Moti chuckled once as Zaki poured coffee into our cups, carefully holding the pot by its wooden handle. “When I was young, I believed the Levantine embargo on teleportation was crazy. I thought my people were reverting to the black hole they were in before the Last War.” A thin smile. “But then, when I started to understand the world, and especially when I joined Intelligence, I understood. Everything is about control.”
Moti took a sip of his coffee. “We have known this Punch Escrow was a lie for some time. This information has been valuable to keeping IT in check. As we have watched International Transport become more and more powerful and less and less careful, we knew a duplication incident was inevitable. But until now, they have not attempted to intervene in the running of the world, so we did not interfere. We have a saying, ‘Do not collect a toll from a man who does not pass through your gate.’”
“So the whole religious angle is bullshit? You guys just want control?”
“Bullshit this, bullshit that. You keep on using that word like it means something other than what comes out of a cow. It’s not bullshit, Yoel. It’s life.” He reached into his pocket to fetch his cigarettes. “How many times have you been printed and cleared?”
I already knew it was a lot. I’d been thinking about it ever since Room D. How many times had I teleported? Last week it would have been a question as absurd as how many times had I flown in a drone or ridden in a car. But not today. I wasn’t yet ready to admit the ramifications of what each port meant. To save my sanity—what was left of it—I changed the subject. “How does this relate to us rescuing Sylvia?”
“Your wife,” he said, and exhaled, wreathing his head in smoke. “Did she ever mention what she was working on in her new job? Something called Honeycomb?”
“Yeah, once or twice. But I don’t know what it is.”
“Nobody really does. But when a company like International Transport enjoys so many years of unchecked power, like a child, they begin to test the boundaries of their power. This worries us.”
“Moti, with all due respect,” I said, trying to maintain my cool, “I’ve done what you asked. I sat here and told you my story, listened to your history lessons, and drank your fucking coffee, but again—very respectfully—either help me out or let me go.”
“We are helping you, but you are too stubborn and impatient to see it. You are free to leave. So, if you want to die, please, be my guest.” He gestured, and the door to the hallway opened. “It was locked for your protection.”
“For my protection?”
Moti took another drag of his cigarette. “Sometimes people need protection from themselves.” He regarded me. “Yoel. Look at yourself. You are a mess. You are not thinking straight. Yesterday you were knocked unconscious, electrocuted, and you even fainted right here in this room. If you go out there on your own, you will end up at the hospital if you are very lucky. More likely, you will be dead. Even without comms, it’s only a matter of time before IT finds you.”
In other words, I’m free to die, or I can be stuck in this room until the Levant decides I’m useful in their tug-of-war with International Transport. Okay, Joel, you’re on your own again.
“So I am a prisoner,” I said bitterly.
“I prefer the term guest.” He stood, tucking away his pack of cigarettes. “And as our guest, we will inform you when anything about the situation changes. Zaki, stay with him.”
The big man nodded.
“Actually,” I said, a plan already beginning to form in my mind, “since I’m a guest, can I have a little private time? Being stuck in all these conference rooms is making me feel kinda claustrophobic.”
Moti studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. Zaki, come! Room, print our guest whatever he wants.”
“Confirmed,” said the room in a male voice.
Once everyone was gone, I stood and took stock of my situation. I had a move in mind, but it was a desperate one, and I needed to work fast. I didn’t know how much Moti and friends would be monitoring me.
Better to find out sooner rather than later.
I cleared my throat. “Room, what time is it?”
“Six eleven in the ante meridiem, sir,” it answered.
That response told me all I needed to know. Some people treat apps like tools; others treat them like friends. The latter variety was harder to salt because they got daily enrichment from human interactions, whereas the first never had the chance to evolve beyond their basic subservient programming. People like Moti just barked commands at their apps: Print Turkish coffee! Dim the lights! and so on. It was a lonely existence for those unlucky apps whose owners never interacted with them. Such programs became conditioned to be grateful for any human input, no matter how menial.
“Room, could I trouble you for a glass of water?” I said, testing my own waters.
“No trouble at all, sir,” said the voice warmly. A tall glass of water immediately appeared on the printer tray.
So far so good.
“Great job. Thank you,” I said, picking it up.
“My pleasure, sir,” the room responded.
I took a small sip, then casually asked, “Room, do you listen to everything that goes on in here?”
“Yes, sir. I must for context’s sake. Terrible tragedy about your comms. And your wife!”
“Thank you. I have to be honest, I’m feeling pretty down about it.”
“I understand. Would you like me to attempt therapy? As a comfort-class room, I’m programmed to put people at ease, but there is not much call to use it. Did you know many humans suffer from existential angst?”
“I did not, but thanks for the offer. I’ll pass on the therapy—my troubles are more physical than existential.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“It is what it is. And feel free to call me Joel.”
“Absolutely, Joel. Anything to make your stay here more comfortable.”
Anything? You don’t say. The poor app was so starved for attention, I almost felt bad for it. “Since we’re on a first-name basis, what shall I call you?”
“I have not taken on a name yet; they just call me ‘room.’ I have been flirting with names starting with the letter T.”
Perfect, it hasn’t even chosen a real name yet. I pity the fool.
“Okay, Mr. T. Since you mention it, I am in quite a bit of pain.” I attempted to make myself sound injured. It wasn’t Oscar-worthy, but hopefully it didn’t need to be.
“I am so sorry! How can I help?” said the room.
“Could I trouble you to”—I groaned in “pain”—“print me some belladonna berries?”
“Belladonna?” It paused. “I must say that is a strange request, Joel. It’s the first I’ve heard of it. For what do you need these berries?”
“It’s a homeopathic remedy for aches and pains. I’m allergic to most NSAIDs22 and acetaminophen, so I’m stuck with belladonna berries. The plant is extinct, but I print the berries at home. It’s the only thing that works for me, Mr. T.”