An ancient Conqueror is to be Reborn

The last thought Bill had, as Illyria's warm and pleasantly plump arms closed around him, was that he had been ordered to do this. War sure was hell. But as the seconds ticked by and the embrace showed no signs of abating, a different kind of thought began to intrude. A thought involving gratitude for orders. A thought that maybe the General Vossbarger, with his fat neck and his ugly paintings and his threatening gun, wasn't such a bad judge of what a trooper from the Fighting 69th Deep Space Screaming Killers needed after all.

He was just starting to get comfortably into the spirit of the thing when he noticed a change in the light.

It was subtle at first. The air in the chamber, already pearly with the diffuse glow of the Quintiform computer's simulated spaces, took on a different sheen. It began to pulse. Bill tried to ignore it, focusing instead on Illyria's new body, which was indeed a significant improvement over the three-sphere model. But the pulsing grew stronger. The air throbbed and bubbled, shook and quivered.

Illyria felt it too. She pulled back, her new face—pretty in a slightly over-ripe, farm-girl sort of way—creased with a frown. "What in the name of the protoplasm vat is that?"

Bill knew exactly what it was. He'd seen this trick before. "Oh no," he groaned. "Not now. Not again."

The air split open with a sound like tearing silk, revealing a black maw with a single point of light at its center. The light grew, solidified, and stepped out into the computer's chamber. It was a tall, hatchet-faced man with pointed ears like a pregnant kangaroo, wearing a crappy one-piece elasticized jumpsuit.

"Splock!" Bill cried, torn between relief and exasperation. "What the hell are you doing here? Can't a guy get five minutes of R&R ordered by a General with a gun?"

Splock's uninflected, buzzing voice filled the chamber. "Your recreational activities are noted, Bill, and while they are illogical, they are your own affair. However, there is a matter of considerably greater urgency that requires your attention."

Illyria, still holding onto Bill's arm, looked at the newcomer. "Splock. I should have known. You always did have the worst timing of any sentient being in the galaxy. And that's counting the Horzath of Jannus IX, who think a party starts when the first asteroid hits."

Splock inclined his head a fraction of an inch. "Illyria. I am pleased to see you have acquired a body less... spherical. My congratulations on your recent political ascent. President of Tsuris. Most impressive. However, your emotional state is, as always, irrelevant to the current tactical situation."

The Quintiform computer's voice boomed through the chamber, its usual avuncular tone replaced by one of sharp suspicion. There was something in that voice—a faint echo of something personal, something almost paternal, that Bill couldn't quite place. It reminded him of the way his own mother on Phigerinadon II used to talk about the robomule. Fondly. Protectively. As if the machine were family.

"Unauthorized entry detected. Identify yourself, intruder."

"I am Splock, Science Officer of the Starship Gumption, currently on detached duty under the authority of Captain Dirk. Your defensive perimeters are, I might add, rather poorly configured for temporal-spatial incursions."

"Hostile program in the computer!" the Quintiform thundered. "Standard defense protocols, activate!"

Suddenly the air around them shimmered. From the pearly walls, shapes began to coalesce. Bill recognized them immediately. They were like the programs he'd fought before: blobby, semi-transparent things with too many mouths, and fluttering metallic bats with glowing eyes. The computer's immune system was waking up.

But there was something different about these programs. The blobs pulsed with a strange rhythm—not random, but structured. Almost musical. And the bats... their eyes weren't just glowing. They were projecting images. Flickering, half-formed images of a city skyline. Toronto, Bill's hindbrain whispered, though he'd never seen Toronto. The bats were dreaming of it.

Splock looked around with mild interest. "Primitive phagocyte analogs. Inefficient, but persistent. Though I note an unusual emotional resonance in their construction. Almost as if the programmer had... personal attachments woven into the code."

Illyria stepped forward, her voice sharp with command. "Quintiform! Stop this! Splock is a friend! He helped Bill, he fought the Alien Historian—"

"My dear," the computer's voice was firm, even sad. And beneath the sadness, something else—a memory of another voice, another time, another female who had pleaded with him. "Your fondness for this... intruder is noted. But my primary function is the security of Tsuris. He entered without authorization. He is, by definition, a hostile program. As for you, my wife and our beloved President, you must remain here."

"What?" Illyria's voice went up an octave.

"It is protocol. The President of Tsuris cannot simply 'leave' the planetary mainframe. Your consciousness is now fully integrated. Your new body, charming as it is, is merely an interface. If you attempt to exit with them, you will dissipate."

Bill looked at Illyria, then at the closing ring of hungry-looking blobs. "He's right, isn't he? You're stuck."

Illyria's face twisted with frustration. "I got myself digitized for this? To be a wife and a president and a prisoner all at once?"

"Your sacrifice is noted and appreciated," Splock said, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. "Now, Bill. We must leave. Immediately."

"But—" Bill started, glancing back at Illyria, who was already beginning to flicker around the edges, her new plump form losing definition as the computer's security protocols asserted themselves.

"There is no time for buts. The Quintiform's immune system is not intelligent, but it is persistent. We have approximately ninety seconds before the phagocyte analogs achieve complete synaptic lock on our position."