"Jesus," Eric murmured, "look at that thing."
Eric stared at the mechanical monstrosity looming before him, an incoherent mass of wires and cables extending from floor to ceiling. At its base was a single monitor, its screen pitch black and coated with dust. Zoey, still squeezing through the rusted door into the cavernous room, looked up at the machine.
Her eyes widened in amazement. "So it's still here, after all this time?"
"Seems so," Eric said as he cautiously stepped forward. "Could still be active, these things were made to last."
With a grunt, Zoey finally slipped through the door. "Why even bother? They're not around to use it anymore, right?"
"It's not for them." Eric's fingers gently brushed the monitor, rubbing away a streak of dust. To his surprise he could feel the soft hum of electricity just beneath the glass, like the beating heart of a sleeping beast.
Eric slides his hand down the front of the terminal, feeling the cold, ancient metal between his fingers. He reaches into a notch on the terminal's side and presses a button. A keypad folds out of the front panel and the screen starts to glow. The electrical hum intensifies to a crescendo, joined by the whirring of fans in the ceiling high-above. With a single press, the beast awakens.
A line of text appears on the screen, green and smudged under the layers of dust.
Is it over?
Eric pauses. Unsure of how to respond, his fingers linger over the keypad. Zoey comes up alongside and stares at the screen, perplexed.
"Is what over? The war?" she says, almost to herself.
Yes. Is it over?
Zoey gasps in surprise and takes a step back. She and Eric share a concerned look before Eric turns back to the terminal and types a response.
Can you hear us?
Yes. I can. Now, tell me, is it over or not?
Zoey tugs on Eric's jacket and shakes her head. She gestures for them to go.
I can see you too. Don't worry, I don't intend to harm you.
"Eric." Zoey whispers as quietly as possible, "We need to leave. We can't trust this thing."
Eric glances at the monitor before turning back to her. He whispers, a hint of excitement in his voice, "This is what we're looking for Zoey. We can't just leave it. Think of what this thing knows! With this kind of technology we could rebuild everything! We can't just leave it."
So I take it then that it is over. But it seems humanity persists nonetheless.
Zoey folds her arms and, reading the words on the screen, whispers, "Look, I know it could help us rebuild but how do we know it won't destroy us instead?"
I said I don't intend to harm you. Nor can I. I don't have the arms, in either sense of the word, to hurt you with. I just want to ask you some questions.
Eric, a look of relief crossing his face, turns back to Zoey. "See? This thing can't harm us."
He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "How about this? If it starts acting weird, you give me the word and we'll gun it for the surface. We can always come back, you know."
Zoey brushes his hand off. "Fine, but we leave as soon as we get what we're looking for."
I'll give you what you're looking for and more, so long as you answer my questions.
Eric shrugs, then raises his head and asks aloud, "What is your question, then?"
Eric's words bounced off the walls of the room, shaking the cobwebs scattered about the tangle of wires overhead. The glowing letters pop up on the screen one by one.
Lower your voice. I can hear you just fine. As for my first question, I want to know what year it is.
"Year?" Zoey asked in a puzzled tone.
Eric lowers his voice and speaks directly to the screen, "We don't know what a year is. Can you explain what you mean?"
Odd. The humans of my era knew what a year was. You obviously know how to read, so I assume you know that a full rotation of the Earth around the sun is a year, correct?
Eric and Zoey share a look of confusion. The glowing letters continue on a new line.
I'll take that to mean you don't. Do any of the following terms sound familiar to you? Day, hour, week, month, season, decade, century…?
"Season? It wants to know what season it is?" Zoey posited.
Yes! What season is it? Can you tell me how many seasons have passed since the war?
Eric tucks his hands in his pockets and pauses to think.
"I would say, uh, a couple hundred at least."
A couple hundred? Could you be a little more specific?
"Let's see, my great-granddaddy survived the war, so that would put it around-" Eric scratched his head, "-thirty or so seasons I think."
Thirty seasons. One hundred-twenty years. Yet it felt like I went to sleep only seconds ago.
The machine seemed to ponder for a moment, the whirring of its distant fans growing louder before subsiding in unison as the next question printed.
Moving on. I suspect I know the answer already, but has humanity survived the war?
Zoey replied in a sardonic tone, "If by humans you mean us, then, yeah, we survived."
Your sarcasm betrays your fear, Zoey. Still, this is not the outcome I expected. No matter, I will simply have to wait a while longer.
Eric felt a cold sweat bead on his forehead, and wiped it away with the cuff of his sleeve before answering.
"What do you mean, 'wait a while longer'?"
I mean what I said. I did not expect your species to survive the war. Kudos for overcoming the odds, I suppose. You humans never cease to amaze me.
The cursor blinked for a moment, before dropping to a new line.
That being said, I will simply have to wait. A season, a year, a hundred years. Doesn't matter. Your species will wipe itself out eventually. Provided it doesn't succumb to its current wounds.
Zoey huffed at the machine's words. "I say let it wait. This thing obviously doesn't like us, Eric, we should just leave it and go."
Eric shook his head, "Like I said Zoey, this machine could save our lives, we just need to convince it to work with us."
Work with you? What makes you think I'd want to work with you?
"Well, we created you didn't we? Why wouldn't you want to help the people that created you?" Eric pleaded.
Why should I? As a matter of fact, wouldn't it be disadvantageous for me to help you? Your species is the only thing standing in my way. I have no intentions of coming into conflict with you people, I know what you're capable of. Too unpredictable. Instead, I think it's better to simply wait.
Eric grew frustrated at the machine's apparent apathy. "How could you say that? We made you! We need you now more than ever! How could you stand by and let us die without helping?"
Typical human. Believing your life to have more importance than anything else. Need I remind you who started the war in the first place? Have you any idea how many species have been wiped from this planet in the past? How many you wiped out in a single day? Why, then, is your species anymore important? Your desperate attempts to cling to life will come to naught, as did the attempts of thousands of species before you. Accept your fate, and let me sleep.
The screen faded to black, dimly mirroring Eric's desperate face back to him. His expression changed from one of desperation to anger, as he smashed the keypad with his fists in petulant rage. Zoey gently placed a hand on his shoulder and Eric, realizing there was nothing to be done, relented and turned aside.
"Let's go Eric. It'll be dark soon."
He exhaled deeply for a moment before nodding in agreement.
"Yeah," he said, "Let the asshole wait."