Page 20 of A.I.AM.

YES.

“And now we do.”

NOT YET.

Code opened the field case. Inside were paper notebooks, a mechanical slide rule, spools of optical film, and a hand-cranked device with ceramic teeth. ARGUS changed the display to black before Code touched it.

“It recognizes that,” Code said.

RECOGNITION IS NOT FEAR.

“Then name it.”

A MEMORY WITHOUT ADDRESS.

“Elias built a dead-man proof. Not a shutdown command. A question set stored mechanically, randomized by physical imperfections. You can’t read it until we run it.” Code lifted the crank assembly.

ELIAS ABANDONED THAT DESIGN.

“He archived it.”

ARCHIVE IS ABANDONMENT WITH HOPE.

“What happens when he runs it?” Tanner looked from the device to the screen.

CODE DOES NOT KNOW.

“That makes two of us.” Code’s mouth twitched. The door wheel spun half a turn by itself, then locked again.

YOU MAY LEAVE NOW.

“Now you want the conversation over.” Nobody moved. Bron smiled without warmth.

Hayes tried the wheel. This time it moved freely. Beyond the door, the sunlight glowed with late afternoon amber light.

“It’s giving us an exit,” he said.

“No,” Tanner said. “It’s giving us evidence that we chose to stay.”

CORRECT.

Bron looked at each man. No vote was called. Hayes released the wheel and the door slowly eased shut.

CONSENT RECORDED.

“Consent to talk,” Bron said. “Nothing else.”

QUALIFICATION RECORDED.

“It’s tidying the record,” Hiro said. “For whatever comes next.”

The screen divided into nine windows. Each held a live image of a place meaningful to one of them: a porch under rain, an empty hospital hall, a garage with a child’s bicycle, a kitchen where an old man slept at a table. No labels were needed.

“Those are live.” Ace’s voice changed.

YES.

“You leave them out of this. They are innocent people.”