home

search

[29]

  The door to Amy's room slid open with a soft mechanical hiss. Simon stepped to the side and gestured silently.

  Jonsy walked past him into the room.

  She moved slowly, uncertainly, wearing Simon's old body—repaired and stripped of its structure gel. The movements were smooth, almost human, but she could feel the weight of it with every step. It didn’t quite feel like hers yet. But for now, it would have to be.

  Amy lay in her bed, a still figure beneath the gentle flicker of artificial light. Jonsy stopped the moment she saw her. Her breath caught—or it would have, if breath were still a thing she possessed.

  Amy was no longer whole.

  Only her head remained, attached crudely to the torso of a robot. The rest of her body—gone. Replaced by steel and cables. Her desfigurated face, peaceful in sleep, was the last trace of the person she had once been.

  Jonsy dropped to her knees beside the bed.

  Her fist clenched tightly against the edge of the mattress.

  For a long moment, she couldn’t speak.

  "What happened to her?" she finally asked, her voice fragile and low.

  "It's my fault," Simon admitted quietly. "She was being kept alive by the structure gel. When I found her, tubes of gel were threaded through her chest, connected to a set of synthetic lungs—if you could call them that. I think her real lungs were damaged. Maybe ruptured."

  He paused. The weight of it hung between them.

  "I thought... I thought it would be better to save her that way. Better than letting her rot alone in the dark."

  Jonsy stared at Amy's mechanical hand. Slowly, carefully, she reached out and took it in hers. The cold metal felt so alien. So wrong.

  "Is there anything you can do for her?"

  Simon hesitated, then nodded.

  "If I can access a more complete medical database—neural implants, neurochemical records—I might be able to do more. Give her something better than this."

  Jonsy gave a faint nod.

  Simon stepped closer, his alien silhouette casting long, sharp shadows against the wall.

  "Did you know there are other sites around PATHOS-II?" he asked.

  Jonsy turned to him, surprised. "No. I didn’t."

  "Neither did I. Not until recently. I met someone—a construct housing the consciousness of a backup engineer from Site Lambda. His name is Elias Moreau."

  He paused, watching her reaction.

  "He was a spy. Sent by Carthage Industries. Still... he told me there are four sites still functioning. Two to the north, two to the south. I plan to head south. They're the closest."

  Jonsy’s eyes returned to Amy.

  "You can come with me," Simon offered.

  She didn’t answer at first.

  Then, softly: "I think I’ll stay here a while longer. If you don’t need me."

  Simon nodded.

  He reached over his shoulder and pulled out a small device. A call station—simple and sturdy. Plastic and metal, with a single blinking light.

  "Something to use if you want to reach me. I doubt anything will happen, but... just to be safe."

  Jonsy took it in both hands. The weight of it was grounding. She gave a single, solemn nod.

  Simon turned and walked toward the door, his frame moving with quiet certainty.

  She watched him go.

  The door closed behind him with a final, gentle hiss.

  Jonsy turned back to Amy, holding tightly her robot hand.

  The warmth was nonexistent. But the emotion in her chest was not.

  Her thoughts swirled with what Simon had told her.

  Everyone from PATHOS-II was dead. Every flesh-and-blood being. Gone.

  Only minds remained. Ghosts in shells. Echoes of lives once lived.

  She bowed her head.

  And for a long, quiet stretch, she simply sat there—holding Amy’s hand—while the steady hum of the station whispered through the silence like the last breath of a world long gone.

  The communication relay was back online, and Simon wasted no time.

  He sat on a worn couch, his consciousness directly linked to the systems of PATHOS-II. Lambda was slowly being reintegrated into his expanding network as drones continued their repairs. His thoughts moved swiftly, sending pings across the ocean floor toward the regions Elias had shown him—where the four sites should be. So far, there had been nothing—just silence. Perhaps it was damage from the comet impact. Or perhaps they simply didn’t want to be found.

  He tried not to dwell on the possibilities.

  Then came a soft chime.

  A ping.

  Simon straightened, alert.

  One of the drones he had dispatched had made contact. It was scanning the southern quadrant. It had found something.

  A video feed shimmered into view.

  The camera descended through the ocean depths, gliding over dunes of sediment that stirred into a drifting fog. The drone's floodlights flickered on, casting wide beams into the dark. Gradually, a shape emerged from the gloom.

  It was massive.

  A dome-like station embedded in the seafloor, its reinforced plating aged but intact. Coral and seaweed threaded along the outer walls like veins clinging to the past. Despite years beneath crushing pressure, the station endured. The faded yellow paint still bore a name, clearly visible through the silt: SITE MIRNA.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Simon blinked.

  To his astonishment, the station looked operational.

  There were superficial scars—dents, scrapes, and weathering—but the domes remained sealed. Lights pulsed in rhythm across its surface, dim but alive. The docking bay showed signs of impact, yet remained structurally sound. The power grid still hummed beneath the shell.

  Even more surprising: there was no sign of WAU corruption. No writhing biomass. No blackened tendrils or mechanical tumors.

  The drone adjusted its lens, focusing on movement ahead.

  At first, Simon thought it might be a person.

  But as the camera zoomed in, he realized it was a maintenance drone—sleek, compact, and fully operational. It moved along a cracked panel, welding and sealing with quiet precision. Its limbs flexed smoothly, its actions fluid and practiced.

  A functioning maintenance system.

  Automated protocols still running.

  No human. But something alive in a different way.

  Simon leaned forward, watching closely. This wasn’t a derelict ruin.

  SITE MIRNA was still alive.

  That alone made it worth the journey.

  His synthetic fingers curled into a fist, steady now.

  Coordinates locked.

  Destination set.

  Simon stood before the freshly assembled diving suit, custom-built to accommodate his augmented frame. The old PATHOS-II suits had proven too small for him now. This one was broader, taller, reinforced with upgraded plating along the chest and limbs. It looked like a deep-sea exosuit designed for war.

  He was intimidating now—towering at 210 centimeters, or nearly 6 feet 11 inches.

  He moved slowly, deliberately, as he stepped into the suit. Piece by piece, it encased him. Legs, arms, chest. Finally, the helmet. As it sealed into place, the glass visor darkened, rendering his face invisible.

  Good, he thought. If there was someone still alive at Site MIRNA, at least this way he wouldn’t scare them half to death.

  He picked up the handheld propulsion unit—a small, streamlined glider about the size of an old vacuum cleaner. It had a single, powerful fan at its rear and two handles with embedded sensors for control. Efficient, quiet. It would get him to MIRNA quickly.

  The depressurization chamber flooded with cold seawater. When it finished cycling, the outer hatch groaned open.

  Simon stepped into the ocean.

  "I’m leaving," he transmitted to Jonsy through the comms. "See you soon."

  The glider’s fan spun up, and Simon glided forward towards his destination

  The journey to Site MIRNA was smooth, the glider humming gently as it pulled him through the blue gloom. Soon, the station loomed before him like some ancient titan resting beneath the waves.

  He cut speed and drifted to a stop behind an outcropping of rock, just on the edge of the station’s visibility. His sensors pinged silently, scanning.

  No active defenses detected—but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

  His visor zoomed in.

  There. A door.

  He approached slowly, every movement precise. The possibility that MIRNA had automated defense systems wasn’t far-fetched.

  He finally reached the outer entrance.

  A camera perched just above the doorway, its lens glinting with reflected light.

  Simon raised a hand and waved.

  For a moment, nothing happened. He reached for the access panel beside the door, preparing to override the lock—

  —and then, to his surprise, the door slid open.

  He stepped into the depressurization chamber. Water hissed and drained away.

  The inner door slid open.

  And standing at the end of the short hallway was a woman.

  She had short-cropped dark hair, tied back in a practical style, and a stern, weathered face. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—sharp, dark—were locked onto him.

  Suspicion. Caution. Maybe even fear.

  Simon froze.

  The hallway lights cast long shadows across his armored frame.

  Then, slowly, he raised one hand and gave a small wave.

  "Hello there," he said through the external speakers, voice modulated but calm.

  The woman didn’t move.

  But she didn’t run either.

  That was a start.

  "Are you from PATHOS-II?" the woman asked, voice steady but guarded.

  Simon nodded slowly. "My name’s Simon."

  She didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on him—unreadable, analytical. She crossed her arms and took a half-step back.

  "Take off your helmet."

  Simon paused. His hand lifted toward the helmet instinctively.

  "Sure, I—I'll try."

  He grabbed the edges of the helmet and pulled.

  A low groan could be heard as he struggled.

  "Just... come... off... already," he grunted, wrenching and twisting.

  The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

  "Keep your helmet on," she said finally, deadpan.

  Simon stopped, exhaling sharply. "Got it."

  It had worked—his awkward fumbling had made him seem almost harmless. Human.

  He stepped forward slowly and extended a hand.

  The woman looked him up and down again. Then at his outstretched hand.

  She didn’t take it.

  "Follow me," she said curtly. "And don’t touch anything."

  Simon nodded and fell in line behind her.

  They walked through a large chamber that resembled a communal living space—though the light was sterile, the design efficient rather than comfortable. The walls were layered with vents and conduits, and multiple sealed doors branched off in all directions.

  As they moved, Simon began to sink his consciousness deeper into the station’s systems, subtle and careful. A digital whisper, unnoticed.

  He almost gasped.

  The data pouring into his awareness was staggering.

  This wasn’t just a station. It was a vault.

  A genetic archive.

  Biological samples from every known species—extinct and present. DNA banks. Tissue cultures. Seeds. Microorganisms. Even neural maps from long-dead megafauna. Hundreds of thousands of genetic blueprints were stored in cryogenic chambers below them.

  And what he was seeing now was only the tip of the iceberg. There was an entire subterranean level—deeper, locked tight.

  A vault of humanity’s legacy.

  He accessed the security logs. The protection systems were rudimentary by modern standards, probably because the site had no external link. A bubble. Isolated.

  He blinked. The lower levels stored human DNA. A full archive.

  Security tightened drastically at that point. His access stalled.

  They reached a small side room—narrow, industrial, filled with tools and storage shelves. She stopped and turned.

  "Lean forward," the woman ordered. "I’ll unlock your helmet."

  Simon obeyed.

  She approached with a compact tool in hand. Reached for the seam of the helmet.

  Then—

  The lights flickered.

  Only for a second. But in that second, the room fell into darkness.

  When they came back, Simon felt the locking mechanism disengage.

  The helmet hissed. Released.

  He slowly pulled it off.

  And when he did, the woman froze.

  Her eyes widened.

  She went pale.

  Simon’s face was gone. In its place were smooth dark humanoid contours , crowned by a pair dark lenses of black glass. There were no human features. No mouth. No nose. Just the faint blue glow behind the lenses where his eyes should have been.

  She stumbled back a step.

  Her mouth opened. No words came.

  Simon held still.

  "I’m not what I was," he said quietly, gently. "But I’m still Simon."

  The woman stared, her throat tight, heart racing.

  He could see it in her face—shock and fear.

  He lowered the helmet to his side and didn’t move.

  "I'm not here to hurt you," he added.

  For a long moment, she said nothing.

  But she didn’t run.

  And she didn’t scream.

  Then she bolted.

  Simon saw it a heartbeat before it happened. She spun and rushed toward the exit, eyes wide, breath sharp.

  The door sealed before she could reach it.

  She pounded on it once with a closed fist. Then turned, glaring at him.

  Simon held up his hands. "Please. I'm not your enemy."

  She didn’t reply. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her hands trembled slightly.

  "Are there others here?" Simon asked softly. "Anyone else?"

  Still no answer.

  She stared at him, lips pressed tightly shut.

  Simon sighed, quietly.

  The silence between them was thick, electric.

  Whatever trust had briefly begun to grow was now shattered.

  Simon sat in silence as data streamed through his mind. The system finally pinged back an ID.

  The diving suit he had found at Upsilon. The one without a head.

  Name: Dr. Aron Vellner

  Occupation: Systems Biologist

  Simon stared at the data.

  He turned to the woman, who sat stiffly across from him. "Were you friends with Dr. Aron Vellner?"

  She looked up sharply, eyes hard. "What did you do to him?"

  Simon didn’t flinch.

  "Your friend... is dead."

  She grabbed the tool she had used to open his helmet and hurled it. It spun through the air, aimed squarely at his head.

  He caught it in one hand with ease.

  "I didn’t kill him," Simon said evenly. "Something happened at PATHOS-II. Some of the robots... they went violent. Your friend met one of them. It killed him."

  He lowered himself to one knee.

  "Look, I just want to talk. I promise—I’m not here to hurt you."

  The woman stared at him, her breath shallow.

  "What are you?" she asked at last. "I've never seen anything like you before. Are you some kind of secret prototype?"

  Simon hesitated. Then reached into the system.

  Her file blinked open.

  Name: Dr. Lilja Sveinsdóttir

  Title: Geneticist and Preservation Specialist

  Specialty: Cryogenic DNA Sequencing and Species Restoration Protocols

  He looked back at her.

  "You’re not just a survivor. You were one of the architects of this place."

  Her jaw tensed.

  "That doesn’t answer my question."

  Simon met her gaze. The faint glow behind his lenses softened.

  "I was human," he said. "Once. I had a life, a job, friends. Then a scan—and a hundred years later... I woke up in a body like this. I’m a ghost from the past. I’m Simon Jarrett."

  Her eyes widened.

  "A legacy scan..." she murmured.

  She knew who he was.

Recommended Popular Novels