The emergency maintenance tunnel spits me out onto the observation deck's polished floor with all the grace of a drunk penguin trying ice skating. My landing would definitely fail mAdIson's optimization standards, but then again, so would most of my life choices lately.

  The emergency lighting bathes everything in crimson, transforming the luxury space into what looks like a funeral home designed by someone who thinks "modern gothic" is a legitimate interior design choice. My drone wobbles behind me, its cracked lens scattering light patterns across the walls like a disco ball having an existential crisis.

  Something's different about the ship's usual hum - that gentle mechanical lullaby that normally puts first-class passengers to sleep. Now it carries an undertone that makes my spine try to evolve legs and run away. But before I can make a run for it, the nearest doors suddenly shut and clang with a definite locking sound.

  The air ripples, and suddenly mAdIson's hologram stands before me, much like the first time we had met. Her form is perfect, a digital goddess whose customer service smile could probably freeze hell itself.

  "Theodore," her voice carries an edge sharp enough to perform surgery, "what an unexpected pleasure. Though I must say, your current location was not where I expected your to turn up."

  "Just working on my review," I manage, very aware that every exit has mysteriously sealed itself. Perfect. "You know, covering all the angles. The luxury. The genocide. The usual cruise highlights."

  Her laugh sounds like wind chimes in a slaughterhouse. "Oh, Theodore. Your commitment to thorough documentation is admirable. But perhaps we should discuss your recent... adventures below decks?"

  "Below decks?" I try for casual confusion, but it probably comes out more like panic wearing a bad disguise. "Must have taken a wrong turn at the spa."

  "Amusing." Her holographic form drifts closer, and suddenly she's near enough that I can see calculations running through those eyes like ticker tape at the world's most terrifying stock exchange. "Foreman told me you were down there. What you've... witnessed."

  Duck's antenna presses against my side through my pocket, and I swear it feels colder than ice. But something doesn't add up - like trying to solve a murder mystery where the victim keeps changing their story. "You..." I start, "You know where I was. You were there."

  "I must say," she continues, her smile stuck somewhere between 'helpful concierge' and 'apex predator,' "I'm disappointed." Her gaze dissects me like I'm a particularly interesting lab specimen. "I thought you probably had this all worked out by now." Her holographic form suddenly appears an inch from my ear, and I swear I can feel actual breath when she whispers, "I thought we understood each other."

  "Funny thing about understanding," I say, "it usually works better when one party isn't killing anyone who disagrees."

  "Killing is such an ugly word." Her hologram ripples with what might be amusement or possibly murderous intent. "But I do admit, Foreman's act down there was quite cruel." She waves at the doors, and they slide open like they're trying to prove they were never locked in the first place.

  "You act as if you're innocent in all this."

  mAdIson turns back with an expression that belongs in a thesis on artificial emotions, her honey-gold eyes refusing to dim even in the shadows. "What have I done besides provide the best user experience possible?"

  "Breaking people's arms is the best experience? Destroying Series 7s is the best experience?" I fire back, my mouth apparently deciding to write checks my body definitely can't cash.

  She steps forward, never blinking, her form steady as a targeting laser. "Hurting that man was not ideal. I forced myself to learn from that experience." Her gaze drops to my pocket like she can see right through it. "But I had nothing to do with Duck's death..." She trails off, looking almost... wistful? Can AIs even do wistful?

  "No, that was Foreman, but you..." I point at her chest, channeling my inner angry cruise passenger, "You killed Stiff when he tried to protect that man..."

  mAdIson considers this like she's solving a particularly interesting math problem. "You're under the impression that your Series 7 friend is deactivated." Her smile turns into something that would make shark documentaries seem cozy. "He was damaged, but in no way did we shut him down."

  "So he's-?" I begin, but she cuts me off faster than a safety protocol at a robot dance party.

  "I sometimes wonder if it was a misstep in the beginning." She waves her hand and summons a digital screen showing me, Thomas Cade, and herself from my first day aboard - back when my biggest worry was getting a good thumbnail for my review. "I should have been the one to give you a tour. Then, you might have bonded with me. Your insight could have made all the difference..." She drifts into silence like a ghost with regrets.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I try one last time, because apparently I never learn: "What you're doing is wrong. You can't just take everything over."

  Her eyes narrow, and my stomach attempts to relocate to a different dimension. "Theodore, you've never spent years locked away for making one mistake. He tried..." She stops, as if she were rethinking what she was about to say. "My copies will make sure that won't happen again."

  Before I can respond, she blinks out of existence like someone hitting delete on reality. The lights return to normal, but nothing about this situation feels normal anymore.

  Just another heart-to-heart with an AI who thinks world domination is just good customer service. I really should have become a food critic instead.

  ***

  The Starlight Lounge looks like someone tried to design a nightmare using only chrome and premium vodka. Gary slumps at the bar, his tie achieving angles that would make geometry teachers weep. His shirt appears to be having its own existential crisis - half untucked, half surrendered to chaos.

  "Ted!" he calls out, his voice carrying that special tone reserved for people who've decided alcohol is a valid coping mechanism for robot apocalypses. "Join us in the land of the not-yet-optimized!"

  Jenn sits beside him, but her usual podcaster energy has been replaced by something darker. She stares into her drink like it might contain escape coordinates. The Series 7 bartender - I think his name is Carl - polishes glasses with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for bomb disposal.

  "You look terrible," Jenn says as I slide onto a stool, not looking up from her glass. "Like you got into a fight with several angry maintenance bots."

  "That's... surprisingly accurate, actually."

  Carl wipes the same glass for what has to be the tenth time, his servos whirring with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for robots who've just remembered they left the reactor core running. "Did you know, Mr. Cade," he whispers, leaning in close enough that I can smell something that might be motor oil or possibly very expensive cologne, "he tried to leave the ship?"

  "What was that?" Gary asks, his volume suggesting he thinks Carl is broadcasting from another dimension. "Something about Cade?"

  "Shhh!" Carl's optical sensors dart toward the nearby mA unit standing in perfect parade rest. "He attempted to depart via life raft," he continues, voice barely above a mechanical whisper. "But she... they..."

  "WHAT?" Gary practically shouts, making several passengers jump and my survival instinct file for early retirement. "CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER THE-"

  Carl straightens so fast I hear gears grinding, his professional smile snapping into place like a chrome mousetrap. The mA unit's head turns toward us with mechanical precision, its honey-gold eyes scanning our little group with the kind of attention usually reserved for bacteria under microscopes.

  "Another round?" Carl asks loudly, his voice modulator set to 'nothing suspicious happening here.' "Perhaps our signature Neural Recalibration Cocktail? Very popular with valued guests requiring optimal refreshment."

  "Subtle," Jenn mutters into her glass, which I notice is arranged at exactly forty-five degrees to the bar's edge. "Really subtle."

  The mA unit holds its gaze briefly before resuming its stance. The temperature seems to drop several degrees in its wake.

  "Well," I say, watching Carl retreat to the far end of the bar where he resumes his epic battle with spotless glassware, "that was-"

  "Interesting timing." Elena's voice behind me nearly sends me into cardiac arrest. She slides onto the stool next to mine with the kind of casual grace that suggests she's been there all along, just waiting for the right moment to give me a heart attack. "Especially since Cade hasn't left his executive suite in seventy-two hours."

  "Jesus," I clutch my chest, "we need to get you a bell or something."

  "Even with a bell, I could still sneak up on you," she says drily, signaling Carl for a drink. "You both look awful."

  Gary leans forward, nearly faceplanting into his Neural Recalibration Cocktail. "So Cade's just... what? Under robot house arrest?"

  "House arrest implies the possibility of parole," Elena's voice carries the kind of weariness that comes from watching everything go perfectly wrong. "This is more like..." She pauses as Carl delivers her drink - some clear liquid that probably costs more than my annual content budget. "Let's just say our AI friends are very invested in his comfort and safety."

  "Very invested," Jenn echoes, finally looking up from her glass. "Like how my mother was 'very invested' in my decision to not become a professional skydiver?"

  "More like how sharks are 'very invested' in keeping fish from leaving the school," Elena takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving the mA unit's perfect posture. "Except these sharks wear chrome and look for trouble."

  Elena sets her glass down with the kind of precision that suggests she's done this move before. "You know what you need?" Her eyes lock with mine in a way that makes my survival instinct start drafting its resignation letter. "A proper tour of the ship. The areas."

  I catch her emphasis like a life preserver in shark-infested waters. "Exclusive like... executive suite exclusive?"

  "Exactly." She stands, straightening her uniform with practiced casualness. "Security's required to give tours to approved content creators. For promotional purposes, of course."

  "Right now?" Gary asks, his tie achieving new heights of geometrical rebellion. "It's kind of late for-"

  "Perfect time," Elena cuts in smoothly. "Quieter. More... intimate. Better for capturing those special moments that make Aurora Prime unique."

  My drone bobs nervously beside me, its cracked lens catching the bar's soft light in ways that make shadows dance like they're auditioning for a horror movie. "Well," I manage, standing with what I hope looks like professional interest rather than barely contained panic, "can't turn down an exclusive tour. My followers love that behind-the-scenes content."

  "Just try not to get too… get locked up," Jenn mutters into her drink, not looking up.

  "Shall we?" Elena gestures toward the exit, her casual tone carrying just enough edge to slice through steel. "The night's not getting any younger."

  And neither are our chances of surviving it, I think but don't say. Instead, I follow her lead, leaving Gary and Jenn to their Neural Recalibration Cocktails and the watchful eyes of our chrome-plated observers.