Tiles on the cube are still smouldering, casting the framework in a soft glow. Virescent…

"Why did you call me Fortress Accident?"

"Fortress Accident is the company on whose name the terminal you're currently using has been registered to."

"Do you have any other information about this company?"

"One moment..." You hear her flip through a catalogue, before she reads out with studious care:

"'Fortress Accident SCA produces revolutionary interactive call-in radio games' -- that's what the catalogue says."

That's not bad.

"And what's that -- this 'interactive call-in radio game'?"

The static drowns her response. "Any other questions?" you hear her ask when the connection finally improves.

"Wow. So conceptual."

"Hmm," she hums.

"What's the production schedule?"

"The filament you have inserted into the reader."

"You mean that glowing thing I put inside?"

"Yes. Is that the production schedule?"

"I don't know."

The old lady sighs, as a wave of static distorts her voice to a robotic sprawl. "If you are unsure, could you please take a look?"

"How do I do that?"

"Open the hatch on the compartment. Don't touch the wires, a current is running through it, but the core is safe. There's a filament inside -- I need to know what it's called."

"It's called the production schedule."

"It's called the off-site copy."

"I swear I haven't touched anything!"

"Yes."

"Yes. Is that the off-site copy?"

"Ah, right. Thanks for the explanation."

"That was a question. Have you inserted it into the core?"

"I might have a password for the off-site copy."

"What's the off-site copy?"

"That's all for now." (Press OFF/SILENT.)

"Thank you and good bye," the old lady's voice disappears along with the static.

"What are you, a machine? Or are you alive?"

"Yes, I am alive. I am 74 years old and my name is Yvonne."

The lieutenant whispers into your ear: "She repeats passwords. Programming people are all... paranoid."

"Okay, but where are you? How did you know where I am?"

"I work as a repeater at the East-Insulindian Repeater Station. It's my job to know where you are, Fortress Accident."

"As for me, well..." Some static. Then... "I am sitting in my cubicle surrounded by a wall of radios."

On an island on the River Esperance, a small woman, all skin and bones, sits in a room filled with audio equipment. Thousands of tiny lights are reflected back from her prescription lenses, like stars in the dark.

Doesn't it get lonely, sitting there all by herself?

"Doesn't it get lonely, doing this job?"

"Lonely?" For the first time you hear her chuckle through the rustle of static. "Why would it get lonely, I get to talk to people all day."

That's why she does this.

"Now please tell me if there's anything else I can do, Fortress Accident."

"Now please tell me the reason for your call, Fortress Accident."

Let it go.

"Yvonne, my partner tells me that you're here because radiocomputer guys are all paranoid."

"They're merely cautious," says the old lady. "It's my job to protect their filaments as a password repeater at the East-Insulindian Station."

"Yes, I am alive. I am 74 years old and my name is Yvonne. Now please repeat, is this the production schedule?"

"Yes, I am alive. I am 74 years old and my name is Yvonne. Now please repeat, is this the off-site copy?"

"Please repeat, is this the off-site copy?"

This is a human interface -- a retired person sitting behind a switchboard somewhere.

"Good evening, Fortress Accident on Rue de Saint-Ghislaine, this is East-Insulindian Repeater Station 1."

"Good afternoon, Fortress Accident on Rue de Saint-Ghislaine, this is East-Insulindian Repeater Station 1."

A bar of fabric right above the keyboard starts producing a soft hum. The sound of static seeps through the machine's planar magnetic driver.

Have you stirred the ghost of the Doomed Commercial Area from its rest? Could this be its dismembered heart, beginning to flutter?

Oh no... it was already glowing and now it's also making a sound? It's probably some alien Seolite technology...

The static gets louder, slowly filling up the abandoned hall. Until a voice speaks out, crackling and old, cutting into the air...

Nothing happens.

Something's missing -- there's no tape in the player.

Press PLAY.

The dusty radiocomputer sleeps on its wired frame, forgotten and unused. Its keyboard has a rectangular ON/OFF button; a piece of paper still hangs from the printer.

[Step away.]