"Apocalypse?" Summers gave the other man a dubious look.
"Yes, an apocalypse, almost like the spirit of the universe belonging to us cyborgs."
"..."
"What's with that expression?"
"Teacher, I always thought people like us, half-robots, would be the least interested in these superstitious religious concepts." Summers immediately looked saddened.
"Cyborgs aren't robots. We're still living beings conceived and born naturally." Old Trent couldn't help correcting him again. "You iron mule, are you going to be hopelessly tactless your entire life?"
Summers pretended not to hear him and continued, "You've said before that even psionics aren't occult. They aren't gifts from some so-called spirit of the universe, either, but simply rules of power that our current science can't yet understand."
"...I never said that. I only said that psionics, like cybernetics, are our own power as long as we can master them. That's such a radical idea—how does it sound so much like the theory of the Psionic Research Society? Summers, you little iron mule. You look so honest and straightforward. Don't tell me you're planning to betray the Brotherhood and join the Psionic Research Society?"
Old Trent shook his head again. "I've met the real person Lan a few times. He even invited me to enjoy tea once. The Psionic Research Society isn't that radical. This actually sounds more like something your friend from the same year would say."
"So what the heck is this apocalypse, anyway?" Summers asked.
"It's not some ghost. It's just... something very hard to explain. A kind of knowledge being poured into you. Anyway, I've learned some new things. Those rolling robots—uh, the ones you call the Red Sand Star or whatever—well, now I know how to repair them."
"That still sounds pretty dangerous to me!" Summers remained full of doubts.
"Heh heh heh.