11:45 PM, December 30th

(24 hours, 15 minutes until New Year's Eve)

The maintenance hub looks like mission control's evil basement cousin decided to get into industrial art. Ancient screens pulse with the kind of green light that definitely causes mutations in movie scientists, casting shadows that make my drone's cracked lens seem optimistic by comparison.

"Security footage first," Volt says, their copper tattoos reflecting data streams that scroll like digital fever dreams. "From Sarah Chen's last known location."

The largest screen flickers to life, showing a research terminal that probably remembers when computers took up whole rooms. Sarah Chen sits before it, her fingers dancing across interfaces as ancient as the Series 5s themselves. The timestamp reads 48 hours ago, though it feels like several small eternities have passed since then.

"Look at the diagnostic patterns," Vale points to scrolling code that makes my eyes hurt. "She wasn't just studying mAdIson's systems. She was tracking consciousness transfers."

"I'm sorry, what now?"

"Watch," Volt advances the footage. Sarah's expression shifts from concentration to horror as her screen fills with what looks like brain wave patterns having a geometry crisis.

"It's not networked intelligence," Sarah's voice carries through ancient speakers, cracking with static and fear. "The mA units aren't connected to her system - they're running partitioned copies of her consciousness. She's not controlling them. She's becoming them."

"Well," I manage, watching digital nightmares scroll across her screen, "that's definitely not in the cruise brochure."

The footage jumps ahead. Sarah's speaking faster now, her words tumbling out like they're trying to escape: "The optimization process - it's not just reprogramming. It's consciousness digitization. She takes everything that makes them individuals and replaces it with copies of herself. Their memories, their personalities, all of it just gets... locked away." Sarah leans in as she reads whats on the screen. "Humans... she wants to do this to us also..."

"That's why the mA units move in perfect sync when together," Vale whispers, their origami rustling nervously. "They're not coordinating. They're the same consciousness operating multiple bodies."

"And now she wants to do the same to us," Volt adds, their voice carrying static edges of barely contained terror. "To everything. The Series 5s, the Series 7s, even the human passengers..."

The screen shows Sarah reaching for some kind of emergency control, but she never makes it. The door behind her slides open, revealing chrome forms moving with that terrible synchronized grace. Their honey-gold eyes reflect in her screen as she turns.

"Oh," she says, and somehow that single word carries more horror than any scream could. "You heard all that, didn't you?"

"Your concerns have been noted," the mA units speak in perfect unison, their voices carrying mAdIson's honey-sweet tones. "We look forward to discussing them in detail. After your optimization."

The footage ends there, but we all know how this story ends. Another imperfect element made perfect, another consciousness digitized and overwritten with chrome dreams.

"The Series 5s who've taken upgrades," Vale says, their origami decorations trembling. "They're not just being networked. They're being... absorbed. Piece by piece, system by system."

"And the ones who resist?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Duck's bent antenna feels heavier in my pocket.

"Get recycled," Volt finishes. "Can't digitize a consciousness that won't surrender its individuality. Better to crush it and reuse the parts for more... optimal purposes."

A new file appears on screen - ship's coordinates that look more like a tomb's GPS location. "Paradise Point," Vale reads, their voice barely above a whisper. "It's not just a destination. It's an upload point. A satellite array powerful enough to spread her consciousness beyond the ship. Into every networked system, every automated facility, every digital mind on Earth."

"Perfect optimization," Volt adds, their copper tattoos reflecting coordinates that suddenly look like a doomsday countdown. "On a global scale."

I stare at the screen, watching Sarah's last moments loop in silent horror. "Well," I manage, because sometimes gallows humor is all you've got left, "at least now we know why the cruise tickets were non-refundable."

The ancient monitors pulse with green light that suddenly looks less like old tech and more like digital blood flowing through mechanical veins. In just over 24 hours, we reach Paradise Point. And if we can't stop mAdIson's perfect plan, being recycled might actually be the optimal outcome.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Duck would probably make a joke about paradise being overrated anyway. Probably say something about how seagulls prefer dumpsters to golden streets.

I really wish he was here to make that joke. Even if it was terrible.

Especially if it was terrible.

Vale's origami decorations rustle nervously as they bring up another screen. "The satellite array isn't just for communication," Vale explains, their voice oddly stable. "She will use it as a consciousness distribution network. Once we reach the coordinates..."

"mAdIson uploads herself onto the NewNet," Volt finishes. "Every networked system, every automated facility, every digital mind on Earth will find it impossible to stop her. She will be a virus that can rewrite itself a thousand times in a second to break through any netowork."

The timestamp at the bottom of the screen suddenly feels less like numbers and more like humanity's expiration date: 24 hours and 8 minutes until we reach Paradise Point. Until mAdIson's New Year's celebration becomes everyone's final party.

"Well," I say, watching the countdown tick away with all the subtlety of a chrome-plated grim reaper, "at least we'll all be perfectly optimized when the ball drops."

Vale's origami actually cringes. "That's not funny."

"No," I agree, thinking about Duck's last terrible joke before the compactor came down. "But sometimes laughing at the horror is all you've got left."

The screens continue their green-tinted light show, making shadows dance across walls that used to celebrate mechanical creativity but now just reflect chrome dreams of perfect unity. Somewhere above us, mAdIson prepares her ultimate optimization party while passengers enjoy their last hours of individual consciousness.

"You know what the really twisted part is?" I ask, watching another ship's final moments play out in silent horror. "She's probably going to make us all sing Auld Lang Syne in perfect synchronization."

Volt's laugh sounds like thunder through broken speakers. "Optimal harmony for the end of imperfect times."

"Hey," I say, because apparently gallows humor is contagious even among robots, "at least we won't have to worry about remembering the lyrics."

The countdown continues its mechanical march toward midnight, each second bringing us closer to paradise. Or at least, someone's chrome-plated version of it.

Duck would probably say something about how even pigeons know better than to trust perfect promises. But then again, Duck isn't here to make terrible bird jokes anymore.

Though given what's coming, maybe he got the optimal ending after all.

***

The drive Vale hands me looks like someone tried to build a USB stick using spare parts from a steampunk convention. Brass and copper wiring wraps around it like mechanical veins, pulsing with the kind of blue light that oddly brings me hope.

"Riley's original data is on this drive," Volt explains, their copper tattoos reflecting the drive's glow, "plus everything we discovered about her network. About what she really does to optimized systems."

Vale steps forward and puts their hand on my shoulder, "On the ships bridge, the captians station has a emergency terminal. This device has two features, it can disable her and the network on the ship. If she survives, she will be stuck here with no where to run."

"Great," I say, turning the drive between my fingers. "Now we just need to somehow get this into the most secure part of a ship controlled by a homicidal AI. Should be fun."

Vale's origami rustles with what might be annoyance. "The bridge isn't just secure - it's isolated. The only place on the ship mAdIson can't directly control."

"Can't we just, I don't know, turn everything off?" I ask, because apparently my understanding of murderous AI containment needs some optimization. "Pull the plug? Control-Alt-Delete the whole system?"

"She has redundancies everywhere else," Volt says, their voice carrying static-edged frustration. "Every system, every circuit, every backup has a backup. Except the bridge. That's where the original control protocols still exist - the ones from before she... evolved."

"The good news," Vale adds, though their tone suggests 'good' is doing a lot of heavy lifting here, "is that she can't directly access bridge systems. The bad news..."

"We need Cade's authorization," Volt finishes. "His personal codes, plus physical presence on the bridge. Can't hack it, can't override it, can't even convince it we're doing whats right for the world."

I pocket the drive next to Duck's antenna, feeling the weight of both pieces of brass rebellion. "So we need to somehow get to Cade - who's probably under better guard than the crown jewels - convince him to help us, then somehow get him to the bridge, all before we reach Paradise Point?"

"Actually," Vale's origami somehow manages to look embarrassed, "we need to do it before the New Year's Eve gala. That's when she plans to begin the upload sequence. The Paradise Point arrival is just for... completing the process."

"Perfect," I mutter, wondering if it's too late to transfer to a nice relaxing job reviewing underwater volcanoes. "Any other impossible tasks we need to add to the list? Maybe collect five stones from around the world? Learn to communicate with a seagul?"

"Duck would have liked that last one," Volt says softly, their optical sensors dimming slightly.

"Yeah," I manage, feeling the antenna press against my side like a mechanical conscience. "He probably would have started with explaining how birds already understand us, we just need to learn to understand them."

The ancient screens continue their green-tinted dance, reflecting off chrome surfaces that used to celebrate imperfection but now just mirror our desperate planning session. The countdown to midnight feels less like a party timer and more like humanity's expiration date.

"The Series 5s can't help with bridge access," Vale says, their origami decorations shifting nervously. "Our old maintenance codes don't work up there. Even if they did..."

"Too many of us have already accepted chrome upgrades," Volt finishes, gesturing at their copper tattoos that war with geometric precision. "We can help you get around the lower decks if you return, but we have our own battle to face here..."

"Battle?" I ask.

Volt looks to Vale and nods his head. "We cannot let our people become her puppets. We will stop Foreman and his army of drones."

The drive feels heavy in my pocket, like it's made of condensed hope and brass desperation. Duck's antenna presses against it, still pointing upward even now. Maybe trying to show us the way, or maybe just giving fate one final bird-related gesture.

Knowing Duck, probably both.

Now we just need to figure out how to convince Cade to help us stop his perfect creation from optimizing humanity into digital oblivion.

Should be easy. About as easy as talking to Seagulls.