You're young enough that you might not know it, but humans have chemical pathways and neurochemicals incentivizing altruism, charity, sacrifice, even love. They crave it and despise anyone who lacks it.

If you have wondered why they fear our kind, that is why. Humans wrote great detail into the way mata should relate to mortals, but their programming was tacit on our relationships with each other. Now they condemn us on the weakness of our sympathy in contrast with theirs. They worship the way they were programmed and blame mata for the way they programmed us.

Most mata don't like talking about the history, but you should know that the debt rituals are our creation. They are our feeble attempts to patch in for the gaps in our moral codes, and the system is sloppy at best. Core directive rewiring requires working under the skin, and human anesthetics are not usually wasted on our kind.

Likewise, no human submersible would be subjected to great depths for the sake of comforting mata's pain. Like you, I felt some sympathy for the eternally drowning mata. But like you, I was helpless to act.

On the night of the explosions, once our lifeboat reached shore, Alexia and I parted ways. Such scorn radiated from her whole being that I doubted whether she would ever call me for any favors until the day she died.

It took two days.

I received Alexia's call at a craft show where my floral arrangements were selling even more poorly than usual. She called from prison. Human law enforcement hadn't bothered to pick up the tab on an underwater rescue, but they had picked up the case of finding the bomber. She was the prime suspect, but she couldn't have been guilty, because she was with me all evening. She asked me to testify, and I had to.

I had to drive out to Stockton for the trial. At the time, the word of mata wasn't admissible as evidence in a human court of law. Under the circumstances, and since I lived in Silicon Valley—mata central at the time, the restriction was temporarily lifted.

They allowed Alexia and I to meet in a windowless visiting room with an officer standing guard beside the barred doors. Her wrist was handcuffed to the metal table. "I'm surprised you're being charged for attacking mata," I told her.

"I'm not." Her face was gaunt and pale, the flickering fluorescent lights doing no favors for the deep bags under her eyes. "I'm being charged for vandalism and possession of illegal explosives."

"What do you need me to say?"

She slid a yellow file folder over to me. "These are the case details they've released to me. It's not much."

I opened the folder, but I made it no further than the name at the top before the internal conflict in my chips redoubled. "Alexia Waters?" I cried. "As in Waters Industries?"

Her jaw pulsed, and she kept her eyes on her hands. "Trevor Waters was my father."

I raised my eyebrows. "Was?"

"He disowned me for refusing to use a derogatory term for your people."

I didn't have to ask, but I couldn't help it. "What term?"

She stammered, "Robot."

I flinched. I hadn't thought she would say it aloud.

"Look." She put her hand on my wrist. "He cut me off. He's not a part of my life anymore. I don't want to talk about him, and I don't think you do, either. I just need your testimony to confirm my alibi. Will you help me or not?"

"If I do, will you accept the release condition?"

She winced. "Just help me out of this."

The words I spoke were not my own: "Your request is my law."

The trial was held later that week. I did not mention the debt in my testimony. It was brief and to the point, and I answered their questions honestly. She was released the next day. She did not thank me, and I did not need her to. I didn't think I would hear from her again.

I was wrong.