Surface Detail

That was the way it was meant to be. His core personality – the one that was safe somewhere else entirely, held within one or more of the secure substrates that were the safest citadels of the anti-Hell side – changed with the lessons learned from each recorded mission, and it was a distillation of that personality which was downloaded into each of his sequential iterations, but nothing that could compromise him or his side should be present. Each personality – whether seemingly human in form, completely machine-like or running as pure software taking on whatever simulated appearance worked best – would be checked before it was allowed to get anywhere near a combat zone, scoured for anything that might be of value to the enemy if it fell into hostile hands.

So he shouldn’t have anything useful, and he didn’t seem to. So, why was he here? What were they doing?

“What is your name?” he said to the young doctor. He sat upright, head back, frowning at her, imagining her as some meek, hopelessly sloppy recruit he was choosing to pick on in the parade ground, putting all the authority he could into his voice. “I demand to know your name or identification; I know my rights.”

“I’m sorry,” she said levelly, “I’m not obliged to give you my name.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Do you think knowing my name will be of help to you?”

“Still answering questions with your own questions?”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

He glared at her. He imagined getting up and slapping her, or punching her, or dangling her out of the window, or strangling her with the electric cord that powered the ancient television. How far would he get, trying any of that? Would the sim just end, would she fight back, impossibly stronger than he was? Would brutish guards burst in and overpower him? Maybe he’d be allowed to carry out whatever he tried, and then deal with whatever simulated consequences arose. Could all be a test. You weren’t supposed to attack medics, or non-combatants at all for that matter. It would be a first for him, certainly.

Vatueil let out a breath. He waited a moment. “Please,” he said politely, “may I know your name?”

She smiled, and tapped her pen on the side of the clipboard. “I am Doctor Miejeyar,” she said. She made another note.

Vatueil hadn’t really been listening when she’d told him her name. He’d just realised something. “Oh fuck,” he said, grinning suddenly.

“Excuse me?” the young doctor said, blinking.

“You’re really not obliged to tell me your name, are you?” He was still grinning.

“We have established that,” she agreed.

“And I could be legally punished, even tortured, according to the articles I’ve signed when I joined up. Maybe not serious torture, but the sort of mistreatment your average civilian would kick up shit about.”

“Does that seem-?”

“And the…” He gestured at the blank face of the television. “The footage, the screen images, they were poor quality for a good reason, weren’t they?”

“Were they?”

“And not shot from below,” he said, and laughed. He slapped his hands on his thighs. “Damn, I should have picked up on that. I mean I noticed, but I didn’t… that drone, that camera, whatever it was; it was with us!”

“Was it?”

He sat back, narrowed his eyes. “So, how come I’m here?” Why can’t I remember anything more than I’d remember if I had just been captured in combat?”

“What do you think the answer might be?”

“I think the answer might be that I’m under suspicion for some reason.” He shrugged. “Or maybe this is some sort of commitment check-up that we never hear about until it happens to us personally. Or maybe this happens regularly but we’re made to forget about it each time, so it always comes as a surprise.”

“Do you think you should be under suspicion?”

“No, I don’t,” he told her calmly. “My loyalty should be unquestioned. I’ve served this cause faithfully to the best of my ability, fully committed, for over thirty years. I believe in what we are doing and the cause that we fight for. Whatever questions you might have for me, ask them and I’ll answer them honestly and fully; whatever suspicions you might hold, reveal them and I’ll prove them to be unfounded.” He stood up. “Otherwise, I think you ought to let me go.” He looked at the door and then back to her.

“Do you think you should be allowed to go?” she asked.

“Yes, of course I do.” He walked over to the door, feeling the floor move very slightly under him as he went; part of that gentle, long-period up-and-down movement. He put his hand on the handle. “I’m assuming this is some sort of test,” he told her, “and I’ve passed it by realising you’re not on the enemy side, you’re on my own side, so now I get to open the door and go.”

“What do you think will be on the other side of the door?”

“I’ve no idea. But there is one very obvious way to find out.” He tried the handle. Still locked.

“Please, Dr. Miejeyar,” he said, nodding to her, “if you would.”