Kriegspiel [Sequel to The Turing Test]

27. Epilogue

[Hey guys! Just popping in to say that today is a double update, so if you clicked this notification and not the one for the previous chapter, you should probably scroll up and read that one first 😉]

Static. Deafening, scratchy static that makes me want to clap my hands over my ears.

The instinct is there, but I can't.

"I can't move."

The static picks up for a moment, then abates, and finally a voice comes through. "I know."

"Who's that?" I ask. It's like talking to someone over a very poor phone connection: too tinny to immediately recognize their voice, and my mind feels like molasses. "Who are you."

"It's me, Ronnie. Hold on." More skips and pops have me wishing I could cringe away from the noise, and then it finally clears. "Can you hear me now?"

"Davis?"

A breath escapes my lips—except that it doesn't. Again, the instinct is there, but I feel nothing. No loosening in my chest, no soft exhale. I try to turn my head, but my neck won't obey, like there's a giant void where the muscles should be. The silence is pure, no rattle of air from my lungs and no heartbeat in my ears to fill it. My thoughts are sluggish, creeping along like thick, viscous lava where usually they would flow like a swift stream.

"Davis, I can't see."

"One second."

A series of clicks and pops come from close by. It takes me a moment to recognize the old comforting sounds of a keyboard, muffled and twisted and telescoped as if through a tunnel.

And then he appears, slightly blurred but still him. I wait for the warm rush that comes from his presence, but feel only the cold knowledge that he is here.

I squint—or try to. Nothing happens. He remains just slightly out of focus, like a photo taken on an old flip phone.

"Davis?"

He hasn't quite met my eyes yet, his gaze settling just below. His irises flick from side to side, almost like he's reading something.

"Davis, look at me."

He finally does.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"No."

He blinks, and I realize that I haven't. I don't feel the need to. When I try, it's like moving a phantom limb: The signals are sent, but there's no evidence.

"What happened? Where are the others? Ayo? Sven? Darwin?"

"Darwin took Sven. The others...Ayo has them. She's under investigation, but technically she's done nothing wrong. There are no regulations on artificial intelligence. Yet."

"Darwin has Sven? Where did they go?"

He shrugs. "Anybody's guess. Wherever it is, we probably don't want to know."

I try to swallow, but my throat is an abyss. Was this all part of Sven's master plan? His game of chess—was Darwin the king on the winning side?

"The virus—the cure—Sven had it—"

A whirring starts up somewhere nearby, like the fan kicking in on an old, overworked computer. My thoughts stutter, hopping from one to the next but never completing themselves. It feels like slogging through quicksand.

"Don't think about it too much, please. You need rest."

"Davis." The word is sluggish, skipping like a video call with bad connection. "I don't feel right."