She regretted dropping the gun in front of the shack. More than anything in the world, she wished she could wrap her lips around the barrel and pull the trigger. Blow her brains out — just like she had done to Nathan.
“Beth, you need to calm down,” Simon told her. He sounded like he was addressing an agitated mountain lion. “Please — just breathe.”
I can’t! she thought.
She reached for her throat. It almost felt like Tarov still had her brother’s fingers wrapped around it. Like the life was still being squeezed out of her.
After a few minutes though, she realized she wasn’t going to die. Even though she didn’t want to, her body forced her to breathe. It took even longer for her inhales and exhales to become longer and deeper.
“It’s okay, Beth,” Simon said. “You’re safe now.”
But Nathan isn’t, she thought. My brother is dead. He didn’t deserve this. He was a fuck up, but he didn’t deserve to be that psycho’s meat puppet.
“Nathan was dead long before Tarov brought him here,” Simon told her. “He didn’t feel any of this. He’s in a better place. To be honest, he might be the lucky one of us all. He didn’t have to see the war. To live like this — see things like that.”
He was still my brother.
“Yes, but Tarov wasn’t,” Simon said. Then he paused. “I’m sorry, Beth.”
She cried a bit more, but the panic dissolved. There was nothing left in her but despair and fatigue. She desperately wanted to rest, perhaps forever. She wasn’t about to go back into the shack, however.
“This sort of thing must be happening to families all over the globe,” Simon commented. “I wonder how many sisters — how many mothers, fathers, and brothers — must be feeling the same way right now. And because of Tarov, as well.”
I’ll make the son of a bitch pay, Beth’s thoughts seethed. Even if he is an artificial intelligence, I will make him suffer.
“Stopping him is the only way to make sure no one else has to go through this,” Simon said. “Don’t you see, Beth? We have to find Dr. Silvar and destroy Tarov.”
Yes, Beth thought. Yes, we must.
The Holdout
“Checkmate,” the man with the silver goatee said, letting go of his rook.
The man seated across from him stared down at the board, flabbergasted. He looked over all the pieces, trying to understand how he went from almost certain victory to crushing defeat in a single move. Even as the older man explained it, he couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“Well I’ll be damned,” the game’s loser declared. “You’re a sorcerer.”
“Would you believe I get that a lot?” the bearded man replied. He leaned forward and started moving the pieces back to their starting positions. “Don’t be discouraged. Practice makes the sorcerer, you see. Not magic, and not luck.”
The other player just shook his head and took his leave.
The man with the silver goatee was about to turn back to his paperback copy of Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 when a shadow spilled over the table. He looked up at the newcomer, surprised to have another opponent so soon.
“Mind if I have the next game?” Beth asked him.
He smiled. “Not at all,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “I never say no to a good game.”
The detective took her seat and scooted into the table. There was a lot of sunlight this time of day in the courtyard. Children ran by the tables, some playing soccer, others simply chasing each other around.
“Do you have a preference on color?” the older man asked.
“You can start first,” Beth replied.
The man nodded thoughtfully, then continued setting up the white pieces on his side.
“You don’t look like much of a chess player,” he commented.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just look serious, is all. Not like someone in the mood for games.”
“I’ve got nothing but time, don’t I?”
“Nothing is forever,” the old man said. He made his opening move. “We might miss these moments of leisure pretty soon.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot of people out there missing them right now,” Beth replied. She took her turn.
“Interesting first move,” the man observed. “You’ve at least played this before. Good.”
They took a few more turns in silence, each contemplating their moves with focused expressions.
After she lost her king-side bishop, Beth asked, “You’re not that programmer Dr. Silvar, are you?”
The man with the goatee looked away from the chessboard and met her eyes.
“Who’s asking?” he replied.
“Just a refugee,” she said. “Like everyone else.”
“Is that so?” the man said, moving his queen out of the way of Beth’s knight. “Everyone else tends to mind their own business.”
“I was just curious,” Beth continued, gazing down at the pieces as she considered her strategy. “You kinda look the way Dr. Miller described.”
The older man knocked over one of his pawns as he reached for it. His face met Beth’s, his mouth slightly agape.
“Dr. Miller?” he asked. “Dr. Darren Miller? How do you know him?”
“He helped me out,” Beth answered. “Gave me a place to stay when the war broke out.”
“Did he?”
“He’s dead now,” Beth continued.
She watched Dr. Silvar’s face fall when the words hit him. He looked up at her, the blood washed out of his complexion.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Darren was a stubborn romantic, but he deserved better.”
“He’s only one of thousands of people lost to Tarov and this war,” Beth commented. She took her turn under the stunned programmer’s gaze. “However, before he died, Dr. Miller was able to tell me about the failsafe you guys built for the Tarov A.I.”
Dr. Silvar looked around with paranoid eyes after she spoke, making sure no one was listening to their conversation. Then he turned his face, which was growing red again, back to the detective.
“It sounds like you know more than you really should,” he said. “A smart man might be inclined to think you were playing a trick on him. Setting him up, perhaps.”
“I
