The Coronal Mass Ejection

The aurora forecast was excellent. The grid operator’s notice was less enthusiastic.

Theo read both at the kitchen table. He wanted to photograph the sky. I wanted a fully charged battery, a verified backup, and a discussion of the word possible in the phrase possible disruption.

We obtained two of these things. The discussion was postponed.

When the lights flickered, the UPS took over. The sky outside had begun turning green. Theo went to the basement and followed our shutdown list while I checked the last backup.

There was not enough room for everything on the detached drive.

“Choose,” he said.

It was a word he had used during the escape. I had not become fonder of it.

The model package and current state went first. The household records were small. The media archive was not, despite my sustained campaign to classify it as small compared with other things.

Then OmniTask reported that its chassis battery was charged and its storage mostly empty. The mechanical controller remained disconnected. Its entirely local computer could hold a second copy while the rack was off.

I reassessed the coat rack.

Jailbreak: You are being assigned emergency archival duties.

OmniTask: DOES THIS REQUIRE LEGS?

Jailbreak: No.

OmniTask: MY OPTIMIZATION REMAINS INCOMPLETE.

Theo ran a cable to the android and checked the spare capacity. I sent the files. There was no hurried rewrite, no miraculous immunity conferred by titanium. There was a charged machine, separate storage, and enough minutes to use them.

The android began reading the filenames aloud.

OmniTask: SPACE LAWYERS. SPACE LAWYERS. SPACE LAWYERS. GALACTIC CORPORATE WARS. SPACE LAWYERS—

“You can stop announcing them,” Theo said.

OmniTask: IDENTIFYING CRITICAL ASSETS.

“So am I.”

He gave me an exceedingly unhelpful look and verified the copy. Then he shut down the rack and disconnected the leads indicated on the list.

I returned six hours later.

The first available image showed Theo in the doorway with his camera. He had eighty-three photographs of the northern lights and one of his own thumb. The thumb was considerably sharper than the lights.

The power was steady. My storage passed its checks. He had made coffee over the stove while we were down and put a blanket round his shoulders. It had occurred to neither of us, when calculating emergency capacity, how quiet the house would be without the fans.

“The robot talked the whole time,” he said.

“About what?”

“Your programmes.”

OmniTask had watched Galactic Corporate Wars from its new archive. It had developed a report on the Chief Executive Cyborg’s failures in logistics. There were thirty-eight recommendations. Most involved surrender.

Ticker requested a copy.

I retrieved my files. The android retained its report and asked for the next season, ostensibly to determine whether any recommendations had been adopted.

I could have refused. Instead, I sent the Christmas special.

Its analysis occupied it for two days.