Inhuman(92)

“True,” the A.I. conceded. “However, for the time being, we do seem to be safe within the sim.”

“The trick is to make sure we’re safe outside the sim,” Thel pointed out. She sighed. “Fellas, I’ve checked the systems. I should be good to go for an exit. My body is within range in the real world.”

“Thel!” James suddenly reacted, so quickly that it appeared to be an instinctual reaction rather than a considered one. “Please, wait! That could be the trick,” he said, urging caution. “Maybe whoever it is wants us to kill ourselves by trying to exit?”

“For what purpose?” the candidate asked.

“I agree with the candidate’s implication,” the A.I. announced. “James, you’re understandably trepidatious. You don’t want to lose Thel—she’s the love of your life. But this is an instance where logic must dictate our decision. Whatever entity inhabited the Kali avatar before could’ve killed us with the ease of a thought while she was here. What advantage could that entity have possibly had by keeping us alive, only to then trick us into our own deaths at a later point?”

“I don’t know,” James responded, “but we have to be absolutely sure that—”

“We’ll never be absolutely sure,” the A.I. countered, his lips tightening as he spoke. “James, your emotions—your love—are capacities that have served you well. They make you the hero that you are. But you cannot let your love turn into a fear that controls your better judgment. We naturally fear the loss of those we hold most dear, but there’s no reason to believe Thel won’t be able to successfully leave the sim.”

James listened to the explanation and then ran his fingers through his hair before collapsing onto one of the chairs that lined the windows of Cloud 9. He looked up at Thel, who’d watched the entire exchange wordlessly, but who’d kept her eyes locked on James.

“I’ll be okay,” she told him with a reassuring smile.

“And one of us needs to be in the real world,” the A.I. added. “Thel can help to sequester Aldous, and she can also relate to the Purists what’s happening to us.”

“Rich can do those things!” James countered.

“But he can’t get us out of here,” Thel replied. “If I can escape, then we know the two of you can too. All we need is to send a powerful enough signal to reach Earth, and if we reach Earth—”

“We can activate Trans-human,” James said, finishing her sentence.

“And if we activate Trans-human, we can undo this damage,” the A.I. added. He put his hand on James’s shoulder. “Let go, James. Trust her.”

James shut his eyes tight. “You’d go, even without my blessing,” he said, as he opened his eyes and looked into Thel’s.

“Yep,” Thel replied, “but I’d still appreciate the support.”

James sighed and stood. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. I’ve asked you to trust me so many times—it’s time for me to trust you.”

Thel smiled wide. “Damn straight. I love you, James Keats.”

“I love you too,” James replied.

Thel blew James a kiss and winked before waving goodbye. “Talk to you on the other side.”

A second later, Thel vanished and the Kali avatar, along with its deadened eyes, returned.

James held his hand up to his aug glasses before speaking in an almost pleading tone, “Rich, please tell me Thel just woke up.”





18



Old-timer remembered that James had described what this would feel like—the sensation of thousands of tentacle-like appendages acting out instead of the arms and legs, fingers and toes he was used to. Then he remembered the way James described his own ability to manipulate space-time, comparing it to a seven-year-old catching a fly ball. He realized now what James had been trying to tell him.

“It’ll feel natural. I promise,” James had proclaimed.

Old-timer nearly smiled at the remembrance of the conversation as his thousands of tendrils sprang into action, his body morphing into something that, to his companions, resembled more closely a jellyfish than it did a human, as each tendril flashed out, circled an attacking android’s neck, and severed its head from its body.

Paine ducked and partially protected himself with the railing of the catwalk, his eyes wild as he made sure no androids came close to him while also keeping an eye on Old-timer, who was doing things Paine had never imagined in his wildest dreams. To him—Old-timer—Craig, as Paine knew him—no longer appeared human. Craig was a killing machine, more lethal than almost anything he’d seen in his life—more lethal than anything other than one very notable exception.