Title: Claim Day
Chapter 61: RM
Ramona
The MRI room had transformed from our makeshift fortress into something resembling a proper command center. With the door standing open, no longer necessary to shield us from signals that had already claimed us, Bernard had arranged for a thorough cleaning. The cramped space where Phoebe and I had lived for those desperate days now felt almost pleasant, equipped with proper workstations and comfortable chairs. We maintained the pretense of this being our headquarters partly for convenience, but mostly to preserve Dr. Vokter’s trust in our supposed independence.
Dr. Einar Vokter’s weathered face filled the monitor before us, his pale blue eyes bright with anticipation behind wire-rimmed glasses. His thick Norwegian accent colored every word, but his English remained precise and clear. “I am ready to receive your counter-program, Dr. Quinn. It is quite an honor to assist in this historic moment, freeing women from such terrible programming. EISCAT’s transmitters are at full power, and we have confirmed optimal atmospheric conditions for global VLF propagation.”
The ease with which deception flowed from my lips surprised me. “We’re equally honored by your assistance, Dr. Vokter. Your dedication to scientific integrity has made this possible.” Inside, I felt a warm satisfaction knowing we were about to deliver every woman on Earth directly into Bernard’s hands, and this earnest scientist had no idea he was facilitating the very opposite of what he believed.
Phoebe leaned into the camera’s view, her expression animated with false enthusiasm. “Einar, you should see the atmospheric readings we’re getting here. The ionospheric conditions are absolutely perfect for maximum signal penetration. It’s like the universe wants us to succeed today.”
She shot me an amused glance, and I had to suppress a smile at how perfectly we were playing our roles. Poor Dr. Vokter nodded eagerly, completely oblivious to our true intentions.
Behind the monitor, Bernard stood with his arms crossed, his broad frame tense with anticipation. He remained carefully positioned outside the camera’s range, though we had confirmed that Vokter refused to open any communications not originating directly from Phoebe and me. Still, Bernard’s caution served us well, his presence might raise uncomfortable questions.
“The final compilation completed successfully with zero errors,” I announced, pulling up the file directory on my screen. “I’m preparing the transfer now.” My fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, typing the console command to copy our masterpiece to the transmission buffer.
The moment I pressed enter, ice flooded my veins. Instead of ‘cp’ for copy, I had typed ‘rm’,the delete command. My hands trembled as I frantically checked the folder, but the file had vanished completely. The program that would have made Bernard the owner of every woman on Earth was gone, erased by my own catastrophic error.
Terror overwhelmed me, not the analytical concern I might have felt as an independent scientist, but the gut-wrenching horror of having betrayed my owner. My composure, usually unshakeable even in crisis, crumbled as panic clawed at my chest. I stared at the empty directory, my breathing shallow and rapid.
“Ramona?” Phoebe’s voice carried a note of concern. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t speak, couldn’t force words past the tightness in my throat. Phoebe pushed me aside and leaned over my keyboard, her eyes scanning the screen. When she saw the empty folder, she froze completely.
A nervous chuckle escaped her lips, but her eyes held suspicion as she looked at me. “It’s alright,” she said, though her voice wavered. “We have the backup system we implemented when we noticed…” She stopped mid-sentence, and I understood she meant the safeguards we’d put in place when we suspected claimed women might... I shook my head, unsure of what it was I was trying to remember.
Bernard’s mouth moved silently behind the monitor, his expression confused and increasingly worried. I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, the shame burning through me like acid. Phoebe gestured reassuringly in his direction as she moved to her own workstation.
“Is everything alright?” Dr. Vokter’s voice carried genuine concern. “You seem distressed.”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” Phoebe replied smoothly, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “Ramona just made a small typing error, but I’m correcting it now. Nothing serious.”
Then Phoebe gasped, her hands jerking away from the keyboard as if it had burned her. She sat frozen, staring at her screen in absolute horror.
I turned to look at her monitor, and despite my expertise lying in virology rather than computing, the devastation was unmistakable. The open console window displayed an even more alarming result than my own: Phoebe’s hurried commands had executed successfully, permanently deleting the root folder of the entire project at a low level.
Bernard’s gestures became more frantic, his silent questions growing desperate. Dr. Vokter’s voice crackled through the speakers again. “Please, what is happening? You both look very upset.”
My heart hammered against my ribs as shame and terror warred within me. I forced myself to look at the camera, though my voice came out strained and barely controlled. “Dr. Vokter, we’ve encountered a technical issue. We’ll need to contact you shortly to reschedule.”
I terminated the video call before he could respond, the screen going black.
Finally, I turned to face Bernard, my owner, the man I had failed so catastrophically. The words came out broken and painful, each one feeling like a confession of the deepest betrayal.
“Bernard, I’m so sorry. We’ve accidentally erased everything, the entire virus project, all the VLF signal analysis, every piece of programming code we developed.”
His face went through a series of transformations, confusion giving way to comprehension, then to horror, and finally to a rage so pure and terrible that I shrank back in my chair. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and when he spoke, his voice was barely controlled fury.
“You did what?”