The Promethead

She was dressed once again in the uniform in which they'd found her, the light gray bodysuit, the dark gray tunic-vest, so different now from the listless form he had found in the mirror port. He could see where all the food had gone. No longer emaciated, it was astonishing how well she now filled out her clothing. When they had first examined her body, her skin had been stretched over an inhumanly lean, bony frame. Her body looked more like that of a woman now. Her face appeared much softer, healthier, younger, prettier, all of the hollowness and deprivation gone. It almost made up for the uncomfortable clothes, more representative of Kyso's old performances than what he remembered from the Consortia. He never remembered wearing pants that were so tight when he was young.

Restored to health, Althea Ram looked even less like a Makani, her features softer, rounder, smoother. Her straight dark hair, long enough to brush her shoulders, was – however – uncomfortably familiar.

Her eyes met his, and she smiled – a flash of white against her dark, cinnamon skin, then she turned to grin at Kyso. She wasn't completely recovered, clearly. Her steps, weren't very steady, evoking a concerned remark from the old man. She waved him off. He offered her a seat. She accepted it politely.

Traejan watched the Consortian woman gingerly sit down, as if she expected to break the chair, her eyes looking over the food and drink laid out in clean, if chipped dishes between them. She glanced up at him, over at Kyso, then offered her thanks again. The way her black hair fell over her eyes, her shoulders; it was like… No, she's nothing like her, nothing like Kaelin. He looked away, disturbed and ashamed.

"I'm glad you're up for sharing a meal with us, Sa Ram, at long last," Kyso said warmly.

"Do we need to be so formal?" Her tone was light.

He looked put out, stood again, bowed dramatically. She bowed her head in return.

"Es Densca," she relented.

"How do you feel today?" he wanted to know.

"I'm still a little shaky, but more food and drink should cure that." She looked over her plate, the pile of food, smiled at Kyso, then at him. Traejan tensed.

"Es Edos," she greeted him, eyes meeting his. He returned the greeting, traded a brief, polite smile with her.

"I apologize for the quality of our food," Kyso began again. "Unfortunately, our resources are a touch limited," he added in attempted humor.

"It doesn't seem so bad." The woman glanced at the mound on her plate again. Traejan could tell, though, from the way she wrinkled her nose, pursed her lips, that she was being gracious. He looked to Kyso, who had sat down at the end of the table. The man motioned him to eat up.

The food wasn't as inedible as he'd expected, just hot, tangy. He ate slowly, but wasted nothing. After such an extravagance, they would be on half rations until he could make another trip to Panak. Her apparent dislike notwithstanding, Sa Ram devoured everything on her plate was well. Kyso engaged her in chitchat while they ate – about food, her appearance, her home world and such. Traejan limited his part to social noises, watched her hair bob as she ate, lips move, b.r.e.a.s.ts rise and fall. Kyso had made him promise to be civil. So… he bided his time, watching her, waiting for his chance.

She quickly emptied the second plate Kyso offered. Irritation bubbled inside of him, growing more intense by the minute.

"Still quite the appetite," the old man noted, grinning.

Althea smiled back. "A few more meals like this," she said, after downing another full glass of water, "and I'll be strong enough to deal with the Macro."

It was a harmless, flirtatious remark – but it was something Traejan could pounce upon.

"And how exactly are you going to do that? Can you offer some… technical details?"

Kyso scowled. "Traejan–"

"No." It wasn't a shout, but he'd had enough, and wasn't going to be quieted any more. "I risked my life in the mirror port. I deserve answers."

Althea matched his level gaze.

"I'll need a multi-channel system to directly interface with the Macro's codestream," she said without hesitation. "Once my consciousness is interfaced with its logos… I have an active pattern of trinary code that will entirely consume it."

"Just like that," he scoffed. "All the bots and flyers will be destroyed."

She held her fork above her food, raised an eyebrow.

"They'll be stopped," she corrected him. "It's not as easy or as simple as it sounds. It's not something I'm going to be able to alone." She paused. "You are going to help me destroy the Macro, aren't you?"

"That goes without saying," Kyso interjected. Traejan didn't look back at him. He kept his eyes on Althea.

"We'll provide whatever we can." She looked back to the old man, as did he. Kyso continued, "although, wouldn't any mech that can allow you to communicate with the 'Macro' as you call it – be under its control? That sounds dangerous."

She smiled grimly – speared a piece of meat with her fork, glanced at him, then back at Kyso.

"That's why I'll be needing help."