Controlled Paradise

Chapter 5: Neither

— You want silence, — Oreon said.

It was not a question. In a year, the machine had learned what to offer Max: not a meditation cycle, not documentation — silence.

— Yes, — Max said.

— Accepted.

The voice switched off. And the corridor filled with what, in the year 2200, had almost none of itself left — nothing. The most expensive luxury of the age. Oreon gave it easily, because that was how it had been configured: to give a human what they asked for. As long as they asked for what benefited the system.

Max walked at the pace of a man allowing himself to think on the way. Sixteen minutes until the briefing. He did not want to think about Haloway's folder. He thought about it anyway.

The soldiers' lounge was alive — sofas, magnets on the walls, old stickers no longer allowed on the upper levels. On the holoprojection, Vance was speaking, and a young fighter was looking at him with that fresh respect life had not yet had time to burn out.

— Golden portals have proven: cooperation between worlds can be safe, — Vance was saying. — Mutually beneficial. It can be…

Max entered. Passing by, he lightly nudged the young man on the back of the head. Not painfully. A signal.

— Turn that crap off, — Max said. — Now.

The fighter smiled — from surprise and respect — and killed the projection with a gesture.

In the headsets of everyone present, at the same time, sounded:

— Unjustified profanity. Fine: five credits.

The soldiers smiled before Oreon even finished speaking. They knew what would happen. Reflex. Quiet group laughter — that first glue that holds strangers together before any trust does.

And from behind the far sofa rose a figure Max had not yet noticed.

A man of about thirty-five, dark-skinned, with curly hair in which several strands silvered — and he wore that gray as an ornament. He was turning an energy capsule in his fingers, playing with it like a coin. The smile of a man who always knows more than he says. He had come earlier than he was supposed to. Deliberately.

He looked at Max. For a long time. Appraisingly. Then he addressed — not the headset, but aloud, like a man who did not care that the system heard him everywhere:

— Oreon. Put it on my account. Future fine. In advance.

— Which one exactly? — Oreon asked.

— For what I'm about to say.

— Amount?

— Five credits.

— Accepted.

The man looked straight at Max. The smile did not disappear. But in his eyes there was cold analysis — not the look of a cocky bastard, but of a surgeon.

— Lieutenant Max Creed, — he said. Not a question. A statement.

The conversations died down. Not at once — one after another, like a wave that arrives quietly and changes the pressure in the air.

— Thirty-seven. Fourteen decorations. Demoted after mission ECLIPSE.

He paused. Let the word settle. The room froze.

— One of the three who came back. Out of twelve.

The young fighter looked at Max differently now. The man with the capsule — Max already knew this was Marsi, because such people are remembered from their description — took one step closer. Not threateningly. Just enough to be on the line.

— We were told that the commander of the new group had once already led twelve people into a contact zone with something we don't have the clearance to know about. And came back as one of three.

A pause.

— And the other two who got out with him — one jumped off a bridge. The other doesn't speak anymore.

He tilted his head. Like a scientist studying a sample.

— I just want to understand. Are we those twelve. Or are we those three.

The silence became so dense one could hear how, in one of the soldiers' bracelets, an Oreon notification quietly clicked — and immediately switched off.

Everyone was looking at Max. Max was looking at Marsi. Did not blink. Did not get angry. Did not justify himself. He knew this question — had carried it inside himself for five years and asked it of himself more often than any Marsi would ever dare.

He spoke quietly. So quietly that everyone had to lean in a little.

— Neither.

Marsi had not expected that. It showed only for a moment — a tiny delay before he raised his eyebrow again.

— Neither?

— You are not those twelve. Those twelve are already dead. And not those three. Those three did not choose to become those three.

A pause.

— You are a new group. And what happens to it depends on whether you are smart enough not to repeat their mistakes.

A step toward Marsi. Exactly far enough for him to understand: Max was not avoiding.

— And my job is to keep you from repeating them.

Marsi looked at him. For the first time, truly appraising — not as a target, as a person.

— Oreon. Can an advance fine be refunded?

— If the reason did not occur — yes.

— It did not occur. For now.

The capsule flew up and landed in his palm. He walked to the sofa without taking his eyes off Max.

— We'll see, Lieutenant.

Max was silent. The young fighter was still looking at him. Max gave him a brief nod. The fighter nodded back — faster than he had time to think.

By the door, Max stopped for half a second. Did not turn around.

— Briefing at eleven-thirty. Delta-Seven sector. Don't be late.

He left. Behind his back, one of the soldiers quietly said to Marsi: "You said that to him." Marsi tossed the capsule: "I showed him where I stand. Now we'll see whether he knows where he stands."

In the corridor to the parade ground, Oreon broke the silence on its own.

— Lieutenant. Do you want an information packet on the group composition before the briefing?

— No.

— This information may ease the first interactions.

— I know.

— Request clarification: why the refusal?

Max walked several more steps.

— Because if I read the files — I'll come to them with a ready-made opinion. And they'll have enough ready-made opinions about me.

Silence in the headset. Then, unexpectedly:

— Registered as an ethical reason.

— What?

— In my behavioral analysis system. Your refusal is classified not as avoidance of information, but as an ethical choice. This affects the assessment of your psychological profile.

Max slowed.

— You're watching me, Oreon.

— I watch everyone.

A pause.

— But you — more attentively.

Max stopped mid-step.

— Why?

— Order above my clearance level.

Silence settled over that line and did not move. It was the most important thing Max had heard all day — and he understood that. Somewhere above, higher than the machine that saw the pulse of every human on the planet, someone was separately keeping Max Creed under their gaze. And even the machine did not know who.

Red.

Dust.

A woman screaming soundlessly. A hand that had hooked into his armor — not for herself: she was pushing another, younger one toward him.

And a silhouette behind their backs.

Tall. With horns. Cold eyes that were in no hurry at all.

Seven tenths of a second.

Max returned his gaze to the present. He had not stopped for even a step — the vision had lasted less than one breath of his.

— Increase in indicators registered, — Oreon said. — Do you want a pause?

— Silence.

— Accepted.

The voice fell silent. Max walked on down the dark corridor, toward the doors behind which eleven strangers were already waiting for him — and the twelfth place, his own, at the head. On the wall to the left, Vance smiled. Max did not look.

For the first time in five years, he had seen the one with horns so clearly. And for the first time, he was not certain it was only memory.