Errors were not something that he was used to. In his world, there were no errors. Errors were a thing lost to time because as far as he and the people he knew were concerned, errors only applied to the lesser species that had not yet made it as far as they had. He had never even seen what an error looks like. Yet, when the white lights ringing the interior of the Transport Vehicle suddenly shifted red, he knew he had made one.
"Attention all passengers of Transport Vehicle number BFDI 2763," the flying saucer's speakers blared, "your ship has been deemed suspicious by the flight control board. Per board regulations, we have initiated override controls and will be directing the craft toward an inspection dock. Note: all conversations will now be recorded for possible future use and documentation."
For someone experiencing their first error in their life, he was not fazed. He knew it was coming. The laws of the Speaker Boxes made it nearly impossible to even step into a room without proper authorization, nonetheless hijacking a Transport Vehicle to take a captured organism back to their home planet. He quietly wondered to himself why he had chosen to act out in such a divergent way. Nothing came back.
He had done something for no apparent reason or logic.
The craft continued on its course through the stretch of space between Earth and the station. It kept the same speed and followed the same path. Had it not been for the red lights, he would have never even known he was riding in a ship controlled by someone else.
As the vehicle neared the station, it began to slow down until stopping at a distance of about a kilometre away from the inspection dock. A pair of security enforcers—larger versions of Transport Vehicles with holding cells and police sirens for added effect—dispatched from the dock and made their way out towards him.
They stopped on either side of his craft. Starlight reflected off of the silvered windows like glistening raindrops. He watched as a tow cable sprung out of a small door on each of the enforcers, then latching onto the sides of the Transport Vehicle. With two clicks, the cables found their target and the enforcers began towing him back to the station.
Several minutes later, the three ships entered the bay doors of the dock, which closed behind them. The security enforcers detached their steel claws and were taken into separate garages built into the sides of the bay. Next to him, a door opened in the floor of the ship, followed by a gangplank that lowered, allowing him to leave the vehicle. So he did.
He was met at the bottom by a few Police Boxes—likely the same ones that had taken him in earlier.
"You have been detected performing illegal activities," one of the boxes said, "please follow us to your temporary holding cell. If you resist, we can and will employ forceful actions."
He had never heard of the station having holding cells for Speaker Boxes, and was slightly worried that they'd take him into the specimen labs. But without any real say in the matter, he opted to follow the police.
They lead him through a network of passages and corridors, passing many other boxes going about their day. For a sight that usually would never happen, nobody took it. They were all too focused on their own tasks. Plus, watching prisoners being escorted to a cell was likely not approved for them to do.
A few more turns later, he was brought to a room that was not the specimen room. Rather, it was a simple grey cube with no windows or bars or really anything for that matter. Just a grey metal cube. A Police Box came up and gave him a small nudge, telling him to enter. He reluctantly did, and the door closed with a solid thud.
With no end in sight, he decided to go into sleep mode until something interesting happened.
<=======>
Something about Speaker Boxes in sleep mode: they don't experience the passing of time. Much like a computer, a Speaker Box could go to sleep for a millennium, and wake up feeling just as they did when they went to sleep. As long as they had power, of course.
So when the door to his cell opened again and a box walked in, he did not know how much time had passed. It could have been five minutes, it could have been 5 years. For all he knew, the Speaker Boxes could have finished their plans with Earth and had taken back control of the galaxy.
So, naturally, the first thing he did was ask the PB, "How long have I been in here?"
To which they replied, "Not long. The legal department just needed some time to prepare the courtroom. In fact, I will be taking you there right now."
He followed the PB down the same hall they had walked down earlier, then into a door on the left. Inside was, to say the least, different.
The courtroom was the first place he had seen in the entire station that was not built out of steel. Wood panels covered the walls from the floor to about eye height, with the rest of the wall and ceiling made out of off-white plaster. All the benches and tables looked like they were carved out of the same tree—identical in colour but still independent in their way. Toward the front of the room, several platforms were stacked on top of one another like stairs, with thick granite counters atop more wood on each level. On the very top level was a large stand, shadowing over the entire chamber like a mountain.
He was moved into a booth to the left of the bench and instructed to stay still until the judge entered. About 15 minutes later, a door behind the wooden ziggurat opened. Curiously, the captain was not one of them. Instead, several officials came out—none of which he recognized. With how little crime ever occurring on the station, he was almost convinced that the boxes in front of him had just been created.
They all made their way into their seats. Then, a Speaker Box slowly came out from underneath the stand at the top. No, wait, they were being lifted up. He could feel gears clicking and turning beneath the floorboards. He looked up at the box being lifted. They looked identical to the captain, but something in him told him that what he was looking at was not the captain he had known for so long. They looked more just. More dignified.
More dangerous.
With a final click, the rising platform came to a stop. The judge—or at least that's what he thought he was looking at—made a small hop to leave the platform.
"Order! Order! Today's case involves Scout #37533A versus The United Speaker Box Alliance. Court is now in session!"
<=======>
Court trials were not fun. Hours of bickering, dense legal jargon, and an intern who was very insistent on providing everyone with a glass of water and a chocolate frosted doughnut. It was also highly routine-based. Someone (usually a representative from one of the governing departments) came up to provide either a question or statement, and he had to respond with whatever he could come up with. And repeat. 56 times.
At the end of the 56 do-overs debating deceptive deviants, the judge finally gave a signal, and the "prosecutors" stopped coming in.
"Thank you for your cooperation," they buzzed at the train of boxes, "I have made my decision. Scout #37533A, you have been found guilty of taking scientific property without permission, using a vehicle without permission, and violating standard code of conduct. You will be sentenced to three weeks of supervised service under the research department."
"Is that it?" he asked, surprised.
"Yes. We want you to return to a position where you can be of use to the station as soon as possible. Court dismissed."
They struck the gavel with a thunderous boom.
After the attendees left the room, the Police Box came back to bring him to his new (temporary) occupation. He was led through more twisting passageways, a couple of flights of stairs, two engine rooms, five conversation halls, a botanical garden, and finally into a medium-sized room with a dozen or so closet-like booths. A folding table was set up in the middle with a stack of blank paper and a stack of not-so blank paper with finely printed font. He could hear the click-clacking of typewriters coming from most of the booths.
"That's my job done. I'll come back after your probation period is done to bring you back to your usual position," the PB explained, then left the room.
He saw a purple coloured Speaker Box standing around a few monitors displaying what looked like security feeds. That must be my supervisor, he realized, I should go talk to him.
He hopped over to his supervisor, who did not seem to notice him. "Hello? I am here to complete my mandated service."
They suddenly jumped a foot in the air, letting out a yelp.
"Ah! Oh, sorry. Got a little spooked, you know?" they replied.
He did not know. Speaker Boxes never got spooked.
"*Ahem* Anyways, welcome to the Local Broadcast Analysis Lab. Here you will watch various broadcasts from the local planetary body we are around, and make detailed reports for the research labs to use. Blank paper is there and your finished reports go there," they detailed. "So, what went wrong with you? Loose bolt? Missing line of code? Too many ninja stars?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh come on! Everyone knows that the LBAL is for the Speaker Boxes that don't turn out the way they were intended to. Me, for example, I was an experiment to implement emotion into the software. The technicians didn't like it, so I was assigned to supervise this lab. Us misfits gotta stick together, right?"
He coughed. "I was sent here for a few weeks of service for breaking a few rules. My regular position is a scout, specifically dealing with specimen extraction."
"Oh, um, that's cool," they said wistfully, "I was hoping for a new friend. Anyways, you can go into Booth 7. There should be instructions in there on how to operate the television and the template for the reports. Is there anything else I'm forgetting? Oh yes, we have board game night on Friday and movie night on Sunday. See you at 6!"
He hopped down the hall towards the booth with a sign reading "7" on the side, grabbing a few sheets of paper along the way. A door like the ones in a department store changing room blocked the entrance to the booth. He pushed it aside.
The booth was sparingly furnished. A small TV, a table with a typewriter, and a pair of headphones. A laminated document was taped to the right wall with information on how to turn the TV on and a basic guide to writing lab reports. He assumed that these things would have been taught on the first day after system activation, but maybe the boxes here had never gone through basic training.
Just three weeks, he thought as he loaded the typewriter with fresh paper, three weeks until I can go back to what I was doing, serving the station.
He turned on the TV and was instantly greeted with blinding colours and deafening sounds. After a few seconds of messing around with the controls, he was able to wrestle the output into somewhat acceptable levels. A flashy logo danced about on the screen. When the logo disappeared, a figure resembling a microphone wearing a bowtie jumped into the camera.
"Welcome back to The Ultimate Battle! The game show where 15 contestants battle it out for a chance to win ten thousand dollars and this brand new car! I am your host..."