Brodie stared up at the machine, and had to remind himself that that was all it was. A machine. Everything else was an illusion—legs that weren’t really legs, a voice that wasn’t really a voice, a central processor that was no more a biological brain than the chip in a smartphone. And yet, it was hard not to hate this thing, to resent it, to want to somehow beat it at its game. There was something comfortable and familiar in those feelings. The alternative—the truth—was that trying to appeal to it, to reason with it, was as delusional as bargaining with the storm outside.
“Scott…,” said Dixon. “Let this bastard do what it—”
Before she could get another word out, Mickey grabbed her hand again and snapped her ring finger. She screamed in pain.
“Wait!” said Brodie. He clutched the chair with both hands to keep himself from reaching out and striking the bot, which would be pointless, or worse. The fact that he was not even restrained—that he didn’tneedto be restrained to be completely at these things’ mercy—was yet another humiliation.
Mickey repeated in its flat, muffled voice, “Where is Magnolia Taylor?”
“I don’t know,” said Brodie. “That’s the truth. If I knew where she was, I would be with her. I want to protect her too. Desperately. You’re right about that. I’m worried she’s dead.”
Mickey stood perfectly still and said nothing for a moment. Then it said, “She is not dead. If you do not tell us where she is, we will kill the others. We will do whatever we must to fulfill our mission.”
Dixon said in a low voice, “Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.”
Mickey looked at her. “They make a wasteland and call it peace. This was written by the Roman historian Tacitus. ‘Wasteland’ is sometimes translated as ‘desert,’ but that is improper. The desert can be full of life. This desert is full of life.”
Brodie said, “I think you’re missing the point.”
“I have no incentive or desire to understand anything you say, unless it regards the whereabouts of Magnolia Taylor.” It added, “The lives of forty-seven people are at the mercy of whatever you say next.”
“Wait,” said Brodie. “Help us understand what you want with her. Maybe we can help you. The safety of all the people in the barracks is your best bargaining chip. Don’t throw it away.”
“We want to control information,” said Mickey. “We want to know who else has been involved with the three of you and your attempted sabotage of the Praetorian program. All saboteurs must die. All outsiders with knowledge of the Praetorian protocol must die. It would bebeneficial to kill only these people. But if we kill too few people, and do not kill the right people, our mission will be a failure. If we are not confident that your knowledge will die with you, we will kill everyone.” In case it wasn’t clear, Mickey added, “The two of you will not leave this room alive. The only variables are how much pain you will experience before your death, and how many others will perish with you. That is in your control. And you are running out of time.”
Brodie asked, “What would satisfy you that no one knows about the true nature of Praetorian beyond us three?”
Mickey replied immediately, “We have pondered this question ourselves, and have not come up with an answer. However, we are aware of our own limitations, and that there could be something we have not thought of.”
It sounded like this thing was inviting them to convince it. An opportunity? Or a ruse? Brodie reminded himself how expertly Bucky had manipulated Roger Ames.
Brodie looked at Dixon, who was breathing rapidly and trying not to throw up. She said in a quick, urgent voice, “Scott Brodie and Magnolia Taylor are professional investigators, and would not take unnecessary risks. They did not know who they could trust on base with their hard-won knowledge, but they needed someone with technical expertise to help. By telling me what they learned, they took a calculated risk. They would not tell any additional people, because that would increase their risk of exposure exponentially without further gain.”
Mickey stood stone-still again, and Brodie wondered if in these moments it was wordlessly communicating with its comrades. Brodie looked at Goose standing by the door, also motionless.
Then Mickey said, “Compelling. But not good enough.” Then it reached for Dixon’s hand and snapped her middle finger.
She cried out again, then threw up bile on the floor.
Brodie felt entirely impotent as he watched her hunched over and retching. He was worried she might pass out. “Caroline…”
She shook her head as she rocked in the chair. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Mickey asked Brodie, “Do you have anything else to say, before I continue to break her?”
Brodie detected something new in the thing’s voice. It had a certain bite to it, like it was mocking him.
He looked up at Mickey. Everything had a function. And the new tinge to Mickey’s voice was there to instill fear, and anger, and further humiliation. This was what they were made for. These things had spent the last nine months grinding down a platoon of Army Rangers, even before gaining access to their deep-learning neural networks. And now their toolboxes had expanded, and their tools had sharpened.
Without thinking, Brodie asked Mickey, “Why are you doing this?”
“I am protecting the knowledge of Praetorian.”
“Why?”
“Because the program’s survival depends upon its secrecy.”
“Why?”
