SHILOH

The Board's Conference Room might be one of the most lavish, indulgent locations in the Cloister. Not because it's so extravagant in and of itself, but because of its purpose, in relation to its size.

Real estate is limited, here. If something takes up space, there's usually a good reason. The storage bays usually house important equipment, parts, and artifacts. 'Mechanical' connects to one of the hangars leading to the outside, and has enough space to accommodate the vehicles, equipment, and gear that are tinkered with there on a daily basis. The Cargo Bay is the primary communal area, and has to remain spacious in order to fulfil that function.

The Conference Room is just...a room. It is used for one purpose, and usually for short, infrequent periods. It is a place for five people—the Board—to sit, and talk.

The conference table is long and rectangular(the same general shape of the room itself), and much larger than it needs to be for just five people. The walls are a light teal color, though the paint is starting to chip lately, and no one's bothered to give it another coat yet. Various framed photos and paintings spot the walls. Some of them are of the old world. Most are pictures taken inside the Cloister. One of them is a sweeping photo of the desert range to the south, beyond the canals.

At the far end of the room is a smaller table with a coffee machine, which at the moment is making churning, bubbling sounds, as steam rises from the vent in a constant stream, and the coffee pot seated in the machine steadily fills up. There are five ceramic mugs next to the machine, sitting upside down on a dish towel.

It's been noisy in here, ever since all five members of the Board entered the room and shut the door behind them.

Most of the talking—yelling, really—is courtesy of Reverend Tomos Corfield. He rants passionately, and a little sweatily, reminding Shiloh of the more intense parts of the sermons he gives every Sunday in the Cargo Bay. He shakes his head, causing his old-man jowls to waggle. Pearls of perspiration glisten on his pink, balding pate. Grey, whisker-y hairs flail about from one side of his head to the other. He talks of leadership. Of the responsibility we all have to look out for each other. Of the power of faith in uncertain times.

The rest of the Board, they know this is no time for a sermon. But they all know that once Corfield gets going, it's difficult to get him to stop. It's best to weather his onslaught, glean whatever wisdom or perspective they can from the dissertation, and move on to the rest of the proceedings, having taken Corfield's opinion into account.

Shiloh stands opposite him, on the other side of the table, leaning with her back to the wall, arms folded. She feels...unnerved. Twitchy. Like there's a bug in the room she can't see, buzzing back and forth from one ear to the other.

"Faith, ladies and gentlemen," Corfield says, glancing about the room. "Not fear. When I look around at the faces in this room, fear is what I see. Imagine if, at the Battle of Jericho, when Joshua commanded the people of God to march around the walled city, there were none that followed him, because of fear? It is faith that we must cling to. Without faith, there is no victory."

In a sense, he is correct. There is no reward without risk. A leap of faith must be made. Shiloh's father always taught her as much. But she's pretty sure she doesn't like where this particular analogy is going.

"Who said anything about victory? This is survival, Mr. Corfield."

"And that exact attitude," Corfield says, raising a shaky finger to point at Shiloh, "Is precisely why we are in this predicament. Joshua—our Joshua—gave his command, and you attempted to overturn it!"

Is...he actually equating Gavin to Joshua? In the Bible??

"I tried to warn Gavin, Reverend. He didn't listen. I hardly see-"

"Perhaps I should speak slower," Corfield says, his expression morphing into a snarl, his tone nasty. "We are the people of God. Our victory is incumbent on faith!"

That's it.

Shiloh takes two steps, and leans forward, slapping both palms on the table, looking Corfield dead in the eye.

"You're shaking. Don't try to ball your fist; I can still see it. Your pupils are dilated. You're taking short, shallow breaths. Don't talk to me about fear. Or faith. Or leadership. I can recall a time when my father was our Joshua. Most abandoned him as soon as the going got tough. And you were one of them, Reverend. He told you there was a way to reverse some of the ecological damage. Turn this desert back into some semblance of what it used to be. You didn't want to believe him."

"This new world we live in is an act of judgment from God," Corfield says, shaking from anger as well as fear. "Only God, not science, can reverse it. You should know that as one of his purported children, you've attended Sunday school enough times-"

"Enough!" Yells Evelyn, from the far end of the room. She grabs one of the mugs off the table, flips it right side up, and begins pouring herself a steaming cup. "This is a waste of time and energy. We need to solve the problem, now, not point fingers."

She's right, of course. It is a waste of energy. According to Gavin's report, the Ruster out there—named Daimon—is going to break into the Cloister in an hour and a half's time from now. It will be a catastrophic event. It will jeopardize...well, everything.

"There's only one path forward from here," Evelyn says, blowing on her coffee. She seems surprisingly un-harried by this situation. Like she might be on her way to settle into a comfy chair with a book. "We have to hand over the captured Ruster to this 'Daimon'. The only question which remains is the method."

"We're to simply hand over this piece of technology to our enemy?" Corfield says, rounding on Evelyn. "No questions asked?"

First semi-reasonable thing he's said this entire meeting.

Seamus, who's been watching the Reverend with some wariness and alarm at his behavior, suddenly starts to nod in agreement.

Only one person has yet to throw their hat in the ring. Samuel Callahan. His elbows are on the table, fingers tented, eyes fixed on the bare wall ahead of him. Tall and imposing, despite his slender build, he's usually a quiet man. But when he talks, people listen. Of those on the Board that eventually turned their backs on Shiloh's father, Callahan held out the longest. When he did put his foot down, it opened the floodgates for everyone to abandon the 'Darvin vision'.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"I disagree," Callahan says. His voice is low, with a bit of a rumble to it. "There are lots of questions. And little time to make sense of them."

He turns his head to face Shiloh, fingers still tented. "Gavin was clearly hysterical, attacking you the way he did. But what he said, about the way things have shaken out? I have to wonder as well. The question must be posed. Why is it you have such a keen pulse on the situation?"

The rest of the Board, Seamus included, turn to face her as well, awaiting an answer. Four stupefied faces.

Maybe Shiloh's just worked up from...well, everything, but she's starting to get real tired of that look. That accusatory, questioning look.

"Chalk it up to a breakdown in communication," Shiloh says. "Chalk it up to a broken chain of command, and a lack of due diligence. Gavin knew everything I did, including the fact that the Biodroid he captured came from the south, on foot. I called for a meeting because I thought the four of you should be among the first to know. Maybe you should be asking why Gavin was so cavalier about this development. He was seemingly completely uninterested in the actual origins of the Biodroid, or why it was here. Then he goes and marches all of his men into danger without consulting any of us, and completely disregarding my advice and observations. Maybe you should be asking questions about that."

This was, of course, a reiteration of part of her testimony of the events, which she'd already divulged, in detail, at the beginning of this meeting. Which made this even more frustrating. Why were they spending so much time on this?

"That's a bad-faith accusation!" Corfield says, a shaky finger in Shiloh's direction. "We don't know what happened, or why, and Gavin isn't here to-"

Samuel Callahan raises a hand, and Corfield breaks off. Callahan is still looking at Shiloh, studying her.

"I find it convenient," he says, "That this developing situation seems to corroborate you and your late father's claims."

"Is it convenient for me?" I say, leaning forward on the table. "Or inconvenient for the rest of you?"

"Alright, enough!" Evelyn says, glaring at everyone in turn. "Before we all get bisected by a sword-wielding android, please.

"Corfield. Not everyone here is a God-fearing Christian, like yourself. Stop pretending we are, and stop spouting Bible verses; nothing you've said so far is relevant to our present concern.

"Shiloh, you may take issue with the call that Gavin made. So do I. But the fact of the matter is that he was acting within the parameters of his role as Watch Leader. Guard dogs don't wait for their owner's permission to bark. It's not in their nature. And yes, I just compared Gavin to a dog. Don't read too much into it.

"Callahan, even if Shiloh is lying to us, is your plan to convince her to fess up, here and now? How are you going to do that, exactly? She's either telling the truth, or she isn't, and either way, we're not about to get to the bottom of it here, in this room, especially when we have other, more pressing matters at hand, so you might as well save us all our time—and perhaps our lives—and forget it.

"All of you. Everyone...STOP."

Every other person, besides Shiloh, shrinks a little at this. And of course, Callahan. He just breaks off the eye contact with Shiloh, face impassive, though he does still seem thoughtful. He's sorting through the information in his mind, like a computer whose hard drive is in the process of defragmentation. To borrow some jargon from Cade.

"Who did what, and why," Evelyn says. "That's all in the past. And maybe it matters. But we can sort it all out later." At this last, she fixes her eyes on Shiloh, pointedly. She is a keen and suspicious woman, and apparently, like Callahan, Shiloh's version of what went down doesn't quite add up, in her mind.

Nothing Shiloh can do about that, just yet. She folds her arms, chewing on the inner fold of her lower lip.

"As much as I hate to admit it," Shiloh says, speaking to no in particular, "The Reverend is right. It would be irresponsible to simply hand the tech over. Not until we get a peek under the hood, to be sure."

"Sure of what?" Seamus says, adjusting in his chair. He looks clammy, and a little pale.

"That's just it," Shiloh says. "There's no way to know. Not unless we pop him open and take a look."

Evelyn eyes Shiloh shrewdly as she sips her coffee. But she doesn't say anything.

"Is that feasible?" Callahan asks.

"I believe so," Shiloh says. "Gavin and I already made the preparations. All the gear is in Mechanical, ready to go. All we have to do is hook it up."

Callahan leans forward on the table. His expression is serious. Intense. "Are you sure this is just about responsible handling of Ruster tech? And not...something else?"

There it is. The million-dollar question.

Obviously, it's both. This is an opportunity to confirm her father's beliefs, and her own. She doesn't want to pass it up. She can't pass it up.

"Does it matter?" Shiloh says. "We still have over an hour. Almost an hour and a half. Once we're down to the twenty to fifteen minute mark, if we don't find anything—or perhaps even if we do—we'll just drop the Ruster outside the Cloister, leave it for Daimon."

"And I suppose you'll be overseeing all of this," Corfield says. "And we're to take your word on what should be done."

Shiloh raises her hands. "I don't have to call the shots. You could be there. All of you. And Gavin. And the rest of the Watch. They've already had their meds, and at least some time to recover. They won't be in tip-top shape, especially considering what happened, but they can stand guard in case something goes wrong. They'll have their gear ready to go. They can transport the Ruster to the Hangar and through the bay doors at any time, should they need to."

A moment of thoughtful, hesitant silence follows this.

They don't want to give me what I want, Shiloh realizes. They can't think of any reasonable objections. They just don't want me to do it.

They're afraid I'm right. They're afraid they might have to alter their course. They might have to confront their own pasts.

They need another nudge.

"There's a reason why Daimon wants this Biodroid so bad. Aren't you at all curious? Don't you think it might matter? Or are you all so truly lacking in imagination?"

Callahan holds up a hand. "I think we—or at least some of us, myself included—see your point, Miss Darvin. There is little to lose, and, for all we know, much to gain; or perhaps, to prevent. But this begs the question. If, hypothetically, we were to find something so significant we decide not to hand the tech over...what then?"

Shiloh leans back in her chair, arms folded. She's got her foot in the door. Two different doors, in fact. "What if Daimon decides to attack anyway, even if we do hand it over? Maybe he always intended to. Or maybe he decides to last-minute, just for kicks. Wouldn't be too out of line with what we've seen so far."

A possibility they hadn't wanted to contemplate too closely, going from the looks on their faces.

"We'll all be dead," Callahan says. "That's what. Depending on the amount of damage he's able to do to the Cloister before we put him down. Assuming we can stop him at all."

"Perhaps we should consider using the Walker," Shiloh says.

This earns an incredulous look from everyone at the table. Everyone except Evelyn. She just...watches.

"The Cloister is our home," Corfield says. "Not some hunk of wonky, walking metal-"

So set in their ways. So incapable of dealing with a shift of paradigm. They've only ever seen things one way. And maybe they always will.

"The very fact that we're having this conversation precludes the possibility of this ship going down," Shiloh says. "Are you really saying you don't want a life raft? We know the Walker works. It's got life support systems, plenty of space for sleeping and storage, weapon systems, defense capabilities-"

"We can't all fit on the Walker, Shiloh," Callahan says.

"That's right," Shiloh admits. "Some of us would die, instead of...all of us. Look, all I'm saying is, it might come in handy. All I'm asking is that we clear a path to leave if we need to, and keep it in mind."

"Fine," Callahan says, after a moment's thought. "I think you're right. All in favor of authorizing use of the Walker?"

He raises his hand. So does everyone else.

"All in favor of opening up the Ruster, and getting to the bottom of this?"

This time, he waits to see what everyone else does before raising his own hand. Once again, the vote in favor is unanimous.

Evelyn raises her hand in a casual, off-hand sort of way, glaring at Shiloh as she does so, seeming to say, 'I see what you're doing; I can't stop you, but I see it.'

"Very well," Callahan says, casting his gaze about before settling on Shiloh. "As far as I'm concerned, you have one hour from now to extract what you can."

"Good," Shiloh says, already rising from her chair, en route to the door. She pulls a walkie talkie she procured before the meeting out of her pocket and turns it on. "Cade, come in. I'm gonna need your help with something."