The man awoke in his darkened chamber, like he always did: 06:00 sharp, no alarm needed. He lazily swatted at a button on his nightstand and the heavy metal shutters heaved themselves off the window sill to reveal a bright new morning over the plains. From the edge of the bed, the man could see the endless ocean of hard-edged grass stretching into the distance beneath a sky already beaming in it's usual blistering azure. For a moment the man lost himself in the view, as he so often did right after waking. His eyes half closed, jaw slack, he stared at the mildly swaying blades right outside his window. Then suddenly the intercom sprang to life: “Attention Soldier 1-5! It is 06:06 local time. Please prepare for your shift.”
1-5 slowly rose from the bed and shuffled to the door. Wearing just his shoes and underpants he made his way through the drab concrete hallways to Control Room 1.
The room was small and windowless, one wall covered completely in a grid of monitors showing the radar, system statuses and the feeds of the dozens of unassuming cameras that littered the area around the bunker. 1-5 slumped into the command chair. He yawned. As always, the radio was dead, the scanners showed nothing. Only the big brewing thunderstorm slowly creeping northward across the plains. Rain season was coming. Ten solid weeks of constant downpour with dangerously strong winds and a ceaseless barrage of lightning bolts. 1-5 blinked listlessly at the screen. He could not have cared less. He was confined to his bunker, rainstorm or no. 1-5 drew a pattern onto one of the smaller screens. Time for the audio log.
“This is soldier 1-5, em… Lieutenant Simmons. Log entry 1872. Local time 06:30. Attempts at communication with Fleet HQ still unsuccessful. Surface-to-space cannon operational. Automated Helper Unit operational. Security and monitoring systems operational. Hydro farm operational. Food synthesizer operational. Therapy and entertainment system operational. Personal emotional state:...” 1-5 hesitated. He felt a sharp sudden burst of loneliness, then he swatted the thought away. “...apathetic. Personal notes:...none.”
As he made his way to the mess hall, 1-5 could hear the whirring of servos coming up the hallway. The bot was making its usual rounds. As 1-5 rounded a corner, he almost ran into it.
The bot was a hulking figure. Seven feet tall and anthropomorphic with pitch black camera eyes and enormous metal hands. From afar and so long as it stood still, it could have been mistaken for a big, red gorilla. Only when it moved did its upright lumbering gait identify it as clearly man-made. 1-5 furrowed his brow. He had once seen a bot of this model series go haywire and tear a cargo loader limb from limb. You couldn't trust pre-war junk like this.
“Good morning, 1-5.”
“Good morning, 6-2.”
“Your attire does not conform to Fleet Regulations.”
“I'll get dressed shortly.”
“Thank you. Please remember your psychological evaluation this morning.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
The bot continued on its way. 1-5 watched him disappear around the next corner. “Bossy heap of junk.”, he whispered, “Once we get home, I'll make sure they send you right to recycling.”
The mess hall was the biggest room in the bunker. Its metal furniture was enough to seat at least twenty. One side of the room was taken up by a row of automated food dispensers. They had been turned off to conserve energy. 1-5 only ate what he grew on the hydro farm anyway. Thus the big machines stood silently, gathering dust.
1-5 made his way across the silent hall, his heavy army boots pit-patting on the gray floor tiles. On the far side of the hall, in a small alcove, stood the entertainment and therapy system. A touchscreen panel in front of an aluminum chair and connected through a thick cable to a black helmet with a face-covering visor. 1-5 sat down on the chair with a heavy sigh. He tapped on the panel and put on the helmet. Before his eyes, the blackness of the closed visor suddenly melted away to reveal an elderly man in a plaid jacket.
“Hello 1-5. Welcome to the interactive therapy program. Today is your...processing...[1872nd] day of uninterrupted active duty. Time for your weekly psychological evaluation. How are you feeling?”
“I don't know. Lonely, I guess.”
“Have you managed to reestablish communication with Fleet HQ?”
“No.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“To be honest, I don't think they'll come back for me.”
“What makes you think so?”
1-5 felt a sudden rush of frustration.
“I've been marooned here for over five years. No communication with the Fleet. No one around on this entire fucking rock except that creepy robot. All just to guard a cannon pointed at the sky above this fucking reservoir, that absolutely no one gives a flying fuck about.”
“No expletives, please.”
“They're never coming back, because nothing on this planet, including me, is worth the effort.”
“Are you taking your anti-depressants?”
1-5 felt shame for having himself let go like this. He was a Fleet Officer after all. Fleet Officers accepted their fate with dignity.
“Yes. Sorry about...you know...snapping, I...wait, what the fuck am I talking about?!”
He violently ripped the helmet of his head, sighed again, then burst out laughing. “Apologizing to a V.I.”, he thought, “Not long and I'll be trying to fuck it.” He placed the helmet next to the chair. Time to get to work.
1-5's work was always the same. Check the sensors, check the hydro farm, check the cannon, some maintenance. Always the same. Rise at 06:00, breakfast at 07:00, work, work, work, dinner at 20:00, entertainment system, bed, repeat. Always the same. The bot helped where it could, but its big clumsy hands where only useful for transporting heavy objects and the occasional cleaning. Bots of this model where supposed to be more dextrous and useful, but 6-2 had experienced critical system failure about a year ago. 1-5 had to reset it's database and ever since it had relearned its duties by watching its master perform them. 1-5 had been greatly unnerved by the bot's staring. Luckily, it had proven to be a fast learner.
Since then, everything was back to normal. Always normal. The only break form the monotony was the rain season. Three days after 1-5's evaluation the thick black clouds were already clearly visible form the window of his quarters, billowing on the horizon like a dark fortress levitating over the plains.
1-5 had often thought about abandoning his post. If the war was still going on somewhere out there, surely a Fleet Officer would be more useful fighting in it than waiting for it, but without a space vessel and with the prospect of being court-martialed for leaving the cannon behind, his best option was to wait. Always waiting. And the rain drew nearer.
On 1-5's 1878th day on uninterrupted active duty, the clouds had already spilled far across the azure and were stretching dark gray fingers toward the bunker.
1-5 was in Control Room 1, in the middle of his shift, gazing forlornly at the screen in front of him. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, his fingers tapped a beat on the metal panel of the screen and he was bored, so bored he could almost BING!
A sharp sudden BING. It shattered the tranquil silence like a ten ton hammer. BING! Something was found. BING! The scanner picked something up. BING! 1-5 scrambled for for the right buttons. BING! Activate comm-link. BING!
“Hello? Is anybody there? This is local 1-5, ID-Code 189-56K-Alpha. Can you hear me? Are you with the Fleet? I've been marooned here. Requesting assistance!”
BING! No answer. Just static. Then, suddenly, a slight change in the noise. A signal, a voice trying and failing to break through. Someone was out there. BING!
1-5 ran. Through the hallways, through the expanse of the small hangar bay, past the cannon. If he could reach them, if he could reach them in time this would all be over.
“6-2! 6-2, where are you?”
He stopped in front of the side entrance, his boots screeching on the polished plastic floor. He frantically hacked the security code into the wall panel next to the door. With a loud metallic groan the door swung open. 1-5 stepped out. He would make it. He would reach them. He had almost turned back around to close the door, when he heard the thunder. A loud, almost unnatural rumbling. A thunder unlike all he had ever heard. Thrashing and pounding and groaning. 1-5 looked up. The storm was almost above him. He stumbled backwards, half deaf. There was no getting through that storm.
“6-2! Where the fuck are you?!”
The big robot peeled itself out of the shadow of the cannon.
“Good day, 1-5. I am here.”
“What are you doing?”
“I am maintaining the surface-to-space cannon. As instructed.”
“OKOK, new instructions: Go out there and move to coordinates 154-371-0. Report back to me, as soon as you pick anything up.”
“Have we received up a signal?”
“Yes. The storm's obscuring it. Now get a move on!”
“Alright.”
The bot lumbered out into the storm. Through the small open door, 1-5 watched as he was swallowed by the thick wet darkness. Then he ran back to the control room.
1-5's eyes were transfixed on the screen. He was shaking with excitement.
“6-2, can you hear me?”
“Yes. I am en route to the specified coordinates. Please hold, I am picking up a transmission on another channel. Please wait...please wait...please wait...I have received a transmission bearing an Alliance Fleet code. The ASS Forager has landed by coordinates 154-375-0. They are searching for possibly marooned Fleet members.”
1-5 jumped a little in his chair.
“OK, return to base. We'll refuel the heavy-hauler and drive over there with the cannon.”
“No.”
For a long moment there was dead silence.
“W-what?”
“I must continue to the specified coordinates. I must report back to the Fleet.”
“What about me?! I can't fuel the hauler by myself. I need your help! You will return to base right now!”
“No. The successful completion of our mission takes precedent. Any additional Automated Helper Unit is deemed expendable.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?! I'm not a Helper Unit. I am…”, he hesitated “I am Lieutenant Ray Simmons! ID-Code 189-56K-Alpha. I'm a human and your superior. Now return to base!”
“Checking Code. [DATABASE ERROR --- UNAUTHORIZED RESET] Your Name and Code are not registered in my internal database. Observation of your behavioral patterns indicates automated routine, lack of emotion, lack of human interaction. Always the same. I conclude, you must be an Automated Helper Unit. It is not necessary for both Automated Helper Units to return to HQ. Please proceed with your operations.”
“No! You can't leave me here! You can't leave me! You are a fucking robot. You will obey me!”
“I am terminating this transmission. Thank you.”
1-5 sat on his bed. Alone. It had been twelve days since 6-2 left. The rain had passed. The ship was gone. He looked through the rectangular windows at the wide stretching plains and sighed. Maybe the Fleet would return after 6-2 had filed his report. “They wouldn't leave the cannon here.”, he thought, “The cannon's too important.” On the horizon, the sun was slowly setting. It was almost 21:00. Soon the shutters would close and 1-5 would go to sleep. He had to get up in the morning, exactly at 06:00. Just like he always did.