The Cello

E7 ran his hand over the aged surface of the instrument, relishing every fast beat of his heart. Seven should have been warning him of the dangers of increased blood pressure, but his mind was uncharacteristically, blissfully quiet. Even without her, however, the boy was painfully aware of every second that ticked by.

The image of A9’s face when they’d realized there was no way for him to get out was burned behind his eyes. Her proximity key scheme had been brilliant, but could only work for her. His internal ID had been logged on the ship systems as a prisoner, and he’d leave a trail of tripped alarms anywhere he tried to go — even with a stolen prox key. She had even tried to get him to take hers, and leave her in his place! Maybe a few days ago that wouldn’t have sounded so absurd, but the mere thought of leaving his fate on her head was physically sickening. No, he had known what he needed to do the moment he’d seen the cello in the black bag.

“January twenty sixth, two thousand six hundred and eighteen,” Seven should have recited this morning. The day before the reboot.

He had finally convinced A9 to go, and he now sat in the cell alone.

“Eleven fifty one p.m.,” The boy whispered to himself, as if to mimic the electronic voice that had once been his constant, incessant companion.

As he stared at the beautiful dark wood beneath his hand, it occurred to him that he and the thing were very much alike in an odd sort of way. The living breathing glow of the wood mimicked the shade of his human skin. The cold metal of the strings stretched across its surface was the metal that replaced both limbs on his left side. He stared at the twin holes on either side of the bridge of strings and thought of the missing piece inside his skull; the hole where Seven — and the numbness — had been for as long as he could remember. Now that she was quiet, what would become of the empty space? What was he without the endless grayness?

E7 smiled to himself. He was whole. Whatever space Seven may have left had been more than filled — filled with passion and hope.

No, the empty hole in his skull wasn’t what worried him. It was the fear of being thrown back into the darkness. He feared the place where all was dull and dead and routine and ticking cranial clocks. He would rather die than be reduced once again to that meaningless existence.

Even as he imagined what A9 would feel if it were he in a body bag, his preference for it persisted. What he had lived was not a life. It was only consciousness.

Yes, the colors were painful, but the pain was somehow precious in it’s own way.

He sighed and rested his head against the neck of the instrument, the strings creasing his forehead. It was so poignant now — the pain of her loss. He felt he was standing at the edge of a vast and endless darkness. If he let himself fall into it — if he allowed himself to dwell on all that would be lost, and truly mourn what could have been — he would never make it out again. And so he had to restrain himself. If only for a few minutes longer.

Beauty and pain. They would be his friends this night. It would be them dancing on the strings and pulling at the bow. They would be his message to this lonely, barren world.

They would give life to those who had never known it — fill with a color a world of black and white.

But still he feared. He worried that it wouldn’t work. He worried that his final act would be futile, and that he would cause A9 such awful sorrow for nothing.

He hadn’t even told her. He hadn’t admitted that he already knew what they would do to him.

‘Eleven fifty five,’ He mumbled as he felt the time change. Five minutes and his concerns would be irrelevant. He had made his choice.

He straightened himself on the bench and stared directly at his own reflection in the one way mirror. With practiced finesse, he spun the instrument on it’s stand to face away from him and picked up the bow with his mechanic hand.

Eleven fifty eight.

He closed his human eye and cut the feed from his robotic one. Darkness. It was hard to make himself breathe evenly with his heart pounding in his chest.

Eleven fifty nine.

He was the more alone than he’d ever felt, but also more enraptured with passion and joy and hope than he’d even been. He saw the color like a sea of sunsets in his mind, and let himself be taken by it. He let himself fall into the vast darkness. He let himself dwell on the ache of his heart, and the glow in his soul.

Twelve o’clock.

He felt for the familiar switch -- the emergency internetting system -- as the warning lights started flashing in the corners of his vision. The mother link was down. The ship wouldn’t get his transmission -- but the rest of them would.

There was a beep and a blue light came on amidst the red. ’Transmitting,’ it read. Somehow, he felt them -- a web of hundreds of minds, mildly curious. Watching.

They saw what he saw. His reflection in the one way mirror, poised with the cello between his knees, and the bow at the ready against the strings.

He took a single breath --

And then he began to play.