Kriegspiel [Sequel to The Turing Test]

4. Everybody Knows

"Ronnie? Ronnie, wake up."

I straighten abruptly in my seat, a rickety folding chair inside the police station. Three layers of blankets weigh my shoulders down, and a man stands over me, his hand outstretched.

Sven. In my attempt to scramble away, I almost topple my chair over backwards. The racket it makes as its legs scrape against the floor attracts the attention of at least five nearby officers.

Help me, I beg them silently.

"It's okay," the man over me soothes, and with my mind fully awake, I realize it's not Sven's voice. "You're safe."

I freeze, my breaths shallow and my eyes refusing to settle on any one spot. He knows who I am. I'm the opposite of safe here, but if I tell them that they'll send me for a psychiatric evaluation. I can already see them tiptoeing around me like I'm a traumatized victim.

He hands me a steaming paper cup of coffee, and I reluctantly accept it. My gloves are still in place—thank god—and I can barely feel the heat through the thick knitted wool, but I wrap my fingers around it for comfort anyway.

The officer tilts his head. "Do you need another blanket?"

I shake my head. The cold has dissipated, but I can't stop the shivers wracking my body. The coffee inside the cup trembles, my muscles too jittery to keep it steady.

"Let me know if you need anything else." He reaches for my shoulder, then thinks better of it and withdraws, leaving me to my own misery.

I pull the blankets even tighter around me, as if they can shield me from the rest of the world. A ridiculously out-of-place laugh bubbles up my throat as I think about my own stupidity. If Sven walks into this station—and I know he will—not even a hundred blankets would save me.

I pull my legs up under myself and cross my ankles under my knees. I can practically feel Sven closing in, probably in a sleek black car. Maybe in the backseat of a limo. Maybe he's not even coming for me himself, instead sending a hitman to do his dirty work. The police must have notified him, because he's the closest thing I have to family.

My eyes wander the station, pausing every so often on an officer as I wonder what case they're working. A murder? Burglary? Assault? A group of androids imprisoned underground for months with a single human in their midst? When my gaze finally lands on the television overhead, I jump.

Sven's face stares back at me, white and pinched. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, and yet he's missing a fundamental something behind his eyes. His haggard visage doesn't quite convince me, until he opens his mouth.

"Thank you for coming."

The camera switches angles, panning out over a crowd of at least a hundred. Reporters stand at the front, recorders and microphones outstretched. A few groups of law enforcement mingle in the background, their stances casual but alert. The rest are regular people, listening with rapt attention as the CEO of the city's biggest company greets them.

"I called this press conference because I believe in honesty," Sven continues.

I stiffen as that word wraps itself around my neck like a thick scarf in the summer. Honesty. It's all he cares about. His excuse for everything. As if it gives him immunity to say and do absolutely everything under its guise.

"This week, I was informed that some of SynCo's assets had been used by an employee in the creation of morally questionable devices."

I freeze, my eyes zeroing in on the headline underneath his face. Months after SynCo bombshell, public fear still at all-time high. I notice small details: The street beyond the crowd, free of the cruddy mixture of salt and grime that starts to coat it after the first snowfall. A cartoon turkey flag flapping in the breeze from a store window behind Sven, jarringly out of place.