From The Ashes(Working Title):

Prologue:

Mason rushed back to the small home he had set up out here. He had to get there, and fast.

He glanced down at the metallic body in his arms, grimacing.

It was too late for her, so he would do the next best thing.

He bashed down the door, if a sheet of metal with a hole in it can really be called that, and set down the robot next to the computer. It may have been a huge risk at the time, but he was glad he snuck it away from those IMC idiots. Not that the Militia were any better, but at least they had the decency to pretend to care about human life.

He shook his head. Now’s not the time. He grabbed a cable and hooked it into the chassis, wincing as he cut his finger in his haste. Her pained wails only grew louder. He told her it was dangerous. The jungle is a nightmare on most planets, but Typhon is one of the worst. Why did he let her convince him to leave and live out here?

He ran into the adjacent room and saw why. She was his best friend, and they’ve helped each other through thick and thin. Sure, some mocked him over not asking to be in a romantic relationship, but they never liked each other like that.

Seeing her in such pain, though, is something he can’t help but feel guilty over. He already had to amputate her left arm, but that didn’t do anything to the disease. Why did he try to break into the Militia ships again? To make sure they weren’t onto them? What a stupid reason over a bit of paranoia.

She reached with her good arm, and grabbed his arm. Then she dug her fingernails into the skin. Wincing, Mason got his arms under her and lifted. He carried her over next to the computer and grabbed a shoddy looking helmet. He had made it on a bet, and it shows in the quality of the thing. Hopefully it can still copy someone's mind well enough. Ideally, he would have swiped some better tech off some dead pilot or another. It’s frankly insane how well equipped they are, and the neural link technology would be invaluable in the transfer.

Focus, Mason. You need to make sure she doesn’t die for real, he thought to himself as he ran cables to and fro. The main cable from the helmet to the computer, a cable to the power stores, a cable to the robo chassis she’s going to have to get used to. Cables for power, transference, interpretation, and any other he can think of. This has to work.

He started up the computer, watching the loading symbol as she cried in pain. Whatever this disease is, it affects nerve endings. Hopefully that doesn’t transfer.

He grit his teeth, as the symbol stalled, then opened to the main screen. He opened the program, originally meant as a small thing. Now it was a matter of life or death. They had no cure, since this disease wasn’t designed to have a cure. It was designed to kill, and fast. The remnants of the IMC are hard to shake away, evidently.

The program opened to a stereotypical smiling face, only now it seems like it’s mocking him. He adjusted the parameters to account for a human mind, instead of one of the birds that can be found here. The whole process took him maybe five minutes, but each one is less time for the download to complete. Finishing, he started said download, and can now only wait as the shoddy work of two weeks, made on a bet, meant for something much less complex, now working to copy then imprint his best friend into a robotic shell. Not to mention whatever lingering programs are still running deep in it’s circuitry, waiting for some trigger phrase.

The download will be done in six hours, the program spat out. Mason boots up one of the side monitors and opens a different program, this one meant for rooting out malignant programming. Sure, the Militia is now in control of what remains of Typhon, but the IMC left plenty of garbage for anyone to pick up. And neither side liked the idea of a third party getting their hands on their tech.

At least this program was made out of necessity and not an off hand bet from a night drinking.