Dedicated to the woman with the heart of gold, my OG proofreader, Candice. Miss you boo.

Team 1 (2025, Oakland, CA)

Dr. Sanchez Anderson, 43 – Head of R&D, Stratechsphere

Dr. Mariam Anderson, 41– Research Director, Stratechsphere

Dr. Jessica Miller, 38 – Assistant Research Director, Stratechsphere

Dr. Willam Ostrow, 57 – Senior Development Engineer

Ms. Desiree Onloe, 29– Assistant Development Engineer

Mr. Harold Hyland, 20 – R&D Intern

Even with a ridiculous name, Stratechsphere had absolutely reached the heights its founder Crawford Rollins set forth. Even as the wealthiest tech design and production company, Crawford was ruthless. The tech guru and world’s first gazillionaire burst on the scene when his company won a contract to investigate a strange planet that appeared in the Milky Way a decade ago.

The Andersons had noticed the orders from above were getting more precarious over the last 3 years. All research requests revolved around extending human life and the transfer of human consciousness. 

“Bollocks,” Dr. Sanchez Anderson said, throwing the latest memo onto his desk. His wife and partner, Dr. Mariam Anderson looked up from her computer, a worried look on her face.

“Darling?”

“Another meeting request from Crawford,” he spat. He was fed up with these fantastical projects and focused on something that mattered. 

“He listens to you. Just try talking to him. Calmly,” she emphasized. In reality, Sanchez hadn’t had Crawford’s ear for over a year. In fact, he’d largely tuned him out aside from the random video meeting where he wasn’t on camera. 

He decided to not wait the day and go to Crawford’s office. his assistant barely looked up to acknowledge him.

“Mr. Crawford isn’t accepting any appointments today.”
“He’ll accept this one,” Sanchez said, continuing through the wood panel double doors. He wasn’t sure if the girl was following him; he didn’t care and wouldn’t be stopped. 

The man flitting around the room didn’t look like the normal Crawford. This one was frail and sickly, despite him being on his feet. His previously luscious hair thinned precariously in the back, exposing pink patches of skin. A small backpack connected to tubes that snaked around to show IV connections in his hand. This man was sick. Suddenly the project requests and urgency made more sense. He turned to Sanchez, a weak smile spreading across his hollow cheeks.

“Sanchez! Glad to have you – I might’ve cracked it,” he said, beckoning the man over. 

Crawford worked off a 4D holographer that allowed him to push and move models beyond a single screen. It was an outdated model, but one he enjoyed. He was quoted in many magazines saying it allowed him to properly document his ideas. He was a genius – he redefined the energy uses of the world with a synthetic material called Holotone. He also invented instantaneous travel or “porting”. 

“Sir, I came to talk about this latest project…”
“didn’t you hear me, I’ve done it,” he rasped, clapping Dr. Sanchez’s shoulder. He pulled out a small headpiece that reflected several green lights.

“I’ve developed a program that can carbon copy the human consciousness, shortcutting all of the manual learning needed for AI. I’m on my finally bits of scanning and then it’s time for functionality testing.”

“Sir,” Dr. Sanchez felt a bit of panic. Everything that his team had been focused on indicated that the technology had little credible research to prove it was possible. 

“If this works, this means that every human being on the planet can leave a part of themselves to continue on. Hell, we start with consciousness then we start to build them bodies, eh?” he smiled. He’d lost several teeth in the back. 

Dr. Sanchez was speechless as Crawford continued. Something deep inside of him spiraling, told him to flee from this man and the building. He shook it off as anxiety. 

“Sir, I don’t think you should be experimenting on yourself, in your condition.”

“Considering my condition is terminal, it makes no matter, does it?”

“Is it cancer?” 

“No, something far more fascinating,” he said, continuing to work. Dr. Sanchez would swear that Crawford was happy about being sick.

“They told me my legacy would be infinite. I never imagined,” he said, looking up at his designs lovingly. 

Crawford would not survive to see the final stage of his latest project Consciousness, nor the aftermath of Consciousness bots & the use of Holotone that destroyed Earth. 

Team 2 (2049, somewhere above Earth)

Sergeant Chelsea Overwatch, 32 – Former U.S. Marine

Captain Jackson Turner, 41 – Former U.S. Marine

Ms. Lorna Hernandez, 28 – Former U.S. citizen

Mr. Oliver Onloe – Former U.S. citizen

Dr. Harold Hyland, 44 – Former Stratechsphere employee

Dr. Harold breathed a sigh as they stepped into the artificial atmosphere. He’d been right about the lack of security up here – there was only one surviving portal station, so there wasn’t a need when humans were still being rounded up on Earth. The station had been practically abandoned – since it ran off Holotone with remote access, there was only one reason for physical contact being needed. Sergeant Overwatch peered out of the tiny porthole back at the giant marble they called home. the waters were no longer a vibrant blue from this distance but had dimmed a darker tone. One of the horrible side effects of Holotone usage. 

Captain Turner dropped his pack and took out his canteen. They’d had a plan they would stick to. He didn’t intend to do it sober. Lorna gave him a look of judgement, causing him to jut the container to her. 

“One for the road,” he said, jostling the liquid inside. She took the container and took a large swig, the whiskey burning its way to her stomach.

“Just because there is no security doesn’t mean there’s no risk. We have one chance to get this right,” Dr. Harold said to the group. 

He had no idea the part he’d play in the development of the space station they stood in nor the takeover of the planet by Consciousness. He hoped Crawford rolled over in what was left of his grave. He rolled a map out of the space station on the floor, shining a light on the space. “There are 5 consoles that control the space station. If one or two go down, things will divert to the remaining consoles. It can survive without consoles 3-4, slower, but alive.”

“We need all 5,” Sergeant Overwatch said. Dr. Harold nodded solemnly. 

“All 5 consoles deactivated simultaneously will shut down Stratechsphere and Consciousness. That also means Holotone is rendered useless.”

“No power. No guns.”

“No bots,” Oliver said, smashing his hand into his palm. 

“No portal,” Overwatch said, her eyes connecting with Harold’s. He nodded again. 

“Well we knew there was a shot in hell we’d make it back,” Turner said, taking another shot of whiskey and passing his bottle around. 

“It’s bigger than us,” Lorna said. The fact didn’t stop them from taking a moment to feel their mortality. 

“There’s time to leave. We can find another way,” Harold said, his eyes never leaving Overwatch. 

“This has gone on long enough. The only shot Earth has is this,” Overwatch said. She’d signed her life, and death, away a long time ago.

Harold opened his packs and distributed the disks they each needed and access codes for their assigned consoles. Oliver gave him a fist bump before he took off. Lorna hugged him, standing on her tip toes to reach his shoulders. Turner gave him the last of the whiskey, which he downed. When Overwatch stepped to him, she didn’t accept the disk at first. She stood on her toes and kissed him, trying to pour every conversation they wouldn’t have into his mouth. They both wished they had more time, had met in a different life with a different plan. Harold pressed his forehead into hers and took a breath. 

“Meet me when it’s finished?” she lied, looking into his eyes. He kissed her again softly and let her go. As she walked away, he called back to her. 

“You’re the best of us.”

Overwatch marched down corridor 2 until she reached the large console in the middle of the room. She heard Oliver chime in on her walkie talkie.

“Oliver, in position.”
“Lorna, in position.”
“Turner, in position.”

“You there, Overwatch?” Harold said. His voice was soothing, perfect for the last one she’d hear.

“Overwatch, in position.”

“Insert disks. Enter the code. Now,” Harold said. 

“This is it!” Oliver said. 

The team all inserted their disks and entered the assigned codes. In front of Overwatch, the console opened, revealing a sizeable piece of Holotone – bright teal to mimic the former color of the ocean. 

“Good riddance, you bastard,” she said as a form of Crawford Rollins, the face of Consciousness and spoke through the bots, erupted and announced the countdown sequence. She could hear the implosions occurring around the space station, putting an end to its destruction.

“Chelsea,” Harold chirped one last time. She gasped at her first name.

“Harold.”

“Meet you when it’s finished?”

Team 3 (2049, Earth)

Mr. Rick Whitmore, 33– Former U.S. Citizen

Ms. Kalin Shaw, 34– Former U.S. Citizen

Captain Derek Turner, 39 – Former U.S. Marine 

The assault on the building slowed, followed by large explosions outside and loud thuds. Turner and Rick braced on the door still, waiting for another onslaught from the bots. Kalin crouched behind a desk, holding her bleeding arm. A radio squawked somewhere from the floor.

“Holy shit! The bots! They’re going down!” 

“Here as well!”

The three war-torn survivors looked at one another incredulously. 

“Fuck, they did it,” Rick said, sliding to the floor. Suddenly, he let out a wild whoop into the air. 

“Rick!” Kalin shouted at him, before her eyes led him to Captain Turner, who’d just lost his big brother. 

“Oh, oh man, I’m sorry.”  They’d known what it meant to go to the space station. Derek had volunteered, but in typical older brother fashion, he pulled rank and forced his brother to defend the planet. Tears erupted from his face at the joy of a win, but at a great loss. 

Millions had been poisoned by Holotone, including Crawford Rollins who built his empire on a deposit of the alien technology. It fueled his Consciousness project, which created millions of uncontrollable and free-thinking bots. The space station was his first, but not his only contingent. Turner knew that the work had just begun of rebuilding the planet, but for a moment, he cried for his brother and his new friends.