5.2

  Nearly a month had passed since that day, since Phase Two began. An unctuous, corporate term for what was, in reality, the mass production and deployment of high-functioning artificial intelligence. As Isolde later learned, they were flooding the workforce with machines, carving out entire sectors in a desperate bid to rake in as much profit as possible. She knew exactly what that meant, knew it in her bones. More jobs lost. More people replaced. A slow, quiet culling of human labour.

  And yet, it had to happen. It was necessary. Crucial. The alternative was failure.

  The large, white cafeteria buzzed, filled with the clatter of trays, the hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Overhead, Luminara decorations hung in long ribbons of colour: bunting stretched between support beams, paper lanterns swaying gently in the artificial breeze of the ventilation system.

  “—do you know what you’re getting her this year?—”

  “—I heard big raises are comin’ soon—”

  “—damn microwave’s busted—”

  Isolde kept her eyes down. She focused on her homemade lunch, a tuna salad with sweet corn, letting her fork push idle patterns through the dressing. The celebrations didn’t touch her. Couldn’t. It didn’t like them, but thankfully this was one of those days where the voice in her head wasn’t so loud. Her stomach was churning, sure, but she could manage if she kept to herself and didn’t get involved with any of the workplace festive activities.

  So, she thought.

  A cheer went up somewhere behind her as someone cracked open a bottle of something fizzy. She took a slow breath and chewed, trying not to think about the inevitable.

  Do you see them?

  The voice threaded through her mind, a high-pitched, almost sing-song whisper that didn’t belong to her. A lilting thing, something that slithered between amusement and malice, that drew out its syllables like a cat stretching after a long sleep.

  Not now, she muttered internally, swallowing her bite like it was something heavier than food.

  Oh? But how is it you’re not celebrating, Isolde? It pressed, all mock concern. Do tell me again, is it because—

  You know why, Isolde shot back.

  There was a pause, an absence like the space between heartbeats. Then, a chuckle.

  Oh, that’s sweet, It purred, rich with something sickly, something rotten underneath. Blaming little old me. But we both know that’s not quite true, don’t we?

  Isolde set her fork down, stomach tightening. Across from her, her co-workers laughed at something, their conversation bubbling warm and easy, untouched.

  You’re the reason I can’t celebrate, she thought, firmer now. You don’t let me.

  Another hum, deep, indulgent. Then It leaned in. Close. She swore she could feel breath at the nape of her neck, a phantom sensation prickling against her skin, even though she knew—knew—there was nothing there.

  No, darling, It whispered, silk-soft. I just remind you of why you shouldn’t.

  Isolde clenched her fists beneath the table. I’ll ask him, alright? she thought, voice tight.

  A beat. Then, a delighted laugh, echoing somewhere just behind her ear.

  You’ve been saying that for a month, It said, voice dripping with mock sympathy. When are you going to take action? When are you going to grow a pair and walk up to his office and ask the question?

  Isolde coughed, the sound catching in her throat. I just need time. That’s all.

  It sighed, long and exaggerated, as if utterly disappointed. Ah, but time doesn’t change anything, my dear. It only makes you weaker. But you are weak, aren’t you? Useless, no more worth than a head of cabbage to a barnyard animal. And you’ll stay weak, forever, a nobody too scared of taking action. Look at you, eating salad when you could be making progress, when you could be making your daughter’s death mean something—

  Stop.

  The government: they’re to blame, It said. You have the perfect opportunity to make things right. But you’re so pathetic you cannot get off your useless, waste-of-space behind. Just as you did nothing when Elysia died. Just as you did nothing for the last fifteen years, trying to take your mind off of me, to forget I exist, by working yourself into the ground, into the grave, deeper now, the soil sinking in, the air wearing thin, all life around a bleak, soulless—

  And do you feel it, Isolde? Do you feel me creeping in? You cannot stop me. I am the Master of the Warren. I am large. I am relentless. I am in con—

  You cannot hide her picture from me. You cannot escape. I’ll always be there, the chip on your shoulder, and I will get what I want. Do you understand me? Do you, shit-for-brains—

  She was so beautiful in her little blue coat, wasn’t she? Before I took her away, each flame searing into the skin, her mute, lifeless soul—

  I am the Master of the Warren—

  YOU WILL NOT DISOBEY ME!

  Her stomach churned.

  YOU ARE MINE, YOU ARE SMALL, YOU ARE WEAK, YOU ARE—

  “Isolde.”

  The voice was deep, coming from just over her shoulder.

  She hesitated, then turned, her breath catching slightly. Her mouth parted, eyes widening.

  Dr. Solvayne stood there, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other dragging wearily down his face, pulling at the wrinkles like a damp, worn cloth.

  “Hey, Dr. Solvayne,” Isolde said, a little breathless.

  He cleared his throat and slid down next to her on the bench, leaning forward and placing his coffee on the table. “Staff party’s on at Flux tonight,” he said. “Top floor. You know the place, eh?”

  Oh, she knew it. Knew it very well. Been there more times than she should have, drank there more than she should have, smoked there more than she should have. Saturday afternoons were the sweet spot: quiet, but not too quiet. Enough to let the alcohol do its work while she zoned out, watching reruns over the bar.

  That was, of course, before she met Rico.

  “Yeah,” she said, setting her fork down. “Off the I-6, south side. Not too far south. Just by—”

  “Willow’s Lane,” he finished.

  She blinked. “Yeah,” she said slowly, tearing a piece off her bread and popping it into her mouth. “That’s the one. Don’t think I’ll go, though. I just—I don’t get on well at celebrations.”

  Dr. Solvayne sat back, studying her a trifle, and all of a sudden Isolde got hit with this mysterious, inexplicable belief that he knew, knew something she hadn’t said, something even she hadn’t quite put words to yet. “You should be proud of your work,” he said at last, his tone as measured as ever, but his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

  She stilled mid-chew. Swallowed. “Oh, it’s nothing, really.”

  The words felt automatic, something she’d rehearsed too many times before. Compared to him? Compared to him? Dr. Solvayne, the one who programmed the AI itself?

  “I just…” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I just made a coolant, if anything.” Her voice was lighter than she felt. But Dr. Solvayne didn’t waver.

  “And without it”—he lifted his coffee again—“none of this would even run.”

  She had no response to that. It was a fair point. Still, so many others had contributed far more to the company than she had. She took another bite of her food. “Did they decide on the metrics for Phase Two yet?”

  “We’ve had words with Mbale and some of the investors,” he said, rolling the rim of his mug between his fingers like a man turning over an old problem. “They’ve decided—rather hastily, if you ask me—to push out another five thousand units before the first quarter’s up.”

  Isolde nearly choked on her coffee. She set the mug down a little too hard, coughing before blurting out, “Five thousand? That’s insane. How do they expect us to cough up five thousand bots, each with a canister, in only a few months?”

  His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture softened, just a fraction. “Well, it’s only a target, and you, along with the rest of the team, shouldn’t feel undue pressure,” he said, the words measured. But then, in a voice so low she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly, he added: “That’s not really what you want to ask me, is it?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She kept her voice level, but the sudden tightness in her throat betrayed her. He was watching her now, not just looking—watching. The way someone does when they already know the answer to the question they’re about to be asked.

  He didn’t repeat himself. Just sipped his coffee, gaze steady over the rim of his mug.

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  Isolde exhaled, pressing her palms against the table’s edge as if grounding herself. “I wanted to ask…” She hesitated, rolling the words over in her mind before committing. No use dancing around it. “Do you know anything about The Seraph Device?”

  There. It was out.

  Silence pressed in around them, thick and suffocating. Long enough for doubt to take root. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. Maybe she’d misread him entirely.

  But then, he set his coffee down with deliberate care, fingers lingering on the rim. “I have an idea as to why you’re asking,” he said. “And, as it happens, it’s the very reason I came to find you.”

  Isolde blinked. “You came to… talk to me?”

  He nodded, exhaling deeply before shifting to face her more fully. “What’s wrong, Isolde?”

  Her breath caught. “Wrong with what?”

  “Every Luminara, something happens.” His voice carried that deep, signature rasp—too many cigarettes, too many late nights. He cleared his throat, a dry, gravelly sound, before continuing. “You switch. Words don’t come easy. And you’re late.”

  Her jaw tensed. “I’m not late—”

  “I clocked you five minutes past the start of your shift last time you came into the lab.” He took a slow, unhurried sip of his coffee, utterly unbothered by any protest. His tone remained infuriatingly gentle, like a man stating facts, not accusations.

  Isolde held his gaze for a moment before clicking the lid shut on her lunchbox despite there still being plenty left. She stood. “Excuse me,” she muttered, voice tight. “I… I need to use the restroom.” She turned sharply on her heel and made for the exit. The scanner lock blinked as she reached for it—

  “I know what happened, Isolde.”

  She froze.

  Her hand hovered over the scanner.

  He couldn’t have known. She’d never spoken about it. Not in fifteen years. Not to anyone here. The only person who even had an inkling was her therapist, and even then, she’d been careful, sparing the details.

  Behind her, his seat creaked as he shifted. “Why didn’t you inform me?”

  Isolde let out a sharp breath, rubbing her fingers over her forehead before turning back. He was watching her, steady and unreadable, one arm resting on the table, the other pressed to the bench.

  Reluctantly, she stepped forward. One step. Then another. She sat back down, her movements careful, controlled, placing her lunchbox on the table without opening it.

  She propped the side of her head in her hand. “Don’t talk about it,” she said, firm.

  He lifted his coffee, taking another slow sip. “I won’t.” A pause. “Haven’t told anyone else.” Another beat of silence. Then, quieter: “But you should have told me when I first hired you.”

  “I know,” she said. “I lied. Now tell me how you found out.”

  He slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his lab coat, retrieved a sleek tablet, and flicked through its contents. “Nothing stays hidden for long in this city.” With a tap, he spun the screen towards her and nudged it across the table.

  An article from 2086 flashed to life. The headline read:

  “Cyberpsycho Attack Reduces Beloved Stagework The Whale to Ruin.”

  A sharp gasp escaped before she could swallow it down. Her stomach lurched. The walls of the café blurred at the edges of her vision, as if reality itself had tilted slightly off-axis.

  Remember now? It said.

  Her fingers hovered over the screen, but she didn’t touch it. Couldn’t.

  Dr. Solvayne studied her reaction, then, without another word, pulled the tablet back, locking the screen with a flick of his thumb. “I’m not here to harp on it,” he said, steady as bedrock. “But I’ve seen the pattern. Every year, around this time, you collapse.”

  She tore her gaze away. What would you know?

  “I’ve seen you bolting for the bathroom,” he continued, his tone calm, almost conversational. “Your co-workers say you get sick, but since you insist you’re fine, I’ve let it slide.”

  A sharp, humorless laugh burst from her lips. “Oh, you let it slide, huh?” She shoved herself to her feet, pulse pounding in her ears. Heat rose to her skin, the mix of anger and something more volatile bubbling up all at once. “What is this? You here to tell me off because I still can’t get over it? That what this is? Fifteen years and I’m still wallowing? Who are you to ‘let things slide’?”

  He didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. Just raised a hand, his expression steady. “Not at all what I came here to do.” Then, slowly, he stood as well, fixing the hem of his lab coat so that it fell straight to his shins. He looked down at her—not in judgment, not in pity, but with the quiet weight of someone who had seen this before. “I’ve spent enough years in the corporate world to know not everything can be patched up with a few days off, scheduled therapy, or whatever bureaucratic noise they like to peddle as solutions.”

  Isolde’s fists clenched. Her breath came faster. “Yeah, well, forget it,” she snapped, stepping back. “You came here just to shove that fucking article in my face? I don’t care who you are or how long we’ve known each other. You just don’t do that. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised because true northsiders are all the same: selfish, cruel, and care about nobody but themselves.” Her pulse was a war drum against her ribs, her hands shaking just enough for her to shove them into her pockets before he could see.

  His voice, when it came, was even, but there was something behind it. Something raw. “Isolde....”

  She opened her mouth, ready to fire back, ready to lash out before whatever was inside her could collapse in on itself. But then, in a single, fluid step, Dr. Solvayne closed the distance between them and pulled her into a firm, grounding embrace.

  Her breath hitched. The heat of her anger met the cool of his coat, his steady, deliberate presence, and for a moment she felt like she’d been standing back in the pier, outside Silas’ kiosk, when he first handed her that blessed letter. She stiffened. Every instinct screamed at her to shove him away. It screamed at her to shove him away. To recoil. To put the distance back where it belonged.

  But she didn’t.

  Dr. Solvayne didn’t speak. He just exhaled: nice and slow. As if waiting. As if bracing for her to fight it.

  She didn’t. Because, against all odds, the tight coil in her chest loosened. Just a little.

  Just enough.

  “If you need anything, Isolde,” Dr. Solvayne said, “you’re more than welcome to visit the office. If you ever need time off, let me know.”

  Isolde was too stunned to move. She’d known him for so long, and moments like this were rare. If she’d had this kind of support a decade ago, she might have reacted differently, might have burst into tears, no artifice. But now, in the warmth of the cafeteria, surrounded by laughter and camaraderie, she was content to simply lift her arms and return the embrace. He was a sweet old man, always had been.

  “Thank you, Dr. Solvayne,” she said. “I... don’t really know what to say.”

  He stepped back, breaking the embrace with a quiet sort of finality. “As I said, I won’t press the matter,” he murmured, smoothing a hand over his sleeve. “But someone very close to me went through something similar. It’s why I took this job in the first place—to make a change where I could.” A faint, wry smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “So, how foolish would I be not to let a long-standing, star employee know?”

  “I really appreciate that,” Isolde said. “Things haven’t been easy—they’ve actually been pretty... difficult. But thank you. I needed that.”

  “Now,” he continued, taking a seat once again and offering for her to sit next to him. “To answer your question: Do I know anything about The Seraph Device?”

  Isolde accepted his invitation, sliding down next to him on the bench.

  “I suppose that the first thing I should know is: Why do you want to know this information? My, you have already solved the problem!”

  She folded her hands in her lap, schooling her expression into something neutral, something steady. “I suppose I’m just… curious,” she said, letting the word hang, as if it were an afterthought rather than a carefully placed piece of bait. “I’ve spent years refining android behavioural frameworks, but The Seraph Device—well, that’s something different, isn’t it?” She tilted her head slightly, just enough to suggest intrigue rather than intent. “I’d be a fool to ignore something of that scale. A device like that, in the wrong hands? I just want to understand what we’re dealing with.” The lie slid off her tongue effortlessly. “That and, well, it caused such panic back in 2086.”

  Dr. Solvayne took a moment before responding. “Well,” he began, his tone laced with something contemplative, “the specifics of the device were never fully realised, because, quite frankly, it never made it past the conceptual stage. On paper, it was promising. The Seraph Device was designed to mitigate heliostrophy in androids by consolidating their collective cognition, if you could call it that, into a singular, streamlined neural channel. A shared ‘brain’, so to speak.” He glanced at her, assessing. “Essentially, instead of thousands of autonomous androids processing the world independently—reacting, adapting, evolving at their own rates—the Device would have acted as a unifying force. A hub. Every unit would draw from the same well of decision-making, reducing erratic deviations, unpredictable behaviours. It was meant to stabilise them.”

  She nodded, slow, careful. She’d already heard as much from her colleagues. That wasn’t what she wanted to know. “So,” she pressed, tilting her head slightly, “if it was such a perfect solution, why didn’t it move forward? What stopped it?”

  Dr. Solvayne sighed, rubbing at his temple before meeting her gaze again. “A number of things,” he admitted. “But the simplest answer? It didn’t work. Or, more accurately… we realised what would happen if it did.”

  “Which was?”

  “Well, think about it,” he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt with a slow, deliberate tug. “The problem with AI heliostrophy is that their intelligence evolves past a manageable threshold. Their cognition becomes too fluid, too adaptive, slipping beyond the parameters we set for them.” He paused, tapping a finger against the table before continuing. “Now, imagine your solution to that problem is another high-functioning AI—a single entity designed to govern the behaviour of thousands, perhaps millions, of bots. A failsafe, if you will. But tell me…” He turned his gaze on her now, sharp, waiting. “What happens if that intelligence begins to heliostrophy?”

  A good question, one she hadn’t considered before. It made sense. If that AI were to grow out of control, then all the other androids would, and by extension, havoc would ensue.

  “If the AI at the core of The Seraph Device were to develop beyond its constraints,” he went on, “if it stopped operating within our predefined logic systems, started exhibiting the same instability it was meant to prevent, then we wouldn’t just have individual androids going rogue.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “We’d have an entire network, an empire of machines, all governed by a singular intelligence that no longer thinks like us. No longer obeys us. An intelligence that, by design, would be untouchable, because every unit connected to it would reinforce and defend its will.” He spread his hands, as if laying out the inevitable conclusion before her. “The moment we considered that possibility, The Seraph Device was shelved. Not because we couldn’t build it, but because we shouldn’t.”

  Isolde hummed thoughtfully, looking on at the cafeteria, at all the employees. It was certainly a lot different than Rhyce’s interpretation, but she’d already known that for some time now; the point about it being a hazardous decision for all of mankind she hadn’t considered. However, there was still one question that bugged her, that she needed the answer to:

  “So, what happened to the concept? Did it just get completely scrapped?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly, no. Mbale sold the concept off to another company, and I believe that is how the content of the blueprints initially got leaked to the public. Of course, there was some fibbing, such as the change of the wording and the stamp of Chief Kent Silverwood, who as far as we or the NACP are concerned, does not exist.”

  She was about to ask why such a simple idea required such a sophisticated process, but now, she understood. She knew exactly who had bought it.

  “It was Ourovane, wasn’t it?” she asked. “The company it was... sold to.”

  A nod. “Indeed, it was.”

  “Where are they?”

  “That is beyond my knowledge and veers more into the realm of conspiracy,” he said. “If anyone would know, it’s Mbale, but even then, I’m sure they would have moved location. It’s been decades.”

  “Understood,” Isolde said.

  I might have to have a little... chat with Mbale. Even if he doesn’t know, I’m sure he will prove more than helpful.

  How right you are, It said. If anyone has any leads about the whereabouts of Ourovane, then do you really think it would be anyone other than the man who signed the concept over to them and was in regular contact? Who’s to say he’s still not doing it? Still not selling off important, corporate documents? Do you really think even a high-paid officer wouldn’t refuse the opportunity to be even richer?

  Isolde checked the time on her neural display and saw that it was nearing two o’clock in the afternoon. Her lunch hour was just about up, so she bid farewell to Dr. Solvayne, thanking him for the talk.

  As she stepped out of the cafeteria, the hum of chatter faded behind her, replaced by the unobtrusive murmur of the hallway. The conversation still pressed at the edges of her mind, Dr. Solvayne’s warnings settling like dust over the thoughts already forming into something sharper. More deliberate.

  Mbale.

  If there was even the slightest chance he had something, anything, then she had no choice but to extract it.

  How do you plan to do that? It whispered, slinking through her mind like oil through circuits. A polite inquiry? A business meeting? Or something a little more… persuasive?

  Isolde didn’t answer. Not yet.

  She simply straightened her coat, steadied her breath, and stepped back into the stream of the company’s daily motions, her path already shifting towards her next move.

  Mbale had information. And soon, she would have it, too.