that?
Fridge: Do not fail this time. If you don’t get the Protocol, nothing can stop Roach.
COMPLETELY 10010000
I looked for a door handle on the snakeskin fridge. I looked for a latch. Instead, I found a seam inside a flap of skin. Like a puckered scar. It was oozing neon green glop.
“Reach inside,” the fridge whispered.
So I wormed my hand to the inside, which was slimy and warm and throbbing faintly.
Dis. Gusting.
“Deeper,” the fridge said. “Until your elbow is at the seam.”
So I shoved my hand in deeper, until my elbow disappeared into the seam. And my fingertips felt … something.Something harder and more distinct than warm humming goo.
I hooked an edge with my fingers and pulled against the resistance of the glop inside. Then another edge, and another. Finally, with a wet
splooch
, I dragged three meaty chunks through the seam.
And they did look kinda like T-bone steaks, except with touch screens and stubby little plugs—which might’ve been cool if I hadn’t been covered in snakeskin-fridge goo.
AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR
Hey. This is Jamie. I’m posting this a couple of months after the Center exploded, and a couple thousand miles away. And with the benefit of hindsight.
This whole story is about to get so crazy—well, so much crazier—that I told Doug he should explain some things.
He said, “If you think it’s a problem, you do it.”
He’s such a bug sometimes.
Anyway, to give you some background, let me start with myself: your classic case of “poor little rich girl.” My parents were—
are
—both lawyers. They made a lot of money, but they worked seventy hours a week and spent another ten driving back and forth to their offices in the city.
I had everything, kinda. They loved me, they provided for me—but they were never really
there
for me. Unlike Doug’s aunt.
So I used to act out a little, and … Let’s just say that I’ve been to my share of therapists. I’m over all that, though. Mostly thanks to Dr. Solomon. After Bug and I became friends, she really took me under her wing. She’s sort of my hero. She said I’ve got the mind for science, too, which is all I’ve ever wanted.
Enough of my personal Hallmark Moment.
What I want to explain is this:
First, those test skunks were digitized. Their bodies died, and they existed only as digital information.
Then there’s the new Awareness that Bug mentioned. We had no clue what was happening in the Center’s data banks at the time, of course. But that Awareness spawned from Dr. Solomon’s scanned mind, then merged with the Center’s AI, forming a brand-new identity. And that Awareness grafted a backup copy of the Protocol, which Roach didn’t know about, onto the skunks. So three digital skunks contained the most powerful cybernautic code on the planet.
But their minds were stuck in the machine. The output paths were destroyed.
Soon they’d die, too.
That’s what those “steaks” were: a way to output scanned minds into physical bodies. Kind of like clay that you can sculptinto any shape. Because when you transfer a digital entity to the real world, you need
something
from which the body can grow. Well, usually.
So once the Center gave the right commands, the “steaks” would grow back into real skunks—into Larkspur, Cosmo, and Poppy.
Except
now
they’d contain the Protocol.
Only one catch: for precision work like that, to re-create the test skunks exactly, you needed the HostLink in workshop seven. Otherwise, things could get
craaaazy
.
CHAMBER OF HORRORS
Me again. Doug. While I was getting those techno-steaks,
this
conversation was happening across the Center:
“Commander Hund,” Roach said, tapping at a wall-display keyboard, “I’ve intercepted a communication to the boy.”
Hund turned from the door. “Where is he?”
“Heading for workshop seven—just like you.” Roach touched a few more keys. “There! I finished prepping the HostLink for transport. You’re
Fridge: Do not fail this time. If you don’t get the Protocol, nothing can stop Roach.
COMPLETELY 10010000
I looked for a door handle on the snakeskin fridge. I looked for a latch. Instead, I found a seam inside a flap of skin. Like a puckered scar. It was oozing neon green glop.
“Reach inside,” the fridge whispered.
So I wormed my hand to the inside, which was slimy and warm and throbbing faintly.
Dis. Gusting.
“Deeper,” the fridge said. “Until your elbow is at the seam.”
So I shoved my hand in deeper, until my elbow disappeared into the seam. And my fingertips felt … something.Something harder and more distinct than warm humming goo.
I hooked an edge with my fingers and pulled against the resistance of the glop inside. Then another edge, and another. Finally, with a wet
splooch
, I dragged three meaty chunks through the seam.
And they did look kinda like T-bone steaks, except with touch screens and stubby little plugs—which might’ve been cool if I hadn’t been covered in snakeskin-fridge goo.
AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR
Hey. This is Jamie. I’m posting this a couple of months after the Center exploded, and a couple thousand miles away. And with the benefit of hindsight.
This whole story is about to get so crazy—well, so much crazier—that I told Doug he should explain some things.
He said, “If you think it’s a problem, you do it.”
He’s such a bug sometimes.
Anyway, to give you some background, let me start with myself: your classic case of “poor little rich girl.” My parents were—
are
—both lawyers. They made a lot of money, but they worked seventy hours a week and spent another ten driving back and forth to their offices in the city.
I had everything, kinda. They loved me, they provided for me—but they were never really
there
for me. Unlike Doug’s aunt.
So I used to act out a little, and … Let’s just say that I’ve been to my share of therapists. I’m over all that, though. Mostly thanks to Dr. Solomon. After Bug and I became friends, she really took me under her wing. She’s sort of my hero. She said I’ve got the mind for science, too, which is all I’ve ever wanted.
Enough of my personal Hallmark Moment.
What I want to explain is this:
First, those test skunks were digitized. Their bodies died, and they existed only as digital information.
Then there’s the new Awareness that Bug mentioned. We had no clue what was happening in the Center’s data banks at the time, of course. But that Awareness spawned from Dr. Solomon’s scanned mind, then merged with the Center’s AI, forming a brand-new identity. And that Awareness grafted a backup copy of the Protocol, which Roach didn’t know about, onto the skunks. So three digital skunks contained the most powerful cybernautic code on the planet.
But their minds were stuck in the machine. The output paths were destroyed.
Soon they’d die, too.
That’s what those “steaks” were: a way to output scanned minds into physical bodies. Kind of like clay that you can sculptinto any shape. Because when you transfer a digital entity to the real world, you need
something
from which the body can grow. Well, usually.
So once the Center gave the right commands, the “steaks” would grow back into real skunks—into Larkspur, Cosmo, and Poppy.
Except
now
they’d contain the Protocol.
Only one catch: for precision work like that, to re-create the test skunks exactly, you needed the HostLink in workshop seven. Otherwise, things could get
craaaazy
.
CHAMBER OF HORRORS
Me again. Doug. While I was getting those techno-steaks,
this
conversation was happening across the Center:
“Commander Hund,” Roach said, tapping at a wall-display keyboard, “I’ve intercepted a communication to the boy.”
Hund turned from the door. “Where is he?”
“Heading for workshop seven—just like you.” Roach touched a few more keys. “There! I finished prepping the HostLink for transport. You’re
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