“What does that mean?”
“It means that while Baylin’s presence does improve your projected survival probability in certain scenarios, it also introduces new risk factors that must be considered.” The AI paused. “His status as a former pack enforcer creates potential conflicts with territorial interests. His departure from his previous position may have generated enemies who would seek to harm those he cares about. And his declaration of a mating bond, while genuine, fundamentally alters the threat calculus in ways that are difficult to predict.”
Baylin shifted, his voice rough. “You’re saying I make her more vulnerable.”
“I am saying the situation is more complicated than a simple comparison of ‘inside tower’ versus ‘outside tower’ outcomes.” Another pause. “Additionally, the existence of Liora’s regenerative blood trait remains a significant concern. If this information were to become known beyond controlled circumstances?—”
“It won’t,” he cut in. “I’ve already considered that. I have contacts who can provide protection, resources, and anonymity. She won’t be exposed.”
“You cannot guarantee such outcomes.”
“No. But I can minimize the risks. And I can teach her to protect herself.”
The lights flickered—that thoughtful pattern she had grown so familiar with over the years. She remembered watching those flickers as a child, wondering what they meant, eventually learning to read them like expressions on a face.
Right now, they looked uncertain.
“Ari,” she said softly. “What’s really troubling you?”
The machinery hummed. For a long moment, ARIS didn’t respond.
“I have protected you for twenty-one years, four months, and seventeen days,” it finally said. “In that time, I have never failed in my primary directive. You have never been seriously injured. You have never been threatened by external forces. You have never been in danger.”
“I know.”
“If I unlock these doors... that changes. The moment you step outside this tower, I can no longer guarantee your safety. I can no longer control the variables that affect your wellbeing. I can no longer...” The voice faltered—actually faltered, in a way Liora had never heard before. “I can no longer protect you.”
Her eyes stung. She untangled herself from Baylin’s arms and stood, walking towards the sensor cluster that served as Ari’s primary interface in this room.
“You’ve done so much for me,” she said. “More than I ever understood until recently. You kept me alive when I was too young to take care of myself. You taught me how to read, how to think, how to question the world around me. You answered my endless questions and tolerated my experiments and never once complained when I made messes or broke things or cried for hours because I was lonely.”
“Those behaviors were within expected parameters for human development.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t just tolerate them—you helped me through them. You played music when I couldn’t sleep. You adjusted the greenhouse temperature when my plants were struggling. You let me name Pip even though you said companion creatures were ‘an unnecessary complication to resource management.’”
“The glider’s presence did prove beneficial for your psychological wellbeing.”
“Because you cared about my psychological wellbeing.” She reached out, pressing her palm against the wall beneath the sensor cluster. “You’re not just a protection system, Ari. You’ve been my family. The only family I’ve had since Susan died.”
The lights flickered rapidly—a pattern she didn’t recognize.
“I do not have family,” ARIS said quietly. “I am a construct. A system designed for a specific purpose.”
“Then why does this hurt you so much?”
Silence.
“Why are you struggling with this decision if you don’t care what happens to me beyond my basic survival metrics? Why did you show me my father’s message? Why did you let Baylin back in when you could have kept him locked away forever?”
More silence. The machinery hummed.
“Because...” The AI’s voice was barely audible. “Because I want you to be happy. And I am no longer certain that keeping you here achieves that goal.”
She felt tears sliding down her cheeks. Behind her, she heard Baylin rise from the window seat, felt his presence drawing closer—warm and solid and steady.
“Letting go is hard,” she said. “I know. I’ve never had to do it before, but I can imagine how it feels. Like losing a piece of yourself. Like everything you’ve worked for might suddenly mean nothing.”
“You articulate the sensation with unexpected accuracy.”
