* * * * *
"So what are we supposed to do now, then? Hide out here until someone gives the all-clear?"
"Being that this is my room, I'm quite content with that. I've been thinking that this is a wonderful time to start recataloging my issues of The Flash by which particular hue of red they use for his costume over the years. The shift from Pantone 185 to Pantone 200 around the time of Barry Allen's trial I am convinced is definitely not a coincidence but a subtle way of suggesting the utter gravity of the situation he now found himself in. Although I hope the one issue shift to Pantone 174 was just the colorist asleep at the wheel because it really did look just ghastly."
"Do you ever listen to yourself? Like, really listen?"
"Why, Leonard, of course I do. Often times I'm the only person in the world worth listening to."
"I just don't get it, Sheldon. On the one hand you're all gung-ho about being part of this little imaginary Time Lord Patrol squad of theirs, ready for action and reporting for duty-"
"That's not the right salute. Your hand should be at more of an angle to your eyebrow. Here, let me show you on the protractor . . ."
"Don't! Don't you dare. Or you'll be measuring what angle you're plummeting at when I toss you out the window. No, what I'm trying to say is that sometimes you're acting like you know this is real and other times it seems like you think we're in some strange television fantasy. Like it's a dream we're all going to wake up from together or Tristian and Joe are going to pull off their masks and say 'Surprise, we're all just actors!'"
"Both need not necessarily be false."
"That's a little hard to believe, Sheldon. Which is it?"
"You've heard of the Galaxy Quest Postulate, I take it?"
"Yeah, of course but . . . oh, come on, that's only theoretical."
"Only because we never had an actual event to analyze properly."
"No, really. My team proved during that panel debate at Quasar-CON V that it could only occur through a specific set of variables all congregating at the exact same time. In fact, it was possible that the scenario could only be brought about by factors specific to its era. Don't tell me you're still subscribing to your team's notion. That's what this is all about?"
"While I'll agree that the premise as stated is probably unlikely, even if your team had to hijack the panel in order to get your very poorly supported theory out onto the floor-"
"I'm sorry, but when you announce that 'Anyone who doesn't believe my theory is clearly sub-mental', you're just asking for a rebuttal there. Though I should have just let the mob peg you. If my group hadn't stormed the stage and turned it into a debate, the Scottish Engineer Corps would still be trying to scatter your molecules."
"While the core of my theory has yet to be proven by circumstance and is thus filed in the 'I'm not right . . . yet' folder, there has been plenty of evidence to back up one of the smaller linked postulates."
"You're going to have to narrow it down for me, you had six pages of sub-clauses. And some of those had footnotes."
"Succinctly put, the sub-postulate stated that when any scenario arises that involving certain elements that one might find typical of a science-fiction episode, the events of that scenario will start to unfold much in the same structured manner of one of those episodes, so that a certain dramatic arc can be followed. We are in that scenario now, Leonard, and matters are going exactly according to the flow chart that I came up with so long ago."
"Come on, that's nonsense. This is . . . as weird as this is going to sound, real life. That doesn't follow the structure of a fictional drama."
"And yet, so far it has, in every way. We've had the opening cliffhanger mystery, the initial misconception of what is truly going on, the gradual unfolding of the true nature of the threat, the first salvo of the attack, the regrouping and the reassessment, the setback and now we're into the second regrouping where the heroes will come up with the solution that will save the day and everyone will go home happy. I could have drawn a map to today if I didn't want to see if you would figure it out for yourself. I'm a little disappointed that you didn't. Not surprised, but a little disappointed."
"Sorry, mom. I'll try harder next time we're under attack to analyze what's going on and insert into pre-determined categories so that you can feel better about yourself."
"Leonard, please. I've gotten much better at identifying sarcasm these days."
"Oh and here I was thinking I was sincere. So what's our place in this whole thing? And if you say sympathetic fodder I will reach over and strangle you."
"Audience identification figures, of course. The average viewer is not going to be able to understand the world that Tristian and Commander Brown live in, so without someone familiar to them this whole story is going to be incomprehensible. Thus you have average, ordinary people to act as your entry point. That's us."
"It's nice to know that we have a purpose. And in some fantasy world would be considered average and ordinary."
"Well, this is fiction. We act as the filter for the audience to interpret these events, otherwise they would make precious little sense to anyone. Without us, Tristian and the Commander are just two lunatics running around an apartment screaming about aliens. Its our presence that gives the tale its weight and resonance."
"This may be the first theory of yours I don't mind completely."
"Which is why once the two of them are taken out, we're going to have to save the day by doing something ordinary and average."
"Excuse me . . . what?"
"The dramatic arc demands it. We have to justify our presences in the story as more than simply plot window dressing or else we'll be exposed for the frauds that we are and the only story will lose meaning. We have to do something, and that time is coming now."
"I really don't like when you look intense. Why does this story have to have some kind of meaning? Why can't it be just about aliens inside an apartment that we'd like gone? Can't it just be about that?"
"And I suppose you'd like your story to just be about a nerdy fellow living across the hall from an apparently attractive young lady, and nothing more. Because why should it be about anything else?"
"I hate you."
"Without meaning, Leonard, they're just piled on events without connection, without beginning or ending. If you believe that our lives are leading to something and not just a random collection of moments, then when the time comes we're going to have to stop the hive. It's as inevitable as entropy."
"I wish you had used a different metaphor just now."
"Or as inevitable as the sand getting into my joints after I spend five minutes on Tatooine. Compared to that, this place is an improvement over the places I normally find myself stuck with you."
"What?"
"But we're trapped in a room with only one exit and the bounty hunters have proven to be somewhat resourceful, Deckard. Its only a matter of time before we run out of the space the Grand Moff's gambit bought us. And if he's out of ideas, it's going to be up to us."
"Oh come on, Sheldon, I told you we weren't playing that game now. Can't you give it a rest for just a-"
"I understand what you're saying, but we can only keep the princess in the dark for so long about the true extent of the danger. Eventually she's going to start to suspect that we are fudging the facts. And you know that I am incapable of lying."
"Tell me about it. But Penny is not going to-"
"And being that my sensors can't tell me how long she's been listening outside the door, it's impossible to say how much she's heard so far . . ."
"Wait, what do you . . . come on, Sheldon, don't play games here. If I open this door and . . . oh. Hey. Ah, hello Penny. You're looking very . . . princessy today."
"Can it, 'Deckard'. What the hell am I not going to find out?"
* * * * *
A long silence stretched in the space between them. All the lit up and active toys must have created some sort of illumination because the room was that much darker now, thrown into a kind of frozen twilight. Dust was broken shelves was raining down gently, settling in no apparent pattern. The head of a lone soldier stared at him mournfully, lifelike painted eyes daring Tristian to make a move, a crimson glint hinting of hidden motives. The bedroom beyond was darker still, the lights floating as distant UFOs.
"You figured out how to get into the batteries," Tristian said, wondering how the robot could even hear him. The toy wasn't exactly equipped with auditory sensors. Though who knew what they had come up with since he had been a kid. "That was actually fairly clever of you. I'm kind of impressed." He kept his voice casual, even as he slid into a lopsided sitting position, one leg flat and curled inward while the other stayed bent, knee in the air. The sword rested between his feet, his hand not on the hilt but also not far from it. The blade was pointed toward the bedroom, a runway set afire and seen from a distance.
Tristian reached over and picked up an arm holding a small rifle, the grip refusing to relinquish the weapon. Frowning, he turned it over and over in his hand. "If you had done things like that from the beginning we wouldn't be here, having this conversation." With some bending he managed to take the rifle out of the toy's hand, separating the two almost reverently. "I've been learning a lot of things myself in the last year, things I never expected to learn." He balanced the gun between two fingers, studying the molded plastic and all its details. "I've learned that Martians have no conception of the color red, and don't like being reminded of that. I know how to tell someone to put down a ray gun in six different languages, two of which don't require a throat. I've learned that a call for help sounds the same no matter who is speaking." He pressed against the gun, dimpling his skin to the point where it became clear that either the gun would have to snap or draw blood. It trembled in that silent stalemate and Tristian didn't look sure of what the outcome of his own contest might be. "I've learned that my girlfriend really enjoys things that smell like lavender, no matter what they are. And that she finds the look I give her hilarious when she calls me a space hero . . ." he grimaced at the phrase though it wasn't clear if that was just the tension exerted on the weapon. "I've found that no one is really alone unless they consciously choose to be. That was a hard lesson. I've also found that if a fight breaks out on a spaceship, someone always falls against the button that opens the airlock. Always. I don't get it." He laughed quietly, without looking up. "I've also discovered that I don't like teleporting at all, even though everyone insists on using that as their primary method of travel. Don't tell Joe, but the reason I didn't join him right away after we got here was because I had to sit down until my stomach caught up with the rest of me." The green lights didn't flicker or waver. Tristian glanced up at them and back to the gun, murmuring, "Let's keep that as our secret."
He shifted, pulling in a little closer to himself. His voice barely masked his intensity. The gun was beginning to bend, the center of it straining. "So, you see, we've all learned things here. You want to stay here and you're willing to fight for it. I know that. You managed to get into the wiring, discovered how to use the devices that you've tapped into. You even spent all that time cycling through the light frequencies until you found the exact pattern that would induce a seizure in a human being. And with the batteries . . . if nobody ever noticed, maybe you could have even stayed here forever. Then who knows what you could have accomplished?" He grunted, the bend forcing itself in the opposite direction. "But there's one lesson that hasn't occurred to you yet, it seems, for all you've discovered. Once you start hurting others to get what you want, you don't get a say anymore in how this goes. There's always going to be someone who will stop you. Even if you think you've covered all the angles and thought out every possibility . . ."
With a deft motion, Tristian suddenly shifted the gun from two hands to one, spreading all his fingers at different points. He suddenly looked up to stare right into the rounded glow.
". . . someone will always figure out a way around it."
His hand twitched and the gun broke with a quiet snap. Tristian looked down at it, as if surprised, cradling the pieces in his hand. With a sigh he shifted them to his other hand, reaching down with his left to scoop up the sword. The haze formed a cone and widened.
"This would be a good home for your hive, I know, but I'm afraid that's not going to happen. I'm sorry." He did sound like he meant it. Casually, easily, he stood up. "You're going to leave here, one way or another. And it's up to you whether you do that with your hive intact or . . ."
Face set, he tossed the broken pieces of the rifle into the bedroom. He heard them hit and tumble into the darkness with a weak clatter. The gaze never budged from him, hovering like solid pools, the reflection of an odd moon.
He let those rattles finish his sentence. When he felt that it had sunk in, he held the sword at an angle so that its light bled into the next room, the glow touching the hazy color like an infection, trying to force it to wane. It had no effect that he could see.
"No matter what you've learned," Tristian said quietly, "don't make the mistake of believing you know everything. Because you don't. I'll tell you now, this is as far as it goes."
Tristian regarded the toy buried in the dark for a few seconds more, waiting for it to stir, to yell, to give him some kind of gesture of defiance or surrender. Nothing came. Maybe the batteries had gone dead, he thought, absurdly. Either way, he had said what he needed to say. Smartly, he turned on his heel to exit the room, the sword leaving a ghost trail behind him.
He got as far as the door into the living room when the voice grated out behind him, "But aren't you curious to find out what else we've learned."
And a tiny electronic wail began to escalate up the scale.
* * * * *
"Oh, Penny, hey . . . that's great how you're acting totally in character by glaring at me in such an . . . imperial fashion . . ."
"Leonard, I wouldn't use that word. We're fighting the Imperials, remember?"
"Sheldon, you need to be quiet now . . ."
"Okay, I'm going to be honest here, I didn't get your little game at all but I went along with it because it seemed kind of fun. Weird, but fun."
"I'm just pointing out that it's probably not going to improve her mood any."
"And yeah, I'll admit it, I didn't mind being called a princess, even if I'm supposed to be from some odd planet where they wear those big headdresses like in that one movie you made me sit through . . ."
"Just, can you not talk about droids or bounty hunters or things for the next few minutes? Please? And, Penny, if you just . . ."
"So, yeah, its kind of shallow of me, but you know, its been a bit of a rough week at work, your new friends didn't seem so bad and it was something different . . ."
"Leonard, not to be sound snarky at all, but considering what else I could be talking about . . ."
"Don't even or . . . or I'll use a random number generator to reorganize your issues of Green Lantern!"
"But I have to say that everyone is taking this game way too seriously now. At first I thought it was just Super Muff Joe or whatever the hell his name is . . ."
"You . . . you fiend. And to think I said I wouldn't be the deciding vote about leaving you behind if a Balrog ever came after us."
"Oh, like that's a comfort. You'd still vote against me, you just wouldn't be the one to break the tie."
"But after the lights went all weird, and you're going to have to explain to me what that was all about because I keep thinking it was one of Sheldon's little experiments again. . . when that happened your buddy Tristian decided to practically tackle me . . ."
"Exactly. So you wouldn't be able to hold it against me when the fire demon uses his flaming whip to drag you into a bottomless pit."
". . . which, okay I'll admit, I didn't mind all that much because he's sort of cute in a kind of . . . wounded spaceman way. God, that doesn't make any sense . . ."
"But why the hell would you vote against me in the first place? Why the hell would it even come up to a vote? Why am I even arguing over this?"
"He's totally not my type anyway, he just seems, like, detached sometimes. His head is just somewhere else. Probably in your stupid game. You're not supposed to ruin the ones that aren't nerdy already!"
"Leonard, we've been through this before . . . any extreme situation requires some type of personal sacrifice in order for it to resolve in favor of the heroes. 'The Good of the Many' Gambit, if you would."
"Oh, come on, don't quote that. That's one of my favorite things ever and if you go and use it in one of your bizarre theories it'll just, like, ruin it for me."
"It wasn't even like he was trying to put the moves on me when he tackled me. That's what drives me nuts about you guys . . . none of you have ulterior motives. Ever. Used to be a girl would have to interpret signals. Hell, for most guys that's their idea of foreplay. But no, good old Tristian was really just piling on me to save me from some kind of fantasy menace."
"When the circumstance demands a personal sacrifice, the plot dictates that the person who undergoes the memorable and life-affirming demise be a person who the heroes can safely lose without affecting their ability to see the plot through to its resolution. In your case, there are no skills that you possess that cannot be duplicated, or bettered, by someone else on the team."
"And you know what's sad? That's the most romance I've had in like a month. The last guy I went out with chugged a six pack and then wanted to show me how he could burp out all of Usher's greatest hits."
"Couldn't you for once have a hypothetical situation that doesn't have me dying or getting converted into inorganic matter? Is that too much to ask?"
"What's sadder is that he didn't even seem to realize what kind of position he was in. I mean, he's got this cute girl right underneath him, he's totally playing the hero . . . and what does he do? He runs off to God knows where like your fake game is an actual mission. I don't get it. I really don't."
"Some of us are born to succeed and some of us are born to inspire others to succeed by perishing in a horrible fashion. One day I hope you will inspire me to even further heights than I've already achieved. Although when you're on the summit it's difficult to go higher."
"That's . . . that's a horrible thing to say. That group of wizards at the live-action event were right, you are neutral evil."
"And now I'm stuck in the living room with your other buddy, who seems to think he really is the Commander of something and keeps staring at all the appliances with that same look that Sheldon gets when he's ready to void a warranty . . ."
"For the record, it wasn't me who cast Bigby's Endless Dance on them. Even if it did benefit me specifically."
"Ha, okay, that was funny. Those robes were really designed for full splits, I was impressed."
". . . and you two are hiding in here and I don't even understand a word of what you're saying, or what anyone is saying and, I'm really sorry to say this, guys . . ."
"The squad of paladins that also got caught in the spell didn't do nearly as well. Though the one fellow in full plate was surprisingly graceful. Very elegant use of his cloak on the twirls."
". . . but this really isn't fun for me anymore . . ."
"Oh, yes, I know who you're talking about! They want to use him in the promo video, show the rest of the world that these games aren't all thee and thous and people waving fake swords around. That there's something in it for everyone."
". . . so I think I'm just going to go back to my apartment and catch up on all the sleep I've been missing out on today."
"See, that's the trick, getting out the right message to . . . wait, Penny, what did you just say . . ."
"She said we're boring her and she's going to bed, Leonard."
"I'm sorry?"
"I could only listen to one of you and frankly, she was the least boring. Besides, as the princess, I thought it necessary that one of us pay attention to her. Oh, don't give me that look, sitting through your presentations is one thing but we're off the clock now."
"What . . . being my friend is not a job! And Penny, you, ah, you can't go back now . . ."
"Why the hell not?"
"That's true, in a job one hopes to be adequately compensated."
"Because, ah . . . its still too dangerous out there . . . they might have your quarters staked out!"
"Does this mean we're going back into character again? Or are we finally talking about-"
"Sheldon, not now."
"Whatever. I told you, Leonard, I'm not playing your game anymore . . . I'm going to go back to my apartment, watch some reality show I have taped until I'm tired and then I'm going to take a nap . . ."
"I'm just saying, if necessary I can give you relevant sensor readings that may help your case when trying to convince the princess. If that's who you're trying to convince."
". . . in the hopes that maybe when I wake up you two will have gone back to your usual level of abnormal."
"On the other hand, if you're trying to sway Penny, I'm afraid your efforts are pretty much doomed."
"No, why don't you just stay here, Penny? You can sleep on our couch if you're tired. I mean, it's probably better than walking all the way to your apartment . . ."
"Apartment? So we're not in character now? Leonard, you've really got to decide . . ."
"Across the hall? Now you're just being ridiculous. Look, Leonard, I know you want to try and include me in this stuff with your friends and its really sweet but let's face it, it's not my thing. It probably never will be. I'll see you guys later."
"But . . . but it's not about that at all . . ."
"What are you going to do, Leonard?"
"It's . . . it's not about what Leonard would do, Sheldon . . ."
"Excuse me?"
". . . but what Deckard Jones would do!"
"Oh my."
"Hey, Leonard, what the hell are you, ah! Jesus, what are you-"
* * * * *
There was a red-orange flicker from inside the bedroom, close enough to the eyes that it tainted the edges of them. Tristian merely stood there, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe with the sword held with an easy grasp. The wailing began to climb further, finally settling into a repetitive pattern, bitten off pings constantly following each other. Underneath it all was the whirring, tentative and relentless.
As Tristian watched, the robot came into view.
Emerging from the darkness was shrugging off smothering curtains. The hazy softness of the room sloughed away to reveal the hardened plastic lines of the toy robot waddling in on stubby legs, a motorized whirring accompanying each motion. The eyes lost none of their brightness even in the washed out sickly illumination of this room.
One arm was pointed directly toward Tristian, a tiny ray gun grafted onto it. The end of that was glowing rapidly, the burnt light flicking on and off and on again, each time announced with that truncated wail. He was surprised by how close it came to the actual sound of a laser being fired.
Tristian regarded the toy, one eyebrow raised in a question. "You're going to waste the batteries if you keep doing that, you know."
Halfway across the room it stopped, as if that had just occurred. Unable to rock back far enough to stare upwards, it could only look somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. Tristian had no desire to bend down to be eye-level with it. It didn't seem that important.
It stood there frozen for a few seconds and then slowly lowered the gun arm. The eyes seemed to dim slightly before returning to their previous brightness and it began to walk toward him again. Is this supposed to be menacing? Am I supposed to be frightened right now?
A moment later it spoke in the same grating voice as before, emanating from what sounded like a cheap speaker embedding somewhere in its chest. "You did not succumb to the pattern like the others."
"You mean the trick you did with the lights?"
"The waveform you perceive, yes." It stopped maybe a foot from him. The gun arm kept twitching, as if wanting to fire at him again. He wondered how many of them were inside the robot. If it was a hive, surely it wouldn't have wanted to be separated from its fellows. That would have felt like a small death, in its way. "We discovered manipulation of it could cause interruptions in the current that sustains you."
"So you did it to the entire building?" He knew the answer to this already, but he still needed to hear it.
"Yes. The pattern was pervasive. Every member of this hive has been interrupted." Tristian felt his throat go dry. None of this had been meant to go this far.
"But you didn't kill anyone?" The seizures had seemed to be harmless, merely incapacitating but God forbid they did it to someone with actual epilepsy who went into a seizure that wouldn't stop. If you hurt one person in this building I will raze your hive until the soot isn't even a memory.
"All basic life functions, as far as we can perceive, have not ceased. No spark has flickered out. This is agreeable to you." The lack of inflection meant he couldn't tell if the last sentence was meant to be a statement or a question.
"We're not negotiating here." There was an underlying ferocity to his words that caught him off-guard. "Don't make that mistake."
"Your sparklines did not assimilate the pattern." There must be more than one in there, the questions kept shifting from topic to topic. In a way it was like speaking to a roomful of children who kept tapping his leg trying to get a word in edgewise amongst the chatter. It was probably never quiet in the midst of the hive. He didn't think he would enjoy that very much. "They began to but then shifted into a new pattern that would not perceive our entry. A barrier was formed." It bent at the hips, looking down in what might have been its version of confusion. "We would like to understand how."
"That's not going to happen," Tristian replied right away, although he knew the answer. Somewhere two men who looked just like him were probably smugly congratulating each other on their foresight, perhaps clinking glasses together in some kind of snotty toast. If they even drank. To be honest, he'd never seen them eat, either. "So why don't we discuss the matter at hand, instead."
"You and the other would like us to depart."
"That's about the shape of it, yes."
The robot stood up straighter again with a tiny whirr. It pivoted sideways so that it was facing the wall and then started walking toward it with such certainty that Tristian almost suspected it didn't see what was in the way. "We are already restricted to these boundaries, the other has sealed off all other avenues of continuation. We can stand at the edge of his barriers and see the shimmering arcs that lie beyond, waveforms with more excitations than we have ever imagined, connections so dense that even to us they look to solid." It reached the wall and stopped about an inch from it before quite methodically turning around a hundred and eighty degrees. There was a slight pause and it began to toddle forward again. "We can see these and we cannot reach them, although we can hear their constant intertwined whisperings, just out of our reach. The other has denied us wonder and allowed us only this. Is that not enough."
"You're not going to be allowed this, either," Tristian said, watching the little robot trundle across the space before him. Where did it learn to pace? "This isn't a punishment, but a necessity."
"We refute this." Did the voice suddenly gain a measure of strength beyond what the scratchy electronics allowed? "We are far more suited to this world than you are. You stand apart from its pulsations and its seething energy, grafting yourselves onto it clumsily. You do not ride its currents but do your best to stand apart from it in an attempt to harness it." It reached the other end of the room, bonking lightly against the crumpled wreck of a stricken battleship. It stood there for a moment, as if confused, before resolutely pivoting for a return journey. "We would subsist inside, while you would exist disconnected and have no conception what it is that you are detached from." The robot stopped directly in from of him without facing Tristian. The gun arm was raised but the little weapon didn't light up. It seemed more an expression of frustration than anything else. "The wrong one is trapped here."
"You're not trapped," Tristian said. "You just can't stay." With a low grind the robot began walking toward the wall again. "There has to be another alternative. That's what we're trying to figure out. Believe me, we're trying. But you need to work with us." It never broke its stubby stride. Tristian felt a snarl of exasperation enter his voice. "Are you even listening to me?"
Suddenly he bent down and grabbed the robot by the top of the head, lifting it off the ground. The little legs kept moving, marching toward a destination that Tristian was desperately trying to keep them from reaching. He held the toy until it was face level. This close he could see that the eyes were nothing more than pinprick bulbs shaped like flames hidden behind tinted plastic. There was nothing to read or see in them beyond the illumination, no matter how hard he looked.
"Give me something here," he insisted to the blankness. It could have been staring right through him. He wondered how it even really saw, or what it perceived as sight. Your sparklines do not assimilate. He was no different and yet. No. He couldn't afford to think about that now. "Otherwise its going to end with you discorporated, your hive burned and scattered. Is that what you want?" No answer. "Or has the hive collectively decided to embrace suicide?"
This time it did speak, its fuzzed voice sending vibrations into the palm of his hand. "No scattered array will ever stay separate." Even flattened, the voice betrayed nothing but a calm stern.
Oh God. Tristian licked his lips, aware he was losing a fight that had been weighed against him since the beginning. I'm not a negotiator, I can't make them see. And they're committed to this, because they don't realize how much we can make them lose. "We can take you out of here, if you let us. There are other places, worlds of electricity, abandoned Dakker habitats, the Preteelian sleeper colonies . . . it doesn't have to be here." Was it right to make it sound like a plea, or did that send the wrong message? He didn't care anymore. He was in the dark talking to a robot and surrounded by dead toys. It needed an ending he could live with. "It can't be here. Don't force this course. Please."
Again the long silence. The eyes seemed to cough somewhat, as if trying to find a frequency that might enact a seizure in his own brain, to make one last attempt. But he was sealed off from them, a painting they weren't able to fathom, even if they did have a map to all the colors and tools. But they could still communicate. It was still possible.
Instead the only action it took was to raise its weapon arm another millimeter, so that it was pointed right at his face. Tristian regarded it without blinking, or expression. Very carefully he took the sword and put the blade right up to the side of the robot's head, so that the blade's glow threatened to overwhelm every angle of the toy, bathing it in a cooled lava flow.
"Do you see it?" Tristian said very quietly. "This is real. And it can still cut you."
In response the red light sputtered on from the tip of the ray gun, although there was no sound to accompany it. Perhaps the device to create it had burned out. Perhaps it could be controlled. Or perhaps he simply refused to hear it.
"Fine." Disgusted, Tristian put the robot down, still taking pains to make sure it was steady on its feet. "Do what you want." The frustration almost made him want to kick the toy across the room, just to see it shatter. But that wouldn't solve anything. None of this had solved anything. He went to leave the room again, walking faster this time. It had all been a waste of effort, now he'd have to find Joe and tell him they were going to have no choice. Dammit. The whole scene left an awful taste in his mouth.
It let him round the corner of the living room before it spoke this time. Distant, the voice somehow managed to reach him.
"Wait," it said, the voice rattling to him like an old car that refused to stop, no matter how close the precipice came.
He stopped, despite his better instincts. "What?" he called back, without even bothering to return. "Do you have something new to say? Because that's all I want to hear."
"You are correct," it said, grating and flat and sly. "We have learned many new things. How to disperse and remain connected. How to affect and reach out. And how to enter, and manipulate."
A terribly cold sensation began to flare in the pit of his stomach.
"It is possible to enter not just these . . . bah-ter-ees." It almost choked on the word. "But other sources as well." Sometime during its speech, the whirring had started again. A nubbed shadow began to leak around the corner, fraught and sliced by fading sunlight. "We have learned this. And if you persist we will incorporate the sparks in this place, all your others, into the hive." The voice crackled at the edges, as if it were trying to shout. "Would this not be a good lesson."
As the shadow reached for him, blocky and abstract and consumed by bleeding golden red cracks, a seeping one-dimensional disease without an escape.
* * * * *
"Ow, Leonard, get off me, just get off-"
"I would like to point out that the nightstand the two of you are about to roll into has resting on it a vintage Flash clock . . ."
"No, Penny, listen to me, you have to stay here, in this apartment, you . . . ow!"
"Have you gone nuts? And watch where you're putting that hand, buddy."
"What was that for? And no, I'm serious, don't try to-"
". . . one that was created to commemorate Barry Allen's sacrifice in Crisis on Infinite Earths in 1986, demonstrating that time was running out for him. Only a few thousand were made and most of them have stopped working due to a failure on the part of the owners to perform the proper upkeep."
"I am leaving this apartment and you are not going to . . . let go of my leg!"
"If you'll just let me explain . . ."
"Let go or I'll . . . ah!"
"I, of course, open it up on the sixth of every month and meticulously clean out each and every gear, then reset the time with the local atomic server so that it maintains a stringent accuracy. Those efforts on my part are what have kept it running for these twenty-three years, ever since my father first said to me . . ."
"But we need you here and . . . ah, my nose!"
"I am back on the floor and you better have a good reason for that . . ."
"Son, you sure do like people dressed in funny pajamas. There somethin' you ain't tellin' me?"
"Listen, just listen . . . oh God, don't hit me again, please . . ."
"So what I'm basically trying to say, Penny, as you go to shove Leonard into the table yet for perhaps the third time . . ."
"You picked a real weird time to get clingy . . ."
"Please don't knock it off the table and break it. Or my vengeance will be both swift and terrible."
"Sheldon, help me here . . ."
"If you help him, Sheldon, I swear to God I will do unspeakable things to this Blondy-Man action figu-oof!"
"Actually, that's Aquaman, before the revamp that gave him a beard, a missing hand and a very unpleasant attitude. The one you're holding merely controls fish."
"Good job distracting her, now help me get her-"
"Get her where?"
"Here, let me take that out of your hands before you-"
"No, you're supposed to be helping me, don't worry about-ah!"
"Got you! Now, Leonard, I'm actually really curious where all this is coming from, so maybe I will stick around for a minute."
"Oh, that's . . . that's great. I'm glad you're reconsidering . . ."
"Leonard, your rapid breathing is wrinkling my Secret Wars throw rug. I think its probably best if you stopped struggling . . ."
"I'd stop struggling if she got her leg off my chest . . ."
"That better not turn into a comment about my weight."
"It's not so much the weight as the amount of force you're exerting, possibly making it seem like you weigh more than you actually do. Here, if you'd like I can derive the equations for you, just hand me the Action Philosophers Battle Chalkboard Playset over there and I can-"
"No, Penny, it's not . . . its just . . ."
"Ten seconds to give me a good reason . . ."
"The Imperial forces caught on and flooded the hallways with, ah, nerve gas."
"So, wait, we're back in character again? Leonard, you really have to make up your mind here."
"Whatever. Here's your toy back, Sheldon. I'm going home."
"No, oof, Sheldon . . . stop her from-"
"The Laws of Robotics state that I cannot harm a human."
"You're not actually a robot! And that's a completely different series!"
"Deckard, it's my prime directive."
"He's just being smart, Leonard. Good job, Sheldon S-12 or whatever the hell your name was."
"ADS5S5, listen to me carefully. By inaction, by letting her walk through that door, you're going to allow a human to come to harm. You know this. That trumps your main directive, doesn't it?"
"Princess, for all his human faults, I'm afraid he makes an expertly logical point."
"Oh good God, not you too. You're supposed to be on my side. Remember the napkin? Doesn't that grant me some kind of loyalty?"
"That didn't happen to him, that happened to Sheldon. You're talking to his character now, who never received a nice Christmas present from you."
"But he did! You were there!"
"Penny gave it to Sheldon, the princess never gave anything to this droid."
"It wouldn't have mattered anyway. As a being made entirely of circuitry and reason, gifts would have no sway over my decision making process."
"What if the princess once gave you a . . . cloth that would polish your metal skin to a gleaming shine and never wear out, even in the . . . the hottest desert sands?"
"Nice try, but he's not one for aesthetics. ADS5S5, block the door!"
"On the contrary, I would perhaps have fond memories of the gift, thus slowing my reaction time just enough for the princess to slip out the door."
"Ha, I told you, see ya-hey!"
"You can't decide that, she just made that up! And Penny, I'm just-whoa!"
"Well, frankly, we didn't develop the back history of my character in my usual detail, so Penny's addition to my personal canon is as good an anecdote as anything else. I think it adds a welcome bit of sentimentality that will delight the young and old."
"Did he just pay me a compliment? And get that pillow off-"
"And you may want to make sure she doesn't grab the Iron Man lamp. It's made of solid iron."
"Thanks for the . . . yikes . . . concern . . ."
"I'd rather she not tarnish it against your too oily hair. I'm hoping that if it put under the proper conditions it might spontaneously begin to emit iron-60 isotopes."
"Isotopes? Is this radioactive? Ah!"
"Ow! My foot!"
"Oh, don't be silly. It's an extinct radionuclide. You really shouldn't believe everything you see on that TV show where that very violent man keeps loudly inquiring to everyone he meets where exactly the nearest bomb is."
"Oh God, did he just poison me? My hand is tingling. Oh God . . ."
"No, Penny, really, it's okay-"
"I'm serious . . . is my hair falling out . . . Leonard, be honest with me!"
". . . no, listen, no, you're safe, I swear, Sheldon, he's just, he loves to joke about isotopes with long-lived half-lives formed by nucleogenesis . . ."
"What? Leonard, I don't know-"
"No, look, everyone knows you can only measure it by correlating its daughter product of nickel-60 with other stable iron isotopes and you can only do that on asteroids. So see, there's absolutely nothing to . . . what?"
"I don't know what that means!"
"That's because, as usual, Leonard's explanations have all the clarity of a smudged mass spectroscopy . . ."
"Dammit, I have no idea what any of that means!"
"Well, that's understandable since you don't have a doctorate in . . . oh no, Penny, don't cry! Why are you . . . Sheldon, why is she crying?"
"You're asking me? But you should probably go in close to comfort her."
"Listen, we don't need of your snide . . . wait, what?"
"That way her tears will stain your shirt and not my bedsheets."
"I should have known. Come on, help me here. Penny, what's wrong?"
"Before I agree to help you, answer me this . . . am I capable of rusting?"
"We're not in character right now!"
"Make up your mind. I'm starting to think we should be designating little signs for this as well. Although I suspect the problem isn't really me."
"All this stuff you guys talk about all the time, it . . . it doesn't make any sense to me, none of it. And the times when I think I pick up a little piece of it, when I figure out w-who Spock is or that there's more than one Cylon . . . I just feel like the rat that learned to hit the right button to earn the cheese . . ."
"Penny, come on, we don't mean to make you feel that way . . ."
"No, no, Leonard, it's not you, sweetie, it's not you guys. It's me, I'm just, I feel so dumb, like all the things I know don't mean anything. I can name everything Britney Spears has done in the last six months and all the people in Nickelback and what the new stuff is in the Victoria's Secret catalog . . ."
"Oh Penny, don't fret. I'm sure there's a game show that exists where you'd be a lovely contestant . . ."
"Sheldon, sh. We'd love to hear what she's ordered from the last Victoria's Secret catalog."
"If it's a secret, she really shouldn't tell-"
"And you guys know all these things that, like, only smart people know . . . you throw around words like quarks and, and superconductors and dilithium . . ."
"Um, the last one isn't actually real . . ."
"See, you even know that it's not real! I thought it was! Oh God, I should just stop talking before I say something else dumb . . ."
"No. No, Penny, you're not dumb. Not at all. Keep talking. Come on."
"It's not just words to you . . . and I used to think that you guys were the odd ones . . . always talking about video games and science and those weird TV shows . . ."
"She must be talking about your shows, Leonard. There's nothing strange at all about Star Cops."
"But you guys, like, understand each other . . . like, when I'm with my friends I just feel like even though we know all the same stupid crap that's in all the magazines and Entertainment Weekly . . . we don't get each other, we're just talking at each other . . . we don't have anything in common and . . . and you do. You don't ever seem lonely . . ."
"That's not true."
". . . and I thought maybe if I learned a little bit, maybe I'd fit in with you guys more. I got a physics book from the library one time, just to see, and all the equations were just gibberish. I fell asleep on the second chapter."
"Hey, even we get bored with physics too. Right, Sheldon?"
"It's like a flower that is endlessly unfurling, constantly revealing new depths of subtle beauty."
"See, Sheldon always gets poetic when he's bored. One time in lecture he wrote an entire sonnet just to pass the time."
"Leonard, stop. Please. I've felt this way for a while and I . . . I think its great that you guys have this, like, shared language. Like those guys you met today, Tristian and Joe, you barely know them but you all understand each other . . ."
"Oh, that's really not what it seems, trust me . . ."
". . . so I thought, if I played the game too, maybe I'd be able to understand. But I don't. Everyone's talking but I don't know what they're saying. I don't know the rules or what's going on or what anyone is doing . . ."
"It's actually a rather widespread problem, Penny. Leonard is hideously inconsistent in how he applies the game. I'm thinking of making up signs to assist, would you like to put in an order for one?"
"No thanks, Sheldon. I'm just . . . I feel like I'm on the outside and I can hear everything and see everything but its all . . . I'm sure there's a fancy science word for it but I don't know it. And it never used to bother me, you were just a pair of goofy guys who lived across the hall from me that were kind of shy and wore unfashionable clothes . . ."
"Hey!"
". . . oh hush, sweetie, you do. But it's okay. You were nerdy and you meant well. You kept trying to talk to me and I thought to myself, well, I'll humor them. They're nice and I'll talk to them. Maybe we'll hang out once. And you guys, you let me in."
"Well, part of it is because of Leonard's fascinatingly futile attraction to-"
"Sheldon."
"You let me stick around, even though I don't, like, speak the language at all. When you're all sitting there arguing over who would win in a fight of Gandalf versus Spock . . ."
"I still maintain that Spock's greater intelligence and tactical skill would have the upper hand . . ."
"What are you talking about? Gandalf's a wizard!"
"Come on, Leonard, his powers are completely ill-defined. Smoking a pipe, riding an eagle and being able to come back to life with a different wardrobe are not skills one looks for in combat."
". . . you could go on for hours at it and yet, still be friends and meet again for whatever weird ritual you do the next night. I don't have friends like that. Maybe, I did, once, but not here. You know? And the thing is, you guys try to teach me. As silly as this sounds, you want me in your little club."
"Well, don't you want to be?"
"Oh, honey, its not me. I'm glad you try because you, you wouldn't be you if you didn't . . . but all the spaceships and the superheroes and the time travelling . . . I don't get it. I don't think I ever will. All that science-fiction, I can't love it as much as you guys do. It doesn't mean as much to me as it does to you. But you let me stay anyway."
"Penny, listen . . ."
"No, Leonard, its . . . God, I didn't mean to go on for this long. This is like three glasses of wine worth of babbling. I'm so sorry, guys, I'm ruining your game."
"Honestly, this game stopped making sense to me hours ago."
"I'm just going to go back to my apartment, all right? I'll see you guys tomorrow after I get out of work. I'm sorry about your action doll man, Sheldon."
"That's okay. Scouring eBay for another mint condition one instead of formulating theories that will change the world is a much better use of my time."
"No, Penny. No."
"Leonard? Excuse me?"
"You're not going to ask me to restrain her again, are you? Because I really don't want to get kicked."
"No, Penny, you're . . . you're not leaving yet. So sit back down on the bed."
"Care to run that one by me again, buddy? I may not speak your language but I've got a rebuttal . . . and violence is its own universal language."
"No, I mean it. You got to say your piece and now . . . now its my turn. And you're wrong. So I'm going to explain this to you the only way I know how . . . with science."
