AFTER

"Analyze the table surface."

A paper-thin light comes from the chest area of the suit. It is an inch tall but grows in height as it extends. The thin, green, analyzing light is barely visible from the helmet. Its shape resembles a piece of pie. It stands twenty inches at the end of its six foot scanning reach. The light dances around the surface of the table. It gracefully goes from object to object and analyzes everything within its reach.

"The unfamiliar objects are, 1, a television remote used for changing channels. Humans used these instead of surrendering the comforts of their desired seating. These biological organisms were famously reluctant to engage their leg muscles once they had achieved a seated position. Often times, these television sets..."

"Next one?"

"2, a human hair dryer. Humans used these for quick drying the hair that protruded from their heads. They used forced heat to evaporate moisture from dead protein strands. While more commonly used by Earth women, men were also..."

Sigh. "Next?"

"3, appears to be an air-powered tool. Most often referred to as an air chisel. These were used by humans to forcefully separate dense materials through rapid-fire percussion. These were used by..."

"Can we use the chisel?"

Beep. Beep. Beeeeep. "The chisel requires a force of air to be operative. Humans used air compressors to power the air tools. These machines were bulky and produced significant auditory pollution. The suit would lose 43% of the required oxygen you use each minute. You would have to sacrifice breathing to use such equipment. Your biological need for oxygen is currently at its peak..."

Her eyes roll. "What's in the short metal tube?"

"4, human sustenance often recognized as unhealthy. It is a cylinder of processed legumes and porcine byproduct preserved in a thick syrup."

Her eyes enlarge. "Food?! What's the Sieverts level in here?"

"While it is indeed considered food, it is widely considered unhealthy. The sodium content is more than half of your daily intake. Excessive sodium intake will lead to hypertension and water retention. It will put an unnecessary strain on your cardiovascular..."

"What's the radiation level, blabbermouth?! You know I'm starving!"

Beep. Beep. Beeeeep. "The levels of radiation in this room are 4.6732. This measurement indicates a severe concentration of ionizing particles. Thirty days of exposure gives you exactly a 50/50 chance of survival. Your cellular structure will begin to unravel at a rate that..."

"Shut up!" She rips her helmet off and grabs the can of pork and beans. "Activate laser!"

A pencil lead sized, red laser shoots from her left index finger. She is learning more and more about the capabilities this suit possesses.

The can of junk food is cut in half in an instant. A huge portion of the back of the table falls to the floor as well. Ambris removes the metallic glove from her right hand. Using her index, middle and ring finger as a spoon, she frantically begins devouring the beans.

A sharp gasp escapes her lips as the jagged edge of the severed tin slices into the pad of her index finger. A single drop of dark red blood wells up and mixes with the syrup of the beans.

"Warning! A biological breach has occurred on your right index finger. The integrity of your primary tactile interface is compromised. Airborne pathogens in this high-radiation environment may now enter your bloodstream and cause systemic infection. I am prepared to deploy a localized antiseptic spray followed by the application of three precision-grade surgical sutures."

Ambris ignores the AI's paranoia and brings the cut finger to her mouth. She sucks on the small wound and tastes a metallic tang that has nothing to do with the beans. "Oh brother. It's a scratch, robo-nurse. Just a scratch."

"A scratch is a gateway for microscopic invaders. I recommend immediate cauterization if you refuse the sutures. I can also offer a pressurized graft of synthetic skin that will take three weeks to naturally dissolve."

"Forget it. It's fine." She looks down at the two halves of the can and the pile of beans she cannot possibly finish in one sitting. The desperation is fading into a dull, heavy realization of waste. "Hey. Is there any way to reconnect this can? I'd like to save the rest for later."

Beep. Beep. Beeeeep. "The structural integrity of the cylinder has been fundamentally destroyed. However, I can offer several solutions for the preservation of your porcine byproduct. 1, I can adjust the pressure of the surgical stapler to penetrate the tin and create a mechanical bond. 2, I can initiate a riveting process by melting down small portions of your suit's external plating to create permanent metal fasteners. 3, I can deploy a high-density industrial epoxy designed for deep-space structural leaks. This will fuse the two halves into a single, solid block of metal and bean matter. It will be completely impervious to air, moisture, and consumption. This will ensure the food lasts for several centuries."

Ambris shakes her head while she stares at the mess on the table. Her eyes go from the beans to the glowing tip of her finger. "Can't you just adjust the laser so it welds the can closed instead of all that nonsense you're talking about?"

"Laser welding is a highly inefficient use of tactical energy. The heat will likely carbonize the remaining legumes and create toxic fumes within the pressurized vessel. However, I have adjusted the focal point to 3% power as you requested."

Ambris ignores the warning and carefully runs her finger along the jagged seam. A tiny, violet spark follows her touch and fuses the metal back together with a hiss of steam. She tosses the warm, sealed tin into her pack and licks the remaining syrup off of her fingers. "Whatever. It's sealed... Hey! Tell me where Tollson is."

Beep. Beep. Beeeeep. "Tollson is currently located two hundred meters to the north. My sensors indicate he is currently surrounded by thirteen smaller bio-signatures. His heart rate is elevated and his adrenaline levels are also rising."

Ambris lets out a long, weary breath. "Again?" She throws her arms up toward the ceiling as if asking the universe why he keeps getting into these messes. The gesture is heavy with a history of similar frustrations. "Is it the wild dog pack again?"

"Affirmative. The Canines are circling him. He is stationary. Based on the lack of movement, I calculate an 84% probability that he is trapped on a structure with a height of at least two meters."