The Millimeter of Recoil

The fluorescent tube skips a fraction of a second every three minutes. I count the cycles. Seven. Twenty-one minutes since we locked the door of this cramped hideout.

Vassili sits on the edge of the mattress. Her knees are pulled to her chest. She stares at the concrete at her feet. The screen of her terminal casts a pale glow on cheekbones hollowed by years of Dissolution.

My interface draws up the physiological report. Elevated heart rate. Tension in the trapezius muscles. Prolonged insomnia. I possess the exact data of her fatigue, but the memory of how exhaustion weighs on the neck has been subtracted from me. The Perflubron consumed it. I keep only the clinical diagnosis.

I grab the metal flask on the folding table. The surface transmits its temperature to my palm. Fifteen degrees. I approach the bunk. I hold out the container.

"Drink."

Vassili raises her head. Her eyes catch my silver irises.

She looks away. Her shoulder hits the wall. A minuscule movement, a single millimeter of recoil, the primal instinct of flesh pulling away from danger. Her hand takes the flask, avoiding my fingers with surgical precision.

This withdrawal registers in my cortex. An additional data point.

The Law dictates, but the Judgment terrifies the survivors. I forced my integration to give a voice back to the Dissous. I became the tool of ATHENA.VICTIS to dismantle the erasure. The balance of this transaction reads in the space separating us. Marga Volkov would have placed a hand on her shoulder. The transformed archivist analyzes the physical gap and files it without emotion.

Vassili unscrews the cap, keeping silent. She swallows a mouthful of water, her back stiff. The air between us takes on the density of a sealed file.

I turn away to the other side of the room. I sit on an empty crate. The fluorescent tube skips for the eighth time. I record the voltage drop.