Terminal Fuse

{SEVEN}

The Final Thoughts of Archibald McTaggart:

I've started writing down these thoughts because I have nothing better to do. Thus, without the paper journal that hopefully remains hidden many stories above me, I have nothing better to do than transcribe my collective consciousness into this mainframe, one irrelevant word at a time. It's silly how one's entire life can be... ultimately irrelevant.

***

It's Mia. Her mouth flops open, speechless.

Trembling, my hand come up to cover my face, or that part of my face that isn't really me, and—

"Angeline, you're alive!" She bounds forward, arms latching around me. Her hold's so tight all I can do is wait for her to stop. She doesn't — not for a full minute, far longer than I feel comfortable with. When she does release me, it's with a smirk, saying, "You know, you're not the Phantom of the Opera. That hand's not hiding anything."

I grimace but lower my hand. Despite my fear, seeing her fills me with hope, like she's some divine messenger and I'm one of the prophets of old.

"Man, that's fucking cool."

My eyebrows wrinkle in confusion.

"What? Your robot eyebrow even moves? God, I wish I'd gotten my face blown off."

And I manage a small laugh, "Trust me, it didn't feel very cool."

"Hmm, guess that makes sense... and it looks like you got a friend out of it. Is that an abhorex?"

"Yes," I say uneasily, "His name's Bitty. I promise he doesn't bite." Mentally, I send him a command: lay down, don't move — and he complies. I hope that image relaxes Mia.

But she doesn't seem to care, cuz she offers Bitty her hand, and he sniffs it then looks at me, "He's cute — in that, evil Gremlins sorta way. Victoria will hate him, Jaydon too."

"I know. I can't believe you're okay with him."

Mia braves scratching Bitty under his chin, and I sense his digital aura changes. His attentiveness subsides, his breathing relaxes, and he purrs and leans into her hand. "He reminds me of my German Shepherd — just really big," she says, "How could I find that scary?"

"Let's just hope the rest of the team's okay with him too," I say.

"Oh, they won't be. Right now, they're on Level One, inspecting the body of a dead abhorex they found by the elevator. They're hoping they can find a good way to kill all of them."

"And you? What are you doing?"

"Come see," she says, pulling me into the room, which is compact but comfortable — an office, maybe. The floor is strew with our team's supplies, everything salvageable from the Humvee: backup M16s — which is good cuz mine is long gone, plus some spare ammo and food rations. But the supply is low, scary low.

"What is this place?" I ask.

"Not sure. Victoria had hoped it was a comm station," her voice is disheartened with every word, and I don't need to ask to know that any attempts to get a message out were futile.

So what is this place then?

One of the walls is almost entirely blank. There's a circle there, set into the wall. It reminds me of a bookshop by my house, which has reading niches, padded and quiet — except this wall lacks the cushioning. The circle itself is faceted and glossy, and perched beside it, protruding from the wall, is a control panel and keyboard. Meanwhile, the other wall holds a sliding-glass bookcase, lined with manuals, and over a box in the corner, Mia's thrown her fatigues. I'm mildly curious to read what's on those shelves, but what's centerstage interests me most.