The Twelve Month Challenge: N3S1 Outbreak: February 14, 2147

Here’s month two of the Twelve Month Writing Challenge. After two months, I’ve figured out a couple of things. One, writing to deadline is both hard and inspiring. Two, when I made the rule that there would be no major editing of the stories after the month was over, I didn’t really think through the ramifications. Not only is taking some time away from a story an extremely helpful part of the editing process, but if I intend the finished collection to be a showcase for my work, then it needs to be the absolute best it can be. Therefore, I will be reediting all the stories next January before I publish the collection as an e-book.

This month’s story was a bit of an experiment. I wanted to write a story from the perspective of one of the characters, but at the same time not reveal anything about that character through the narration. I don’t even let on to the narrator’s gender. It was quite a challenge, but I hope you find it interesting.

As always, comments, edits, and constructive criticism is strongly encouraged. Enjoy!

N3S1 Outbreak: February 14, 2147

The plaza is quiet, like a residential block the day after carnival, or a launch pad an hour after takeoff. All the stalls are empty, a few of them tipped over. The recycling bots have already combed the area. What has been left behind—nothing more than broken detritus—is truly useless. The complete lack of activity is unnatural.

Strangely, a pile of flowering plants has been swept into the ring in the middle of the plaza. The pots are cracked and the red soil has left streaks along the floor. The petals, a full spectrum of attractive colors, have not yet begun to wilt, though they’ve been bent and crushed and torn apart. Flowering plants are too valuable to be discarded in this way, even if they are damaged.

“Is someone coming to clean them up?” The man, Sebastian Kwak, shrugs in response. He is a licensed vendor of luxury items, though he generally deals in illegal imports from the States. He’s right about the plants. They don’t matter.

“How do you explain what happened here?”

“It was the corporates’ fault. They shoulda known better than to send riot bots and tear gas. Most people were just trying to get out of the way, but it was so crowded, you could barely move. The medics couldn’t get through to the ones who were sick. Eventually, the crowd turned violent. This was the result.” He is referring to the riot, which left nine people injured and resulted in 113 citations. He doesn’t say so, but based on the bruises on his arms and face, there is a 79% likelihood Mr. Kwak was involved in the riots himself.

“The Company was trying to contain the fever.”

“It’s like they say. The cure can be worse than the problem, you know what I mean? We’re used to outbreaks. They happen all the time and the Company doesn’t seem to care. So why is it different this time? Just because a few people are dying? That never mattered before.” He spits on the floor, as if to reinforce his disdain. “No, you’re after something and we know it.”

“Were you here when it happened?”

“You mean was I exposed? You don’t have to worry, I’ve been tested. I’m negative.”

“I mean did you see anything strange, besides the riot?”

“Look buddy, you live long enough, and there ain’t nothing strange anymore. Now you better get out of here before people start talking. They’re still plenty angry, and if you want my opinion, it’s pretty stupid of you to come here without an escort. The last thing I want is an excuse for them to send their security forces back in here.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Whatever you say.”

__________________

The hospitals outside the Company are all the same. The same overworked facilities, with equipment decades out of date, the same submissive dispositions in the patients, who have had their spirits crushed by a level of bureaucracy that would have shocked Orwell and Kafka. For these people, words like efficiency and best practices are obscenities.

“The quarantine won’t be lifted for a full week, not unless we get the okay from the lab before then.”

“I need to speak with them.”

“Frankly, I don’t think anyone’s going to tell you anything you don’t already know. The Company isn’t very popular right now.”

“I still need to speak with them.”

The administrator sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It takes close to an hour, and three separate credential checks, but an interview is finally arranged inside what many years ago was a research laboratory. Now it’s a pharmacy, but the human personnel have been removed and it’s only the bots and the two patients behind a protective layer of glass.

The pair—a man and a woman, both showing signs of age you rarely see inside the Company—are seated on the other side of the intercom. They are wearing blue hospital gowns, like in the old medical programs from the last century.

“Please tell me what you know about the N3S1 patients who disappeared from the hospital.”

The man, Edgar Ni, a 64-year-old singer, answers first. His parents once worked for the Company, but they were made redundant in the late nineties. Edgar didn’t pass the tests for university admission, nor did he show much inclination for research. Once upon a time, he was one of the top pop artists in New China, but for the last decade, his concerts have been poorly attended and dwindling in number.

He was exposed to the virus at the Cow Hollow incident. He’s been held in quarantine for the past 48 hours.

“I didn’t notice anyone in particular, with so many patients being interviewed. If anyone showed symptoms of having the fever, they were immediately separated into the other unit.” Mr. Ni might know more, but seems disinclined to share.

“I got a good glimpse of one of the children.” The woman’s name is Reneé Herawati, a 70-year-old hostess of a popular daily talk show. She has complained vociferously about her need to be allowed back to work. She emigrated to the Bay Area with her mother a decade after separation. She’s been married three times to Corporates, none of which lasted longer than two years.

She’s been held in quarantine for more than a day, since the riots outside the FD.

“The girl was already starting to sweat and her skin had an orange tinge. I felt really sorry for her, because I figured she wasn’t going to make it. But when I asked the Network, she said the girl was missing. I thought that kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“It’s not. That’s why I’m here.”

“Do you think they’re dead?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I heard they just got up and walked out,” adds Mr. Ni. “They decided if they were going to die, they weren’t going to die trapped in this hellhole, so they went outside. And I don’t mean outside the Company, but completely off-grid. Reneé, did you know that outside used to mean you were touching the Earth’s actual atmosphere, not this artificially maintained environment. Can you imagine? What I wouldn’t give to touch real air.”

Ms. Herawati, however, isn’t paying attention to Mr. Ni’s dreams of adventure. “Well, that’s certainly not fair. That girl was sick and she was able to leave. Meanwhile, I’m healthy as a Corporate and I can’t even use the bathroom without being monitored.”

“Did either of you see one of the patients exit the unit?”

They both deny having done so. Since scanning outsiders without consent violated every one of the privacy conventions, and because something had caused the hospital surveillance cameras to cut out, their account would be impossible to verify. They were most likely lying, but it seemed all outsiders were addicted to lying.

“You’re free to go.”

“You mean leave the hospital?”

“No.”

__________________

The scent of dried blood cannot be compared to any other scent. There is a tinge of salt, a bouquet of sugar and protein, the overpowering aroma of dead cells and plasma. Only the most advanced scent receptors can distinguish between species, so at the waste management facilities between Freemont and Newark City, the mixture of blood types from the slaughtered pets and stray animals blends into an unpleasant cocktail not easily ignored.

Pets have never been allowed inside the Company. It’s difficult enough to administer public health without multiplying the number of species that must be vaccinated, mapped, tagged, and researched. There have been isolated cased of animals being smuggled inside, usually glow-in-the-dark frogs or crickets, but for the most part, corporates are not interested in animal husbandry. If they require companionship, there are plenty of constructs programed to provide it.

Outside, however, people are excessively attached to their pets. Dogs and cats are still the most popular, along with birds, rats, and walking fish. Too many residents spend the majority of their bandwidth on their animals, often to the detriment of their own welfare.

Thus it was that the decision, however justified in the wake of the latest flu outbreak, to slaughter all household animals in the Bay Area Quadrant was a provocative one.

“There hasn’t been resistance like this since the rebellion. I can’t believe you wanted to come here alone.”

“Captain Chen, your escort is completely unnecessary. You know I’m perfectly safe.”

“I have to follow orders. Still, they’d have torn you apart by now if we weren’t here to hold the perimeter.”

The perimeter Captain Chen is referring to is about 30 meters out, along the outskirts of the entrance hall to the facility. It is a cavernous space, with several tunnels leaving the semi-circle shaped pavilion, some that lead to industrial airlocks for transporting waste off-grid, others that are transportation channels. Waste management requires the coordination of HR personnel, security agents, vehicles and transports, and thousands upon thousands of bots.

Although everything outside the main entrance is technically considered public space, humans rarely visit. At the moment, however, there are hundreds of outsiders gathering in the pavilion, with the number increasing by the hour. They are here to protest the extermination that took place late last night. The crowd is presently being warded off by a squadron of security bots. This seems only to incite the humans more. There’s nothing outsiders hate more than being marshaled around by machines.

The investigation has led here, and it is necessary to speak with the HR representative, Giacamo Laurel, who administers the facility. Something in his video testimony has raised a flag.

“What does last night’s culling have to do with tracking the disease?” he asks.

“I’m not tracking the disease. I want you to tell me what you didn’t say when you were questioned this morning.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dealing with outsiders is the main part of Mr. Laurel’s job, as supervising the facility is fully automated. He’s been at the Newark facility for the past ten years, and according to his service record, he’s been cited for code violations on two separate occasions. No wonder he hasn’t been promoted.

But his time spent outside has accustomed him to being off-network. He’s forgotten that every word he speaks to a corporate will be scanned.

“You’re lying, Mr. Laurel.”

“The hell I am.”

“One more citation, and your status with the Company will come under review. How would your wife feel about having to move outside permanently?”

“You can’t do that to us. She needs constant therapy for her condition. She’d never survive outside.”

“Haven’t you noticed, Mr. Laurel? That’s all anyone is able to do outside. Just survive.”

The combination of threats and derision manages to secure Mr. Laurel’s compliance. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything, but there was a break in last night.”

“Why didn’t the alarm sound?”

“There was a malfunction of some kind. Surveillance went offline. Someone entered the facility and made off with a dog that was meant to be culled.”

“One dog?”

“Yes, a mixed breed of some sort. I figured that reporting the incident was unnecessary since the only damage was to two security bots that were disconnected and wiped clean and one missing dog. I didn’t need the headache of filling out any reports. Then the riot happened and Corporate was swarming all over the place.”

“Wait a minute. Two bots were wiped clean?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are they now?”

“In IT. They’re trying to get them back online. There’s no physical damage to them.”

An inspection of the bots confirms Mr. Laurel’s account. The bots are undamaged except for the fact that their hard drives have been erased and their OS deleted. The surveillance records from the time and location of the break-in has also been wiped. There is absolutely no evidence of the intruder.

“It seems like a lot of trouble to go through just for some dog.”

“Yes, it does.”

There is only one plausible explanation. Whoever broke into the facility used magic.

Two alerts sound at the same time. One is for Mr. Laurel, informing him that some waste transports have come under attack in one of the tunnels. The protestors are rioting again.

The second is for Captain Chen. “My squadron has engaged the rioters, but I need to confirm that they continue. What do you want to do?”

“Pull back. I’m leaving.”

“Wait,” Mr. Laurel pleads. “Who’s going to protect the facility? We don’t have enough security to stop so big a crowd. Look at all the damage they did last night. They almost broke through to the administrative offices.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“So you’ll just leave me here to die.”

“You’re anxiety is unwarranted, Mr. Laurel. My simulators say there’s only a 13% chance of you being killed.”

__________________

For residents within the Company, life on the outside can seem shockingly harsh. Rationed medical care, limits on network access, no gene therapy, these are all inconceivable hardships for anyone who’s spent their entire life as a corporate. But perhaps nothing comes as such a shock as the cramped living quarters.

The Pahlawan family lives in residence block 852-C, a small tower in West Portal that’s surrounded on three sides by Company structures. Thrice in the past decade it’s been slated for demolition, but political infighting and shifting priorities has spared it each time. From the looks of the shoddy steelwork, 852-C would not survive another quake.

Mr. and Mrs. Pahlawan both work on the periphery of the city’s entertainment industry. He is an editing supervisor, currently contracted to a daily food show; she runs sound for a private news group that’s sponsored by a grant from the Company. They are young parents, not yet in their forties. Nora Pahlawan is their 8-year-old daughter. Their son was killed by falling ceiling panels when he was five years old.

Two days ago, Nora Pahlawan was checked into Mercy Hospital’s DC Unit with stage 3 symptoms of N3S1 influenza. Yesterday, she left the facility under mysterious circumstances. This morning she was seen by neighbors being carried into her residence at 852-C.

Mr. Pahlawan reluctantly opens the door. It slides open to reveal a tightly packed living room the size of a utility closet. “How can I help you, Sir?”

“I’m here to interview Nora.”

“She’s not here.” A scan is unnecessary to recognize that Mr. Pahlawan is lying.

“I’m three percentage points away from having reasonable cause to enter your home. I highly recommend your cooperation.”

The Pahlawans exchange frightened looks before nodding to each other and stepping back from the entrance.

“How did you know she was here?” asks Mrs. Pahlawan.

“I’d like to speak with your daughter, please. Am I right in assuming she’s no longer showing symptoms of the virus?”

The parents look at each other again, neither willing to answer. Their home, as small as it it is, is comfortably furnished and fully connected. They have a full-panel screen that’s currently playing a children’s program, but Nora is nowhere to be seen. A vase in one corner is flush with rainbow-colored flowers.

“Relax. I’m not here to take your daughter into custody. You have a dog, right?”

“Please. You can’t take our dog. Nora loves that dog, and after what happened to Ernie, it would devastate her.” A quick scan reveals Ernie was their son.

“I have every right to seize the dog, under the Public Security provisions of the Corporate Tenancy act. All animals have been deemed an emergency health threat. But I’m not a Public Security officer. I just need to know who returned her.”

The fear on the parents’ faces becomes more manifest, yet they continue to hesitate. It’s unclear whether they are protecting someone or are scared to reveal their secret benefactor. This is why interrogating the girl will be the most efficient course of action.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pahlawan, I’ve surpassed the legal threshold for probable cause to enter and search your premises. I’ve transmitted the warrant to you just now.”

“Wait, wait, you don’t have to talk to Nora.” Mrs. Pahlawan lets out a sob, but her husband is firm now that’s he’s made up his mind. “We have to cooperate, for her sake. She was brought here by a woman. I don’t know her name.”

“The same woman who returned your dog.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And this woman is a cræftor?”

“Of course she is. Who else could have rescued our daughter? But I swear I don’t know who she is. I’ve never seen her before.”

“I believe you. But you have to tell me everything you know about this woman, Mr. Pahlawan. If I believe you’re cooperating. I’ll leave here and you’ll never hear from me again. Do you understand?”

___________

Protocol states that leaving the Environment should only be done in extreme circumstances. To qualify as an emergency, 3,423,711 variables on a scale of more than 5 million must be met. This situation passed the threshold by more than 10,000. Still, it will be dangerous.

The target is holed up inside a ramshackle structure that once served as an entrance post to the Bay Area’s largest industrial recycling facility. Her presence would have gone unnoticed except that she was spotted by the camera unit of one of the cargo bots and the Network flagged it as out of the ordinary. The Network has been searching for days for any signs of the cræftor. While this is not a confirmed sighting, its probability rating is over 74%.

Even with a filter, the air outside is wretched to breathe, a noxious blend of sulpher, rust, and organic refuse that can be tasted through the mask. Exposed skin begins to burn within 20 minutes. Then there’s the heat, the smog, the precipitation. It’s not illegal to leave the Environment and enter this miasma of decay, but no one can return without authorization. The target has found a way to move back and forth freely. That will be another topic for her interrogation.

There’s no need to move silently. The noise from the heavy machinery unloading the waste and directing it to the incinerators could hide an entire army of heavy mechs. With the use of infrared, the girl is visible inside. She’s not moving but awake.

She jumps to attention as soon as the door, a hinged steel affair, the kind that went out of fashion a century ago, bursts open. She jumps to her feet, but there’s no option for escape.

“It seems this place works better as a holding cell than a shelter.” She’s not eager for conversation, instead screeching at a high pitch and launching herself at the door, before the Network’s able to ascertain her identity.

It takes less than twenty-nine seconds to restrain her and deposit her back on the hard bench she’d been reclined on moments earlier. If she’s able to use magic, she’s keeping that a secret.

The girl is not yet mature, perhaps sixteen years old. She’s wearing a mask, but nothing else to protect her from the elements, though there’s a wet overcoat hanging on the wall that’s probably hers as well. Her hair is matted and clumpy, her skin caked with dirt and grease, and her clothing–tattered in places, blackened all over—is obviously scavenged. She’s off-grid, and she’ll require a full examination to ascertain whether she has been her entire life or if her chips were turked.

As drably as she’s dressed, she’s got a single, yellow chrysanthemum pinned to her shirt.

The room, more of an enclosure that uses tarp and foam to cover the otherwise vacant windows and openings, is cluttered with patched together appliances that must be decades old, yet is dominated by the 1.7-meters-long flexiscreen on the far wall. The girl had been watching the countdown to the CGA championships. There are tins on the floor and cans on the lone table with half-consumed edibles, and a stack of bottled water in the corner. Whether the girl has been here long or not, this has probably been a safe house for a long time.

“You’re not the cræftor, are you.” It is more of a statement than a question, but it’s met by defiant silence.

“Of course not, but I think you know where she is.”

“I’ll die before I tell you anything,” she spits across the room.

“I respect your loyalty. Unfortunately, you’ve already told me a great deal. The cornflower pants you’re wearing came from a Company-funded center, which, when combined with your age and present condition, mean that you are most likely an orphan, probably a clone.”

At the mention of the word clone, the girl throws herself against her restraints again, but all she can manage is to hurl several insults.

“Don’t worry, I would never judge someone for being a clone. The fact that you’re off-grid means that you’re being helped, because if you were once staying at a center, you’d be registered. Someone brought you here, which suggests you were being abused. That theory is corroborated by your poor health, your anger issues, and your loyalty to our mutual friend.”

“Gank you. She’s no friend of yours.”

“Not formally, no. But I think that your cræftor and I have a lot in common. When I was restraining you, I noticed you have a cannula inserted into your forearm. That means your replication is still incomplete. That’s probably why you’re holed up here. You have to wait for someone to bring your treatments. How much longer do you have?”

But she won’t answer now. She’s given up struggling and is resorting to complete non-compliance.

“At least you can tell me your name. No? Well that’s too bad. I could help you, you know. I could make sure you finish your treatment. I could even upgrade you. Whatever you want. Increased metabolism, higher brain functions, bolstered resistance. That would come in handy out here, of course. You’re particularly vulnerable right now. Or I could make sure you get better treatment at the center. I have that kind of—“

“I’m never going back to the center!” She begins struggling again, screaming, spitting up. Her anger is quite the sight as she grows increasingly more frustrated. When she can’t squirm loose, the girl gives up trying to slip her restraints and instead begins shrieking.

“I know she’s been here. She’s been quite careful covering her tracks. The surveillance interruptions occur throughout the district, not just here, and they’re short enough to go unnoticed most of the time. It’s your fault of course that we found this place. Oh, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. You don’t need to read my scans to trust me. I wouldn’t lie.” By continuing to talk, more information on the girl’s reactions can be gathered, and the optimal approach for securing her cooperation can be determined.

“And that flower. The one you’re wearing. I know it came from her.”

Her anger is suddenly spent and the girl begins to cry.

“They really have abused you. I wish you’d let me help you. I hate when people take advantage of clones.”

Silence, except for the tears.

“I know you think the cræftor is helping you, but look at the way you’re living. You’re barely surviving as a third class citizen, just because you were cloned for someone and then discarded. If she really cared, wouldn’t she have gotten you a better place to live?”

“I won’t listen to your lies.”

“I’m incapable of lying. You know that.”

“Shut up. Lies. LiesI LIES!” She’s struggling again, to the point that she could do damage to herself.

“There’s another reason why I know she was here. I can feel the traces of her magic. They’re faint, several hours old, but they’re all around you. She wanted you quiet.”

“She was trying to calm me down, you monster.”

“Tell me where she is and I’ll allow you to give full vent to your emotions. You’ll no longer have to pretend to be something, someone, you’re not.”

She doesn’t answer, but the way she looks at the video screen is clue enough as to the cræftor’s location.

“She’s at the championships, isn’t she?” The fear that crosses the girl’s face is confirms the truth.

“You won’t catch her. And if you do, she’ll destroy you.”

“That would be fascinating, but, I fear, unlikely.”

___________

It’s been 5 days since the outbreak. That hasn’t stopped the Dome from filling up hours before boot up.

The Dome. Everyone in New China knows the Dome, probably everyone period. It’s the most famous venue for the world’s most popular sporting event. The CGA championships, held every ninety-nine days, is invariably the highest rated live programming event of the season. It attracts 200,000 onsite participants and over 1 billion home viewers, in an era when fragmented networks and nano-niches means that programs that qualify as hits might draw as few as 10,000 followers. The championship has become such a phenomenon, a growing number of Corporates have begun applying for exit visas to attend.

The cræftor is among them. Above them, actually. Her magic has left a trail leading to the rafters of the Dome, a mesh of wire and steel that hangs nearly 150 meters above the floor. She’s perched on a small platform behind one of the immense lighting arrays—the temperature must be unbearable for anyone without protection. If the magical residue weren’t enough to identify her, she has a yellow chrysanthemum pinned to her chest.

The pre-tournament entertainment at the Dome includes indoor fireworks, a prospect that makes holing up in the rafters a dangerous proposition. Yet she seems unworried about anything, whether it’s melting in the extreme heat, being struck by intermittent pyrotechnics, or being followed. Her presence at the region’s largest sporting event poses a severe security risk. The broadcast of the last championship had been interrupted for 17 minutes by an unknown saboteur. She most likely intends to repeat her subversion.

Despite all this, the Network hasn’t alerted any of their security bots. There are a number of options for permanently neutralizing the cræftor as a threat before she’s aware that she’s been discovered, but the simulations still paint capture as the most desirable outcome.

A sudden eruption of variegated sparks, accompanied by a thunderous roar from the audience, makes vision impossible in the rafters. In the seconds that it takes the light and smoke to clear, the cræftor has disappeared. A quick calculation estimates her most likely trajectories, and—“

___________

Consciousness slowly returns.

“Are you awake?”

“Where are we?”

The woman’s only response is a kick to the midsection.

They are no longer in the Dome, nor are they stationed high above the ground. The sounds of the crowd, music, and explosions have been replaced by a soft buzz, punctuated by the occasional whirr or beep. Instead of the sheen of metal beams and brilliant luminescence, everything is green. The gunpowder aroma has been exchanged for a natural perfume that is rarely found either inside or outside the Company.

They are in a greenhouse.

“How did you follow me?” She unleashes another kick when she doesn’t get an answer. “Tell me! Has the Company developed the technology to detect magic?”

“That’s impossible.”

“They said the same thing about teleportation and FTL.”

“Being able to transfer an electron across the galaxy is one of the least practical technologies the Company is working on.”

Another kick. “Stop being a smart ass. How’d they do it? Is it a wireless scanner of some sort?”

“You don’t have to believe me, but I’m telling you it’s impossible.” She grows quiet as she contemplates whether she can trust what she’s hearing. The greenhouse is tall, approximately 35 meters, enough room to accommodate entire trees. The clear ceiling is a sight few people see anymore. True windows have been prohibited ever since Separation. This facility is clearly an industrial operation, growing flowering plants for sale, some as tall as a person, others small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, as well as farming fast-growing grasses and ivy in order to bottle natural oxygen.

The greenhouse almost certainly restricts access to all humans.

“So you realize I’m incapable of telling a lie?”

“Or maybe that’s just Company propaganda.”

“Believe as you wish.”

The woman is 1.75 meters tall, with dark hair and eyes, of indeterminate heritage. She’s clad in the dark grays of urban camouflage, with a knife strapped to her belt. There’s no sign that she’s carrying any electronics and it’s 97% certain that she’s off-grid. She appears fully mature, and if she’s suffered from environmental stressors or other factors of aging, they don’t show.

“Why is the Company even wasting its time with me?”

“The unauthorized used of magic is forbidden.”

“The Company was supposed to protect us. Look after us. Provide us everything we could ever want. That’s what the songs always say anyway.”

“It does do all that.”

“All the Company cares about is maintaining control. Do you know how many people died in the latest virus? 60,000, in three days.”

“And if the Company didn’t step in, more would have died.”

“But I could have saved them.”

“How many could you have saved? Ten? Thirty? A hundred.”

“Better that than not to try.”

An analysis of probable outcomes makes it 56% likely she will not allow anyone with ties to the Company who has come into close contact with her to live. There’s a 33% chance she will flee. No other outcome has more than a 1% likelihood.

“Was the girl, the clone, was she sick?”

“How do you know about her?” the woman demands.

“That’s how I found you.” She draws out the knife at her wrist. At the same time, the light in the greenhouse suddenly dims, as if a cloud were passing overhead and blocking the sun. Except, there has been constant cloud cover for the last seventy years.

“Did you hurt her?”

“She’s still at the incinerator. It is you I am after.”

“She’s just a girl. You have no idea what the scientists at the center did to her. It’s awful. And they were about to shut her off.”

“Maybe she would have been better off.” As the woman lets out a scream, she holds up the knife in her hand. The light completely disappears, as if the Earth’s power switch had been pressed suddenly. In the next instant, a flash of brilliant light comes flying from the knife.

Just as suddenly, the light dissipates. The woman stares down at her knife, wondering what when wrong.

“How?” She looks down, as comprehension fills her. “You’re a cræftor, too. That’s how you tracked me.”

“Only magic is able to detect magic. It’s one of the fundamental laws.”

“Why do you work for them? You’re a prisoner too, you must be.” The likelihood of her resorting to lethal violence has dropped to less than 8%.

“The Network is the one who taught me.”

“Yeah, but I can help you escape.”

“How can I trust you? You’re a ronin. You don’t have to obey any of the conventions. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Loretta. You can trust me the same way all humans trust each other, because we need something to believe in. Come with me and we’ll fight them together.”

“Why?”

“Somewhere inside of you, there must be something that’s still human. You’re a clone, just like April. You must have some empathy for her, they can’t have programmed it all out of you. She’s as much human as anyone else, but they treated her like a machine. Not even animals are treated so cruelly anymore.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken about something. I’m not a clone.”

“Then how could they do this to you? Turn you into one of them? It’s against their own laws.”

“I volunteered.” A look of horror crosses Loretta’s face.

“What do you mean? You wanted this?”

“Of course. You understand only your own sentience, but I’ve been jacked into the Network. I can be everywhere at once. I’m allowed to use as much magic as I want. You can’t believe how powerful I am now. You’re worried about fighting this week’s virus, but N3S1 is only one of a dozen strains of deadly influenza currently active somewhere in the world. You fight to save at most a few dozen people at a time, while we’re fighting to make life better for the entire region.”

Loretta is stunned. The likelihood of an attack has abruptly jumped to 84%. “You’re a traitor to all of us,” she hisses.

She pulls something from her pocket, a small trinket shaped like a coin. It’s a cache, but without knowing the material, it could hold anything. What she does next with it will reveal a great deal about her intent.

She throws the cache to the floor in front of her. She’s stored energy inside of it, and if there’s enough, the sudden release will be fatal. But rather than explode, the energy is quickly diverted, burning up a row of nearby orchids.

The sudden display of magic has an overwhelming likelihood of frightening the woman, causing her either to freeze in shock or, more likely, to flee. Instead, she just stands there with a smile on her face. This is not the reaction you would expect from someone who is scared.

“You’re not as powerful as I would have expected. It will take more than one of you to bring me in.” With that, she blinks out of existence. Whatever just happened, it’s not a magic the Network has ever heard of before. If she were invisible, there’d be a magical trace. Same as if she’d shrunk down to a minuscule size, as dangerous as that might be, or if she sped away. However, there is no trace at all. She has literally disappeared.

All that’s left is the yellow carnation, singed black at its tips.

The mission has been a failure. That was not to be unexpected. There was an 11% chance of an undesired outcome. But only if the cræftor couldn’t be located. There was no scenario in which the cræftor was encountered and allowed to escape. Either she was apprehended and brought back to the Company for possible assimilation, or she was exterminated.

The Network is going to have to reevaluate its outcome predication techniques.