The Arithmetic of Sacrifice

Fifty-two minutes. The deadline displays on my retina in crisp characters. I cross the filtration block at a fast pace, leaving the safehouse far behind.

Castellane's ping demanded a choice. An obscene transaction. He expected me to turn back, to go unlock that door and snatch Vassili from the militia surrounding the building. ATHENA commands the opposite. I must advance west. Three thousand lives against one. The arithmetic of the Registre Alpha tolerates no debate. The equation solves itself. Yet, the decision scrapes against a file I can no longer read. I possess the factual data of my attachment to her. The warmth of that bond melted in the vat. I am left with the facts.

I smash the west sector access with a shoulder strike.

The door gives way with a crash of crumpled sheet metal. Oren Castellane stands near the main console, both hands resting on the purge lever. His hunched back straightens. He scrutinizes my face, looking for the docile archivist he once knew. He finds only a silver gaze. The calculation of his summons collapses before his eyes.

"You abandoned her."

His voice wavers. He has just realized that the scales of the Law never yield to blackmail. I approach. My boots strike the raw concrete. The dial above his head marks three minutes before the cells suffocate.

"Step away from the panel, Castellane."

His fingers tighten on the handle. I raise my hand to lock his neural implant. The forced connection will scorch his synapses, a price demanded by the Axiome Zéro to save the execution's targets. I prepare to deliver the blow.

The transmitter resting on the console crackles.

"Marga."

Vassili's short breath fills the room. Dull thuds echo in the background. Castellane watches me, a smile stretching his jaw, and pulls the lever down one notch.