Sitting in cold storage, I sometimes forget that I’m a bomb.
Just the guidance and navigation AI unit, actually. Programmed to keep a fusion nugget simmering while dodging interceptors and mind-killing x-ray lasers on an attack vector to the enemy. But Marty pulled me off the flight line and I’ll never get to do that. So I stay in the maintenance shop on the hangar deck and help keep things running. While my fellow GN units can look forward to a short lifespan and fiery end, I remain on the Tecumseh.
With no one to talk with, not even an uppity squicky drive, I relive old memories over and over, wondering if they will ever fade away. Only my carbon-matrix basic programming will last forever, the rest only as permanent as my current quantum state...
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