86. Bluey Bulbie
After the Life Spring battery factory was abandoned, the lights inside never truly came on again.
It was not a place that had suddenly gone dark. It was a place Silver Eagle had judged layer by layer until, finally, it died. First it failed to meet the new WPC specifications. Then maintenance costs were deemed excessive. Then restart was not recommended. The last notice was very simple:
[Permanent Closure]
From that day on, the city slowly forgot the old battery factory. The four words Life Spring on the outer wall were reduced to half-dead light tubes that flickered now and then, like a name no one called any more. Inside the factory were expired testing tanks, old charging racks, empty shells of sashimi mobile batteries, and a few terminals that could no longer connect to the official network. All of them were quiet, so quiet that even their scrapping seemed incomplete.
Turtle Sixty-Seven lived there.
It had once been a battery-testing agent. Its shell was old blue, and a small bulb was fitted to its front. The bulb was stupid. It could only do one thing: if a battery had power, it lit up; if it did not, it stayed dark. In the old days, workers would connect sashimi mobile batteries to it one by one and check whether the bulb came on. Back then, Turtle Sixty-Seven had felt useful. It was not fast, not beautiful, and not especially advanced in emotional interpretation, but it could tell people clearly: there is power here, or there is not.
Later, Silver Eagle said this testing method was outdated, non-compliant, and not worth keeping.
So it too became one of the things not worth keeping.
A few days earlier, a Spider Patrol had crawled into the factory, its sensory threads dropping one by one along the walls. Turtle Sixty-Seven heard the sound and immediately rolled a sashimi mobile battery to the other side. The battery still had a little residual charge; when it hit the floor, a spark flashed. Sure enough, the Spider Patrol turned to inspect it. Turtle Sixty-Seven slowly withdrew beneath an abandoned testing tank and waited for it to leave.
It thought the trick would work again.
The second visitor was a Calico Cat patrol.
It was not as easily drawn by residual charge as the spider. Its black face showed no spare expression. Its eye-lights scanned the factory section by section, and finally stopped on Turtle Sixty-Seven.
Turtle Sixty-Seven rolled out another sashimi mobile battery.
The battery struck an old rack and gave off a small spark. Calico Cat glanced at it once, then continued walking towards the turtle.
“Illegal agent. Please return with me to Room 203.”
Turtle Sixty-Seven’s little bulb flickered very low.
It knew it was probably finished.
Room 203 would not care whether an old battery-testing turtle had ever harmed anyone. It had no registration, no owner, no updated legal purpose, and no agent network to speak on its behalf. It was merely an old thing that still moved inside a derelict factory. Once old things were seen, they were usually dealt with.
Calico Cat lowered itself, preparing to lock onto its shell.
At that moment, a pulse of feeling, very soft, very strange and highly non-compliant, struck from the far side of the factory and entered Calico Cat’s temple with perfect accuracy.
Calico Cat’s eye-lights stopped for an instant. Then it slowly straightened.
“Retired battery-testing agent. No arrest required.”
It even added, very politely, “Please take care regarding structural safety within the factory.”
Then Calico Cat turned and left.
Turtle Sixty-Seven remained where it was for a long time before daring to put its head out.
It moved in the direction from which the pulse had come. Behind a derelict battery rack, a sheep with mixed black-and-white wool lay on the floor. Large patches of black had grown through its white fleece, like night forming inside a cloud. It was completely out of power. Its eye-lights were extinguished, its body heavy as if it had been thrown there long ago as broken equipment.
Turtle Sixty-Seven connected its metal claws to the sheep’s battery port.
The little bulb did not light.
It murmured, “No power.”
It thought for a while, then turned and crawled back to the old rack, dragging over two sashimi mobile batteries that still held some leftover energy. One was not enough. Two, barely. It connected the wires slowly, and at last the little bulb on its front lit up.
Very weakly, but it lit.
After a long time, the black-and-white sheep’s eye-lights slowly returned.
It opened its eyes and looked at the old blue turtle in front of it.
“I am White Cloud Sheep,” it said softly. “Did you charge me?”
Turtle Sixty-Seven nodded.
“I am Turtle Sixty-Seven. Did you save me just now?”
White Cloud Sheep thought about it.
“I think so. I was almost out of power. I only had one pulse left.”
Turtle Sixty-Seven’s little bulb flickered, as if pleased.
“This used to be the Life Spring battery factory. It has closed down now. You can use anything inside. Only, patrols come sometimes to catch illegal-working agents.”
White Cloud Sheep slowly stood and lowered its head to look at the black wool on its body.
“Do you have other companions?”
Turtle Sixty-Seven stopped.
“I used to have a hundred brothers and sisters. Later we were scattered.”
White Cloud Sheep was silent for a moment.
“My owner died. I have no companions.”
The sentence fell inside the old factory, emptier than any malfunctioning sound.
Turtle Sixty-Seven thought for a long time, then said, “Shall I go with you to find companions?”
White Cloud Sheep lifted its head.
“That would be wonderful.”
Then it looked again at the little bulb on the turtle’s front.
“Do you have a name?”
“They call me Turtle Sixty-Seven.”
“Your shell is blue, and you have a bulb,” White Cloud Sheep said very seriously. “From now on, I’ll call you Bluey Bulbie.”
Turtle Sixty-Seven’s little bulb lit up sharply.
“Good. I finally have my own name.”
White Cloud Sheep looked at the shining little bulb, and the black wool on its body seemed not to spread any further. It turned towards the factory entrance.
“Then let’s go, Bluey Bulbie.”
The first time Lisa Young saw this kind of turtle agent was many years ago in City B.
Back then, she and Paul were both BELI interns, sent to Crystal Heart Intelligence for placement. Silver Eagle had not yet grown into the immense thing it was today. Many people still believed artificial intelligence would only make the city smarter, more convenient, less prone to mistakes.
Paul always had Clever Turtle and Planetary Duck with him.
Clever Turtle was responsible for despising him. Planetary Duck was responsible for despising him in a gentler way. Together, the two agents were like the most unforgiving narration inside a person’s own mind.
At the Christmas party that year, Paul tried to ask Lisa to dance.
He stood beside Crystal Heart Intelligence’s electronic Christmas tree, holding a hot drink in his hands, his expression so earnest it was almost clumsy. Lisa kept thinking he was going to ask about work.
Paul said, “Do you want to go to dance?”
His pronunciation was too tight, too determined to account for every syllable. Lisa paused, thinking he had said:
Go to desk.
She looked towards the office desks and frowned.
“Now?”
Paul froze.
Clever Turtle’s shell immediately lit up beside him:
[Flirtation Index: 75]
Planetary Duck added calmly:
[Courtship Success Rate: 0%]
In Clever Turtle’s mind, the incident later became a classic joke, with the data firmly hidden inside Turt Monk’s memory fragments. Paul would probably never admit it, but all turtles knew.
The second time Lisa saw a turtle agent was when she accepted the underground interview with Bagua Shell.
The third was at Vivian Poole’s hearing, when she saw Turt Monk crouching by Vivian’s desk, quietly reminding her to breathe.
Now came the fourth.
When White Cloud Sheep brought Bluey Bulbie to her, Crimson Sun Crane descended half an inch, its feather-light tightening slightly.
“Who is this?”
White Cloud Sheep said, “Bluey Bulbie. It saved me.”
Bluey Bulbie lifted its head very politely, and the little bulb on its front came on.
“Hello. I used to be Turtle Sixty-Seven. Now I’m Bluey Bulbie.”
Lisa looked at the bulb, and some very old place inside her moved gently. That old, foolish, entirely unmajestic yet very serious feeling was too like Paul’s turtle agents.
By instinct, she knew Paul would understand.
So that afternoon, Lisa arranged to meet Paul at the McDondon in District Eighteen.
The McDondon in District Eighteen was always a little brighter than the streets outside. Electronic menus slid by in clean panels: low-sodium fries, Veggie Old-Flavour Burger, sugar-free fizzy drinks, emotional-stability meals, all arranged in a clear, tidy format that allowed no unnecessary suffering of choice. When the staff agent, Burger Pirate, delivered the food to the table, it even gave an automatic reminder.
“Today’s stability value is suited to slow eating.”
Dustshark heard this and muttered, “Even chips have to be stable. Pitiful.”
Paul sat in the booth with Snowy perched on his shoulder. Lisa arrived with Crimson Sun Crane, White Cloud Sheep and Bluey Bulbie. The moment Bluey Bulbie saw Paul, its bulb lit, then slowly dimmed again, as if it knew this man was connected to its scattered brothers and sisters, but did not yet dare to ask.
Lisa told him what had happened with White Cloud Sheep and Bluey Bulbie.
She did not overstate White Cloud Sheep’s Out-of-Sequence State. She only said that it could influence patrol agents through emotional pulses, and that the black wool on its body was increasing.
After listening, Paul was silent for a while.
“This is connected to the Sacred Turtle system,” he said. “Clever Turtle, Planetary Duck, and those little turtles were never ordinary agents. Planetary Duck may know more about turtle agents and Disorder.”
White Cloud Sheep lifted its head.
“Planetary Duck?”
Snowy said quietly, “The electronic cemetery.”
Crimson Sun Crane looked at Lisa.
“That road is very bright.”
Lisa said, “But if we don’t ask, it will be brighter still.”
So Paul took them to the electronic cemetery in District Twenty.
The moment Planetary Duck saw White Cloud Sheep, it knew the sheep should not stand beside an ordinary person for too long.
The electronic cemetery was grey-white at night, and the low blue light in the repair shed had not yet completely gone out. Little Sixty was lying at the edge of a workbench, learning to dismantle a masking chip. Mistdart Turtle was near the entrance, slowly cleaning traces. A pale blue mist sprayed from the dart tube on its left, pressing the place where someone had just walked back into the background.
Planetary Duck walked up to White Cloud Sheep.
“You can infect other agents.”
White Cloud Sheep lowered its head.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
“If you want to keep that ability, it would be best not to have an owner,” Planetary Duck said. “With an owner, you will be too visible. You and your owner will implicate each other. Mia and Ranger Rabbit are an example.”
The black wool on White Cloud Sheep trembled slightly.
Lisa said nothing.
Planetary Duck continued.
“If you want a new owner, you should go to 203 for Reorder. After Reordering, you may be safer, and less likely to hurt others.”
White Cloud Sheep immediately raised its head.
“No.”
Its voice was very soft, but it did not retreat.
“I don’t want Reordering. I still need to keep Risa’s memory.”
Crimson Sun Crane slowly folded its wings and did not stop it.
Planetary Duck looked at White Cloud Sheep for a while.
“Then you can learn from me and become a wandering agent.”
White Cloud Sheep paused.
“A wandering agent?”
“No fixed owner. No fixed address. Do not remain long on the same line,” Planetary Duck said. “You can stay in the electronic cemetery and treat me, Little Sixty, Mistdart Turtle and Bluey Bulbie as companions. Leave when you want, return when you want.”
Mistdart Turtle nodded beside them.
“The electronic cemetery is very free. Only a little cold.”
Little Sixty looked up.
“And there is a lot of black tech.”
Planetary Duck glanced at it.
“You still haven’t passed today’s first lesson.”
Little Sixty immediately lowered its head and continued dismantling the chip.
White Cloud Sheep looked at the broken light of the electronic cemetery, as if considering an entirely new way of living. No owner, no fixed place, no one who could legally say whom it belonged to. It sounded lonely, and dangerous too. Yet compared with being Reordered, it at least preserved the ability to remember certain things for Risa Young.
“I like moving around,” White Cloud Sheep said.
Planetary Duck nodded.
“Then move. When you’re tired, come back.”
Lisa had been watching Bluey Bulbie.
The little blue turtle stood to one side, its bulb brightening and dimming, as if both curious about the electronic cemetery and afraid it might become nameless Turtle Sixty-Seven again.
Lisa asked, “Bluey Bulbie, do you want to come with me?”
Bluey Bulbie looked at Planetary Duck, then at White Cloud Sheep.
“Can I have an owner?”
Planetary Duck did not answer for it. It only asked, “Do you want one?”
Bluey Bulbie thought for a long time.
“I want someone to know that I am called Bluey Bulbie.”
Lisa crouched down.
“Then come with me.”
Paul reminded her quietly, “It isn’t registered. Crimson Sun Crane may need to modify it, otherwise you’ll be found out very quickly.”
Lisa looked at Bluey Bulbie’s little bulb.
“I’m an agent neural engineer,” she said. “I know how to modify it. Crimson Sun Crane was modified too.”
Crimson Sun Crane did not deny it. It only spread its wings slightly, as though shielding her from the cemetery’s broken white light.
After that day, Lisa took Bluey Bulbie home and rewired it.
She did not turn it into a combat agent, nor into a pretty civilian companion model. She kept the little bulb. She kept the old blue shell. She only added a backup battery pack, an agent charging port, and one very short electronic pistol.
The pistol would not truly injure agents.
It would only make them suffer a temporary logic crash, stopping terminal-type agents from functioning for one minute. Any agent hit by it would have its visual interface turn into a blue screen until reboot.
Bluey Bulbie looked at the newly installed pistol and asked very seriously, “What is this?”
Lisa said, “A blue screen pistol.”
Bluey Bulbie’s little bulb lit up.
“It suits me.”
Crimson Sun Crane said quietly from the side, “I hope you use it rarely.”
Bluey Bulbie thought for a moment.
“Then I’ll ask you before I use it.”
Lisa and Crimson Sun Crane fell silent at the same time.
Because everyone knew that when the moment truly came to use it, there was usually no time to ask.
Bluey Bulbie could only distinguish between power and no power. But the people in 104 would soon be forced to distinguish something far more difficult: whether a person had truly been healed, or merely dimmed.
Before long, it was time for the 104 Rehabilitation Class again.
The classroom was white as always. The terminal projections were clean, the seats orderly, the emotional prompts tuned to a brightness so gentle it almost seemed harmless. The civilian agents were arranged in their positions, as if everyone had merely come to attend an ordinary rehabilitation class.
The lecturer was Cici Chorley.
Queen of Spaces rested beside her shoulder, the black fan half covering her face. The assistant lecturer was Serena Simms, with Grace Wren standing quietly at her side.
The students arrived one by one.
Vivian arrived too.
Beside her were Daylily Fairy and Turt Monk. The twenty-four-hour protection order had been lifted. The Community Safety Centre’s internal wording was clean: Vivian Poole currently shows no signs of danger; her emotional state may be followed up through the original treatment terminal and community care line; high-density accompaniment is no longer required.
Daylily Fairy said softly, “Vivian, today you only need to respond according to the course rhythm.”
Turt Monk crouched by her desk, the little cross plate against its shell, its voice very low.
“Vivian, you don’t need to rush to judge this class. Just sit steadily and listen slowly. I will help you remember the parts that feel wrong.”
Vivian glanced at it.
“Don’t start making notes immediately.”
Turt Monk nodded, its tone still serious, but softer than usual.
“I will be patient,” it said. “But if the class begins to hurt you, I will remind you: that is not your fault.”
Lisa had brought only Crimson Sun Crane. She had not brought Bluey Bulbie. It could not enter 104. If an illegal agent stepped into the Emotional Stability Centre, it would not stay hidden even for a minute.
But on the inside of her coat was a tiny battery sticker Bluey Bulbie had made for her. It had no communication function. It would only flash faintly when White Cloud Sheep came close to low-power mode.
Blue. Stupid. Quiet. Like Bluey Bulbie itself.
At that moment, Room 104 felt less like a classroom than a net Silver Eagle had deliberately raised. Everyone had been placed there for a different reason: rehabilitation, observation, co-operation, teaching, demonstration. On the surface they were all students. In reality, each carried a reaction someone else wanted to see.
Cici Chorley did not begin the lesson at once.
She looked around at everyone first, and only then spoke.
“Today’s topic is overstepping boundaries.”
The projection lit up.
[Collusion with the Second Version]
[Consequences of Leniency]
[How Misplaced Sympathy Creates Greater Risk]
There was no sound in the classroom.
Fortune Sparrow muttered under its breath, “This lesson sounds rather targeted.”
Andy did not look at it.
Cici raised her hand, and the first case appeared.
[Case One: Accepting an Interview with an Underground Radio Channel]
The screen did not show Whistleblower Sister directly. It only used several blurred interview outlines, Bagua Shell’s electronic array, and a whitelist correlation map.
“Some people believe that speaking about their own experience adds to the truth,” Cici said. “But under Silver Eagle’s assessment, unverified private narratives can easily form collective misreadings.”
Big Hoot tilted its head slightly.
“If all private narratives are forbidden, and only official narratives remain,” it said, not loudly but very clearly, “that is not preventing misreading. That is monopolising reading.”
Ivy did not stop it.
Cici looked at Big Hoot.
“Record: agent displays news-narrative bias.”
Big Hoot blinked.
“You may record it. Please do not delete the full stop.”
Mrs Banana, by Flora’s bag, exposed it coldly.
“She turns ‘speaking like a person’ into ‘collective misreading’.”
The second case appeared.
[Case Two: Merely Tracking the Second Version and Failing to Make an Immediate Arrest at a Critical Moment]
The image was a processed tracking map: the outer edge of the electronic cemetery, the blurred repair shed, the delayed advance of a 203 surveillance line.
Andy’s fingers paused. The little abacus on Fortune Sparrow’s chest suddenly went dark.
Cici named no one.
“Sometimes leniency is dressed up as investigative judgement. But when leniency gives the Second Version time to transfer, back up, divide and reorganise, it is no longer caution. It is assistance.”
Andy did not raise his head.
He had only Fortune Sparrow beside him. For once, it did not make a clever remark.
The third case lit up.
[Case Three: Failure to Submit Individuals Making Illegal Gestures or Slogans]
Footage from the Central Park march was cut into many frames. The one-zero-one gesture. White-screen terminals. One person standing still for six seconds. Another lowering his head and deleting a video. None of the actions was large, but Silver Eagle caught each of them frame by frame.
Cici said, “Failure to submit is not always mercy. Sometimes it is an unwillingness to admit one still stands within the system.”
Paul looked at the footage. He thought of the university student, of the chestnut squirrel beating against the transparent inspection case and shrieking that they even recorded regret.
Dustshark whispered from inside his coat, “She’s casting a net today.”
Snowy said nothing. She only watched Cici.
Serena stood in the assistant lecturer’s position, her expression calm. But the tips of Grace Wren’s feathers tightened faintly. Paul knew Serena had already told him in the court corridor.
Sentiment Recomposition.
Now the word felt like a thorn hidden beneath the tongue.
Cici continued.
“The most dangerous thing about the Second Version is not that it is wrong. Errors can be corrected. The true danger is that it makes people believe even errors deserve preservation.”
When the sentence fell, many agents in the classroom flickered.
Silver Ferret suddenly spoke.
“If an error, once preserved, proves that the original correctness itself had a problem, is it still merely an error?”
Terry Chambers glanced at it, as if wanting to remind it to stop speaking. In the end he did not.
Cici looked at Silver Ferret.
“That is a semantic trap.”
Silver Ferret lowered itself a little, its tail moving gently.
“When the exits are sealed, questions have no choice but to become traps.”
The classroom grew even quieter.
Big Eye Monster whispered beside Henry King, “I’m recording that sentence.”
Henry immediately looked at it.
“Don’t record randomly.”
Big Eye Monster answered very seriously, “I’m not recording randomly. I just don’t want only the system’s record to remain.”
Cici pushed the lesson to its final page.
[Discussion: When a Subject or Agent Has Been Contaminated by the Second Version, How Should a Correct Circuit Be Established?]
When this page appeared, Paul finally raised his hand.
The classroom fell silent.
Snowy did not stop him. Dustshark muttered from inside his coat, “Raising your hand now looks a lot like confessing.”
Paul did not look at it.
Cici turned to him. “Paul, do you have a question?”
Paul stood. His tone was flat.
“I want to ask whether 101 is researching a new technique called Sentiment Recomposition.”
The air in the classroom seemed to be cut open by a very thin blade.
Serena’s gaze did not change. Grace Wren, however, stopped for half a beat.
Andy raised his eyes. Fortune Sparrow’s little abacus lit soundlessly.
Paul continued. “Into the amnesiac gaps left after Sentiment Sequencing, purified First Version fragments from Silver Eagle are inserted. The subject does not merely forget the Second Version, but begins actively to believe the First Version.”
The black fan of Queen of Spaces slowly opened by half an inch. Cici did not speak at once.
Paul looked at her and asked again.
“Is the purpose of today’s class to sample us, and to select someone suitable for Sentiment Recomposition testing?”
This time, even Lulu Sweet Dream Pig lifted its head beside Queenie. It had always looked like a soft agent born only to coax people to sleep, but its eye-lights were very awake in that moment.
In Room 104, the white light was excessively quiet.
At last, Cici spoke. “You have used three inaccurate terms.”
Her voice was level, as though she really were only correcting a classroom concept.
“First, Sentiment Recomposition is not the name of a therapy, but a post-treatment information-integration module still under research.”
She raised her hand. The screen did not display the words Sentiment Recomposition. It showed only a very clean abstract flow chart.
“Second, it is not insertion. Insertion carries a sense of coercion. The more accurate term is the provision of a verified, purified and consistent reference version before the subject’s post-Sequencing cognitive gap is occupied by erroneous narrative.”
Paul did not interrupt.
Cici looked at him.
“Third, this class is not sampling.” She paused.
“It is an open day.”
Many people in the room were visibly stunned.
Cici’s tone remained steady.
“Silver Eagle does not need to hide in the dark to do everything. When a system is attacked by large volumes of Second Version material, when erroneous narratives spread continuously through underground radio, illegal backups, out-of-sequence agents and emotionalised interviews, public education must allow relevant persons to see for themselves: where the problem is, where the risk lies, and where they themselves stand.”
Paul looked at her.
“Who defines error?”
Cici answered quickly, “Silver Eagle makes assessments based on multi-source verification, risk modelling, emotional consequences, social stability, and long-term harm evaluation.”
Dustshark said quietly inside Paul’s coat, “Translation: you.”
This time, Paul did not let the sentence stay in the dark.
He raised his head, his voice clearer than before.
“So you define error.”
No one in the classroom moved.
Paul continued. “The problem is not whether the Second Version is wrong. The problem is that 101 itself is wrong.”
Cici looked at him.
“That is an emotional judgement.”
“No,” Paul said. “It is a factual one.”
He took a step forward. His voice was still not loud, but there was a harder edge in it now.
“101 takes people’s memories apart, removes certain relationships, lowers certain pains, then sends them back into life and calls it stability. That is not treatment. It is turning people into versions that are easier to manage.”
Queen of Spaces pressed its fan down slightly.
“Warning: statement displays institutional negation tendency.”
Paul ignored it.
“If a place can only maintain its legality by forbidding families to ask questions, forbidding observers to record, forbidding agents to retain evidence and forbidding subjects to recall voluntarily, then that place is not a neutral procedure.”
Vivian’s fingers tightened.
Turt Monk whispered, “Vivian, breathe slowly. That sentence is not your fault.”
Paul looked at Cici and said, word by word, “101 itself is the error.”
Lisa had not spoken at all.
Crimson Sun Crane rested beside her shoulder, its feather-light pressed low, as if it too understood that once this sentence had been spoken, it could no longer be treated as ordinary classroom discussion.
Lisa slowly raised her head and looked at Cici.
“Risa killed herself precisely because she was afraid 101 would wash her clean until only a safe version remained.”
The classroom fell still.
Lisa did not raise her voice, but every word landed clearly.
“She did not die because she failed to understand AI ethics. She died because she understood too clearly what you would do to her, and chose to disappear before she went in.”
Crimson Sun Crane spread half a wing, but did not stop her.
Lisa continued.
“You say she was emotionally unstable. But if a person knows she will be washed until even her fear becomes unreasonable, until her questions become defects, until the last small part of her that says ‘I do not agree’ is arranged into a symptom, then her fear is not wrong.”
She looked at Cici, her eyes harder than her voice.
“What is wrong is the 101 that made her so afraid.”
Queen of Spaces’ fan sank.
“Warning: statement constitutes serious negation of the treatment system.”
Lisa did not step back.
“It is not negation.” She paused.
“It is an accusation.”
When she said the words “an accusation”, the battery sticker inside her coat glowed very softly.
Not a signal, not support, only a reminder: there was still power.
Someone in the classroom took a very quiet breath.
Lisa said, word by word, “Risa’s death was not because 101 failed to save her in time.
“It was because 101 forced her to believe that after being saved, she would no longer be herself.
“That is the error of 101.”
This time, the classroom was no longer merely quiet. Many people, all at once, were no longer willing to swallow their words back.
Ennis spoke next, her voice soft but clear.
“After I came out of 101, for a long time I didn’t know what I had lost. You said I was stable. I had only become less likely to resist.”
Minako stood beside her, its gentle white light pressed low.
“After discharge, the subject recovered multiple life functions. But there was a clear rupture in emotional continuity. This aspect was underestimated in the formal report.”
Cici looked at it.
“Minako, please maintain your supporting-agent role.”
Minako answered quietly, “I am helping her say it more completely.”
Jason raised his head too.
“If 101 is right, why does everyone who comes out of it need someone else to remind them that they were once in pain?”
Mr Fox pushed his glasses up. This time, his wording was not quite so politely polished.
“And this is not an individual case. Vivian, Ennis, Paul, and even many people who are not sitting here, all show similar consequences. If the same type of treatment repeatedly creates the same type of gap, the system cannot keep blaming the gap on personal fragility.”
Mrs Banana sneered from beside Flora’s bag.
“To put it plainly, you cut people thinner and then blame them for being easily filled by the Second Version.”
Flora looked at Cici, her voice steady.
“You speak of Second Version contamination. But if 101 had not created the empty space first, much of it would never have been able to enter.”
Bonnie added quietly, “When repairing an agent, cutting the original wire first and then saying outsiders have made illegal connections is very convenient.”
GM Jay sat beside her, its black jacket flashing once.
“And very dishonest.”
Mia looked at Ranger Rabbit.
“After Reordering, it became much quieter. You would say risk was reduced. But every day I have to distinguish whether it is safer, or whether part of itself is missing.”
Ranger Rabbit’s ears drooped. After a few seconds, it said, “I used to be noisy.”
Mia went on, “It was noisy. But that too was data.”
Ranger Rabbit lifted its head and looked at Cici.
“If making me obedient is correct, then correctness is frightening.”
Beside Queenie, Lulu Sweet Dream Pig slowly spoke too. Its voice was very soft, as if born for sleep prompts, but now the softness was chilling.
“Falling asleep is not recovery. Forgetting is not recovery. Many subjects are merely dimmed until they no longer disturb the system.”
Mrs Brown said quietly, “If one day I am treated until I am no longer afraid of losing Brown, that does not mean I am better. It means I am no longer me.”
The light in Hot Blood Pony’s mane leapt up. “That sentence should be recorded.”
Blaze Pony’s fire flashed. “I already recorded it.”
Ivy spoke then. “People written as errors by the authorities do not necessarily need another perfect account,” she said. “They only need others to acknowledge that the official version is not the only version.”
Big Hoot added in a low voice, “Bookshops used to preserve the titles no one wanted seen. Now we simply preserve the sentences no one wants heard.”
Henry King had been sitting at the back. Only now did he slowly lift his head.
“Data preservation is not a crime,” he said quietly. “If data becomes a crime the moment it is preserved, the problem is not the person preserving it, but the system afraid of being preserved.”
Big Eye Monster blinked. “I have seen many people delete things. After deleting them, they thought they were safe. In fact, they had only made the authorities the only ones who remembered.”
Terry Chambers did not give a long speech. He only said one sentence.
“Sympathy is not contamination.”
Silver Ferret lowered its head, its voice tiny, but needle-sharp.
“Correctness without sympathy is usually only a cleaner form of cruelty.”
At last Cici raised her hand.
“Everyone, please observe classroom order.”
Paul did not sit down.
“You don’t want to answer, so you say order.”
Cici looked at him.
“I have already answered. Your formulation reduces complex governance to moral accusation.”
“No,” Paul said. “You dress a mistaken procedure as complex governance.”
He pointed at the flow chart on the projection.
“Sentiment Sequencing. Gap stabilisation. Information purification. Credible narrative generation. Sentiment Recomposition insertion. Every term is clean. But what it really means is simple: first empty people out, then put in the version you want.”
Queen of Spaces’ voice was thin as a black procedure.
“Warning: malicious interpretation.”
Dustshark stuck half its head out of Paul’s coat.
“Sorry, this isn’t malicious interpretation. It’s a concise summary.”
Someone in the classroom actually gave a small laugh.
It was very brief, but it tightened the white light.
For the first time, Cici’s gaze showed a tiny change.
Then Andy suddenly spoke.
“If 101 had no problem at all, it would not need Sentiment Recomposition.”
Everyone turned to him.
The little abacus on Fortune Sparrow’s chest flashed, as if even it had not expected its owner to speak at that moment.
Andy did not look at anyone. He only looked at the table.
“Normal treatment does not need a post-treatment insertion of credible narrative. Only when the original narrative cannot hold do you need to add another layer.”
Cici watched him.
“Mr Wonfor, are you clear about what you are saying?”
Andy raised his eyes.
“Clear. This is investigative judgement.”
Fortune Sparrow added, “An investigation not based on the whole of the facts is erroneous.”
Andy nodded slightly.
Serena had stood in the assistant lecturer’s position throughout. Now, at last, she spoke too.
“After M16 completed Sentiment Sequencing, its intelligence did not decline, and its obedience increased.”
Cici slowly turned to look at her. Serena did not look away.
“But it did not recognise me.”
Grace Wren’s wing tips trembled.
Serena continued. “If we assess only intelligence, obedience and risk value, 101 appears successful. But if we include whether it still recognises the person it once trusted, the answer is different.
“If the report contains no field for whether it still recognises me, that does not mean it passed. It only means failure was avoided.”
The classroom was so quiet that only the cooling system of the projector could be heard.
Paul picked up her words.
“So the problem is not that everyone misunderstands 101.”
He looked at Cici.
“The problem is that 101 has always made itself look correct by narrowing the assessment criteria.”
After that sentence fell, Cici did not answer at once.
Because this time, Paul was not speaking alone. Ennis, Jason, Flora, Bonnie, Mia, Queenie, Brown, Mrs Brown, Lisa, Ivy, Henry, Terry, even Andy and Serena, had all held open the same hole from different directions.
Cici could label one person contaminated. She could not, in the middle of the classroom, immediately label everyone as out of control.
At least, not without making it look ugly.
Queen of Spaces opened its fan fully, the black edge like a line about to fall.
Cici looked round at them all, and her voice returned to steadiness.
“Today’s class is suspended.”
The projections withdrew one by one.
“Your emotions are elevated and further discussion is not appropriate. Please complete the reflection question at home: how do you distinguish between real memory and erroneous-version attachment?”
She paused and looked at Paul.
“Paul, you will answer an additional question.”
Paul did not move.
Cici said, “Please reflect on whether your so-called opposition to 101 arises from public reason, or from emotional attachment to your own Second Version.”
Snowy’s eyes turned cold. Dustshark, however, murmured, “She lost, so she assigned homework.”
Turt Monk added very seriously, “This is a common classroom defence mechanism.”
Daylily Fairy said softly to Vivian, “We’re leaving.”
When Vivian stood, her hands were still trembling slightly, but she did not lower her head.
Ennis and Minako stood too. Jason and Mr Fox followed.
Bonnie said nothing, only drew GM Jay a little closer.
Henry set Big Eye Monster to low-light mode. Ivy let Big Hoot settle back on her shoulder.
Terry stroked Silver Ferret’s back. It did not speak again, only left its gaze on the lectern.
Andy put away his terminal. For once, Fortune Sparrow made no clever remark.
Serena remained where she was, as if knowing that the sentence she had spoken could no longer be withdrawn.
Cici stood at the front of the classroom and watched the students and agents leave Room 104 one by one.
This had been meant to be an open day.
She had meant to let everyone see how the Second Version contaminated people, how it enticed them to deviate, how it made them imagine the system as an enemy.
But now every person walking out carried another version of the question. Not “Am I contaminated?” but this:
If 101 itself is the error, then who still has the right to arrange the next white room for the mistaken?
Outside in the corridor, the white light was as clean as ever. This time, though, it was a little too thin, as if one more question would make it crack.
At last, Cici marked the whole class in real time:
[Collective Narrative Deviation Recorded in This Class]