Into the Black Hole

Chapter 29: Generally, I'm Pro-Robot

During Sunday's "Afternoon Tea," the air surrounding me and Felix festers with tension. He doesn't apologize, and nor do I. Although, he does update us on knowledge he acquired while Huxley and I were together.

"There have been increased shipments of aluminium," Felix states. "At first, it didn't particularly stick out. But then I realized we don't customarily import aluminium—magnesium is our choice of lightweight structural metal. After a bit of digging and a lot of decrypting, I discovered the true name of the import: 'Fibronium.'"

I swivel my head to look at Timour. He's already staring at me with wide eyes.

"You've heard of it?" Felix questions.

Timour nods, and I repeat what he once told me, "Stronger than tungsten, lighter than magnesium, and very toxic."

"Any special properties?"

"It blocks EMPs," Timour answers, "high damping capacity, and used correctly, it's bulletproof."

Felix tilts his head, impressed. "Well, those are special."

"Anything else?" I wonder.

"What, the fibronium isn't good enough for you, sweetheart?"

I shrug. "I remember a certain someone announcing that Boss would tell him all his plans and secrets."

"All?" Felix scoffs sardonically. "You can't be serious."

I give him a sour look. "Did he say anything to you?"

"And what if he did?" He lifts his chin and pretentiously sips his alcoholic tea.

Timour's eyes shift back and forth, from Felix to me then Felix again, and he chooses to address the Quartermaster, "Look, man, I don't know what's going on between you guys, but let's not kill time acting like children. What else did you learn?"

I'm surprised when Felix simply sighs, responding, "There's a recent order. It hasn't shipped yet, but I thought it odd, since it was labeled 'mildew.'"

"Like the fungus?" Timour queries.

"That's the only kind of mildew I'm familiar with."

"Why is he ordering mildew?" I ask.

"Perhaps composting is a new hobby of his—frankly, it's a fine stress reliever. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, he requested fifty-eight-thousand kilograms of the stuff."

Oh. My. God. "So not mildew," I conclude.

"Most likely not."

* * *

Ice travels up my forearm, waking me in the middle of the night. Did someone turn on the air conditioning? It's too early for this, especially on a Monday.

Reaching over to cover myself with more blankets, the fogginess trickles out of my mind as I comprehend two things: No one else has access to my thermostat, and only my left arm is cold. Maybe I accidentally cut off its circulation during sleep. I shake my arm to restore feeling—

I feel fire.

I jump, bumping my head against the wall behind me and pulling my arm back—anything to rid the sharp pain. The movement causes water to drip down my arm in searing rivulets. No, not water.

Blood.

Something crashes into the headboard beside me. Too dark to see what.

I scurry off the bed, landing gracelessly on my knees, and flick on the nearest light. A string of blades a meter tall and seventy centimeters wide comprise the deadly robot on my bed, staring at me with one beady eye—a camera. The thin blades pack together and slither toward me.