Reboot, Part II

Continued from Part I.

“Berlman?” I call out again, my legs gaining strength as I force them to continue carrying me forward.  I make it out of the medical bay, heading down through the metal, meshed walkways that lead throughout the ship.  I still feel a little woozy, but that’s not what’s bothering me the most.

Warning: Attempt to access most recently written memories failed.  Memories were likely corrupted due to improper upload or transfer.

Attempting to repair files…
Repairing…
Repairing…
Repair failed.  Files cannot be repaired from available data.

Attempting to restore files from earlier backup…
Restore failed.  No earlier backup is present.

The system in the ship was top-of-the-line, capable of keeping a constant real-time profile of every crew member’s brain in the synthetic matrix of the computer.  Whenever massive damage was detected to a crewman, the real-time profile on the computer was simply saved, ready to be uploaded to a new, rebooted body.  

I knew that the system worked.  On previous voyages, several of our more accident-prone members of the crew had managed to injure or kill themselves through various circumstances.  In every case, their profile had been successfully saved, and they had stepped out of the reboot chamber a couple of hours later, after their new body had been constructed, shaking their head at their stupidity.  

It had even progressed to the point where Barry, one of the more enterprising crewmen, kept a pool going on who would be the next person to need rebooting.  As the captain, I had to discourage such behavior, of course, but occasionally I’d sit down and consult with him in private.  He was able to provide a good insight into how the crew felt – something invaluable to a captain.

But my point was that the ship’s computer was able to keep a full brain profile up until the last microsecond of that person’s life before the reboot.  There should not be any memory gaps.  So why can’t I recall why I had been rebooted?

The corridors are suspiciously quiet.  The only noise that I can hear is the banging of my own steps against the metal gratings.  Wait a minute.  I pause, straining my ears.  It isn’t just my imagination – the sounds of the ship itself, the steady purr of the warp drive beneath my feet, is different.  I’ve commanded this ship long enough to tell when it’s gone wrong.  And something is definitely off.  No crew, malfunctioning reboot system, and now something different with the ship’s engines; there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I lean forward, releasing the railing and pushing myself forward into a half-stumble, half-run down the corridor towards the nearest terminal interface.  I duck around the corner, into the mess hall (which is also completely empty.  This is very bad, my brain’s crying out to me), and grab for the terminal keyboard.  I key in my access code to the ship’s mainframe, my fingers trembling slightly. 

Access code accepted.  Welcome, Captain Reynolds.

>Run diagnostics

Running full-system diagnostic scan…


Warning!  Extensive damage detected.  Multiple detection pathways are currently offline.  Extent of damage cannot be determined at this time.

Warning!  Damage detected to Reboot™ system.  Memory save function corrupted.  Real-time protection module has been disconnected and must be manually repaired.  Any Reboot™ that occurs will be drawn from most recent saved profile.

Ah, so that explained part of what was wrong.  The computer system, for some reason, had been damaged and was no longer able to save the up-to-date copies of brain scans for new reboots.  This explained why I couldn’t remember what had gone wrong when I had awoken; those most recent memories must not have been preserved.

Although the idea of not being able to save my memories fills me with concern, I know what I have to do next; I have to head to the computer room.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to repair the computer system.  But I’ll have to be alert as I do so. Any mistakes I make won’t be remembered if I reboot…

Continued in Part III…

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