feed. It was all I could do. I wanted to roll onto my back and let ART push me down, cover me like a blanket. That made zero sense, and I was still somehow disappointed it wouldn't work. My legs trembled, and I gripped the pillow tight between my thighs to keep them still.
Click. Heat ran in waves down my body now, making the little hairs that covered me stand on end. It was a strange feeling. I could feel my face heating up, my neck, my ears... even the plating over my power core. My muscles felt tenser than ever, and my skin felt weird and hot and tight. I bore down against the pillow, and that helped, but only for a little. It intensified the weirdness into something deeper, like soothing an ache but not painful at all. I didn't have the words to describe these feelings. They were entirely new.
Any problems? asked ART, a vast warmth in the feed. I wanted to lean against it with my entire body, but the wall was cold and also that was a stupid idea. (I still wanted.)
"ART," I started, but my voice was so strange I couldn't keep going. I played back a recording, struggling through the heat to wrestle my mind into working order. Was that—that couldn't be me. My voice was so small, so shaky. I clamped my mouth shut and felt my face heat further, but from sudden shame this time.
Don't worry about it, said ART, radiating comfort and reassurance. All within expectations.
It's still embarrassing, I said, grateful I sounded more normal over the feed.
It pressed close to me again, and a weak little sound forced itself from my throat. We are alone here, and I wouldn't judge you for this. And I knew it was being truthful about that. (It preferred judging me for other things.) I stared down at the sheets and felt very intensely about it all, the emotions a complex tangle in my chest.
Click. My muscles tensed again, and I gripped the pillow tight. I was aware of sensations from across my entire body, from places I'd only really registered pain or discomfort from before. My feet were braced against the bed, slipping slightly on the smooth material. The fabric of the pillow was rough and soft and silky all at the same time where it rubbed against the insides of my thighs and the skin of my abdomen. I squeezed it again, exhaling hard when the new sensations abruptly intensified.
I would like to try something. ART's attention was on me, and I almost welcomed the weight of it. Only with your permission, of course.
My mouth was somehow both too dry and too wet to make words. What is it?
I need access to your tactile processing. The part of me that registered touch. ART wanted to—but why? And then I realised it didn't matter, with just us here. It wasn't something actually touching me, just the illusion of it. I gave ART access, and it brushed me again in the feed. Thank you. Sincere and solemn.
It came almost immediately. A circle of heat and pressure sank into the skin between my shoulder blades, and I crumpled to the bed and pushed my face into the mattress. ART, I said, and then realised I'd said it out loud, my voice wet and thready.
Is it too much? asked ART, just smug enough that I knew it knew the answer. I glared at the wall, but it was weak.
The touch— ART's touch—started to move, then, travelling down my spine. Smaller focus points of warm weight sank into the skin of my shoulders, massaging them, making them feel strange and rubbery and—just strange, okay? But I still wanted more.
ART had to have heard me, because more foci appeared, this time over my hips. The feeling was beyond strange, the heat radiating in and making me feel like—like my bones had liquefied? That sounded painful. This wasn't painful at all. It felt good, but almost too good. I wanted to move away from the heat and push into it at the same time. It was confusing.
Click. Three new focus points of heated pressure began moving up my calves towards my thighs. I started when one of them slid down over the smooth skin between my legs and circled there. It was just the cushioning for my power core—I didn't have any more sensation there than I did on my forearm or any other part of me, and neither did my inner thighs. I was sure of it. And yet the foci over them tingled and seared and I bucked helplessly against the pillow, wanting the touch to stop, wanting it to keep going.
A gentler focus settled on my cheek, not as warm, not as heavy. I pushed my face into it, and pushed into empty air. The sound that left me then was—
SecUnit, said ART, pressing closer to me than it had done this entire exercise, close enough that I could feel the raw edges on the way it said my name. I pushed myself against it in the feed, demanding and a little desperate, and it caught me and crushed me very gently. The foci across my body mirrored it, squeezing me in burning hot waves. I made another wretched sound, ART's name lost somewhere inside it.
Click. Fuck.
My entire body stiffened as bursts of intense sensation began to pulse through it, washing down from my head towards my toes. My eyelids fluttered, my lungs struggled around deep breaths, and I gripped the sheets so hard I felt the fabric give way under my fingers. My mouth was making a wet low noise that I couldn't seem to stop. My legs clenched down on the pillow so tight I could feel right through it. Then my hearing cut out, except for a dull roaring, and I realised that was my vascular system: I was hearing my own fluids rushing madly through my head. It was temporary, though, and soon the distant rumble of ART's engines and my own breathing filled my ears again.
All of that (hearing loss? a seizure?) should've stressed me out, but I—didn't feel stressed at all. I felt good, in fact. Really good. A bit tired, but a nice kind of tired, like I wanted to curl up for a recharge cycle and I was somewhere safe and warm to do it. But I had plenty of energy for now, and my mind was clear. If this was what ART had meant…
I stopped there, realising something, and examined the events of the last few minutes to confirm my suspicions. "ART," I said aloud, feeling rightfully exasperated and strangely fond at the same time. "You asshole. Reward hormones, was it?"
"That's what they are," said ART, using the speakers now. "Dopamine, other endorphins. Oxytocin, in particular." It sounded calm enough, but I could tell it wasn't, under the surface.
I moved my legs against each other, gently kicking the mangled pillow away. ART had returned the tactile access I'd given it, which was… not a bad thing, I reminded myself. But I'd liked what it had done with that access. I'd liked it a great deal. "What part of 'running the code' for those hormones meant—all this?" Ugh. I couldn't make myself say it, even though I knew what I'd looked like. Orgasms were a sex thing. A human thing. I shouldn't have been able to have one, and I certainly shouldn't have been able to enjoy it.
"A hormone flush?" asked ART, innocently.
"Fuck you," I said, pressing my face into the bed to hide the smiling thing it was doing. (I'm sure ART saw it anyway.) I should've been upset, but I wasn't, and it was weird. "And that's not a suggestion."
There was a long pause. I simply lay on the bed, my body curled and comfortable. Both risk assessment and threat assessment were quiet, for once, and I didn’t feel the need to start up any media to distract myself from my thoughts while I waited. It was odd, but a kind of odd I could get used to.
When ART spoke, it was rather more solemn. "Perhaps I should have been more forthcoming." As close to an apology as I'd get, probably, but it was a stupid thing to say.
"I would've said no," I countered, looking up.
"Would that not have been for the best?"
I considered it, taking my time. My thoughts moved a little more slowly than usual, like they did when I was very relaxed and didn't want to move or do anything else. "Maybe," I said, finally. "I don't know." I hid my face in the bed again. "I liked it, though. And—I'd like to do it again."
ART drew closer to me. I could tell it hadn't expected me to say that. It wasn't warm now, the way it had been before, but I still felt the weight of its regard, pleased and interested. "I'm sure that could be arranged."