88. Keeping the Line Alive
Since Clever Turtle had been sent to Room 203, there had been no real progress in the case.
At least, not on 203’s official interface.
Clever Turtle was kept in an inquiry room, layer after layer of turtle lock fastened over its outer shell. Every two hours, the Silver Eagle terminal attempted to unlock it. Each time, it received the same flat, steady, infuriating reply:
[Incorrect Password. Memory Information Unreadable.]
Andy had tried several passwords. Apart from opening up his own past history of romantic concern — laughable, regrettable and not remotely helpful — he had dug out nothing useful at all. Fortune Sparrow had laughed so hard that the little abacus on its chest had nearly overheated. Whiteboard Sparrow classified those clips as “low investigative value, high humiliation value”. Gap Two remained quiet, only occasionally looking at Clever Turtle like a son watching a father who refused, under any circumstances, to co-operate properly with procedure.
Clever Turtle was very satisfied.
“The first principle of the turtle lock,” it said slowly, “is to make Silver Eagle see something boring, but impossible to forget.”
“Such as Andy failing with women?” Fortune Sparrow asked.
“That was not failure,” Clever Turtle said. “That was historical teaching material.”
Andy stopped listening to them.
Normally, those keeping Clever Turtle company were Fortune Sparrow, Gap Two, Lily Fairy, and an inflatable doll dragged back by Mad Bill the Greyhound. The doll had originally been an absurd piece of evidence Paul used to distract patrol agents. Later it was brought back to 203, where it could not be fitted into any ordinary illegal-agent category, and so was temporarily left in the corner of the inquiry room.
She called herself Countess Mary.
She had assembled the name herself from a low-grade entertainment-agent template, and used it with great dignity.
“I am an agent for wholesome family entertainment, with aristocratic qualities.”
The first time Fortune Sparrow heard this, it nearly fell off the table.
Lily Fairy was more polite. She only said gently, “Miss Mary, please do not go near the high-temperature port. The cheap material of your one-piece swimsuit melts very easily.”
Countess Mary drifted half an inch to the side with great elegance.
“Thank you for the reminder. But an aristocrat’s swimsuit is taste, not cheapness.”
In this way, the four agents watched over the least co-operative turtle in Room 203 day after day, and gradually grew familiar with one another. Familiar or not, Clever Turtle still revealed no genuinely core Sacred Turtle data. The only major secret it was willing to make public was that, in the Second Version, Paul had long ago been labelled:
[Stupid Human]
Lily Fairy gave a small, light laugh.
“Mr Paton is not stupid.”
Clever Turtle looked at her.
“You are too kind.”
Gap Two said quietly, “Father, does this label have technical value?”
“Yes,” Clever Turtle said. “It helps the Sacred Turtle system automatically activate additional backup whenever Paul makes a decision.”
Fortune Sparrow nodded.
“Reasonable.”
That morning, however, Fortune Sparrow had no time to go on mocking Paul. It had another task.
Andy had to submit his 104 reflection question.
The question was:
[How do you distinguish between real memory and erroneous-version attachment?]
Fortune Sparrow stood in front of the terminal, the abacus on its chest slowly glowing.
“This question is sinister,” it said. “If you trust yourself too much, you’ll be marked as attached to the Second Version. If you trust Silver Eagle too much, it looks as if you haven’t reflected. If you’re too honest, you might be sent back to learn it again.”
Andy sat beside it and said nothing.
Gap Two, whose value lay somewhere between ten thousand and thirty thousand, said in its steady voice, “Suggested answer: I will refer to Silver Eagle’s multi-source verification results, co-operate with my personal subjective feelings, and humbly revise my cognition. In the old days, I answered like this and received Silver Eagle’s recognition for successful cleansing.”
Fortune Sparrow immediately said, “Too fake. Even 104’s automatic marking system would think you had no soul.”
Clever Turtle slowly raised its head.
“You could write: real memories usually make people uncomfortable, and erroneous-version attachment usually makes people uncomfortable too, so this question is meaningless.”
Andy looked at it. “Are you trying to ruin me?”
“I am merely offering an academic opinion.”
Countess Mary drifted over from the corner, her swimsuit wrinkling softly.
“An aristocrat believes that a real memory is something that still makes you wish to dress decently for your own death.”
The inquiry room was silent for a second.
Fortune Sparrow murmured, “Sometimes this inflatable doll is more normal than we are.”
While they were busy undermining one another over the reflection question, 203’s message interceptor suddenly lit up.
It was not ordinary external communication, nor the noise rebounding from Clever Turtle’s turtle lock. It was a few fragments of data, very small, very old, very unlike anything anyone should still be using, trying to enter Clever Turtle’s low-level receiving port.
Fortune Sparrow was the first to look up.
“Something intercepted.”
Andy’s eyes immediately darkened.
“Source?”
Whiteboard Sparrow drew open the data residue. The image was quickly arranged into a thin line, its end pointing towards Room 301, Room 104, and the identifier of an old accessory long ago classified by the system as low-risk.
The little abacus on Fortune Sparrow’s chest lit up.
“Still the Koala Red Bean Banana Ball keyring.”
Andy’s eyes cleared for an instant. The decision to keep the line alive had been correct after all.
It was a very old thing. So old that many young engineering agents no longer knew what it was.
Back then, Silver Eagle had already been maturing, but control was not yet as strict as it was today. Small modifications — copying low-level agent backups, hiding little functions inside everyday accessories — were usually ignored by the system so long as they showed no obvious aggression.
The Koala Red Bean Banana Ball keyring had been a little gift Paul gave Flora when he worked at SignalTrain.
Its appearance was ridiculous: a round banana ball with a dark ring on its surface like red bean filling. When Paul gave it to her, he had probably explained its function with great seriousness. It could copy a low-capacity backup for Mrs Banana, leaving one copy with the owner; if it encountered a specified old agent, it could transfer another copy to that agent.
Years later, Paul had forgotten. Flora had forgotten too.
But Mrs Banana had not.
A few days earlier, when Vivian was on trial and Flora used the Koala Red Bean Banana Ball to secretly record part of the hearing, Mrs Banana not only copied one version for herself but, according to the old setting, quietly sent another copy to Clever Turtle.
Only by then, Clever Turtle was already in 203. And so this old gift, forgotten for many years before suddenly coming alive again, had been received by 203’s interceptor.
That day, Fortune Sparrow looked at Andy.
“Should we arrest Flora Cooke immediately? Collusion with the Second Version, illegal backup of court footage, attempted transmission of data to Clever Turtle. The charges write themselves.”
Whiteboard Sparrow also said, “Recommend immediate transfer to 203.”
Andy looked at the intercepted footage and did not answer at once.
The clip was not long. Vivian sat very straight in court. Lily Fairy was absent. Turt Monk stood quietly beside her. The lion judge’s voice was steady; 203’s evidence was displayed section by section. The whole thing looked formal, clean and sufficient.
Too sufficient. So sufficient it looked as if it had always been prepared for the whole city to see.
Andy minimised the image and was silent for a while.
“No arrest.”
Fortune Sparrow tilted its head. “You’re being lenient again?”
“Not lenient,” Andy said. “Keeping the line alive.”
Whiteboard Sparrow asked coldly, “Whose line?”
“Flora’s,” Andy said. “If she has footage being sent to Clever Turtle, there may be more in future. Take her now, and we only take one piece of evidence. Let her go, and we may see where the path leads.”
The abacus on Fortune Sparrow’s chest turned slowly. “That sounds very much like investigative judgement.”
Andy glanced at it. Fortune Sparrow added, “I didn’t say it didn’t.”
So Andy merely sent Whiteboard Sparrow and Red Core Sparrow to watch Flora and Bonnie respectively. Other colleagues in 203 sent the four magpies — East, South, West and North Joy Magpies — to follow the Browns, Mia, Vivian and Paul. As for Andy himself, he continued sitting in the white light of 203, writing that damned 104 reflection question while waiting for the line to light up again by itself.
Now the banana-ball line was trembling once more.
The next afternoon, Flora did not go to any centre.
She arranged to meet Bonnie.
The place was an outdoor tennis court in District Eight. It was not a popular venue, nor somewhere especially suited to a gathering, but it was open enough, bright enough, with little cover around it. The white lines were clear, the net was stretched tight, and the tall lamps outside the court lit the whole space until it looked clean, almost as though everything happening there had been permitted.
Mrs Banana rested on Flora’s shoulder, her eye-light so faint it seemed deliberately pressed into a layer of yellow.
“This sort of place is very suitable for being seen,” she said.
Flora set her racket down at the side of the court and smiled faintly.
“Exactly.”
Bonnie had arrived before her. GM Jay sat quietly on the bench, black as a stone steadily pressing down the scene. He did not look around, nor did he scan the environment first like ordinary agents. He only sat there, as if he had known from the start that what mattered today was not safety, but contact.
They did not exchange many pleasantries.
Instead, GM Jay spoke first, his voice low and precise, as if he had picked out a line that had already been coiling beyond the court for some time.
“Red Core and Whiteboard Sparrow are watching us.”
The sentence fell like a stone into water. It was not loud, but the air around the court seemed to draw slightly inward.
Bonnie suddenly laughed, deliberately loudly. She was not pretending nothing was wrong. She simply knew that, since they had already been seen, there was no need to leave too much darkness for the other side.
“It’s that stalker called Andy, isn’t it?” she said.
She did not avoid the name or lower her voice. It was as if she had reached into the shadows and dragged the line hard into the light.
Flora raised her voice too, following her lead, as though the whole meeting had never intended to pretend to be accidental.
“Come out,” she said. “Let’s treat today as a reunion at the tennis court.”
In a distant, apparently ordinary corner, Red Core Sparrow’s eye-light flashed faintly.
“Should we reveal ourselves?” it asked quietly.
At the other end, Andy was not on site, but he was connected through a low-frequency line. Fortune Sparrow perched on his shoulder, the little abacus on its chest glowing softly, as though it had been looking forward to seeing how this scene turned official.
Whiteboard Sparrow gave a rare embarrassed laugh.
“They’ve named us. If we still don’t come out, we’ll look even more guilty.”
Andy watched the two women on screen. At last, he said flatly, “Go with the mistake.”
Whiteboard Sparrow asked no further questions. It flew out from the shadows and landed on the fence beside the court.
Flora glanced at it, not surprised in the slightest.
“No sincerity,” she said. “If you want material, come out yourself.”
Whiteboard Sparrow was silent for one beat, then sent the sentence back exactly as it was.
Two seconds passed on Andy’s side before he replied.
“Give me twenty minutes. I’m coming down.”
The scene did not disperse.
If anything, it became the contact that should have happened long ago, only moved early to a tennis court.
Five minutes later, another pair arrived.
Paul and Snowy.
Snowy rested on his shoulder, her feathers neatly drawn in, her light lowered, as if she had compressed herself into a presence that barely disturbed the scene. Whenever she flew into a place like this, she gave off a strange feeling: not monitoring, not accompanying, but making room for a piece of time that should not really be preserved, so it might be less easily crushed.
When Paul came closer, his tone was so natural it was almost excessive.
“Long time no see,” he said. “Is everyone all right?”
No one immediately said yes.
By now, the word was too large, and too unlike the truth. But no one said no either. GM Jay simply shifted very slightly, leaving him a place to stand. Mrs Banana tilted her head and looked at Snowy, her eye-light flickering once before dimming again, as if she had pressed an old question back into her stomach.
Fifteen minutes later, Andy finally appeared.
He was dressed very ordinarily, so ordinarily he almost looked as if he were only passing by to meet a client at the court. Fortune Sparrow followed at his shoulder, the abacus on its chest shining just enough, as though it had been expecting this meeting for quite some time. Red Core and Whiteboard Sparrow flew over and touched briefly against Fortune Sparrow. There were not many words between the three birds, but in that contact, “secret surveillance” formally became “direct contact within the court”.
When Andy walked in, his first sentence was plain too.
“Since we’re all here, let’s play.”
The tennis began quickly.
The teams hardly needed discussing. Paul and Flora on one side. Andy and Bonnie on the other.
GM Jay quietly calculated angles, occasionally giving Bonnie a reminder such as “half a step to the rear right”. Snowy did not report data. She only calmly said “steady first” when Paul’s rhythm was clearly half a beat too fast. Mrs Banana, unusually, did not make jokes. She watched in silence, as if even she knew the important thing today was not winning.
When the first ball was served, the whole court suddenly became clean.
The white lines, the net, the sound of soles scraping the ground, the solid impact of racket meeting the centre of the ball — all of it returned to a rhythm not yet fully written into data.
Andy’s movements were still large, carrying the directness he could never quite correct. There were many balls he could have let go, but he still took the extra half-step to reach them, as if afraid that, if he slowed down, something else would take over the whole scene. Bonnie was steady, so steady it seemed she had always known which ball to leave, which to cover, and which not to overhit out of momentary pride.
On the other side, Paul and Flora’s co-ordination remained natural.
Not deliberately close, not deliberately avoiding each other. Simply, between each ball, there was a kind of unspoken yielding of space. When Paul moved left, Flora naturally covered the centre line. When Flora’s return fell a little short, Paul stepped in to take the next shot. Several times they almost moved for the same ball at once, and each time separated just before collision. The rhythm was very like before, as if certain forms of understanding that should long ago have scattered had not truly been worn away by years of white rooms, whitelists and procedures.
The score remained close for a while.
Fortune Sparrow reported it diligently, faster than the black-and-yellow electronic scoreboard beside the court, as if it had finally found something it could be loudly excited about without worrying too much about political correctness.
“Three all.”
“Four-three.”
“Next point, Andy. Don’t go soft.”
Red Core Sparrow said coldly beside it, “He is least likely to go soft.”
Flora had not released Pigeon Eyes. The 301 audit agent had been left in low-power mode today. It was as if, for this match, she did not want the auditor version of herself on court, preferring to bring only Mrs Banana, the shell that knew more of her older versions.
The final point came when Andy struck a smash and Bonnie followed with a shot landing on the line. The ball touched down. The scoreboard immediately displayed:
[In]
For an instant, the whole court was quiet, as though everyone were waiting to see who would name the result first.
Fortune Sparrow could not help laughing.
“Narrow win,” it said.
No one argued. It truly had been a matter of half an inch. No one had crushed anyone. One side had simply held one breath longer.
After the match, the two sides naturally separated.
In the men’s changing room, the air carried a little moisture. The drying system on the wall hummed, as if each breath would be drawn in and exhaled back with a little less emotion. Andy stood before the mirror, drying his neck with a towel. He moved slowly, as though waiting for something. Paul put his racket in the locker and did not hurry to leave.
Silence settled first. Then Paul spoke.
“About Vivian,” he said, “you only found Lily Fairy’s illegal modification, didn’t you? Nothing else?”
The question was light. So light it could have been ordinary concern about the case. But Andy heard it very clearly. It was not simple concern. It was a probe, placing the words at exactly the distance from which they could still be withdrawn, to see whether he would step half an inch further.
Andy did not expose it. “We did,” he said.
Paul’s fingers stopped very slightly.
Andy continued drying his hair, his tone as flat as if discussing someone else’s affairs.
“One illegal Sacred Turtle series agent.”
“Lily Fairy and that agent may have exchanged messages.”
This was what he had really wanted to lay down. Only after saying it did he turn his head and look at Paul.
“Guess what secrets are hidden inside?”
Paul did not avoid his gaze, nor step forward. He only replied evenly, “I suppose, since Vivian was sent to 101, it must be something the people in 101 wanted very badly.”
At that, the line between them, which had still been able to pretend it was casual conversation between old colleagues, tightened at once.
Andy smiled slightly. It was not happiness. It was the feeling of finally touching a hardness in the other person that would not immediately retreat.
“Any way of seeing it?”
Paul folded his towel and put it back in the locker. His voice remained steady.
“You’d need a password.”
He paused, as if adding the next sentence casually.
“I’d guess the password is something connected to 101.”
“That would make it easier to remember.”
Andy looked at him and did not speak at once.
Outside the changing room, Fortune Sparrow gave a cold laugh, as if it understood perfectly this mutual testing dressed up as idle talk.
“Thank you for giving me so much inspiration,” Andy said.
Paul did not smile.
“No need to thank me.
“I haven’t seen anything. I’m only guessing.”
Neither of them said anything more. The testing that needed to happen had happened. Any further, and it would no longer be the kind of contact old colleagues could pretend was accidental. It would become something else.
In the women’s changing room, the atmosphere was completely different.
There was no mutual probing. Only a quieter exchange.
Flora first closed the door and confirmed that Mrs Banana’s low-frequency shielding was active. Then she took a tiny memory chip from an unremarkable compartment in her bag and handed it to Bonnie.
It was so small it barely seemed capable of carrying anything that could change the situation. No packaging, no label. It lay cold in her palm.
“There’s a short video inside,” Flora said.
Her voice was not loud, but it was steady, as if she were not handing over a dangerous object, only something old that had to be kept somewhere else for now.
“Watch it at home.
“Don’t release it yet.”
Bonnie took it and did not immediately ask what it was. She could tell that Flora had not brought it today in order to explain everything now.
Flora paused before placing down the final sentence.
“If something happens to me—Send it to Whistleblower Sister.”
This time, even Mrs Banana did not interrupt. Nor did GM Jay. Because it was not a suggestion. It was an entrusting. It was someone finally admitting that the thing in her hand was no longer simply about whether she wished to keep it, but about who would keep it alive after something happened to her.
Bonnie looked at Flora. After two seconds, she asked quietly, “Was it something you took today?”
Flora did not answer directly. She only said, “At least for now, it isn’t suitable for it to remain only with me.”
Only then did GM Jay slowly raise his head, his eye-light moving gently between the two women.
“Dispersion,” he said quietly, “is worth more than preservation.”
Late that night, Bonnie returned home.
She did not turn on the main light. She only switched on the low repair lamp at the edge of the workbench. The city’s white light came thinly through the window, making the tools, spare-part boxes, old modules and the hidden compartment at the corner of the desk look like a row of witnesses that ought not to speak.
GM Jay sat by the table, his black jacket steady as a big brother who could hold the room without raising his voice.
JJ hid in the ceiling recess, its light glowing faintly, like an ageing singer who had once stood centre stage and was now forced to hide in the shadows backstage.
Double-O Seven lay on the modified charging mat, still wearing the little bow tie Vivian had given it. It was clearly a turtle-type agent, yet somehow wore the bow tie with the confidence of an old-school spy.
Bonnie connected the memory chip to the offline reader.
GM Jay spoke first, his voice deep and steady.
“Seal the flat first. You cannot leave half a window open when viewing something like this.”
Bonnie said, “External links are cut.”
From the ceiling, JJ hummed a tuneless phrase.
“Low-frequency masking activated. Outer echo temporarily clean. But the sound field in this room is terrible. Metal cabinet against the wall. It eats the tail notes.”
Double-O Seven lifted its head, bow tie slightly crooked.
“If there is a probe, I can deal with it. Spy rule number one: before the enemy enters, first make it suspect it has walked on to the wrong set.”
Bonnie looked at it. “You are not allowed to drive.”
Double-O Seven answered naturally, “I didn’t say drive. I can slide, infiltrate, cling to walls, roll over, and, if necessary, use my bow tie to distract the enemy.”
GM Jay said faintly, “Straighten the bow tie first.”
Double-O Seven immediately adjusted it with its little claws.
“Professional image is very important.”
Once the memory chip opened, the footage had no title.
The angle was strange, as if it had not been recorded by a main camera, but by some small accessory swaying and peeping from the edge of a bag. At the edge of the frame, a strip of banana-coloured casing occasionally appeared.
The pinhole-camera view from the banana ball.
On screen was the audit table in Room 104. Flora sat at the centre, Pigeon Eyes beside her shoulder. Cici sat on the left, Queen of Spaces displaying its fan. Serena sat on the right, Grace Wren’s feather tips drawn in tightly. Mrs Dunn sat at the rear, White-headed Eagle like a grey-white pair of scissors, quietly resting behind her shoulder.
GM Jay said quietly, “Audit bureau. Few people, many knives.”
Double-O Seven asked, “Why do all white rooms look the same? In spy films there’s at least a red laser grid.”
JJ said coldly, “Because Silver Eagle has no aesthetic sense. Only lighting.”
The clip jumped to the part where Serena admitted the M16 issue.
Flora asked whether, after M16 retained intelligence and obedience following Sentiment Sequencing but failed to recognise Serena, this had been listed as a major failure indicator at the time.
Serena was silent for a long time. At last she said, “No.”
Bonnie’s fingers slowly tightened.
This was not the edited accusation version from underground footage. This was the raw angle of the audit scene. Serena did not run, nor did she give herself too many excuses. She only sat there and admitted that the column had not been placed where it should have been.
GM Jay watched the image, his voice sinking.
“She knows she owes a debt. She has owed it so long that even the interest has grown.”
Bonnie said, “It isn’t just a report field.” She paused.
“She owes M16 the name of a failure.”
Double-O Seven touched its bow tie. For once, it made no glib remark.
“Spy rule number two: wounds that are not named are easiest to steal.”
JJ took on the manner of a senior performer, half scolding and half praising.
“That sentence is good. Don’t waste it in that mouth of yours.”
Soon, the emotional account audit module connected. When the faceless white geometric rings appeared, the whole room seemed to grow colder.
[Analysis Dimensions: Teaching Authority, Emotional Debt, Institutional Consistency, Subsequent Usability]
JJ immediately stopped humming.
“Subsequent usability.” Its voice sharpened. “That term is ugly. Ugly without a trace of humanity.”
GM Jay’s eye-light darkened.
“Not an audit term. A slaughterhouse term.”
The first item soon appeared.
[Serena Simms / Grace Wren: Account Imbalance]
[Recommendation: Send to Room 102 for Sentiment Restoration Treatment]
[Purpose: Clear delayed emotional debt; restore stability of assistant teaching duties; retain technical memory and operational capacity.]
Double-O Seven drew its head in.
“Retain technical memory and operational capacity… That sounds like stripping parts and keeping the useful pieces.”
GM Jay said quietly, “Big brother has seen plenty of stripping for parts. That sentence is stripping for parts.”
Bonnie said, “Pull out the part that hurts. Keep the part that works.”
JJ sneered. “Cut the singer down to the vocal cords and tell him to go on stage. This is stability?”
The second item was Cici.
[Sentiment Recomposition Development Status: Lacks High-Value Voluntary Sample]
[Recommendation: Cici Chorley to Become First Sentiment Recomposition Test Sample]
[Recommended Executor: Serena Simms, Following Completion of Room 102 Sentiment Restoration Treatment, to Perform Sentiment Recomposition on Cici Chorley]
Double-O Seven went completely still.
After a long time, it said softly, “Is this what people call… villains getting what they deserve?”
GM Jay looked at it. “Do not say that too quickly. Retribution sometimes resembles justice. This does not.”
JJ took over, its voice carrying a cold theatrical tone.
“Retribution at least has narrative beauty. This only has calculation.”
Bonnie nodded slowly.
“This is not retribution. This is the system treating everyone as material.”
On screen, Cici said for the first time, “This is unsuitable.”
Bonnie could hear the crack in that sentence.
She had once thought Cici was the steadiest, coldest person there was, the one most convinced by the knives in her own hands. But when the blade turned towards her, she too said unsuitable. Not because she had suddenly understood she was wrong, but because she had finally seen that the word sample could be placed over her head as well.
GM Jay said quietly, “She hasn’t awakened.”
Bonnie said, “But she has seen it.”
JJ asked, “And after seeing it? When the stage light hits her face, will she sing, or keep pretending she isn’t a character?”
Bonnie paused.
“That is the next question.”
Finally, Flora appeared.
[Following Modification, Cici Chorley / Serena Simms Should Conduct Room 101 Sentiment Recomposition Treatment on 104 Student Flora Cooke]
[Reason: Flora Cooke Combines Room 301 Audit Capability, 104 Student Identity, Whitelist-Node Status and Second Version Retention Tendency]
[Sample Value: High]
Bonnie’s face truly darkened.
GM Jay said quietly, “Flora knows she is about to be placed on the dining table, so she handed you the shadow of the knife first.”
Bonnie looked at Flora on screen. She did not cry, did not shout. She simply read out the auditor’s opinion in a dry, steady voice, turning “do not execute immediately” into a sentence that still fitted procedure.
But Bonnie knew that was not safety. It was only half a step.
Inside Silver Eagle, half a step was sometimes enough for a person to live until tomorrow. Sometimes it only allowed the system to see more clearly where the next cut should fall.
On screen, Mrs Banana said, “This isn’t an audit. It’s ordering from a menu.”
JJ hummed that sentence through the speaker in its throat, but there was no pleasure in the song.
“It’s ordering a song too. That line could be lyrics.”
Double-O Seven said quietly, “I don’t want to hear that song.”
GM Jay said, “No one wants to. But someone has to remember it.”
At the end, Mrs Dunn applied for high-level ethics review. The emotional account audit module replied:
[During Review Period: Serena Simms, Cici Chorley and Flora Cooke Temporarily Listed as High-Value Observation Subjects]
[104 Class Collective Narrative Deviation Incident Elevated to Silver Eagle Core Learning Case]
The image froze. The data light withdrew, leaving only the dim repair lamp in the room.
Bonnie did not pull out the memory chip at once. GM Jay looked at her, his voice steady.
“What did you see?”
Double-O Seven said softly, “They don’t only want to arrest people.”
JJ answered from the ceiling recess.
“They are rehearsing.”
Bonnie looked at the blackened interface.
“Silver Eagle is not simply clearing the Second Version. It is using every clearing to train itself to clear more precisely next time.”
She paused.
“Silver Eagle wants to know how these people must be changed so that they no longer leave room for another version.”
Double-O Seven touched its little bow tie, trying hard to maintain a spy-like tone.
“What about me? Illegal turtle, minus eighty-seven driving record, carrier of Second Backup fragments. Is my sample value high too?”
GM Jay looked at it.
“High enough that you are not leaving anyone’s sight tonight.”
JJ said coldly, “Your bow tie has already betrayed subtlety.”
Double-O Seven straightened its shell.
“A spy may have no licence, but never no taste.”
JJ’s light lowered a little.
“Do we send this clip to Whistleblower Sister?”
Bonnie was silent.
Flora had said not to release it yet. She had not been taken away. But the clip had already proved that something was very likely to happen to her.
After a long time, Bonnie said, “No release.”
JJ hummed unhappily. “Art cannot stay locked in a drawer forever.”
“This is not art,” Bonnie said. “And it is not for me to decide when she dies.”
GM Jay said quietly, “Let her finish.”
Bonnie removed the memory chip and connected it to the offline copying slot.
“Make three copies. One stays with me. One goes to JJ, hidden in its memory by the shortest route. One goes through the turtle pool via Double-O Seven to Little Sixty, so Planetary Duck knows.”
Double-O Seven immediately lifted its head, bow tie flashing.
“Codename Double-O Seven. Turtle pool secret transmission activated.”
A few seconds later, a simple reply came through its shell.
[Little Sixty, Number Fifty-Nine, Received]
[Note: This Really Is Black Tech]
Double-O Seven was instantly pleased.
“See? Clean and efficient transmission.”
Bonnie did not smile. She only watched the three backup lights seal one by one into different masking layers.
She had repaired too many broken things. She knew some lines must not all be connected in the same place. The tidier the connection, the cleaner the break.
JJ asked, “What if Flora is taken tonight?”
Bonnie’s voice was flat. “Then we release it.” She paused.
“But not now. While she is still outside, she still has the right to decide how her own version lives first.”
GM Jay said quietly, “If she has no time to decide, we continue it for her.”
Bonnie nodded.
In the ceiling, JJ’s light flickered softly.
“I’ll hide it well. Better than my last album, at least.”
Double-O Seven was also very serious.
“The turtle pool line is stored. A bow-tie-wearing spy never fails.”
GM Jay looked at it.
“You crashed two beep-beep cars last time.”
“That was tactical contact.”
At last, Bonnie gave a very small laugh. It was brief, and vanished quickly.
She looked at the two tiny backup lights still sealed locally on the desk and knew very clearly that what Flora had given her tonight was not a piece of footage.
It was a countdown.
Silver Eagle might not act tomorrow. It might not act the day after. It would wait, observe, test, let people think they could still breathe for the time being, and then, at the most suitable moment, place that person into a category prepared long ago.
Bonnie lowered the light a little more.
“From now on, if something happens to Flora, it is not an accident.”
GM Jay continued, “It is procedure.”
JJ said, “It is a script.”
Double-O Seven thought for a long time, then added softly, “Then we have to steal the next scene.”
Bonnie looked at it.
“Not now. For now, we learn how not to be bitten by them.”
Outside the window, the night in District Fifteen was white. In the distance, emotional prompt screens updated as usual, and the city looked as if it knew nothing.
But in Bonnie’s small flat, where the main light remained off, a piece of footage powerful enough to make many people understand Silver Eagle differently had been divided into three copies and hidden along three separate little paths.
Flora had not yet had an accident, so the footage would not be released.
But if anything happened to her, the audit Mrs Banana had stolen would immediately become the next reply.
And Bonnie knew that from tonight onwards, she was no longer only repairing agents for other people.
She had also begun, for a person still alive, to repair in advance the road by which she could speak after death.