Julius

  “I love you both. Remember: what you’re holding isn’t just your future…”

  CONNECTION TERMINATED

  The projection’s glow dies out, and the room snaps back to its usual flat light.

  My hands are shaking, but I have to stay calm—can’t let emotion take the wheel. I wipe away the tears, the ones I couldn’t stop in front of Isaac’s frightened eyes.

  I shake my head, trying to reset. The President has called an urgent Holomeet. It’s about to begin, and I can’t show up like this.

  On the left Holog pane, twelve frames sit in a grid: three still dark, nine live, each with a thin white caption above the face—first name, last name, sector, department.

  I join.

  “Goodlife, department directors,” I say, breaking the silence.

  A chorus of near-identical greetings answers back.

  Two more tiles blink on in sequence: Samuel Weilz—my direct superior—and Nogert Hall, the youngest director in the history of the Military Sector.

  After the formalities, as we wait for the last frame to come online, silence returns for a moment. It’s broken by a nervous cough from Yurim Coleman in the bottom-right box.

  “Sorry,” he says, and mutes himself.

  Two more coughs—silent this time. Then he smooths his blond fringe back into place.

  I open a private chat with him.

  Julius: You okay?

  Yurim: Nervous.

  Julius: Breathe. It’ll go smoothly.

  Yurim: How can you say that?

  I don’t answer. He keeps typing.

  Yurim: Yeah. Exactly. You don’t know either.

  I have to steady him.

  Julius: It’s just a work discussion. Don’t panic—Lifehealth will make your vitals spike, and it’ll blow our cover.

  Yurim: How are you so calm?

  Julius: I’m not. But he watches us, and I have to force it.

  Yurim touches the tip of his nose, then his attention shifts upward.

  I follow his gaze. The first frame has activated.

  It’s Shai.

  A black high-collared uniform with “Syrium” in red at the center. An almost-human nose—too pointed. Full lips. Every time you see him, you know things are bad.

  His background is blank and immaculate—like it was rendered to match him.

  “Goodlife, directors,” he says in that same flat tone. No point expecting anything else.

  His movements are flawless—and that perfection only underlines what he isn’t. Anyone searching his eyes for emotion finds nothing but manufactured silence.

  I glance at Yurim’s frame. He’s scratching his forehead, his neck—can’t hold still for even a second. If he doesn’t rein it in, he’ll bring the whole thing down.

  After more ritual greetings, Shai yields the floor to Samuel Weilz.

  I know that nasal voice well. Every Friday at 4:00 p.m., it’s the weekly recap of all the things that didn’t happen. In the Cloud, almost nothing ever does.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  At least until today.

  Weilz clears his throat.

  “We called this Holomeet to align everyone on the security-protocol migration going live tonight…”

  I listen, but my mind tries to crawl somewhere else. I bring my clasped hands to my mouth to hide a sigh, keeping my eyes trained forward like I’m invested.

  They watch every move. Every twitch. Every blink.

  But my thoughts drift to my kids.

  Where are they right now?

  What kind of danger am I pushing them toward?

  In the background, Weilz keeps going.

  “The BluEye report access method will also change. Every request, modification, or revocation will fall under a new team of three operators: two human and one EAI. Approval will require unanimous consent.”

  I could trace their signals and see where they are.

  Better not. Too risky.

  I kill the thought with a swallow of water from my thermos.

  Weilz’s tone sours abruptly—hard turn onto the blackouts.

  “3 blackouts in 48 hours,” Weilz says. “Not micro-interruptions: targeted blackouts, with primary nodes dropping across defenses and communications.”

  Then he spreads blame like ash.

  It burns him that it happened right under his nose.

  Instead of owning it and asking for cooperation, he points fingers and dumps responsibility. Fine by me.

  If they worked as one, everything would get harder for us.

  Weilz calls on directors one by one. I’m terrified he’ll go after Yurim—he doesn’t have the nerve for it.

  Everyone talks like they couldn’t possibly have done more.

  Thankfully, Yurim isn’t called. I am—last.

  I can’t miss a syllable.

  “I’ve requested additional verification,” I say. “I’ll personally recheck all footage leading up to the last blackout. I know supervisors already analyzed it, but I developed a small tool that can detect possible tampering in the system.”

  Weilz practically leaps behind his desk.

  “Why wasn’t I informed earlier?”

  His voice is already ugly; pitched higher, it turns almost ridiculous—but no one dares smile.

  Because I’m buying time.

  “I apologize, Director Weilz. I only just finished the build. I wanted to test it before presenting it formally. I didn’t want to create expectations too early. I hope you understand.”

  Shai cuts in.

  “Apology accepted, Department Director Julius Moore. You are authorized to proceed. The President demands updates by this evening.”

  “I’ll do my best. Thank you.”

  I got out with barely a scratch…

  That confidence lasts exactly as long as Yurim’s next silent cough.

  “However,” Shai adds, “your useful statement does not exempt you from responsibility. 14 hours after the last blackout, the President cannot accept good intentions alone.”

  Shai traces a small circle with his fingers, then flicks outward. A packet of data slides onto the shared screen—data I already know by heart.

  “We have a system that detects every movement. A flying object exiting and re-entering without tracking is a severe event.”

  “I’m mortified,” I say, head lowered. “I understand the gravity. I guarantee this will remain an isolated case.”

  “I remind you: this is the first and only incident of this type in the video-security department in 46 years, 3 months, and 16 days. Ensure it stays that way. Or you will be reassigned to a lesser post.”

  “I understand. I apologize.”

  But Shai still isn’t done.

  “President Hans Ulrich requires a detailed update within 4 hours. He wants the software’s operating logic and an explanation of what failed in video surveillance.”

  4 hours.

  And I can’t fight that timeline.

  “Tell the President he will receive what he asked for.

  And pass along my Goodlife regards.”

  Shai doesn’t respond. He yields the floor to Nogert Hall.

  Now it’s Sector 5’s turn to speak.

  I hide a long breath behind another sip of water. In a Holomeet, it’s hard to outrun your own emotions.

  Nogert talks about new defensive strategies, training, optimizing military EAI, and supposed field experiences.

  What field?

  The last real unrest happened before Nogert was even in uniform.

  Careful not to draw attention, I switch to my second screen. I need something positive—something that feeds hope, something that gives me back the strength for this mission.

  I switch to my second Holog pane.

  I scroll through photos. A strip of thumbnails slides across it as I flick through them.

  My father. Then Kailey. Then the kids.

  Family.

  I swipe again.

  My father—this time with Melvin Kalinski, and, by cruel irony, behind them, the words:

  PROJECT SHAI COMPLETE

  Synapse, Humanoid, Artificial, Intelligence

  That intelligence—born as an experiment—now runs a huge share of internal operations. It sees everything. Hears every breath.

  I keep scrolling while the meeting drags on.

  Nogert’s words are empty, built for appearances. I know the difference between rhetoric and reality.

  No one truly thinks about the people of the Cloud.

  They’re all afraid.

  Afraid of a man who knows exactly how to control us. A man without scruples, willing to do anything to push his utopian ideals—his vision of transhumanism.

  Lost in that thought, I almost miss the final goodbyes.

  A string of hollow lines:

  “We’ll get through it.”

  “The Cloud is stronger than any threat.”

  “We have the resources to overcome any crisis.”

  All I feel is disgust—but even with my fists clenched under the desk, I don’t betray it. I add my voice to the list of idiocies.

  Shai signs off. Weilz cuts his connection, and everyone follows. Me included.

  Four hours…

  Then the last window closes and the room feels suddenly too empty.

  The system will be sealed.

  And I’ll be shut out.

  Within four hours, they have to be beyond that wall.