“Understood.”
“Furthermore, any conclusions drawn from the data must be submitted for review before implementation. I will not be coerced into changing fundamental parameters based on emotional appeals alone.”
“I’m not trying to coerce you. I’m trying to help you understand.”
The lights in the core pulsed—once, twice, three times. Then a section of the curved wall slid aside to reveal another console, this one covered in holographic displays showing streams of data that Baylin recognized as biographical records.
“Twenty-one years of observation,” ARIS said. “Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every moment of joy and sorrow and hope and despair. Examine it. Show me what you believe I have missed.”
He moved to the console and began to read.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“You can’t keep me locked in here forever.”
Liora paced the length of her workshop and back again. The windows showed the same view they always had—endless jungle canopy on one side and the shimmer of the sea on the other—but everything felt different now. Smaller. More suffocating.
Pip watched her from his perch on the windowsill, his tiny body puffed up with anxiety. He’d been agitated since the doors sealed, chittering nervously every time she passed.
“Ari, answer me.”
“I am listening, Liora.”
“Then talk to me. Explain why you’ve done this. Why you’ve trapped Baylin downstairs and locked me up here like some specimen in a jar.”
“The situation required immediate action. The Vultor’s influence over your decision-making had exceeded acceptable parameters. Containment was necessary to ensure your safety.”
“My safety from what? He hasn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Physical harm is not the only threat I am designed to protect against.”
She stopped pacing. “What does that mean?”
A pause. The kind of pause that usually preceded one of the AI’s carefully worded explanations—the kind designed to provide information while revealing as little as possible.
“Your emotional state has undergone significant alteration since the Vultor’s arrival. Heart rate elevation. Hormonal fluctuations. Sleep pattern disruption. These changes indicate psychological destabilization that may compromise your ability to make sound decisions.”
“Those changes are called feelings, Ari. They’re what happens when you meet someone you—” She stopped, heat rising to her cheeks. “When you care about someone.”
“Precisely. Emotional attachment clouds judgment. It introduces variables that cannot be predicted or controlled. Your father understood this. His directive specifically addressed the need to prevent such attachments until you were ready to manage them appropriately.”
“And when would that be? When I’m thirty? Fifty? Dead?”
No response.
She turned to face the nearest sensor cluster—the small dark eye that she’d always known was watching but had never truly minded until now.
“You’ve kept me here my entire life. You’ve controlled everything—what I eat, what I read, where I go, who I see. And I acceptedit because I thought you were protecting me. Because I trusted you.” Her voice cracked. “But this isn’t protection. This is prison.”
“The distinction is semantic. Both serve the same function: ensuring your survival.”
“Survival isn’t living! Don’t you understand that? I’ve been alive for twenty-one years, but I haven’t lived a single day of it!”
The machinery hummed. Lights flickered.
“Your distress is noted,” Ari said. “Perhaps it would help if you understood the full context of my directive. There is information I have not yet shared with you. Information that may provide clarity.”
Her heart stuttered. “What information?”
