It could still be a trap, his subroutines warned, interrupting Trak’s thoughts. Your allies could be dead or captured.
Trak took their words under advisement.
They might be right, he thought. But I've never encountered a technology that could fool my biolock.
He had to assume his friends were safe for the moment.
And if they weren’t, he would find a way to break his own safeguard against harming intelligent life, hack into the Tour Guide’s programming, turn every one of its sensory logarithms into a pain simulators and torture the Aye over several centuries.
He’d done it before, for less honorable reasons.
But he put those thoughts aside and tried to enjoy himself.
Trak spun in a circle, his arms outstretched, firing metal projectiles from his shoulder turrets.
He'd seen organics do this before -- if not using weaponry, they called these rhythmic motions "dancing" -- and he'd always wanted to try it.
Dancing in a pyromaniac’s dream garden, Trak was gloriously happy.