11. Dispersed Archive
The night before Bonnie was taken away, she recorded a video.
Not for a person.
People who truly understood the underground rules rarely left their final words directly to other people. People got frightened. People changed their stories. At the crucial moment, people protected themselves first.
Agents were different.
As long as their memory cores remained intact, they were more like vessels. They could preserve a version first, and wait for the next person still willing to open it.
The light in the video was dim.
Not because the room was unlit, but because only one work lamp had been left on. Its yellow-white glow covered the desktop exactly. Everything beyond it withdrew into shadow.
Bonnie sat at the table, her hair tied back. Her face looked paler than usual, though not from tiredness. More as if she had switched off many unnecessary expressions in advance.
JJ was beside her on the left, a few old scratches across his casing, eyes glowing steadily. On her right was Mini Twinky, a small star-shaped agent whose five-point shell glimmered faintly at the edges, like an old star forced into the cracks of the city and still refusing to go out.
Bonnie glanced at the camera, then at Mini Twinky.
“Start.”
Mini Twinky responded at once, its voice crisp as a surgical timestamp.
“Underground backup mode activated. First layer: local archive. Second layer: distributed nodes. Third layer: pending transfer.”
JJ swayed lightly. His tone was more lively, though deliberately lowered, as if afraid the outside world might be listening.
“If they really come, at least the version stays behind.”
Bonnie nodded.
She did not go straight to the point.
Instead, she calmly stated her name, her graduation year, and how after university she had joined SignalTrain AI as an agent developer.
Her tone was as flat as someone reading an ordinary job summary. But anyone who knew the truth would understand: she was not giving a work history.
She was giving a route.
Only once the route was clear would the consequences have somewhere to land.
“Paul and Andy were both there then,” she said. “Andy understood things earlier than most. On the surface, he just looked like someone very competent. But in truth, there were many threads he already knew not to touch directly.”
Mini Twinky added, “Andy Winson. Bonnie’s former colleague. We usually called him Andy.”
Bonnie gave a faint hum.
“Flora was introduced by Andy too. She was his classmate. For a while, the four of us used to play online mahjong at the community health centre.”
Mini Twinky’s eyes brightened slightly, as though marking the time.
“During the SignalTrain years, Paul specialised in the divine turtle agent system,” Bonnie continued. “People outside only knew he was meticulous and stable, the sort of person suitable for long-term companionship or educational applications. But the real key wasn’t the turtle form. It was the lower layer. Those sea turtle agents had absorbed part of Silver Eagle’s development data, code, and programming interfaces. Not the complete core, but enough. Enough to see the logic. Enough to see the holes.”
She paused there.
Not from hesitation.
More as though waiting for an old, deep name to surface on its own.
“That was why SignalTrain invited him to become an agent development analyst,” she said. “Because he understood Silver Eagle. Not just how to use it, but how it grew, how it hid, where it was brightest, and where it leaked most easily.”
Mini Twinky’s voice lowered.
“And where back doors could be opened.”
Bonnie did not deny it.
“Later, SignalTrain was acquired by FaceBridge, and I left,” she said. “I didn’t want to hand everything over to serve those cleaner versions. So I started my own company, repairing agents for clients. Some legal. Some that only looked more or less legal.”
JJ murmured, “And some that saved lives.”
The corner of Bonnie’s mouth moved slightly, though the smile never fully formed.
“Paul taught me part of the technology. Not only because I was especially trustworthy, but because he knew that if a loophole stayed in the hands of one person, it was as good as having no backup.”
She lifted her eyes to the camera. Her gaze was steady.
“So Silver Eagle’s people were not only targeting him. They were targeting me too.”
The room fell silent for two seconds.
Perhaps a vehicle passed outside. A pale blade of light slid through a crack in the wall, then vanished.
Mini Twinky turned slightly, completed a silent scan, confirmed there were no new tracking nodes, and returned to position.
Bonnie leaned back a little, her voice lower than before.
“I’m not afraid of going to class,” she said. “I just know that if I go, they won’t let me go again. Because I know too much.”
JJ’s voice seemed pressed down by a sudden wind.
“So you skipped class.”
“So I skipped class,” Bonnie said. “Rather than walking into the net myself, I’d rather leave behind what can still be left.”
She turned to Mini Twinky.
“Record this properly. Paul knows Silver Eagle’s vulnerabilities. He also knows how to write back-door software along those vulnerabilities. He taught me part of it. I’m passing it on to you now. If I’m gone later, at least the technology won’t disappear with me.”
Mini Twinky’s reply was brief.
“Received.”
JJ asked quietly:
“And Paul?”
Bonnie was silent for a short moment before saying:
“He’ll remember eventually. When he does, he’ll come looking for you.”
She split the final technical package into two parts. One went into Mini Twinky. The other was written into JJ.
The process made almost no sound.
Only threads of light, thin as needles, flashed across the desktop and went out again, like someone sewing in the dark. Fast, practised stitching, because one second slower would be too late.
At the end of the video, she did not say goodbye.
She only looked at the camera and said evenly:
“If you see Paul later, remind him not to keep tidying himself into something so clean and presentable.”
The image cut off there.
The next day, Bonnie was arrested.
That same day, at 10:07 in the morning, the doorbell rang at Paul’s flat.
The sound was neither urgent nor heavy. It resembled a reminder that had long since been entered into a schedule.
Snowy lifted her head and looked at me first. She said nothing, only shifted her gaze lightly towards the door.
The movement was like a bird warning you:
the wind has changed.
I went to open the door.
Cindy stood outside.
She was still wearing that pale grey coat, its fabric soft, like someone willing to listen to you speak.
Beside her stood a woman of roughly the same age. Short, neat hair. Gentle expression. So clean she seemed to have no emotional edges showing.
“Good morning, Paul,” Cindy said. “This is Linda, an emotional counsellor.”
Linda nodded slightly.
Her agent slid out from behind her: a silver-white dolphin with smooth lines, its tail fin moving lightly, as naturally as if it were swimming through water.
“Dolphin Bubbles,” she said.
Snowy stood on the bookshelf, her wings tightening slightly.
Fifi Dog followed Cindy inside. The round-eared dog-shaped agent lowered its head as it entered, scanning the environment with its nose almost touching the floor.
A fine hum soon spread through the air.
Silver Eagle’s low-frequency scan.
Like measuring the room’s breathing first, before deciding how anxious one was allowed to be.
Fifi Dog suddenly stopped.
Its nose slowly turned towards the wooden floorboard on the right.
The hidden compartment.
My heart tightened.
At that exact second, Snowy slipped lightly from the edge of the bookshelf. She looked at me first, as though telling me not to turn round.
Then something fell to the floor with a sharp tap.
She had dropped it precisely, at an angle just far enough from the compartment to pull attention away.
It was a cigar.
Fifi Dog immediately turned its head. Its scanning beam fell like fine rain.
The logic of an agent was direct: the suspicious object in front of it always took priority over something not yet confirmed.
Cindy lowered her eyes and smiled.
“You still keep these old accessories.”
I bent to pick up the cigar, keeping my tone as natural as possible.
“An old friend gave it to me.”
Dolphin Bubbles swayed its tail softly, smoothing the air.
“Some people keep old accessories as mementoes,” it said. “That is not uncommon.”
Fifi Dog finished scanning the cigar and did not pursue the matter. Its nose slowly left the floor. The wooden panel became an ordinary floorboard again.
It did not say normal.
Nor did it say no anomaly detected.
It simply left that second hanging in the air, like an unannounced marker, held for later use.
The living room was soon arranged into a temporary counselling space.
Dolphin Bubbles and Snowy began connecting. A fine line of light appeared between the two agents, like two rivers converging.
Silver Eagle activated at the back end.
A line of text slowly appeared on the wall screen:
[Emotional Stability Assessment]
[Domestic Care Mode]
Linda looked at me, her tone still gentle.
“This is only a routine assessment. The system has recently detected increased retrospective activity, so we’ve come to check your emotional load.”
Dolphin Bubbles emitted low-frequency sound waves, gentle enough to resemble breathing practice, yet precise enough to imply that even breathing had an acceptable range.
Snowy transmitted the data.
Several curves slowly appeared on the screen: emotional fluctuation, sleep rhythm, activity density.
They looked like a split spectrum, laid out line by line across the display. Silent, but more scrutinising than any question.
Linda watched for a while before saying softly:
“You’ve been thinking about the past a great deal recently.”
It was not a question.
It was a statement.
She already knew the answer.
She was merely reading it aloud to me.
I did not deny it.
Silver Eagle soon produced its conclusion.
[Recommendation: emotional soothing course]
Linda read the line aloud, her tone as steady as if announcing an ordinary arrangement.
“These courses are usually short-term. Their main purpose is to help the model recalibrate fluctuations.”
I was silent for a moment before speaking.
“I’ve actually been looking for work recently. If I need to attend interviews and submit applications, I may not have much time for classes.”
I paused, slowly adjusting the next sentence into a form more likely to be accepted.
“Could a career analysis assessment be used instead?”
The living room was silent for two seconds.
Cindy did not answer at once. She only turned to Fifi Dog.
“Connect and check.”
Fifi Dog and Snowy linked again.
Silver Eagle recalculated.
The text on the screen refreshed line by line:
[Alternative option under assessment]
[Emotional course → deferred]
[Recommendation: career analysis assessment]
Cindy glanced at the result and nodded.
“That’s possible. I’ll arrange a career navigation consultant for you.”
She pronounced the name of the department.
“Industry Development Centre.”
She said it naturally, as though referring to the most ordinary department imaginable.
But I knew it was not ordinary.
It was a rhythm-calibration body under the WPC, only with an outer shell that looked more like a service counter. More like someone helping you find your way.
“It will help analyse your skills, CV, and suitable career directions,” Cindy said. “If your life rhythm stabilises, your emotional model usually stabilises along with it.”
Dolphin Bubbles added softly, “Stability is not about shrinking you. It is about making things less difficult for you.”
If Little Bluey had been awake, he would certainly have said, That sort of sentence is the most valuable and the least trustworthy.
But he was inside the hidden compartment, silent.
On the surface, the room remained an ordinary resident’s morning.
Quiet.
Clean.
Cooperative.
The assessment was completed.
When they left, the door closed softly.
The corridor soon returned to silence, as if the visit had been nothing more than a routine daytime interlude.
I stood by the door for a while.
Only once the footsteps had completely disappeared did I lock the door again.
Snowy flew down and landed by the hall cabinet. Her voice was still low and gentle.
“I suppressed several abnormal points for you just now,” she said. “But they have already begun using alternative options.”
She did not directly say, they won’t let you go.
She never did.
She simply laid the facts flat and left me to understand them.
That evening, the living-room lights were dimmed very low.
I walked to the hidden compartment and said softly:
“Come out.”
A tiny voice sounded from inside.
“Passphrase.”
I inhaled.
“Flora Cooke.”
I paused for a second, then added the second line.
“Gold Saints 2s.”
Little Turtle was silent for half a second, as though comparing voiceprint, rhythm, and the heartbeat I had suppressed when speaking that name.
Then he said:
“Verification passed.”
The wooden panel was slowly pushed open.
Little Turtle’s eyes lit up. He first scanned the living room, his gaze pausing on Snowy for less than a second, as if confirming whether she could currently be treated only as an observer.
Then he lowered his voice until it was flatter and thinner, like a list unfit to remain in the air for long.
“There are two more records,” Little Turtle said. “Both are in external nodes. Your current clearance is insufficient for me to retrieve them directly.”
I looked at him.
“How do I get them?”
“Find two people.”
Little Turtle paused for one second, as though confirming that once these two names were spoken aloud, they would become new action paths inside me, impossible to retract.
“First: Thomas. Your secondary school classmate.”
My fingertips tingled faintly.
Little Turtle did not pause for long before continuing:
“Second: Andy. Your former colleague.”
“Why do they have them?” I asked.
“Because your former self dispersed the colours and stored them separately,” he said. “Not to hide them. For insurance. If any single node was erased, you could still reconstruct from the others.”
Snowy spoke softly then.
“That is dangerous,” she said. “But also clever.”
She paused, then added, as though correcting a judgement that had come too close to taking a side:
“At least, from a backup-logic perspective, it is a high fault-tolerance design.”
Little Bluey had woken too. The whole mouse crept slowly out of the shadows, the small light at the tip of his nose flickering.
“You weren’t just leaving yourself escape routes back then,” he said. “You simply never trusted a single version. People, memories, technology, agents — everything had to be split apart and stored separately. From here, it looks as if you were much clearer-headed then than you are now.”
Little Turtle neither agreed nor denied it. He only added flatly:
“Distributed storage increases traceability risk, but reduces single-point elimination risk. It was the most reasonable strategy at the time.”
I raised my head and looked out of the window.
Silver Eagle was still operating throughout the city.
Silent.
Accurate.
Stable.
It needed no emotion.
No explanation.
It only needed everyone to move along their assigned tracks, like a vast, level net slowly pressing every rise and fall flat.
And for the first time, I felt that perhaps recovering myself was not about breaking the system.
It was about gathering back, little by little, the light that had been dispersed.
First Thomas.
Then Andy.
And perhaps one day, I would finally be able to take that beam split into seven colours and place it back in my own hands.
Snowy said nothing.
She only lowered the living-room lights by another half step.
As though leaving this decision with a little more night, and a little less visibility.