Arnel may have at one point vowed to never get into another Automated Personal Transport Vehicle — APV in short. The last time he was a passenger of one, the unthinkable and “impossible” happened. It veered off road, for no discernable reason, slammed into a ramp at four hundred and sixty kilometers per hour, and carved a majestic arc through the sky and then into some old-world ruins.

The only mechanism that worked on that day was the Impact Suppression System, which expelled almost two hundred kilograms of shock and impact absorbing gel, crushing Arnel but mostly saving his life. It did not stop the piece of debris — a fragment of a metal beam — that lodged itself into Arnel’s eye, and skewered half his brain, scrambling his thinking meat as if the building decided omelette was on the menu that day.

Arnel still wasn’t sure how anyone could’ve convinced him to step into the vehicle that almost killed him, but there he was, in the passenger seat of the safest death trap in the world. Accidents like Arnel’s were never supposed to have happened. The system was flawless. In a hundred billion simulations, the vehicle crashed only… never. In the real world, away from the fictional calculation space of simulations, the vehicle crashed only once. In fact, such a thing was so unthinkable, that the Artificial Intelligence of Arnel’s APV sent an apology to Arnel’s comm, and then supposedly committed ritual seppuku by disincarnating its faux-ghost.

Yes, even AI could have ghosts. In fact, in the enlightened world of the twenty-second century, where war was unthinkable, and crime preventable before it took place, activist movements were active in recognizing AI as sentient beings and citizens. Not that these activists found many sympathizers, even among ordinary people, not to mention government officials. The argument of sentience aside, even dogs and cats had ghosts, but they weren’t citizens either.

“If you recall,” Ermin, the “driver” said, “Arc-1-alpha is five point eight kilometers tall. The topmost kilometer is dedicated to housing Theta, one of the twenty-three AGMI in existence. Even if what you say is true, how could this “Leviathan” fit into your cybernetic implant?” He even made air-quotes as he mentioned the AGMI’s name.

His argument made a lot of sense. It was unthinkable that an intelligence as vast as Leviathan could fit into Arnel’s eye-socket and a quarter of his brain.

“But you said so yourself,” Arnel argued. “AGMI are living entities of the Cybersphere. As our consciousness creates and expands the underlying C2 network, we are the terminal and hardware for these vast intelligences.”

Ermin thought about the words, his thumbs tapping against the steering wheel. He wasn’t driving, of course. The APV’s AI was.

“And what about the four discorporated AGMI? They don’t have any physical housing — they exist entirely in the Infosphere.”

Ermin cast a side-glance at Arnel and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know this?” he asked. “Even I only learned this recently. It is absolutely top secret. Only the Directorate of Sector 9 is privy to that knowledge.”

Yeah, how did he know this? Something wasn’t right. Something was extremely wrong.

To begin with, the APV wasn’t driving on one of the super-highways between Arcology Stars. They were driving through a desert. The sun was distant and Arnel thought it was a bit small. The moon was also much smaller, and in the twilight sky, Arnel could see another glint of light, belonging to a second moon.

Phobos and Deimos; Fear and Dread.

“Why are we on Mars?” The question ripped through Arnel’s consciousness both verbally and mentally.

“We are going to the beginning,” Ermin said. “You want to find her, don’t you?”

Arnel’s head snapped to the side so fast that it almost gave him whiplash. How did Ermin know about her? Why bring her up now?

What was going on?

Phobos and Deimos. Under the moon’s influence, Arnel could feel their namesake crawling along his spine, setting his synapses ablaze. His heart-rate skyrocketed, and within a second, he felt as if he had just run a marathon, and not for fun — as if he was running from a pack of extinct wolves.

“Pull over. Let me out,” Arnel argued, as he worked the handle on the locked door. If he opened the door, the vehicle would stop immediately, engaging the emergency brakes. “Pull ove—“ His words trailed off as he looked at the driver. Instead of Ermin Saltzer, his chauffeur was a man clad in a business suit, with a red tie, and an early 20th century hat that concealed most of his features.

< We are almost there. >

Arnel heard Leviathan speak in his mind, and saw the minute movement of the business-man’s jaw at the same time.

The door handle rattled as Arnel tried to achieve one of two goals — whichever happened first — rip the handle off or open the door.

Arnel’s struggle ceased at the words. The door handle made one final groan as Arnel released it. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking at that moment — what manner of unsightly dreams and movies played out behind his eyes — as he sat still for several seconds lost in thought and daydream. Surely, it was about the possibility of seeing Priscilla again. It had to be.

“No!” Arnel shouted suddenly, slammed his fist into the glass-panel-covered Emergency AI Abort button, and snatched the wheel from Leviathan, cranking it hard towards the left.

The APV slammed into a boulder at four hundred and sixty kilometers per hour, launched a hundred meters into the air, and then plummeted like a comet towards a broken-down, ruined pyramid.

___

“Arnel, can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Arnel heard someone’s voice penetrate the darkness shrouding his mind.

It was Ermin Saltzer. The distant, mechanical beeping of machines called him to reality, anchoring his perception to the current moment.

What did Arnel remember? A hazy dream about driving on the surface of Mars, defeating the One-Eyed King and a splitting headache. He could remember sitting on the throne, for hours, avoiding engaging in active thought, as if that would help the headache. He must’ve looked real glorious then, firmly planted on the throne and drooling like a maniac.

But other than that, Arnel could not remember much at all. In fact, had Ermin not called out his name, Arnel probably wouldn’t even be able to remember his own name.

“Take your time, boy,” Ermin said, sounding concerned, but not too concerned. “You had a stroke.”

What stroke? Arnel thought he asked verbally, which was a dumb question, but the words came out as garbled nonsense anyway. Arnel could not even speak. What a hero he was. Now he couldn’t see or speak. What is next? His hearing? Sense of touch? At this point, some part of Arnel did not even care anymore. He could see and speak in the virtual world. Everything he wanted was there. As long as he was alive, he could…

“You are suffering from late stage Paradoxical Sleep Deprivation,” Ermin explained, perhaps knowing what Arnel wanted to ask. “We expected this, because you have not had proper REM sleep for more than a month. However, we didn’t expect it this soon.”

Ermin’s voice betrayed the fact that there was something wrong. He spoke so confidently about Arnel’s condition — PSD especially — but when he came to the part about how soon they expected this, his voice betrayed uncertainty.

“We know the AI works, at least,” Ermin said. “The stimulus you receive from it accelerated your PSD, and led to… well, this.” Ermin chuckled. He actually chuckled. Perhaps to a cold-hearted scientist like Ermin, this was a success all the way through. They proved Arnel’s Trained Agent was active and working — perhaps better than they expected — and Arnel didn’t die. Yet.

“The synchronization rate between the two of you is extremely fast,” Ermin said. “Although, the baseline interface index was lower than we expected. That is why you couldn’t see, and the pain you were in was likely caused by the Agent attempting to find the proper pathways. As time goes on, you will receive your sight back — pain free.”

Arnel already knew this. He felt it when he was awake last time. He could mostly see, although the two images — perceivable reality and actual reality were superimposed over each other — and the pain was gone as well.

“What… happens… to me…” Arnel tried his hardest to properly form the words, but he felt his strength evaporate before he could finish the question.

Ermin’s metal chair produced a noise as the man shifted his weight around, and the man’s silence was only amplified by the machine-like sounds of the various life-supporting devices monitoring Arnel’s condition.

“I know I said I would send you home, but, the board of Ministry Directors has decided to move you to Arc-alpha. We think that putting you closer to Theta will increase the speed of your recovery. It is her fragment, after all,” Ermin said. “I am sorry, my boy, but this is for your own good.”

My boy, the man had spoken the words as if he was a parental figure in Arnel’s life. His kindness and ruthlessness see-sawed between those two concepts with maddening frequency. Happy that Arnel’s near-death experience produced new results, and happy that Arnel was still alive. It made Arnel wonder, if he really were Ermin’s son, which would be more important — Arnel’s life, or Arnel’s results?

Somehow, Arnel knew it would be the latter.

“This is a great opportunity for you,” Ermin said, piquing Arnel’s interest. “Do you want to come work with me in AI-Dev? Your Index chart shows extreme compatibility for one of the few real-word jobs left in this world. And with that Agent of yours, I am sure we will discover many new and exciting things. Plus, you get to meet Theta, one of the only twenty-three AGMI in existence.”

“Mister Wright,” Arnel began but was cut off by Ermin. His throat was dry, but with tremendous effort, he could speak slowly and, hopefully, understandably.

“You can call me Mister Saltzer, or Ermin, if you like.” Such a friendly guy.

“Is it true that... there is only one... AGMI per Sector?” Arnel asked.

“Yes, very true,” Ermin said, probably nodding.

“But there are on—" Arnel coughed, nearly choking. "Only nineteen Sectors. What about... the other four AGMI?”

Ermin chuckled. “They are satellite-bound.”

Nineteen earth-bound, four satellite-bound. Together, they formed the Earth Defense Network, the Cybersphere, and interfaced with the human mind to create the foundational C2 network — the Collective Consciousness Network. Though, it was easier to understand if referred to as the Information Sphere, or the Collective Cyberconsciousness network.

Arnel did not know why he asked that particular question. He had a feeling that it was something related to the hazy and quickly disappearing dream he had — likely caused by his stroke.

Arnel nodded. Or at least, he thought he did. He couldn’t feel his body. “I would be... happy to come... work with you,” he said.

This wasn’t a decision Arnel made lightly. For a sixteen year old boy, it was a very prudent and calculated decision. The closer he got to Theta, the likelier it would be that the nature of his Agent would be discovered. Arnel had no choice over the matter. He would be an honorary resident of Arc-alpha whether he wanted to be, or not.

"I am glad," Ermin said, and patted Arnel's shoulder. His chair groaned again as the man stood up, and his receding footsteps alerted Arnel to the fact that he was moving away.

Ermin was right when he said that this was an opportunity, but not for what Ermin had in mind. Other than hiding in plain sight, this also allowed Arnel to potentially find a way out of this mess. Perhaps there was a way to get rid of Leviathan, or even the entire cybernetic implant — Arc-alpha had the facilities for this, being the only Arcology equipped for AI Development in Sector 9. On the other hand, security scrutiny was much higher and riskier, but the simple fact remains that if Theta had not found out about Leviathan already, then there was a reason for that; it was unable to do it.

Perhaps Leviathan had a way to conceal itself from other AGMI, or masquerade as a Trained Agent. The bottom line was, Arnel was going to the most dangerous place on Earth for him, whether he wanted to or not — that was Ermin’s decision.

But perhaps Arnel could take advantage of the already implied risk, and manage to recover some semblance of his old, carefree life.

When Ermin left, Arnel sat in the darkness for what seemed like an hour, the only companion to his growing loneliness was the mechanical beeping and pulsing of machines. The boy considered the totality of the desperate life he would have to lead from now on — all the events that happened, where life seemed to give him beautiful things with one hand, while taking things away with the other.

“... Currently, no group has claimed responsibility for the terror attack and sabotage of the Mars Colonist Ship, Ares-14, which claimed two hundred and forty seven lives of hopeful Mars colonists. This is yet another incident that has plagued the Mars Colonization Project, and authorities of Sector 6 and Sector 7 have refused to comment publicly…”

The words coming from some distant source faded from Arnel’s consciousness as the boy, for the first time since his mother died — when he was only nine years old — broke down and cried like a newborn infant.