Interstellar

Cooper woke to brightness. Not sunlight. Not the glare of the floodlights—no, this was what he remembered from his youth in government buildings, supermarkets, hospitals.

Institutional lighting.

Everything around him fit with it, too. Each surface was clean, polished, maintained—and uncannily dust-free. And the air smelled funny. Or rather, it didn’t smell. Not at all. He was so used to the smell of dust and blight that they only became truly apparent by their absence. The air he was breathing now was filtered, scrubbed. Clean.

If he was forced to guess, he imagined he was in some sort of industrial complex.

Yet that was impossible.

He was sitting in a chair, facing a big grey rectangular slab of metal with many dozens of articulated segments—a cuboid of lots of smaller cuboids, like the blocks he’d had as a kid that snapped together to build things.

The machine had a data screen near the top.

Memories began to whirl. He remembered the shock jolting through his body. He remembered…

Murph!

He cast about frantically, looking for his daughter.

“How did you find this place?” the slab asked in its electronic voice. The voice from the chain-link fence.

“Where’s my daughter?” Cooper demanded. His whole body was prickling with fear now, and anger.

“You had the coordinates for this facility marked on your map,” the machine said, ignoring his question. “Where did you get them?”

Cooper leaned toward the thing.

“Where’s my daughter!” he bellowed, but the machine didn’t answer. Cooper studied it a little more, collecting himself.

“You might think you’re still in the marines,” he told it, “but the marines don’t exist anymore, pal. I’ve got grunts like you mowing my grass…”

Suddenly the two outer sections of the machine lengthened and the central slab leaned forward, so now it looked like a fat rectangle standing on thick, blocky crutches. Coming down on him.

“How did you find us?” it demanded.

“But you don’t look like a lawn mower to me,” Cooper plowed on. “You, I’m gonna turn into an overqualified vacuum cleaner—”

“No, you’re not,” a woman’s voice told him.

Cooper turned.

The woman was thirty-something, with short brown hair, wide dark eyes and an expressive mouth. She wore a black sweater and she seemed—like the place—very clean.

“Tars,” she said to the machine, “back down, please.”

The old military device complied, its “limbs” folding back into the torso to become a cuboid once more.

Cooper considered the woman, looking for some clue as to who she might be, who she represented. Had he stumbled upon some sort of illegal operation? Unfortunately, that would account for a lot of the facts on the ground. The secrecy, the hidden robots, the threat to his person—Murph’s disappearance. But how did that fit with the bizarre message on the bedroom floor?

And what were they doing? Manufacturing arms, maybe? Was there a nation someplace, ready to break the international disarmament treaty? He knew things were tough, but surely everyone knew by now that a return to war would only make things worse.

What if it was his own government running this show? That was actually the worst-case scenario, he realized. Maybe the message on Murph’s floor hadn’t been meant to draw him here, but to warn him away. Maybe it had something to do with the drone.

The woman was studying him, as well, and didn’t seem all that impressed by what she saw. That kind of pissed him off.

“You’re taking a risk using ex-military for security,” he told her. “They’re old, their control units are unpredictable.”

“Well, that’s what the government could spare,” she said.

The government. Well, that answered one question. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. But at least she was talking.

“Who are you?” Cooper demanded.

“Dr. Brand,” she replied.

Cooper paused. The name was familiar.

“I knew a Dr. Brand once,” he said tentatively. “But he was a professor—”

“What makes you think I’m not?” she interrupted, frowning at him.

“—and nowhere near as cute,” he finished.

An expression falling somewhere between incredulity and disgust crossed her face.

“You think you can flirt your way out of this mess?” she said.

What the hell was I thinking? he wondered frantically. Suddenly, his fear for Murph was stronger than ever. He was in waaaay over his head, and bluster wasn’t going to do him any good.

The problem was, he wasn’t sure how to approach any of this. It was too sudden, too disorienting, and he couldn’t shake the images of what might have happened or be happening to his daughter. He’d felt something like this before, over the Straights, when the computer had ejected him from his aircraft.

Helpless. Not steering his own ship.

He had to focus his thoughts.