7.6  ·  Signal Lost

As Al watched Sam’s eyes flutter open, the hologram of the Kromagg engine room promptly fizzled out. His jaw dropped.

“Hey, what! Not now!”

The Imaging Chamber door slid open behind him, as he ran a hand over the top of his head. He spun around to see Gooshie nervously standing in the doorway, dripping with sweat.

“What happened?!” Al cried out, violently shaking his unresponsive handlink.

“We don’t know…” said Gooshie, gesturing out into the hall. “Ziggy isn’t talking, but she’s sure doing something. She’s turned off all her other major subroutines, and that includes the Imaging Chamber. She’s overclocked and running hot.”

I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.

Al headed for the door, and Gooshie stepped aside. Immediately as he stepped out of the door, Al felt a wave of heat meet him.

“It couldn’t be another security breach?” asked Al, but all Gooshie could do was shrug helplessly as they traversed the hall.

“Don’t go near the mainframe,” said Donna, who emerged from the end of the hall, similarly drenched. “The temperature in there is over a hundred and fifty degrees, and rising.”

With pink earrings blinking against her cheeks, Tina appeared behind Donna, makeup running down her face with her perspiration. For a moment, Al thought she looked like a melting birthday candle.

“Gooshie, baby,” she said, scampering to the programmer, “I think we need to get out of here before we end up like that meatloaf I burnt last week.”

I need to call John.

Al dashed off toward his office, and upon reaching it, found his phone was already ringing. The caller ID told him it was exactly the man he wanted to speak with.

“John!” he said as he picked up the phone, and was met with John exclaiming his own name at the same time.

“Al, I just had a memory–”

“–Of being booted out of your hologram?” Al finished.

“Yes! It happened to you too?”

“Yeah, pal. And it gets worse.”

“Is Ziggy going nuclear?”

“So it happened to Higgins too?”

“Uh-huh. But my memory of what happened next is totally blank! I can’t remember a thing between then and walking in that bar with Will.”

Cazzo.

“Listen,” Al said, mind racing. “I gotta evacuate this place. Ziggy might catch fire or even explode at this rate. I’ll meet you over at the warehouse.”

“Okay. Be careful. I have no clue what’s happening, but I’ll try and come up with some answers.”

*          *          *

Rembrandt, who was finally attempting to use his stiff legs, padded to his door, his jaw clenched as he forced the sore muscles to work against their will.

At least they are working.

As he opened the door into the hall, he was met with a flurry of activity. To his left, he saw John with his head down, pacing, the heel of his palm set against his forehead. Nearby stood Quinn, leaning against the wall, deep in thought. To his right, Sammy Jo was typing something on her Blackberry as she rubbed the back of her neck. Walking immediately past his door was Colin, who backtracked a few steps as he noticed Remy’s presence.

“Remy, you’re up!”

“Yeah, but…” Rembrandt smiled weakly. “What the devil have I walked into here?”

He gestured to the distracted people in the hall.

Colin grimaced. “Yeah, it’s an all-out crisis. But don’t worry about it. You get your rest, man. Let us handle it.”

Rembrandt frowned. “Nothing I can do, huh?”

What else is new?

Colin seemed to notice his reaction, and returned a look of concern.

“Hey, don’t take it the wrong way,” he said. “I just heard you needed rest. I don’t want you to hurt yourself or anything…”

“It’s true though, isn’t it?” Rembrandt said, shrugging. “No need for a washed-up singer unless there’s a need to beg for change, is there?”

Colin’s brow furrowed. “Who called you a washed-up singer?”

“Lots of people over the years.”

Colin paused a moment, thinking, before placing a hand on Rembrandt’s shoulder. “You wanna get a cup of coffee?”

“Don’t you have a crisis to handle?” said Rembrandt, nodding in the direction of Quinn.

Colin shrugged. “They’re currently in the process of figuring out if there’s even anything we can do about it, so I’m sure if they come to a consensus on that, they’ll come get me. Come on.”

Rembrandt hobbled out into the corridor, eliciting smiles and nods from the otherwise distracted people around him. Colin took his arm, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Need a little help?”

“Thanks.”

In the common room, Colin helped him to a couch, and he grunted in relief as he allowed himself to drop down onto it.

A moment later, Colin appeared with a couple of mugs and a pot of coffee, which he served on the coffee table.

“I used to drink so much of this stuff when I worked in the diner,” he said. “And when I got home I’d be coasting on a caffeine buzz all night while I worked on projects.”

He took a sip from his mug. “Well, that’s what my altered history says. Don’t remember if I even liked coffee in the original timeline.”

“So what is this?” asked Rembrandt. “Some kinda pep talk? You wanna tell me I’m not useless round here?”

“No, I just wanted to talk to you, man. But if you want a pep talk, I might need some time to come up with one.” He placed his mug on a coaster, and took a seat beside Remy. “So… are you doing okay?”

Rembrandt picked up the mug Colin had poured for him, and swirled it around thoughtfully.

“Maybe. Haven’t really allowed myself to think much about it.”

He sipped at the coffee.

This is my first cup of coffee in weeks.

“That’s the good stuff,” he said, feeling the warm fluid trickle down his throat. “I don’t know how the coffee you make in an automatic drip is so much better than Q-ball’s or Maggie’s.”

“Freshly ground makes a difference,” said Colin, chuckling. “And you at least need to keep the grounds airtight. Quinn doesn’t care about how his coffee tastes, and Maggie is just generally a disaster in the kitchen.”

Rembrandt watched Colin for a moment, who brought a foot up onto the couch, tucking it under his leg.

I don’t remember a thing about his original history, not even that my nickname for him was once “Farm Boy” – except that I’ve been told that by Q-ball. What will it be like for me if the ’maggs never invaded? Will I forget those months in the cell?

“Hey, Farm Boy.”

Colin almost choked on his coffee as he heard the name. His eyes darted to the amused Rembrandt.

“Sorry, just wanted to see your reaction.”

“Uh…” With a wipe of his hand, Colin cleared his chin of the coffee that had involuntarily come out of his mouth. “Sorry, it’s just Thames called me that, and it was really strange.”

“Right… your… hacker name?”

“You remember that?” Colin’s eyes widened.

“A little. I remember saying and doing things, but not what I was thinking while doing ’em, if that makes any sense.”

“Yeah, Maggie had a similar story.”

“Except Sam never sent no shrapnel bomb to a US Senator.” Rembrandt put his coffee down, and slumped against the back of the couch, head tilting back as he stared at the ceiling. “I can’t catch a break. Least you had that weird cosmic bartender to guide you. I got nothing.”

Colin didn’t answer for about a minute. Remy figured he must have stumped him.

But, when Colin did finally answer, it made Rembrandt laugh.

“I think we need to find that bartender and sit there ’til he gives you a break.”

“Ha, yeah…” he said, before realising Colin wasn’t laughing with him. He turned his head and saw Colin’s unsmiling expression. “You’re… serious?”

“John had a tracer on the temporal anomaly, so presumably we can recreate that,” said Colin, gesturing. “We know where it last showed up in this universe. We just have to wait for it to come back, right?”

He took a swig of coffee, and stood. “I bet he’ll have all kinds of answers, too. We just have to make sure we have the right equipment so we don’t get trapped like John was.”

He grinned. “I’ll go tell the others. Thanks for the idea.”