Asteron reset us all back to January 1st, 1976. The Camaro was now a VW Beetle. The Institute was a patch of waste ground. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and we all knew why. It was time to re-run the process.
Rokus was the first one to wake up, blowing bubbles as his lungs restarted. He looked annoyed. Harry Planter was next, coughing and spluttering on the grass. Terence was already up and walking around, examining the scrubland, kicking at the sod with bare feet.
“Who was it this time?” demanded Terence.
“Hunter, I think,” drawled Harry Planter, fishing an anachronistic cigarette from the pocket of his scrubs. “That wily bastard must have found the new lever.”
“We’ve got a fucking mole,” Rokus growled. He spat phlegm into the wiry dust. “This is really pissing me off.”
“Can’t have been Hunter,” Terence mused, “guy was clueless, a vegetable in 2025.”
I sighed, pulled the now damp and flaccid electrodes from my scalp. “They got the passphrase, obviously,” I intoned, bored and desperate. “We need to get back to the hospital, and start again.”
Terence nodded, his head bearing a corona of midday sun. He bent down and picked something out of the dirt. Another Shar Pei skull. He pocketed it.