She’s never been confined before. Not in so many words, at least; for all her parents’ rules and restrictions she’s never been held against her will. They might place limitations on her but it was never like this--never a no without explanation, without compromise, without answers. Seneca was no longer in a mood to entertain a Benefactor who lied to her about the fabric of reality in order to use her. But she had no choice--so she sat, positioned herself stiffly, stared blankly at the shadowy figure she may have been imagining behind opaque glass.
Hello, SENECA. Let’s start with something easy, just to find our balance.
Her balance was compromised by the constant tapping of her nails on the cold material of her armchair. The sound was metallic.
Please state your name, age, height and place of birth for the record.
“Seneca Voix. I am twenty-six years of age, approximately one hundred and seventy centimeters--or five feet seven inches, if you prefer--and I was born on Harbor, in Wrotham.”
Is that your true name and age?
“Yes.” Seneca volunteered nothing further. A long pause ensued, and her tapping took on a pattern before the voice spoke again.
After six months on a mission, do you regret accepting being part of this crew?
The harder question gave her pause. She was frustrated, that was for certain. The Benefactor had told her he’d provide her with information regarding her missing sibling--and instead he’d given her the live sibling to answer questions firsthand. It was not, to say the least, what Seneca had been expecting. “Not currently,” she answered slowly. “I don’t guarantee that answer will remain consistent for the remainder of the...mission.”
Do you believe in what this mission is trying to accomplish or are you here for different reasons? If so, what are they?
One arched, perfectly shaped eyebrow rose above her browline, Seneca leaning back in a feigned pose of relaxation. She was as tense as she could be, but the Benefactor’s line of questioning baffled her--and amused her, in a sardonic sort of way. “I am unable to answer the question due to lack of information regarding the mission’s intended accomplishments.” The words came out faster this time, tripping off her tongue glibly. “We discussed my original motivations for joining before my arrival. I have nothing more to add to that.”
Do you have any friends on board? Any enemies?
What was a friend, really? Seneca wasn’t sure she’d ever really had one. Outside of the obvious, and they barely counted, being bound to her by blood first and foremost. “I would not consider anyone a true friend. Orion is the closest thing I have to that, and we have our issues. I imagine...many of the others could be considered my enemies, but not against me personally. They are against what I represent.” The small speech came too easily from her shaking lips; the Voix family taught her well.
Are you loyal to this crew?
“That would depend on your interpretation of loyalty.” There was a reason her parents had loved placing her at the forefront of the dinner conversation with clients. “Blindly allegiant, no. I trust them when the situation calls for it and I will do what I must. We lack ties necessary for true loyalty.”
Interesting. Very interesting. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s skip ahead to some more personal questions.
The Benefactor considered those not personal?
Do you think the corporation system is fair?
“Fair is not even. It follows the rules and guidelines set down decades beforehand and the corporations operate for legitimate purposes required by society and economical needs. Is it equal for everyone, do you mean? Nothing is equal for everyone, because everyone is not equal.”
Have you ever changed something you liked about yourself to satisfy someone else?
The day she woke up--her insides not her own anymore. Eight years old and her body was changed irrevocably, and there was nothing she could do about it. “No. I only change what is necessary or what I desire for myself.” Seneca had held her composure thus far; now she was beginning to crack. Remembering the first dozen procedures, her parents holding her hands, Orion saying nothing as they stroked her hair when she tried out her new body. Forcing a smile the first time she kept stride with them outside. She hadn’t chosen this, not at first.
Do you think the future is hopeful? Why?
An abrupt turn from the previous question so sudden it gave her whiplash. “Yes, of course,” she stammered out, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Hope is an idea, not a guarantee. All futures have hope if you want them to.”
Finally, do you believe your surname has hindered you?
Another easy one. The Benefactor had strange definitions of personal questions. “It has done the opposite for me. I have had wonderful opportunities and a large support system as I aged. Being a Voix is far from a hindrance.” Unless, of course, you were here, surrounded by revolutionaries and murderers. “Is that all?”
Fingertips danced across the hard surface of the steel table before him, fidgeting and twitching in a learned motion of worry. DATA did not know what the Benefactor – an ominous identity that remained shielded in the mystery of their mission – wanted from him. If they held even the most basic of knowledge regarding his record, they would know that DATA is virtually useless in the absence of his creator’s authority, that any information would likely be subject to correction without the reassuring confirmation of a familiar bobbing head and soft smile.
Staring with unblinking eyes at the machine in front of him, DATA wondered if those in charge of the interview knew that such a machine would be ineffective on him. Contrary to his human counterparts, DATA was not subject to the biological tells of dishonesty; and in the absence of something as simple as blood pressure or a pulse, the polygraph’s records would be meaningless.
“Hello, DATA. Let’s start with something easy, just to find our balance. Please state your name, age, height and place of birth for the record.”
Brows rose in an uncharacteristic display of hubris, an expression DATA had become familiar with when his questions served to create irritation for those he traveled with. He briefly wondered as to why those conducting the interview would not already have access to such basic information, as even he had acquired such data during their previous mission. Nevertheless, he would play their game knowing that every action taken and every answer given would be monitored under the watchful gaze of a chess master, unwilling to let their opponent gain any sort of advantage in the reality of the game.
“DATA,” he spoke with a tone of hesitancy as his mind gave way to a shred of doubt. Most humans had a family name tied to their identity, should he have the same? “I suppose my closest surname would be Wyndham; however, such a relation does not come from shared ancestry or an intimate relationship, merely that he may be identified as my creator.”
Satisfied with his answer, DATA allowed himself to feel a moment of relief before continuing to the next part of their “easy” questions. “I believe Theon intended for me to appear as if my body is that of an average twenty-five-year-old. My age since creation, however, is approximately two years. I am one hundred and seventy-three centimeters tall. And although birth is the not the particular term many people use for androids, I was created in Wrotham.”
“Is that your true name and age?”
Confusion brought his brows together in an infrequent expression of annoyed confusion. “I have answered such questions with the accuracy provided by my data. I don’t understand why there would be contradicting evidence present in your records.”
After six months on a mission, do you regret accepting being part of this crew?
Unlike many of the other times when he engaged in behavior so different from those he kept company with, DATA held no reservations as he allowed brown irises to become distant.
re·gret
/rəˈɡret/
verb
1. feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over (something that has happened or been done, especially a loss or missed opportunity).
Eyes clouded in code became obscured by the brief embrace of lashes as DATA felt himself fall back into the present. “I am unfamiliar with the sentiment,” he stated, voice cold and calculated as he attempted to recall a time in which his rarely felt emotions matched those of the definition still present at the forefront of his mind.
“Do you believe in what this mission is trying to accomplish or are you here for different reasons? If so, what are they”
“The purpose of the mission, from my understanding, has remained… ambiguous to many on the crew.” His words, careful beneath a tone of determined certainty, were said with little hesitation. He did not know the true intentions of the Benefactor, taking cues from Theon’s judgment when faced with the potential for manipulation. Shining smiles could be feigned to cover the sinister intentions embedded in the truth, and DATA remained unsure of the authenticity the Benefactor attempted to obtain. “I am here because this is where Theon wished for me to go,” he said with unfaltering honesty.
“Do you have any friends on board? Any enemies?”
“I have many friends.” Something akin to pride infiltrated every inflection as the soft corners of his synthetic lips lifted into a genuine smile. Although he had become accustomed to the wary gazes that accompanied his presence, such expressions had become somewhat of a rarity over the course of their six-month journey. “I particularly enjoy the company of Eretreia and Cypress,” he said with an earnest grin. His devotion to Theon and the consideration of his qualified identity as friend or enemy went unsaid, obvious to anyone who dared to spend more than an hour’s time with the android and his creator.
“Are you loyal to this crew?”
“I am loyal to Theon.” The answer was automatic, absent of any consideration for the consequences of such a blatant proclamation. He knew how easy it was for humans to employ tactics of manipulation, and the ever-present omission of understanding when it came to the complexity of emotions left him with a vulnerability that only Theon could be trusted to rectify.
“Do you feel you are capable of causing injury to another if the situation called for it?”
Breath stuttered. Eyes sharpened. Fingers twitched. For a moment, DATA was lost in an inescapable apparition from the past. He could recall with unequivocal certainty, allowed by the unhampered recording still present in his memory and easily accessed on occasions of uncertainty, the look of fear that was undeniable when painted across the stranger’s face. It was his first contact with hatred, pure and passionate in every spiteful word thrown toward him. A flash of doubt, resisted by the basis of his being in an attempt to maintain some semblance of sanity, slowly unfurled in a subtle stab of aching pain. It moved through his form like tar, making him curl in on himself as toxicity disrupted actions aching to be seen as benevolent.
“A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm,” he recited with the desperate devotion of an unheard prayer. His hands gripped the sound structure of his synthetic arms in an unconscious attempt to ground himself within reality as a sudden surge of fresh doubt threatened to propel him into the depths of his mind, lost in the probability of every possibility of the stranger’s vicious prediction coming to fruition. “A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm,” he repeated, a reassurance of his own pacifism.
“What do you think is wrong with MOST people, overall?”
A moment of recovery spared him the time to contribute careful thought to the question posed. Humans had an infinite amount of flaws, like all creatures of the universe. However, pinpointing a caveat of their behavior could be seen as an insult under the skeptical light of their hubris.
“Mark Twain frequently highlighted the flaws in mankind’s Moral Sense in his writings,” he began carefully. “In obtaining knowledge and authority over one’s own morality, they are then able to do wrong.” Pausing in an attempt to gather reasons absent of any offense, DATA proceeded carefully through the complications of his own argument. “Every action labeled as evil or wrong must then be a conscious decision by that human being. So perhaps it is the morality of human beings that is ‘wrong’ with most of them. However, you could also argue such an existence of consciousness may also be one of the things that are ‘right’ with most human beings.”
“What is your first memory?”
Green, so similar to the insistent flashing on the opposite side of the table, permeated the memory he could call his first. He could recall the foreign words echoing through his ears and unfamiliar sights assaulting his eyes as various processors slowly came online. A twitch of a hand, strapped down to a table to ensure immobility; a turn of the head, littered with wires monitoring his internal reactions; all collided to form the first moments of his life.
“I remember the lab that housed my creation,” he said with a cold voice. DATA did not wish to recall the confusion that slowly gave way to the first feelings of fear that infiltrated his entire being, forcing stiff limbs to struggle against the leather binds that maintained his forced paralysis. Nor did he wish to reminisce on the frightened screams that gradually became whimpers as he began to comprehend the feeling of being alive. It was disorienting in the most dangerous of ways, and such a memory was better left unheard by the unwelcome ears of strangers.
“Finally, do you consider yourself human?”
“Why would I consider myself human?” he asked, brows knitting together in a clear expression of confusion. “The term human is simply a classifier for the species that remain the only surviving members of the Hominina.” His voice was sure with a certainty that was not guaranteed under greater scrutiny. Theories of various philosophers proclaimed what it meant to be human; and despite DATA’s exhaustive search for one that allowed him to hold the same title, their arguments only served to remind him of the obvious differences he maintained. “Just as you are a human, I am an android.” No matter how much progress he made or how much he learned, DATA knew he would never be human.
Every atom of their body screams in rebellion as they take their seat, breath quickening in panic as they spot the machine they assume is a lie detector. What the fuck? Then, they remember that in this world, the truth means nothing to people like the Benefactor - the false idols choking on power, living on borrowed time. They should know, they might have very nearly been one. So what they say doesn’t truly matter. Because it’s fucking subjective. Made a little calmer by their reasoning, Orion tucks their arms and folds them across their chest, projecting an attitude of nonchalance. Fake it til you make it. Or just trash the god damn machine.
That doesn’t mean that they’re pleased to be here.
“Shall we get this over with then?”
Despite the calm facade, their heart rate spikes as the machine begins to whir to life, its voice a monotone. Hello, ORION. Let’s start with something easy, just to find our balance. Please state your name, age, height and place of birth for the record.
Orion doesn’t waste any time. The sooner they answer these god-damn, out-of-nowhere, what-the-hell questions, the sooner they can be out of here and back in a place where they can finally breathe. And doesn’t resemble a place where they could be killed with no one asking any questions. “Orion, thirty-two, 5′4″ - “ What was always a disadvantage proved to be an asset in their chosen life “- and here, Wrotham.” Not that my parents would be willing to confirm the validity of that statement. Raising their eyes, they stare at the two-way mirror blankly, almost as if they’re issuing a challenge. On the ship, they may be bidden to obey - but here, they can still cling onto some of their liberties.
Is that your true name and age?
Fire to rival Thane’s sparks inside of their eyes, threatening to destroy the cool persona they’re trying to project. And it’s only the second fucking question. Orion can’t help but wonder if they’ve begun to make it personal already - or if they’re not the only crew member with a past to hide. Either way, somewhere, there’s a fucked up person - if they can lay claim to that term - smirking, excited to see how they respond. “Yes.” They speak before thinking - and if the red flash of light is anything to go by, they’ve spoken incorrectly. Underneath the table, they clench their first. “Fine. No - not legally. But the law isn’t something that bothers me too much. Not the way its currently written.” Some truths, however, go beyond whatever was written down on a slip of paper thirty-two years ago. “Don’t think for a moment I’m telling you what my birth certificate says it is. That wasn’t the question.” Their words are spiteful - and they feel like a temporary victory, hallowed by a creeping fear. What if, deep in their heart, they are Orion Voix still after all? What if they never do enough to change that? Sighing, they unclench their fists - don’t let it get the better of you. “I’m sure you can look it up if you really want. It’ll be next to a death certificate that doesn’t exist.”
After six months on a mission, do you regret accepting being part of this crew?
At this question, they’re almost tempted to smirk. As if we had a choice. Technically, they suppose, they could have turned down the mysterious benefactor. They could have decided that returning to their parents, or rotting in prison, was a better fate than the unknown. But they didn’t. And they haven’t changed their mind since then. “No.” A person of little words, they resent the blinking light - and how it coaxes more words from their lips. “It's not been as bad as I thought it would be.” Their words are softer, a guilty admission that they’re afraid someone will over hear. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not committed to the rebellion. Or that I don’t wish I was with them.” Those words are more forcefully executed, accompanied with an upwards tilt of their chin.
Do you believe in what this mission is trying to accomplish or are you here for different reasons? If so, what are they?
“Sometimes I’m not quite sure what the purpose of this mission is.” But boy am I trying to find out. On the face of it, the truth appears uncomplex, laid out simply like the instructions Marrow barks in their direction. But without knowing the Benefactor, how can any of them truly know anything? Until then, they can’t answer the question to the fullest of their ability - which no doubt irritates the Benefactor to a fault. “I didn’t come here because of the mission’s purpose though - if that’s what your asking.” It feels like a complete answer, but a dim light implies an answer worth explaining further. “I’m here because this was the best option out of the ones I was given. I didn’t want to be handed back to...back to my family. And prison didn’t sound so great either.” They exhale heavily. "And the benefactor promised a clean slate - so I guess you could say I’m here to get it. It’s pretty straightforward.” Or it was, until the past decided to re-emerge. “And although I didn’t come here for my family-” Let the Benefactor work out whether they mean the one forged by blood or by choice “- I’m partly staying for them too.”
Do you have any friends on board? Any enemies?
Orion shoots both the machine and person lurking behind the mirror a quizzical look. Going into their social life seemed like an odd turn in questioning. At least it was an easy one. Seeing no reason to hide their social fabric, they plunge into a reply without any hesitation. One down, however many more to go. “Sure. Cosima and Fox are my closest friends.” Even if Fox seems to sometimes hate me. They push that thought out of their head - determined not to pour doubt into their relationship. It was difficult enough as it was - and besides, it was temporary. “And I know Raven from when I was a kid.” They never would have seen that one coming. Never. “And I suppose that Thane, Pyre and Eretreia aren’t bad.” Not sure if they were friends. At the request for enemies, only one name sprung to mind - along with an accompanying face that made their nose wrinkle. “I guess you could say I’m not that keen on Alyx...she’s sort of...uptight. It’s a mutual thing.” Not my fault, they added, albeit silently.
Are you loyal to this crew?
They know their answer instantly, without having to think about it. Momentarily a little guilty, they push it away - you don’t owe them anything. “I’m not disloyal. Like, I probably wouldn’t slit their throats in their sleep.” Probably - what a fickle word, they’ve done worse on a probably. “But no - not as a whole. Cosima? Yes. Absolutely. The rebellion she founded? Without a doubt.” They take pride in their words - and make no attempt to hide the truth. They’re sure the Benefactor knows all about that already.
Interesting. Very interesting. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s skip ahead to some more personal questions. What do you consider “family” to be?
They would have liked to have said they reacted with ire - a roll of the eyes and a spitting very original. But they didn’t. Instead, a hallowed, haunted look pierced their eyes - and they swallowed uncomfortably, their throat suddenly dry. It’s the one thing they don’t talk about - not to anyone. Both a sore and a weak spot, their first instinct is to lie. “I don’t think that much about family.” The light buzzes red. Yeah, Orion thinks, I’d see through my bullshit too. Sighing, they muster the truth, knowing each word, each trawl down memory lane, will be a dagger to their heart. “I don’t consider family within a nuclear sense - you know, biologically related people - two parents, two kids, family pet.” That structure shattered the fateful day they reached for the truth for the first time, removing their rose-tinted glasses, crushing them under their feet. “I’m dead to that family - so they’re dead to me.” The light flashes red. “Fine. Most of them are dead to me.” The lone soul remaining to them flashes before their eyes - a girl with a cascade of blonde curls, laughing at the beauty in the world. “So I found a family of my own. It’s worked out pretty well.” Orion glances at the light - waiting for the verdict. It flickers red. “It could be better. But nothing is ever perfect. And no family is either.” Like the sibling who accidentally helped their sister - the one who accepted them when no one else would - get locked away.
How do you feel following the orders of those who may not share your beliefs?
Three faces come to mind - Marrow’s melancholy, Kallia’s anger and the Benefactors...well, theirs is grey, anonymous. Each differs from them in a different way - from their perspective on the world to who should be calling the shots within it. “It’s not the easiest thing in the world. Not after - well, not after following a cause I believed in, heart and soul.” There have been times when they haven’t wanted to bite their tongue - when they have wanted nothing more than to let their temper fly free and unleash a torrent of hell. But untempered fury was always Fox’s expertise. And they inherited their father’s calculated anger - a creeping icy manipulation. “If I think someone is wrong I’m not afraid to call them out on it - even if I don’t do it directly.” Sometimes, however, their words fall on deaf ears. “But I’m managing.”
Are you loyal to your beliefs or to the rebellion only? Do you think their methods are the best ones?
Orion crinkles their forehead, genuinely perplexed at the insinuation lying behind the line of questioning - and no doubt the turmoil it intends to stir. “I’ve never seen my beliefs and the rebellion as being two separate entities.” Logically, they suppose, they are. After all, one predates the other - and beliefs are something tangible, existing within a person. The rebellion is a living breathing entity - capable of action, blessed with the potential to change the world. “So I’m loyal to both. They’re not mutually exclusive.” The light flickers green - but doubt begins to take root inside of them. Just because you believe something, it doesn’t make it true. No sooner than the thought appears is it dismissed and waved away. This is just stressing you out - don’t let them get to you. They want you to stress, they want you to crack - and begin doubting everything in your life. Exhaling heavily, they regain their composure. “I don’t question Cosima. I trust her judgement completely.” For Orion, the two are interchangeable - one and the same. Briefly, they think of the devastation that lies behind them - particularly the synthetic blood splattered across their hands. It’s brutal. But it’s justified. That’s what war looks like. It will be worth it in the end. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s been there from the start. So, to answer your question, yes. I don’t think there’s another alternative.” The green light tells them that their words are true. "I mean, Rome wasn’t built in a day. So I guess this Empire can’t fall in one either.”
Finally, you have placed your beliefs over your sibling, Seneca, in the past, are you likely to do so again?
Sharply, they snap their head up, a sobering melancholy hardening into steel, a cold anger seeping from Orion across the room. It isn’t even a question they can waft away or dismiss. No one is playing mind games with them. It’s the truth - and it’s always been a hard one to swallow. For all their guilt about the privilege they were born into, it’s easy to forget that they’ve always regretted this too. The two merge together inside of them, an uncomfortable mixture. One will always win out. Usually, it’s the former. “I’m not a soothsayer. I can’t see the future.” They try to keep their voice level, but they know they’re buying time. And the person across the room, hidden from view, knows it too. Above them, the heat of the light beams down. Their palms are thick with sweat. Orion wipes it on their trousers. This isn’t a confession they ever intended to make. But the truth crawls to the light of day - no matter the personal cost. “If it came down to between the two...if I had to choose...” They pause, carefully considering their words. Inside of their mind, two memories float to the forefront. The first is of Seneca in her first year of life, back when she was as pure as she appeared. The baby in Orion’s head clings on desperately to their fingers, the same way she always did. She never wanted to let go. She never did. That was me, I’m the one who severed us for good. “I know what my first priority is.” The second memory is the night of the massacre - remembering how they crept in first, strategically planning the weakest penetration points, the locations where the fighting would be most chaotic. So many people died that night - some at my hands. What would I have done if Seneca was there? Could I have killed them? It’s a question with a very clear answer. No. Even after all this time, they couldn’t have spilled a drop of their blood. Somehow, their sister continues to lay a claim to their heart. And most of the time, they hate that. “I would choose my beliefs. Every time.”
Orion closes their eyes. They don’t want to see what colour the light flashes.
