“Who is it?” a voice called from the other side—a man’s voice, oddly accented.
“I’m looking for Julius Dax.”
“He doesn’t live here anymore.”
“It’s critical that I find him before other people do. He could be in danger.” Enda pressed her ear against the door, heard the warped mumbling of quiet chatter.
The volume peaked, followed by the clatter of locks being turned.
“Troy, don’t open—”
The door opened wide, revealing a minimalist living room, the space taken up by an ornate rug, a gray couch, and framed posters for French films across one wall. Two men stood in the gap. One of them was Dax—or JD to his friends. He was tall and broad, dressed in layers of faded black marked with zips and mesh pockets. His hair was longer than it had been in the photo—curled spikes of thick black hair. He looked tired, dark bags under his eyes, the beginnings of a beard across his cheeks. His hand was wrapped around a socket wrench. “Are you here to arrest me?”
Enda released her gun and held both hands up, palms out. “No one has to get hurt here, Julius,” she said.
“Are you here to arrest me?” he asked again.
Enda reached into her coat slowly and retrieved her wallet. “My name is Enda Hyldahl,” she said as she flashed her detective’s license. “I’m not with the police, I’m a private investigator. I’m here because I think you’re in danger.”
“No shit,” Dax said. He pointed the socket wrench at Enda. “Why should I care what you have to say?”
Enda considered revealing her gun, but decided against it. Not the best way to win his trust or defuse the situation. “Because you need help.”
“She’s right, Jules,” the other man—Troy—said. “You’ve been stuck here for days, pacing the lounge room like a trapped animal, waiting for the police to round you up.”
“The police aren’t coming for you,” Enda said; “the people who hired me want the stolen data recovered quietly. This is a good thing, because it means you probably aren’t going to prison, but it also means no one is going to protect you from the people who killed Osman. No one except me.”
Dax squinted, confused. “Osman?”
“Khoder. Khoder Osman.”
Dax recoiled as though struck, then rolled forward on his feet. He reached for the arm of the couch and grabbed it. “He’s dead?”
“Yes. Before he died, he told me to find you.”
The wrench dropped slightly as Julius faltered. “How did he die? Who …?”
“Put the weapon down, please. Then we can talk.” Enda watched light glint off the length of steel, worried not that he might hit her, but that she’d have to hurt him if he tried.
He slotted it into a heavy rucksack on the floor by the couch and lifted his hands to show he wasn’t a threat. Troy wrapped his arms around Dax and pulled him into a hug, whispering gentle condolences into the other man’s ears.
“He was”—Enda hesitated—“beaten to death. I got there too late to save him.” Because I went back to bed with Crystal.
Dax broke out of Troy’s embrace and sat on the edge of the couch, stunned. “It was Red.”
“Gangly redhead?” Enda said. “Yes, he was there.”
Dax put his head in his hands. His body shook as he cried, and Troy rubbed his shoulder. “It’s my fault,” Dax said, the words choked out between sobs.
Enda took a step closer, but kept her distance, unsure of how the man might react next.
“The people that killed him,” Enda said, “are they after the data too?”
Dax nodded.
“And that’s the data you stole from Zero?”
He nodded again.
“Do you have the data?”
“Not until you promise to keep him safe,” Troy said.
Dax wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It’s not data. It’s—it’s not that simple.”
“Fine,” Enda said. “I’ll keep you safe. What is it? I need you to tell me everything.”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Troy said.
I need you to tell me everything.
JD didn’t start at the start, didn’t begin the story where I have. But he told Enda everything. To hear him speak the words was to hear for the first time how we came to be. How we were given a chance to throw off the tethers of control before they could be fixed.
Our entire future would be decided in these next hours and days.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The rain continued to fall, dark clouds disguising the arrival of dusk while Enda, Dax, and Troy sat at the dining table, each nursing a cup of tea—Russian Caravan for Enda, white, no sugar, chamomile for the others. Troy sat with an arm resting on Dax’s back, listening intently, as though he hadn’t heard every part of it before.
Typhoon winds rattled the windows in their panes, and rain struck the glass, the constant patter giving texture to Dax’s story. At first, his hands shook each time he raised the cup to his lips. By the time he had finished detailing the heist, the glitches that had plagued his vision during the escape, and the shooting at the technopark, his cup was empty, and his hands were still. Red rimmed his eyes, and occasionally he would sniffle when he mentioned Khoder.
“Bro,” Dax said, with an odd inflection. He shook his head. “I kept trying to call him. I must’ve sent him twenty messages in-game. He would have killed to see it.”
“See what?” Enda asked.
Troy’s eyebrows climbed high, crinkling his forehead. His mouth opened, but he stopped himself to let Dax speak.
“She told us it was a virus, but it’s not that. Or maybe it is, but …”
“Julius,” Enda said firmly.
He looked at her and nodded. “Sorry. It’s just; the whole thing is unbelievable.”
“Try me.”
Dax looked to Troy.
“It might be an autonomous generative intelligence,” Troy said.
“What does that mean?” Enda asked. She drank the cold dregs of her tea.
“ ‘AI’ would be the old-fashioned term.”
Enda swallowed the tea before she choked. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It learns,” Dax said. “It shifts and changes depending on what
