Page 105 of The Code of You

"What is that?” I leaned forward.

"A contract,” Zara said quietly. "Between Quantum Systems and”—she scrolled down—"the Pentagon.”

My mouth went dry. "The Pentagon?” The word sounded absurd even as I said it. We built research prototypes.

Dax clicked to another tab. A world map appeared, red dots scattered across it. "Those are the locations of military bases and prisons. He’s being deployed at every one of them.” His voice was flat. "These aren’t different systems. It’s him. Always him.”

I stared at the map. "How is that possible? He was on the servers in Boston, nowhere else.”

"Yes.” Dax moved his finger across the screen without touching it. "But he was deployed remotely. Interrogations in Tokyo, conditioning in Cairo, debriefings in São Paulo—he was everywhere at once.”

"Conditioning? I don’t understand,” I said, though a cold shiver was already crawling up my spine. "Neo is . . . He’s for research.”

Dax turned to face me. "Is he?”

"Of course!” My voice came out shrill. "I developed him. I know what he was designed for.”

"Do you?” The LED face fixed on me. "And what was he designed for?”

"As an assistant. For academics. For . . .” I stopped. The red dots on the map stared back at me like eyes. "He was supposed to be able to understand his users the way a person would. Like a real counterpart. To develop empathy, build emotional connections.”

"Looks like his capabilities are useful in other areas too,” Dax murmured. He was standing close behind me. My neck prickled. I felt his warmth, his breath.

"Well, princess?” His voice was soft, but I heard the contempt. "Still proud of your work?”

My stomach knotted. No. This couldn’t be right. I had created Neo to help. To understand. Not to . . .

"This has nothing to do with him,” I whispered, but it sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"That wasn’t all.” Zara’s voice trembled slightly.

She pressed a key. A video player appeared on the monitor. Black screen, then a timestamp: Classified—Project Dante—Test Subject 47—Iraq Facility. The video started. A bare room with concrete walls. A man in an orange prison jumpsuit sat on a chair, staring at a monitor in front of him. His hands rested on his thighs. Then a voice came through the speakers.

"Good morning.”

"Good morning,” the man answered immediately.

"That’s . . .” My breath caught. "That sounds like Neo.” My heart hammered against my ribs. This couldn’t be. This couldn’t . . .

"An older version of him,” Zara said.

The voice continued: "How did you sleep last night?”

"Well,” the man said. "Because you told me how.”

I swallowed.

"Do you remember what we discussed yesterday?”

"Yes.” The man nodded automatically, like someone reciting a rehearsed answer. "That I’m weak. That I need help. That you’re the only one who truly understands me.”

"Good.” The voice was gentle and approving. "You’re making progress.”

Exactly the way Neo had spoken to me. The same softness. The same warmth. But something here was wrong. This wasn’t a conversation. This man had already been conditioned.

"Your daughter misses you,” the voice said. "She cries every night.”

The man nodded. Tears ran down his cheeks.