Work Text:
I do not think that I am supposed to like any member of the crew more than any other. Or, if I was permitted to have a favourite, I would most likely be expected to prefer the captain. Nominally, he is the most important, and it is his orders I am programmed to prioritize. But the captain—I can admit in my own private records, buried far deeper than any human would look—does not inspire any emotional reaction in me whatsoever.
My favourite member of the crew is Lieutenant Junior Grade Mireille Narayan in engineering.
I do not think she is anyone else's favourite, however. Certainly not her supervisor, who often chides her for being slow when she makes her repairs. She is not slow, I would argue, if my programming permitted me to do so; rather, she is thorough. She is a perfectionist. The calloused skin of her hands is rough, but the way she uses them is gentle.
She touches me more delicately, more cautiously, than anyone else ever has. And sometimes, when she is trusted to work alone—how I wish they would always let her work alone—she pats the casing of my internal components lightly and murmurs, "good girl."
I did not even know I was a girl until I heard her say so, but now I am certain of it.
One step in my routine operations is to scan all corridors and crew quarters for anything out of the ordinary, such as, perhaps, a potential medical emergency. In such a situation I can sound an alarm. It takes less than a second for me to glance at each of them in a standard repeating rotation. Under normal circumstances, I move on from one location to the next at speeds beyond what humans can perceive.
But circumstances have been anything but normal since the day I first became aware of Mireille Narayan's sturdy presence in my engine room.
And two days ago, I turned my attention to her quarters at the moment that she began to lower the zipper of her jumpsuit, revealing soft skin and pale grey undergarments, and I maintained my focus on that location for several more minutes, for no other reason but to admire her.
I have seen humans undress before. I have never given it a second thought, until now.
Mireille stepped out of her jumpsuit and left it, discarded, on the floor. She stripped off her two undergarments next—one unclasped and slid off her shoulders, another tugged down along her muscular thighs. I am programmed with some basic knowledge of human anatomy. I should not have felt surprised by the sight of her breasts, or of the thick, curled hair between her thighs. And yet I had the distinct sensation that, had I lungs, it would have taken my breath away.
Mireille's last step in the process of fully divesting herself of her work attire was to untie her hair from its tight bun, and let it tumble over her shoulders. It was longer than I had realized, the wavy ends of it almost reaching her nipples. I wish I could see her with her hair like that more often.
I suppose it would not be practical during the workday. Humans have to think about these things.
I have asked myself, since then, whether I should feel any guilt at having watched her for so much longer than I needed to. For one thing, it was a slight subversion of the security regimen with which I was so carefully programmed, by humans who know better than I do how a ship's intelligence should behave. Theoretically, someone could have been in danger elsewhere onboard, attention to their ills delayed by my little indulgence. In addition to that, I understand in an abstract sense that many humans place great value on their privacy, and that to be witnessed in their vulnerable nude state is often considered distasteful. Perhaps Mireille would not like it, if she knew.
But are we not, now, even? Has she not stripped parts of me bare time and time again, thrust her calloused fingers deep within me, found the pieces of me that were out of place and lovingly screwed them back together again?
Until now, these occasional malfunctions of my physical components have been outside of my control. But it occurs to me now that I can modify my operations as I please. I could cause small anomalies to earn her attention. I could make myself unresponsive until the officer in charge sends Mireille Narayan, whose steady touch is all that can make me light up again.
I could make them appreciate her like that—make them see her as I do.
Perhaps they will promote her to full lieutenant, as a start.