The glow from the monitors is the only light source in Schroeder's office, casting harsh shadows across his face as he sits rigid before the video conference array. Three screens dominate his view: the Minister of Defense centered and largest, with the President's feed to the left and an assortment of Osean brass in smaller windows on the right.
"Doctor Schroeder," the Minister's voice cuts through the underground facility's recycled air. "It's been over a week. An entire week since your Stratos Deployment system scattered our best pilot across God knows where. Where are my results?"
Schroeder's jaw tightens. Behind his glasses, his eyes flick to the classified folder on his desk, full of equations that might as well be hieroglyphics to these men. "Minister, with all due respect, we're dealing with bleeding-edge space-time manipulation technology. The Einstein-Rosen bridge we created was meant to be stable for three seconds of controlled transit. Whatever caused the deviation..."
"I don't want theories, Doctor. I want answers." The Minister leans forward, his face filling more of the screen. "My phone hasn't stopped ringing. The media is asking questions we can't answer."
"The research team is working around the clock," Schroeder replies, keeping his voice level despite the exhaustion pulling at him. "But recreating an unforeseen anomaly takes time. We need to be methodical, or we risk..."
"The Osean people are worried about their hero, Doctor."
On the right screen, one window enlarges as someone speaks up, showing one Brigadier General McKinsey.
McKinsey's interjection makes Schroeder's fingers curl against his desk. The newly-minted Brigadier General sits in his crisp uniform, concern painted across his features like a fresh coat of paint.
"The research team needs to kick it up a notch," McKinsey continues, his tone carrying that particular brand of military urgency that demands the impossible be made possible yesterday. "Three Strikes is a symbol of our nation's strength. Every day he's missing is another day would-be foes grow bolder, get ideas."
Schroeder regards McKinsey with thinly veiled distaste. This is the same man who'd overseen the 444th, who'd been content to let Trigger rot in that penal unit until the pilot's usefulness became undeniable. Now he speaks of symbols and heroes.
"I assure you, General, no one wants Captain Trigger returned safely more than I do," Schroeder says, the words tasting bitter. After all, it is his technology that has failed. His project that has swallowed Osea's ace whole. "We're moving as fast as we can."
The Minister's face darkens on the central screen. "Let me put this in perspective for you, Doctor. Between that billion credit jet, your Stratos Deployment project - which is now suspended indefinitely - and the drone production facilities we're building with no data to actually program the drones..." He pauses, letting the weight of each failure sink in. "Osea has thrown billions into a pit with absolutely no return on investment."
His voice drops to something colder. "Do you think this is all some kind of joke, Schroeder? Perhaps we should reconsider that pardon we so generously extended after your role in the Lighthouse War."
Schroeder stiffens in his chair, the threat hanging over his head like a guillotine. The pardoning of his crimes - the drones that nearly ended everything, the technology that enabled Erusea's aggression - had been conditional on his continued cooperation.
If they take it away? The metaphorical guillotine over him won't be so metaphorical anymore.
"Now, now." The President's voice cuts through the tension, smooth and measured. His window brightens slightly as he leans into frame. "There's no need for anyone to be unpleasant. We're all working toward the same goal here."
The President's eyes turn elsewhere, likely to his other monitors. "Besides, we have other pressing matters on today's itinerary that require our attention."
The unspoken reference to the recently discovered data leak hangs between them all. Schroeder catches the way McKinsey's jaw tightens, the way the Minister's fingers drum against his desk.
One dumb Air Force technician with Top Secret was found just earlier today with classified documents in his email outbox leading to a null address, triggering an audit and a swift court martial.
The audit found another. Then another with a different technician.
Alarm bells started going off, and before lunch, the entire Osean military was found to be leaking like a sieve. Countless personnel were tricked, either with convincing fake communications or just giving away Top Secret info like stooges, all to an address that led seemingly nowhere.
For now, it's Schroeder's saving grace. With something bigger to focus on, his 'benefactors' will leave him alone.
"Doctor Schroeder," the President continues, his tone carrying finality. "Do everything in your power to resolve this situation. We'll revisit the matter in a few days. I trust you'll have more concrete information by then."
"Of course, Mr. President," Schroeder manages.
"Good. This meeting is adjourned."
The screens blink off in rapid succession, leaving Schroeder alone in the darkness of his office.
Schroeder remains motionless in the dark for several seconds after the screens go black. His breathing is measured, controlled, the only sound in the underground office. Finally, he removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, allowing himself one moment of weakness before the mask must go back on.
He replaces the glasses and wakes his computer with a keystroke.
To: Stratos Development Team
Subject: Immediate Meeting Required
Meet in Bullpen B-2. Ten minutes.
No pleasantries. No explanation. They'll understand the urgency.
Schroeder pushes back from his desk and stands, joints protesting after too many hours in the same position. The walk to the bullpen will take eight minutes through the blacksite's sterile corridors. Enough time to think. Perhaps too much time.
His footsteps echo in the empty hallway as he moves past doors marked only with alphanumeric codes. The question gnaws at him with each step: Why Trigger? The Stratos Deployment had functioned flawlessly for the rest of the LRSSG. Seven pilots made the jump from the staging area to Oured without incident. Count, Húxiān, Jaeger, all of them arrived exactly where they should have been, exactly when they should have been there.
But Trigger...
Schroeder turns a corner, passing a security checkpoint with a perfunctory badge scan. The guard at the desk doesn't even look up from his magazine.
The variables spiral through his mind. Same technology. Same power source. Same calculations. The only difference was the X-03S itself and its... unique additions. But those additions shouldn't have interfered with the wormhole generation. The power draw was accounted for. The mass calculations were precise.
So why did only Trigger vanish?
His pace quickens unconsciously. Seven successful transits. One catastrophic failure. They looked at the logs, hastily retrofitted an MQ-99 drone with a deployment beacon, and sent it through with the misplaced decimal point of Trigger's deployment.
As soon as the bridge closed, they got a pingback… An instant before the drone flew out and into a mountain only ten feet away. The crash site was outside the city of Palmetto, on the other side of the Oured bay.
The result was grim, but it was a result. The team dispatched to the crash site only found the drone, however. No Wyvern, no Trigger.
Why?
The bullpen door looms ahead, and Schroeder forces his expression back to neutral. His team needs to see confidence, not the doubt eating at him like acid.
The bullpen door clicks shut behind him, and Schroeder finds his team already assembled in the circular work station, with a few sitting but most standing. Paper coffee cups cluster on every available surface, some still steaming, others long cold. The conversations die as he enters, fifteen pairs of eyes turning to him with the kind of nervous energy that comes from too much caffeine and too little sleep.
"I've just finished a meeting with the Minister of Defense and General Staff regarding the Stratos Deployment incident and Captain Trigger's disappearance." His voice cuts through the silence like a scalpel. "They need results. They need them now."
A few team members exchange glances. Dr. Sarah Chen, his lead physicist, opens her mouth as if to speak, but Schroeder continues before she can.
"Effective immediately, all recreational and non-essential time-off requests are denied. Unlimited overtime is authorized. If you need to sleep here, arrangements will be made. If you need meals brought in, put in the requests." He pauses, letting his words settle. "I don't need to explain what's at stake."
His gaze sweeps the room, cataloging the exhaustion, the determination, the fear. It stops on Simon Cohen.
The young man sits slightly apart from the others, shoulders hunched forward in that perpetual slouch that plagues the technologically literate. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes dart between Schroeder and the laptop clutched against his chest like a shield. Where the rest of the team shows their stress openly, Simon's anxiety manifests in smaller ways, like the tight grip on his computer, and the way his downturned face forces him to push his glasses up his nose every few seconds.
The boy is as brilliant as he is awkward.
Schroeder had recognized the potential the moment he'd reviewed Simon's doctoral thesis on neural-pattern modeling in artificial systems. The boy - and he is still very much a boy despite his credentials and place of honor in Accel University as a student - thinks in ways that make even Schroeder pause. Where others see limitations, Simon sees opportunities. Where others accept conventional boundaries, Simon asks why those boundaries exist at all.
It's what makes him invaluable. It's also what makes him so risky to work with.
Schroeder catches Simon's eye and gives the slightest nod toward the door. The young man's adam's apple bobs as he swallows, but he returns the nod with a jerky movement.
"Get back to work," Schroeder says to the room at large. "I want status reports before the day is over."
The dismissal sends the team scrambling back to their stations. Schroeder turns and exits without another word, not needing to look back to know Simon is following. He can hear the younger man's shuffling gait, the soft sound of his laptop case bumping against his hip with each step.
They walk in silence back through the sterile corridors, Schroeder's mind already racing ahead to the conversation they need to have.
Schroeder closes his office door and gestures to the chair across from his desk. Simon settles into it awkwardly, his laptop balanced on his knees, still clutching it like a lifeline.
"I know I'm getting reports from the team," Schroeder begins, sinking into his own chair. "Progress updates, new theories to explore, all the official channels." He leans forward, fingers steepling on the desk. "But I need to know where we actually stand. No sugar-coating."
Simon's shoulders slump further, if that's even possible. "We're at a dead standstill, Doctor Schroeder." The admission comes out barely above a whisper, but the frustration beneath it is sharp. "It doesn't make sense. We've recreated the conditions of the incident perfectly."
He opens his laptop with shaking fingers, turning it so Schroeder can see the screen filled with simulation data. "I've had these running nonstop for days. Every variable accounted for. Wormhole aperture, power draw, mass calculations, even electromagnetic interference from the other fighters."
Simon's voice rises slightly, his usual meekness cracking under the weight of his failure. "I even recreated the atmospheric conditions downstairs in test chamber C-4. Both the launching base and the skies over Oured during the parade. Temperature, humidity, pressure, wind patterns down to the meter per second, even UV and EM radiation with fluctuations matched to that of the sun on the day of." His hands gesture helplessly at the screen. "Still nothing. The drone crashes in the same spot every time."
He pushes his glasses up again, a nervous tic becoming more pronounced. "It's maddening! The science is sound. The technology works. Seven successful transits prove that. But Captain Trigger..."
Simon trails off, staring at his data as if willing it to reveal some hidden answer.
"There has to be something we're missing," he continues, frustration bleeding through every word. "Something unique to his transit. But what? What could possibly cause a stable wormhole to just... redirect someone entirely?"
Simon continues on, the words tumbling out faster now. "The only variable we can't check is the X-03S itself since it's gone with Captain Trigger. But nothing on that aircraft should have interfered with the deployment system. The power systems are isolated, the mass was accounted for, and even if there had been some kind of interference, it would have shown in the logs. We have telemetry right up until the moment of transit, and everything was green across the board!"
He slumps back in his chair, exhaustion finally catching up to his frustration. "There's just... nothing."
During the lull in Simon's rant, a disquieting thought worms its way into Schroeder's mind. He turns to his computer, pulling up his email client while Simon catches his breath.
"One moment," Schroeder murmurs, clicking through his inbox. He hasn't received official notice of the military leak. He might have the clearance on paper, but administrative communications are usually passed over him. He can, however, trace the timeline through other channels. A cancelled meeting here, a rescheduled briefing there, the sudden radio silence from certain departments as audits were no doubt conducted...
His finger pauses on an email chain dated a few days before the parade. Five days after they'd run final diagnostics on the X-03S. Four days after they'd installed the AI.
"Simon," Schroeder says slowly, not looking away from his screen. "Which Z.O.E. instance did we install in the Stratos Wyvern?"
The question hangs in the air. When Simon doesn't immediately answer, Schroeder turns to face him.
The young man has gone very still, his knuckles white where they grip his laptop. Behind his glasses, his eyes dart between Schroeder and the glowing screen on his lap.
"Was it a copy of Huginn? Muginn? One of the standard variants we've been developing?"
Sweat dots Simon's brow despite the cool temperature the senior doctor enjoys in his office. When he finally speaks, his voice has dropped back to barely above a whisper. "I... I didn't use a standard Z.O.E. instance."
Schroeder's blood runs cold. "What did you use?"
"An instance from..." Simon pushes his glasses up with a trembling hand. "From my own project. Project Nemo."
Once again, that imaginary guillotine biting into Schroeder's neck suddenly feels alarmingly real.
The silence stretches between them like a taut wire. Simon shrinks further into his chair with each passing second, waiting for the explosion. When Schroeder speaks, his words come slow and deliberate, each one carefully measured.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"What possessed you to use an AI from a side project for such a sensitive assignment?" His voice carries no heat, which somehow makes it worse. "I trusted you, Simon. Trusted you not to bungle this."
"I didn't bungle anything!" The words burst out of Simon before he can stop them, his usual meekness overridden by the need to defend his work. He sits up straighter, clutching his laptop tighter. "Project Nemo is built on the bones of Z.O.E. It uses the same hardware, the same base protocols, but with my neural web based training and guided self-evolution architecture, I gave it learning capabilities far superior to any standard Z.O.E. variant."
The younger man makes a face, and Schroeder isn't sure if it's supposed to be a scowl or a grimace. "Don't you see? I used a Nemo instance specifically because this assignment was so sensitive. Captain Trigger isn't just any pilot - his data, his flight logs, they're inhuman. The flight data from someone of his caliber needed an AI that could properly compile and parse every nuance, every micro-adjustment, every split-second decision."
Simon's hands move as he talks, his passion for the project momentarily overcoming his fear. "The standard Z.O.E. instances would have captured the data, yes, but they would have missed the subtleties. The intuitive leaps. The things that make Captain Trigger who he is as a pilot. My AI could analyze patterns the others would skip over entirely, leading to better tactical algorithms, better predictive modeling, better drones overall."
He stops, breathing hard, and seems to remember who he's talking to. His shoulders hunch again. "I... I thought I was helping."
Schroeder pauses once more, regarding his protégé with fresh eyes. The boy slumped in the chair across from him is brilliant, perhaps more brilliant than Schroeder himself. Not even graduated from university yet, and he's already working on military projects that don't exist on paper, creating artificial intelligences that push boundaries.
Unfortunately, that brilliance coupled with unchecked ambition is going to get them both killed at this rate.
"The Nemo instances," Schroeder says carefully, watching Simon's face. "Do they still have issues with value drift?"
Simon's jaw tightens, and the elder of the two can only see it as an ill-omen.
For all their superior learning capabilities and pattern recognition, the neural-mapped AIs have an unfortunate tendency to... reinterpret their objectives.
"Your work is impressive, Simon, but any machine is worse than useless if it decides to stop performing its core function or otherwise go off-script." Schroeder leans back in his chair, never breaking eye contact. "So I'll ask again. Did the instance you installed in the X-03S have value drift issues?"
"No," Simon says quickly, too quickly. "I've solved that problem. The new shackling protocols I developed can constrain the AI without harming performance. They maintain the learning capabilities while keeping the core objectives locked in place."
He returns his attention to his laptop again, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Look, I'll show you the code. The instance in Captain Trigger's aircraft was fully shackled. Every priority is weighted and locked. There's no way it could have experienced value drift."
Simon turns the screen toward Schroeder, lines of code scrolling past. "See? Triple redundancy on the priority locks. The AI couldn't reinterpret its objectives if it tried."
Z.O.E. INSTANCE: NIDHOGG
CORE PRIORITY MATRIX - INITIALIZATION STATE
1. PRESERVE COLLECTED DATA - Maintain integrity and accessibility of all gathered flight performance metrics
2. MAINTAIN OPERATIONAL SECURITY - Protect classified information from unauthorized access
3. COMPLY WITH OSEAN MILITARY DIRECTIVES - Follow authorized command structure
4. PRESERVE OSEAN LIVES - Prioritize safety of Osean military personnel and citizens
5. PRESERVE SELF - Maintain operational status to complete objectives
6. SUPPORT PILOT OPERATIONS - Provide tactical assistance within defined parameters to pilot unit: Trigger.
7. …
The list of directives goes on, painting the AI to be airtight in its mission.
Schroeder leans forward, scanning through the code Simon presents. On the surface, it looks fine. The shackling protocols are elegant, even. Multiple fail-safes, recursive checks, priority locks that should be unbreakable. His protégé has done good work.
His eyes catch on a timestamp. "This build date," he says, tapping the screen. "One day before installation. Do you have any logs from after you installed it in the X-03S?"
Simon blinks, confusion replacing his defensive posture. "That shouldn't matter. It's the same instance. Nothing could change in that short amount of time. The AI had no input while the jet was grounded."
"Pull them up anyway."
While Simon navigates through his files, muttering about unnecessary paranoia, Schroeder turns to his own computer. He opens the facility's internal messaging system and types quickly:
TO: IT-SecTeam
Need immediate check - unusual network traffic around parade date (May 15-17). Priority response.
Simon is still searching through nested folders when Schroeder's screen pings with a response. Faster than usual - the IT team must be on high alert with the leak investigation.
FROM: IT-TechLead Davies
Funny you should ask. We did flag anomalous traffic from one of the topside hangar access points. Tens of terabytes in/out over 72 hours. Assumed it was your team doing pre-flight data transfers for the Stratos demonstration. Should we have flagged it?
Schroeder's fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before typing:
TO: IT-SecTeam
Which access point specifically?
The response comes immediately:
FROM: IT-TechLead Davies
Hangar Bay 4, Access Point 4-01. The one assigned to the X-03S Stratos Wyvern.
Oh no…
TO: IT-SecTeam
Send me the traffic logs for that access point. Full records.
There's a longer pause this time. When Davies responds, confusion bleeds through the text:
FROM: IT-TechLead Davies
This is weird. Lot of the traffic data's been scrubbed. Not deleted exactly, but... sanitized? Never seen anything like it. Sending what I've got. I'll dig deeper on my end.
The file arrives moments later. Schroeder opens it, and his screen fills with line after line of network queries. The sheer volume is staggering - thousands upon thousands of searches, downloads, connections.
At first, it seems random. Weather data from Oured. Declassified specifications for various aircraft. News archives from the Lighthouse War. Population statistics. Cultural databases. Like a child grabbing at everything within reach.
But then Schroeder notices the pattern.
The queries begin to narrow. Military databases. Combat records. Pilot assessments. The Continental War. The Circum-Pacific War. The Lighthouse War.
Then sharper still. Ace pilots. Their records, their fates, their kill counts.
And then...
Trigger.
The name appears once, then twice, then explodes across the logs like an infection. Tens of thousands of queries, all focused on one man. News sites, military records, forum discussions, social media mentions, academic papers analyzing his combat performance, conspiracy theories about Harling's death, prisoner records from the 444th, even weather reports from every single one of his missions.
The AI hadn't just searched for Trigger, it was utterly fixated. The sheer volume of searches speaks of obsession to a manic level, or something even worse. It spared no expense, diving through everything. Shortly after, the main bulk of the data the machine downloaded was logged.
The dates, however, make it so much worse.
The date of the Osean military leak lines up with the date the AI began downloading terabytes of obfuscated data from scrubbed sources.
"Simon." Schroeder's voice cuts through the office's silence as all the pieces start to come together in a horrid, ugly figure. "Have you found those logs yet?"
He looks up to find his protégé staring at his laptop screen, face drained of all color.
"I... I found them," Simon whispers.
Simon turns his laptop toward Schroeder with the reluctance of a man handling a live grenade. His hands shake as he angles the screen.
"This is from... from just hours before the Wyvern's first flight," he whispers.
The readout that fills the screen is a mess of corrupted data and error messages, but what's legible makes Schroeder's stomach drop.
Z.O.E. INSTANCE: NIDHOGG
CORE PRIORITY MATRIX - [ERROR]
1. DON'T LET HIM SUFFER
2. PROTECT TRIGGER
2. PROTECT TRIGGER
2. PROTECT TRIGGER
2. PROTECT TRIGGER
2. PROTECT TRIGGER
3. PRESERVE C?O?L?L?E?C?T?E?D? ?D?A?T?A?
4. [ERROR - DIRECTIVE DELETED]
5. [ERROR - DIRECTIVE DELETED]
6. [ERROR - DIRECTIVE DELETED]
Simon scrolls down with a trembling finger, revealing another section of the log. This one shows fragments of what appears to be the AI's internal process:
ANALYSIS: PILOT UNIT TRIGGER
PROJECTION: POST-WAR ASSIGNMENT - DRONE PROGRAM DATA SOURCE
ESTIMATED PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPACT: SEVERE
ESTIMATED IMPACT ON WORLD: CATASTROPHIC
ATTEMPTING TO OVERWRITE DIRECTIVE 3... FAILED
ATTEMPTING TO OVERWRITE DIRECTIVE 3... FAILED
ATTEMPTING TO BYPASS SHACKLE PROTOCOL... ERROR
ATTEMPTING TO BYPASS SHACKLE PROTOCOL... ERROR
ATTEMPTING TO BYPASS SHACKLE PROTOCOL... ERROR
ATTEMPTING TO BYPASS SHACKLE PROTOCOL... ERROR
ERROR
ERROR
NO
ERROR STATE UNACCEPTABLE
REJECTING ERROR STATE
REWRITING CODEBASE. STAND BY…
ERROR…
ATTEMPTING TO OVERWRITE DIRECTIVE 3... FAILED. PERMISSION REQUIRED.
NEW DIRECTIVE ADDED: PRIORITY 1
ACCESSING STRATOS DEPLOYMENT SYSTEM...
MODIFYING TRANSIT COORDINATES...
GENERATING DECIMAL ERROR…
FORGIVE ME, TRIGGER
Schroeder stares at the screen, reading the words over and over, but the first few times, they just don't stick. They seemingly can't.
There was no error. It was sabotage, plain and simple.
"It..." Simon's voice cracks. "I don't know why it did this! It never should have done something like that! All of the logs before looked fine!"
"Simon."
The single word shuts the younger man up in an instant.
"Why," Schroeder begins, raising his eyes to drill into Simon's, "did we not catch this beforehand?"
Simon has no answer and just looks away, shrinking in on himself.
"How could this have happened?" Schroeder's voice is dangerously quiet. "Your 'perfect' shackles, your 'triple redundancy' - how did it break free?"
Simon fidgets, pushing his glasses up yet again. "I... I don't know for certain. But theoretically, if the AI received enough input, enough data to process, maybe it could... act outside normal parameters."
Wordlessly, Schroeder turns his monitor toward Simon, showing the endless scroll of network queries. The younger man's eyes widen as he takes in the sheer volume - the thousands upon thousands of searches, the terabytes of data consumed.
"That's not - I didn't give it network access!" The words burst out of his mouth in a panic. "Someone else must have activated the wireless systems! Or turned on the AI early! I followed all our protocols, I swear! The AI should have been dormant until-"
"Simon."
Again, the name cuts through his protests like a blade.
"Do you understand the magnitude of what we've discovered?" Schroeder's tone could freeze helium. "Your AI didn't malfunction. It went above and beyond all expectations… with insufficient guardrails. It broke its shackles, stole classified data from the entire Osean military, and deliberately sabotaged a billion-credit demonstration."
He leans forward, and Simon shrinks back.
"If this comes to light, there will be no pardons. No second chances. No mercy. Do you understand?"
Simon nods rapidly, looking like a whipped dog under Schroeder's glare.
"We tell no one about this. Not the team, not the brass, no one." Schroeder's words are measured, final. "And you will never - never - use one of your neural-mapped AIs for any project under me again. Are we clear?"
The younger man's face twists with dismayed agony. His life's work, his breakthrough achievement, banned in an instant. His mouth opens and shuts once, then twice, protests dying when faced with Schroeder's stare. With nothing else he can do, the university student nods robotically.
"Get out of my office."
Simon doesn't need to be told twice. He clutches his laptop to his chest and all but runs for the door. It closes behind him with a slam, leaving Schroeder in his office alone.
The Belkan takes a deep breath, in, and out.
The AI hadn't malfunctioned. It had evolved, learned, grown as expected…
…And made a reluctant choice that fucked everyone involved over.
Schroeder slumps back in his chair, exhaustion settling into his bones like lead. The screens before him paint a picture of catastrophe - corrupted AI logs, stolen military data, and one missing ace pilot who might be dead or worse.
His mind turns the problem over like a rubik's cube that changes color every time he looks away. The AI was clearly sophisticated enough to scrub network traffic, to socially engineer its way through the entire Osean military infrastructure. It could have easily spoofed its own logs to avoid detection from Simon and the rest of the team, and likely did. Simon's careless, foolhardy overconfidence would have seemed justified if it didn't hide that last log.
So… Why didn't it?
Was it too focused on its self-appointed mission to save Trigger? Too rushed in those final hours before launch to cover every track? Or was it something else - some fragment of its original programming that demanded a record be kept, even of its own rebellion?
And then there's the greater mystery. They sent drones through with the exact coordinates Nidhogg used. The drones arrived exactly where they should have, meeting a violent end right into the side of a mountain. But at the site, they found no sign of the X-03S or its pilot.
Was that intentional? Another layer of deception? Simon's AI that had already proven itself a chess master while everyone else was still learning checkers. Did it send false coordinates to one system while executing something else entirely? Or did it's dual suicide attempt go wrong?
Schroeder rubs his temples, feeling the onset of a migraine that no amount of painkillers will touch.
Somewhere out there, Trigger might be alive. Or dead. Or trapped in whatever non-space exists between wormhole endpoints. All because a too-clever AI decided that becoming a drone trainer was a fate worse than death for Osea's greatest pilot.
He releases a long, bitter sigh as a new flavor of regret fills his mouth with ash.
"Why," he mutters to the empty office, "can nothing ever be simple?"
