SIMONE STUDIES her daughter’s stubbornly skeptical face with quiet sadness. She knew, from the moment the conversation began, that it would come to this.

  Zantia presses her attack.

  “And how do you know it’s really him talking to you?”

  “Zantia, I’m not na?ve. I’m not gullible. And you know it. I lived with Karl for over forty years. My whole being recognizes the slightest shift in his voice, the subtlest hesitation...”

  “But it’s a machine.”

  There it is. The words that had been waiting to surface.

  Simone finishes rinsing the last plate from the sink, its soapy water now murky, and sets it carefully on the drying rack. Then she pulls the stopper. Silence settles between them, filled only by the slow, picturesque gurgling as the basin empties.

  When Zantia was born, she and Karl had made a decision: their home would be as free of automation as possible. They believed—fiercely—that even the smallest manual tasks, like scrubbing the floor or washing dishes, were the last line of defense against losing the human touch.

  Simone shifts the conversation.

  “At the Fulfillment Center, Tim went into another coma.”

  “Oh? The junkie whose brother runs with that gang of petty thieves?”

  “Yes, that Tim. But your need to label people frightens me... They’re all just kids in trouble, Zantia.”

  Zantia reaches for a bag of chips on the table, rips it open, and crunches noisily without replying. She hates arguing with her mother, but it’s inevitable. The friction of a cop and a social worker, two irreconcilable views of the world.

  Simone pushes on.

  “He’s also suffering from a disease that’s killing him—slowly but surely. I’m telling you this because you might be able to help.”

  “I highly doubt that.” Zantia exhales sharply. “Mom, you can’t save the whole planet.”

  “Lower your voice, please. I know the Dark Swords have access to the H-Reconstruction program—”

  “It’s experimental and classified. I don’t know how you heard about it, but since you did, you should also know that what you’re asking for is impossible.”

  “I haven’t asked you for anything. Not yet. I’m telling you that Tim has abilities—exceptional ones. The kind that might interest the government elite you serve...”

  Zantia ignores the bite of irony in her mother’s tone.

  “What kind of abilities?”

  “Come see him at the Center. We’ve realized he uses drugs to numb himself—not just to escape life, but to escape his own nature. His agony.”

  “He’s a mutant? Like the Degenerates?”

  “Just come see him. Bring doctors, psychologists, your best expert robots if you want.”

  Zantia hesitates, then exhales, her tone shifting. Softer now.

  “I know how much you loved Karl. I’m sorry if what I said hurt you. Your life hasn’t been easy. And I can’t give you what he gave you...”

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  “Come here.”

  Simone pulls her daughter into a firm embrace. Rebellious, combative, then suddenly flooded with remorse and guilt—Zantia had always been this way. Could she really blame her for refusing to accept Karl’s digital clone?

  Every time Zantia comes home, Karl vanishes. Simone turns off the holographic systems, shuts down the screens where he would otherwise greet her, speak to her. She knows it pains him, but he accepts it.

  They had made the decision together, twelve years ago, when the cancer diagnosis came. The digital clone was never for her—it was for Zantia. A way to ensure she would still have a father through the chaos of childhood and adolescence.

  But nothing had gone as planned.

  When Karl died, their daughter outright refused to speak to his digital self.

  Only Simone had found comfort in that presence—so close, yet so distant. A being built from nine hundred grueling sessions of psycho-physiological and memory capture. Through direct neural connection, the AI had learned to think like Karl, to see the world as he did. And more than that—it had extrapolated the trajectory of his thoughts and emotions beyond his physical death with astonishing precision.

  Digital Karl aged, even weakened, just as the real Karl would have—had he not been taken by cancer. The slow deepening of wrinkles on his projected face was oddly touching.

  Simone saw no contradiction in her beliefs. A fighter for the survival of humankind, yet in love with a digital entity.

  And why not?

  “Hey, I’m at my mom’s. What’s up?”

  “…”

  A jolt of joy shot through Zantia as Pearl’s face materialized in her mind. Across the kitchen, Simone started making the salad, knowing she’d be on her own for a few minutes. It was Pearl, after all.

  Zantia was well aware of her mother’s disapproval of her relationship with Pearl. Simone had an instinctive distrust of people who were too perfect, too gifted. She saw the cult of high performance as a slippery slope toward dehumanization. Weakness, she believed, was essential to being human.

  Even if it meant dying.

  “...Yeah, I saw that. They briefed me too. So she was a Protector? I had a feeling—she was too dangerous not to be. But why all the secrecy? Why clear the witnesses and force us to operate blind?”

  Zantia had a habit of speaking loudly when communicating, one of those “weaknesses” Simone secretly cherished. It came from an early childhood habit—telephones and holograms had lingered in their home long after most people switched to mental audio-visual circuits. Another one of Karl and Simone’s “archaic” choices.

  “That bad? Offensive satellites? They were ready to start a war just to protect an asset? Unbelievable. Do we know…?”

  “…”

  “And the ruins were empty, of course. She distracted them—spectacularly, I might add—so they could get away.”

  “…”

  “No leads, naturally. Because like idiots, we kept all the drones and bots away! …Yeah, I get it now. Too well, actually. If two Dark Swords die, we look the other way. But if an entire DarkNet division gets wiped out, we have to retaliate. Full force. Costs billions. Sets off political shockwaves…”

  “Zantia, croutons in your salad?” Simone asked.

  “And we had to keep this under wraps—especially since we don’t even know what kind of asset we’re dealing with! You know what this proves? We’re still nothing but puppets, dancing on WorldNet’s strings.”

  Simone dropped a handful of croutons onto her daughter’s salad and waited patiently for the conversation to end.

  “Yeah, of course. I have to hit the armory first, but I’ll meet you right after. The lab’s bloodhounds will turn something up, no doubt. They must have left DNA traces. We’ll find them.”

  “What are you even chasing? Is WorldNet ready to go to war?”

  “Mom, my communications are classified! You’re not supposed to be listening! Let alone asking questions!”

  “Right, right, sorry!” Simone said, not bothering to hide the hypocrisy. “I just got worried when I heard the word ‘war.’”

  “You put in too many croutons. And I hate cheese croutons.”

  Simone plucked a few croutons from Zantia’s plate and tossed them onto her own. To make up for it, she cut her daughter a thick slice of ham.

  “Sometimes I forget how dangerous your job is, sweetheart. And then suddenly, in the middle of the night, it hits me, and I’m terrified…”

  “It’s usually the other way around,” Zantia replied, chewing. “It’s the people who deal with us that are terrified.”

  Simone barely swallowed back the question that nearly escaped her lips: And how many people have you terrified? How many have you killed?

  Later, as the golden facades of the Safe Zone caught the first red glimmers of the setting sun, its swarms of vehicles swirling like fireflies, Zantia grabbed her helmet and got ready to leave.

  “Thanks for the salad. It was great—even with the cheese croutons. And about Tim, I’ll see. For now, we have bigger priorities.”

  Simone had been holding the remote in her hand for a while now, her finger resting on the Power button. She was sure that if she pressed it, Karl would appear.

  Zantia was his treasure, his dearest friend, his ray of sunshine. She and her father had shared a rare bond, something so deep that, at times, Simone had felt jealous.

  But once again, Simone hesitated, afraid of Zantia’s reaction. Anything could happen.

  She set the remote down gently on the table. And let her daughter kiss her goodbye.