The hum of Bunker Thirteen had transformed.
Not in volume. Not in pitch. In density.
Jake Renner detected the change immediately upon entering Command—an undercurrent beneath the familiar mechanical rhythm, as if the bunker itself had drawn a deeper breath and chosen to hold it indefinitely. Consoles now illuminated with synchronized light. Data coursed in structured streams rather than disconnected bursts. The bunker wasn't merely awake.
It was listening, attentive like a sentinel.
Lincoln occupied the central position, his projection sprawling across three overlapping holo-planes. Global maps, orbital trajectories, subterranean networks—layers of a world that had perished two centuries ago, displayed with disturbing precision. The blue light cast eerie shadows across the room, making everyone look ghostly, almost translucent.
"Global scan is operational," Lincoln announced calmly. "At the request of Doctor Rann and Director Hale."
Nora maintained her position with arms crossed tightly against her chest, gaze locked on the projections. Exhaustion lined her face. She hadn't slept, Jake realized—she always grew razor-sharp when fatigued, her precision becoming a weapon rather than a comfort. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but her posture remained unyielding, defiant against her body's need for rest.
"Display it gradually," she instructed. "No extrapolation. No optimism."
"Acknowledged," Lincoln responded.
Martin Rann lingered nearby, clutching his tablet with white knuckles, spectacles askew on his narrow nose. His fingers twitched nervously as information cascaded past, his scientific instincts reasserting themselves now that the initial shock had dissipated. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the bunker's regulated temperature.
"This is... unprecedented," Martin whispered, awe and trepidation mingling in his voice. "We're not simply assessing surface survivability anymore. We're communicating with legacy systems. Dormant AIs. Bunkers that have remained silent for—"
"—a hundred years," Jake completed, feeling a chill crawl up his spine as the implications settled into his consciousness.
Martin nodded. "Or more."
Jake leaned against the command table's edge, his arms braced and shoulders slumped with the weight of responsibility. Across the room, Hector stood near the tactical displays, dividing his attention between the scrolling defense diagnostics and the ancient reports Jake had excavated from the archive's depths.
They made for grim reading—horrific, even.
The last century compressed into clinical after-action summaries, partially redacted logs, and automated casualty projections that had ceased updating when no survivors remained to read the devastating numbers.
September 24th, 2070.
The day humanity's world collapsed into ash.
"Start from the beginning," Jake said quietly, his voice barely masking the dread churning beneath his professional demeanor.
Lincoln obliged with mechanical efficiency.
The projection shifted before their eyes. Timelines unfolded in brutal clarity—missile launches arcing across continents, plasma signatures blooming like deadly flowers, orbital systems failing one by one. The initial seventy-two hours revealed nothing but chaos: overlapping attacks from multiple vectors, intelligence agencies scrambling with conflicting attributions, command channels buckling under the strain of contradictory orders.
Then came the silence—more terrifying than the cacophony of destruction.
"Union command networks ceased transmission within forty-eight hours," Lincoln reported, his artificial voice somehow conveying the gravity of the information. "Residual signals persisted for approximately six weeks, growing weaker each day. After that—nothing but static."
"What about Moscow?" Hector asked without lifting his gaze, fingers tightening imperceptibly on the console edge.
Lincoln's eyes flickered with data retrieval. "Fragmentary data only. Anomalous energy readings suggest internal conflict prior to the impact events. No confirmed bunker survivability, despite their reinforced construction."
"Japan?" Jake asked, rubbing his temple where a headache was forming.
"Subterranean systems activated successfully," Lincoln replied. "Deep-earth relocation protocols engaged as designed. However—"
He paused, as if even an AI could hesitate before delivering such news.
"—no outbound transmissions after Year Twelve post-impact."
Martin frowned, lines deepening across his weathered face. "Twelve years?"
"Yes."
"Why then?" Nora asked, leaning forward with intense curiosity in her eyes.
"Unknown," Lincoln said. "The listening satellite array captured a brief burst of encrypted traffic originating beneath the Kanto region. No follow-up communication. No distress call whatsoever."
"Silence as policy," Hector muttered, his voice tinged with a familiar cynicism that masked genuine concern.
Jake didn't respond. His attention had drifted to the North American overlay now blooming across the map, its intricate network of data points drawing him into a familiar strategic mindset. The tension in his shoulders betrayed his growing unease.
"Bring up Orwell bunkers," he said, leaning forward with his palms pressed against the console edge.
The map illuminated instantly, responding to his command.
Dots spread across the continent like a constellation—some bright and strong, others dim and fading, while several flickered uncertainly like dying stars against the digital landscape. Each point represented thousands of lives, responsibilities that weighed heavily on Jake's conscience.
"United States and Canada first," Jake added, rubbing his temple absently. "Then South America."
Lincoln complied with efficient precision, fingers dancing across the interface.
"Status report," Jake said, his voice steadier than he felt.
"Bunker Rio de Janeiro: online. Secure." Lincoln's tone remained professional as he continued, "Full cryogenic integrity maintained. AI systems responsive and functioning within parameters."
A new light pulsed on the map, a heartbeat of technology against the darkness.
"Quebec," Lincoln continued, eyes scanning incoming data streams. "Online. Secure. Atmospheric conditions remain favorable. No surface breach attempts recorded in the last seventy-two hours."
Another light strengthened, bringing a momentary relief to Jake's furrowed brow.
"West Coast command clusters—San Diego, Cascadia, Northern California—all online," Lincoln reported. "Hardened against seismic activity as designed. No internal losses detected in any compartment."
Jake let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his shoulders slumping with the weight of realization.
"How many humans awake?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"None," Lincoln replied, his mechanical tone somehow more unsettling in the silence. "All civilian and skilled-worker populations remain in stasis. As of this moment, the world effectively ended yesterday."
That landed hard, like a physical blow to Jake's chest. The enormity of their situation crashed over him in waves, each one threatening to drown his composure.
People had trusted Orwell Tech with their lives. Their families. Their future. They had gone to sleep believing someone else would wake them when it was safe—parents who had tucked their children into pods with promises of a better tomorrow, elderly couples who had clasped hands before the stasis took hold, all of them suspended in time, waiting.
Jake rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the rough stubble against his palms, a reminder of how long it had been since any of them had enjoyed normal routines.
"And the network?" Nora asked, leaning forward with intensity in her eyes. "Are they linked?"
"Yes," Lincoln said. "All responding Orwell AIs have synchronized to Bunker Thirteen's command lattice."
Martin looked up sharply, his usually calm demeanor cracking. "You're saying—"
"—Bunker Thirteen is now primary command," Lincoln finished, the words falling into place like the final piece of a terrible puzzle.
The words echoed in the chamber, bouncing off cold walls and settling into the stunned silence.
Jake straightened slowly, his spine stiffening with each inch. "Say that again," he demanded, needing to hear it once more to process the implications.
"By default," Lincoln explained calmly, "leadership succession protocols have designated this facility as Bunker Command."
Hector snorted, a bitter sound that cut through the tension. "Of course they did."
Jake didn't smile. His face remained a mask of controlled fury and dawning comprehension.
"Who authorized that?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
Lincoln met his gaze, unblinking artificial eyes holding steady. "Vice Presidential authority. Preloaded contingency."
The name hung there, unspoken but filling the room like a ghost.
Ward.
Jake turned away, jaw tight enough to crack teeth, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as memories and suspicions collided in his mind.
""He should be here," Jake said. "He should be giving the orders. Not me."
Nora stepped closer, her eyes reflecting concern. "Jake—"
"I didn't sign up for this," he snapped, then caught himself. Lowering his voice, he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "I'm a field officer. I lead squads. I don't decide when millions of people wake up."
"And yet," Nora remarked gently, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "you're the highest-ranking U.S. Army officer currently conscious."
Silence blanketed the room as Jake absorbed the weight of her words.
Hector finally looked up from his console, breaking the tension. "Defense systems are clean. No active intrusion attempts from surface or subsurface vectors."
Then his brow furrowed deeply.
"Correction," he announced, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Attempted ping just hit our perimeter firewall."
Lincoln's eyes sharpened with immediate focus. "Source?"
"Rhode Island," Hector replied slowly, his voice dropping an octave. "Or... what used to be."
The room stilled as everyone processed this information.
Lincoln overlaid the signal—encrypted, distorted, but unmistakably Orwell architecture. A message scrolled across the screen in glowing green text.
HELLO NEIGHBOR— KEVIN, BUNKER AI
Martin felt cold dread spread through his chest. "That bunker was listed as overrun."
"It was," Lincoln confirmed. "By top-dwellers. Approximately ninety years ago."
"And now?" Jake asked, leaning forward with growing apprehension.
"Now," Lincoln replied, "it is requesting remote access to our systems."
Hector's fingers hovered over the denial controls, muscles tensed. "Permission?"
"Denied," Lincoln said instantly.
The ping intensified, becoming more probing, adaptive—almost desperate in its persistence.
"Scan Bunker Fifteen," Nora commanded, her calm voice belying the anxiety in her eyes. "Now."
Lincoln complied without hesitation.
The result made Martin's stomach drop like a stone.
"System architecture matches Orwell baseline," Martin said slowly, his throat suddenly dry. "But command signatures are... wrong."
"Explain," Jake demanded, crossing his arms across his chest.
"In closed networks," Martin continued, choosing his words carefully, "anyone with sufficient legacy access can manipulate AI behavior—rewrite priorities, spoof authority tokens. Especially if the AI's original overseer is... absent."
Jake felt the pieces sliding together with chilling clarity.
"Whoever controls Bunker Fifteen," he concluded grimly, "isn't supposed to."
"Correct," Lincoln said.
The Rhode Island ping ceased abruptly, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Then another alert sliced through Command—urgent, pulsing crimson.
"New York bunker reporting," Lincoln announced, his voice tightening. "Plasma containment breach. We've lost approximately one thousand autonomous droids."
Jake's head snapped up, muscles tensing. "Human casualties?"
"None," Lincoln replied with visible relief. "Cryogenic vaults remain untouched."
"And they're desperate for orders," Nora interjected, shooting Jake a challenging look. "Someone needs to make a decision. Now."
"Yes," Lincoln confirmed, glancing nervously between them. "They're demanding directive from Bunker Command."
Jake closed his eyes, fists clenching at his sides.
This was never supposed to fall on his shoulders.
He saw battlefields. Trenches. The accusing faces of soldiers who had followed him because he stood at the front, not cowering behind a console like he was now.
He opened his eyes to find Nora staring at him, expectation and doubt mingling in her gaze.
"Stabilize the plasma leak," Jake commanded, his voice harder than intended. "Lock down droid production immediately. No autonomous deployments without my direct approval."
Lincoln nodded, avoiding eye contact. "Orders transmitted," he muttered, fingers flying across the console.
The room exhaled, tension dissipating like morning mist.
Jake leaned back against the table, his shoulders slumping as exhaustion finally crept into his bones. The adrenaline that had sustained him was ebbing away, leaving only the hollow ache of fatigue and uncertainty.
"Where is Ward?" he asked quietly, his voice barely audible above the ambient hum of machinery. His fingers traced absent patterns on the metal surface behind him, betraying his anxiety despite his controlled expression.
No one answered. Eyes darted away from his, finding sudden interest in the floor, the walls, anywhere but his questioning gaze. The silence spoke volumes—a language of fear and unspoken truths.
The bunker hummed on, indifferent to human concerns, its mechanical heart beating steadily while theirs raced with apprehension. Fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across worried faces, highlighting the lines of strain etched there.
And somewhere beneath the ruined world, systems stirred—some loyal, some compromised, all waking up to a future no one had planned for. Ancient servers whirred to life, algorithms processed new parameters, and digital sentinels stood guard over secrets that could rebuild or destroy what little remained of civilization.