The Cold Boot

The funeral made my stomach froth and bubble. His legacy and reputation had evaporated like a drop of water on a desert highway. Everything he had dedicated his life to, the science, the ingenuity, his wild fantasies, had been robbed of him. The most unforgettable scientist the world had ever known had died as just another forgettable wannabe. No-one would ever remember him. No child would ever boast "When I grow up, I want to be like Cave Johnson."

I had wept for days. My face was never dry. My hands never stopped trembling. Strength, when I needed it most, failed me. I knew back then that in a few ominous days, I would be appointed his successor. Little Caroline, never leaving his side, would be named his heir. I knew I wasn't ready. It still troubles me now how Mr Johnson saw me. I was no scientist. I was the chipper, perky, young enthusiast: straight out of college, fresh-faced, excitable, immature.

He had called me spunky. He had said that he wanted someone with spunk and flair at his side as he ran the greatest science company ever built. I was as happy as a cricket back then, living solely for the Glory Days of Aperture Science. Life was meant to be lived. We were the pioneers of scientific and technological adventures; the eccentric Cave Johnson and his loyal assistant Caroline: the pride of the scientific community. Side by side. Life was colourful, bright and brimming with magic. There were endless possibilities for discovery. The world was ours and we snatched it.

The Dark Days of Black Mesa arrived like a tenebrous tornado. Our partner-turned-rival in science became Mr Johnson's downfall. We lost everything. The money, the inventions, the beauty of science - all was stolen by this dark monster. I remember it being like falling down an abyss: you didn't know what you would find at the bottom and you could never claw your way out. It was night for almost 30 years. Aperture Science became a joke. Something to be laughed at. Mocked. Ridiculed. Black Mesa stole the spotlight and thrust us into the darkness. The failure Cave Johnson and his worthless assistant Caroline: the embarrassment of the scientific community.

Mr Johnson died from eating ground-up moon rocks. That's how wild he was. I can't possibly imagine what went through his head at the time. It must have been like a rollercoaster in the crevices of his mind - twisting and turning and looping. I never, ever, ever doubted his sanity, except for his dying words, appointing me his successor, so that I should run Aperture Science after his death. I went to hell and back to save him. We even built a computer to upload his consciousness in a last minute frenzy. His heartbeat stopped before he could be transferred.

" I will say this - and I'm gonna say it on tape so everybody hears it a hundred times a day: If I die before you people can pour me into a computer, I want Caroline to run this place."

"Now she'll argue. She'll say she can't. She's modest like that. But you make her."

"Hell, put her in my computer. I don't care."

The days started to blur together after he died. The science turned sterile and white. I did my best, but it was nothing compared to his marvel. I knew how everyone saw me. They avoided my gaze, hurrying past the cold, dead stare. My face withered, my hair faded to steely-gray, faint lines of laughter changed to frowns.

I died.

These thoughts plague me now as I sit at Mr Johnson's desk in his old office. The nameplate condemns me as CEO and the calendar on the wall reminds me that Mr Johnson died 10 years, eight months and 13 days ago.

It's late and I'm tired. But the eighteenth file for bankruptcy is due tomorrow so I stare at the words on the page. I begin to read the same sentence over and over again. I begin to read the same sentence over and over again. I begin to read the same sentence over and over again.

A sharp rap on the door clears the fog in my head. I sit up straight instinctively, checking to see that my bun is still in place and then folding my hands professionally on the desk.

"Come in."

The figure who slithers in surprises me. Everything about him screams danger - his shiny dark sunglasses, the black suit, the expressionless face. I stand to face him.

"Who are you?" I demand. His broad shoulders tower over my short, slight frame.

"My name is Grant Williams. I work in Security. I've been asked to escort you to the Transfer Chamber to be uploaded. Could you step this way please ma'am?"

His bluntness startles me. He extends his arms and gestures for me to walk to my fate. It's threatening and I back away when he does.

"No."

"Ma'am, I'm afraid that your co-operation on this matter is important. I don't want to have to use means of force. But I will."

They can't do this. They can't do this. My vision darts to the open door and flickers back to his hard gaze. I snatch my chance and I run. Clearly he's been expecting this; I'm no more than a few feet outside when I feel his powerful arms grappling me back like hooks. I scream and writhe in rage. Every limb that I have exercises every bit of force that I can muster.

"Ma'am, settle down please. Hey! I'm warning you!"

He mumbles something frantic into his radio. I lunge forward, twisting, ripping. I'm momentarily freed but his hooks dig into my skin and tear me back. I hear the drumming of footsteps in the distance fall into the rhythm of my heart palpitation, their echoes coming closer, closer, closer. A white lab coat and a syringe zips around the corridor corner and into my flailing arm. My strength fails me and the peace overtakes me.

I emerge to the constant, even beeping of machines and the low murmur of human voices. Half a dozen bespectacled, pale faces stare at mine perceptively.

"She's awake. Brain function normal. Stable heartbeat and breathing. Electrolyte levels in range. She's ready for transference."

There are wires everywhere; snakes slipping slyly and coiling around me. My head is still foggy but I can think clearly enough to count down the seconds I have left to live.

"No. You can't do this. Please! I don't want this. Let me out. LET ME OUT!"

My rage seethes like a ferocious cauldron boiling over, hissing and steaming. I shake in fury and the machines increase their tempo. Voices are shouting indistinctly. Tears run down my face and blur my vision. My breathing falters to a high wheeze.

"NO! YOU GET ME OUT! HELP ME! LET ME GO! LET ME GO! PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME!"

I feel the metal slip through the pores of my skin and clamp around my brittle bones. Microchips and wires replace my brain, electricity for blood, camera lenses for eyes, silicon for a skeleton. My consciousness jerks between my old cadaver and my new mainframe. My raw screams and pleas fade. Colours melt and mesh, voices blur, the universe flips and spins and spins.

The machines stop their beeping.