Copy & Waste
A Short Story
By Stephen O'Neil
Part 9 of 9 - First Page - Previous Page
“Is your clearance high enough here?”
She raised an eyebrow as she gave him a mischievous grin. “You think that matters? The man who programmed me knew a thing or two about neural data networks.”
“I suppose so,” he chuckled. Some of his subordinates were heavily involved in administration and maintenance on the corporate data network. He had enlisted their help in programming Vermisa with certain useful skills.
He noted that she now appeared lost in thought. He knew better than to interrupt her when he saw that look. This was delicate work.
After a minute that seemed like an hour she looked at him again. “I have it. It’s close.”
“Close?”
She winked at him. “Close enough that we can get there and take a look without anyone knowing.”
“Good.” He was suddenly feeling very apprehensive about the idea now. Best to do it before he lost his nerve or he might always regret missing his chance. “What about security?”
“I’ve obtained the necessary access.”
“Guards?”
“I can check ahead as we move.”
He nodded, “Ok. Let’s make this quick.”
She closed her eyes again for a moment as she connected with the neural controls of his wheelchair. Shortly after, the chair and its occupant followed her from the room.
A short walk and two floors downward found them outside a double door. Vermisa waited for a pair of scientists to pass before whispering to Grigori. “This is it. Are you ready?”
He shrugged. “Probably not, but here we are. Let’s go in.”
She gently pushed the door open and then stood aside as the wheelchair passed, with her stepping in to the room after it.
Grigori could see little at first until a soft tap behind told him that Vermisa was turning on a switch. The light turned on gradually, its soft illumination washing over the contents of the room. Grigori’s eyes were fixed on a low bed ahead of him. It was surrounded by various machinery. The bed’s supine occupant was shockingly familiar, apart from the tubes which protruded from both arms and one side of the neck.
Grigori steeled himself before looking directly at his old body, when he noticed one of the machines off to the side, beeping rhythmically. The heart rate monitor was unmistakable. There was a pulse.
He was about to comment on this when the figure on the bed opened his eyes, the gaze falling upon the visitor who stood by the door. “Vermisa,” he gasped with a great deal of effort. “It didn’t work. I’m still…”
His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted to his other visitor. The young man in the wheelchair, mouth agape on a face he hadn’t seen in many years.
The old, wide eyed Grigori made a strangled cry and shook convulsively before collapsing back on to his bed.
The young Grigori looked on in horror as the rhythmical beeping was replaced by a single, long tone.