Two errors distinguished. Would you like to see the log?

“Almost there,” I whispered. Not speaking to Ramsay. Definitely not speaking to the voices in my holo. Just reassuring myself that there was progress being made. That there was progress being made…

“There’d better be,” my fairy taunted. It still spoke in Britt’s voice, only now it was switching back and forth between the adult and the adolescent. I tried not to wonder what that was supposed to mean. “How much do you think it takes? If a little gouge on the neck will do it, if a tiny singe across the palm is enough to turn the trick…”

…and this bit dubs to Helion section, which passes its result on to the counter-balance in the A-line arena, which then drives the…

“What about that knick you took when you were unclogging your waste converter a couple of weeks ago? When you had to reach down there to grab that seal-tite that got tangled in the compactor, and you scraped your hand on the way out? How’s that doing? What about that toe you stubbed on the way to the can? What about your ears popping on the plane ride in, or, hell, when was the last time you clipped your nails? All those things cause damage, and all that damage needs to be repaired. How much is too much? How much before that busy little body of yours kicks enough into patch-up mode to let those fuckers know they’re not the only things trying to make shit happen?”

…there! In the Amelia Determination itself. That’s where the source of the error was. The handoff came with too much altitude…I just had to put a cap on it with a standard-issue min-max collar, and it should be butter smooth. I did so, instructing it to recalculate its routing any time its path was more than one standard deviation out from the mean.

One error distinguished. Would you like to view the log?

One error. That’s all that stood between us and a way out of this mess. One lousy, stinking error. Get past that, and we’d be home.

But it was a doozy.

"Interface membrane not recognized"

I tapped my fingers on the console, keeping them safely out of the way. It wasn’t the first I’d seen of this message. It popped up from time to time, in truly out-there integrations, where the two halves of the marriage-to-be were so unalike it didn’t know where to begin. It was a little like fighting with someone whose language you only kind of spoke. You’d spend so much time translating their words you’d never get a chance to evaluate their arguments. This error was the console’s version of that – it just threw up its hands, and recused itself from the case.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

I tapped Yes, then used my executive access to burrow through to a menu not normally available in this interface. My fingers shook as I hovered above the override option.

“That was their mistake,” I whispered. “I’ll lay anything it was. That error can’t be fixed. The language they’d have had to write, to interface with biomass…my holo was right. It would never pass the checks. You can’t clear that one, if you want the integration to succeed. Doing so would absolutely castrate the rest of the code.” I played it out in my head once more, weighing the need to make things happen against the risks of pressing on. Against the damage it might do. “But I’ll bet they tried like hell.”

“How about that welt you got from rowing in your muscle shirt? Two weeks ago, was it? Or that busted knee from your Lacrosse days that still acts up when the weather turns a little stormy? That’s always kind of healing, isn’t it?”

My teeth ground. My hands tried to clench into fists inside their sleeves. It took all my effort not to turn in its direction. God, how I hated that thing.

I tapped.

The override took effect, and the integration began in earnest. Code and helix pixelated, breaking away bit by bit into streams of windblown sand. Streams that eddied, twisted, vortexed and curled, feeling each other across the distance, and joining in spirals, whorls, and loops that fit as neatly as the girl had promised. Point by point the thing accreted, assembling itself from the materials the tribute pair had offered up, until a single, beautiful, seamless sequence formed, the basis of which was neither virus nor machine, neither life nor artifice, but some combination of the two. In its way, it was as mind-boggling as anything we’d seen so far.

“There,” I sighed when it was over, as if it were an act that reeked of momentum and finality. Which it was, I supposed. But not because of anything we had done. “I told you it would work. It’s all queued up. Now all we have to do is decide how we’re going to…ah…”

“Release it?”

I pointed at him, then tapped my visplate, as close to my nose as I could manage.

He regarded his hand, which, now that the integration was complete, I allowed myself to see. The swelling had spread. It wrapped itself around the circumference of his palm, forming a ring that all but forced him to curl into a sort of fist. It conjured up images of alien caterpillars, with its bloated swell and all its tendrils, feeding, pulsing, straining as they probed their way through virgin flesh. He swallowed. “You’re…you’re not thinking me, are you?”

“No,” I shook my head, softly, slowly, answering his question only as collateral damage. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved.

“You’re thinking total dispersion.”

Averted eyes were all the answer I could give.

Ramsay’s holo, convalescent now to rival mine (or Miller’s, whispered a voice inside my head, which had nothing to do with my holo) registered his surprise.

“Are you sure?”

“Haven’t tested it…”

“Foreign language…”

“Too many tweaks…”

But he nodded in the end. In understanding, if not agreement. Banks and Bergman were still out there, after all. We had to assume they’d been exposed (of course they have! my holo needled. Those suits of yours are sieves to things like us! We got those bastards hours ago!) but it seemed to show at different speeds. Maybe they didn’t know it yet.

I eyed the readout one last time.

Maybe they would never have to.