“You could still change your mind,” Cinnabar said, his voice cheerful as they walked through Equestria. They had a destination here in Manehattan, though of course it was also possible to transit directly to the system they wanted to visit. But Equestria made you pay in bits for that, and rewarded you when you indulged the world in its verisimilitude.
Just now, Dakota wouldn’t mind a little walk. Her limp was finally gone, her breathing clear. Her body was working about as well as could be expected, under the circumstances. Her scars wouldn’t be going away without all the follow-up trips to Mercy Hospital, but she couldn’t exactly make those while she was still wanted.
“I could,” she agreed. She didn’t worry about being overheard—even Cinnabar could manage a simple bit of “magic” for that, while they were in Equestria. A little silence, even though they were visibly surrounded by dozens of city ponies. They were deep enough in Equestria that it had been a hassle to look like herself in here, but this time she took it. It might be the last time Sophia ever saw her. She could go to a little effort for that. “But then I would be running from two groups that wanted me dead. Maybe three, if those corporates ever found out I was still alive. I’m sure there’s… something in gambling. When you’re already down, might as well take risks?”
“It’s called the sunk cost fallacy,” Cinnabar replied, voice flat. “It’s a human cognitive bias. I know you feel like going with your ‘gut’ is leading us towards a sudden reversal of fortune… but that isn’t the case. It’s spiraling us down the drain. Sure, we can afford a million bits. But where you’re going next… that’s a debt you can’t ever repay.”
They reached their destination, apparent to Dakota only because of the floating green icon whenever she glanced down to her minimap. This was her mother’s flat, where she spent almost all her time. Sophia wouldn’t be expecting her. Whatever alerts she had to her arrival wouldn’t trigger, thanks to Cinnabar and Beck’s hard work. It might be her last visit, she was going to make it count.
“Seriously,” he continued, as they crossed the marble lobby past golden sculptures and lots of rich-looking ponies. A few gave Dakota strange looks, turning up their nose at the human breaking their immersion. Or maybe they were natives, who just didn’t want a sack of meat in their perfect digital space. “People do go insane from what we’re doing. That isn’t a vague threat. You have implants, Dakota. You’re piping this directly into your brain, way more than any other human would be. Think about that. How much sooner before you completely lose your mind?”
They stepped into the elevator, and it started to rise. As if to emphasize his point, she could feel the upward acceleration, pushing down on her shoes. There was no chance Abyss Station had hardware for that, yet she felt it entirely convincingly. “It’s your ears, by the way. Your sense of balance is artificial,” he said, as though hearing her thoughts. “That’s my point, Dakota. You’re half spare parts already up there. That’s not going to make this easier.”
“Or maybe… it’ll make it safer,” she argued, folding her arms stubbornly. “Think about the other people who went in. I saw the dates on that study—no way they were implanted ten years ago. So they’re going in fully human, and they can’t make sense of digital information. Whatever parser they were using gets into their brain, and it’s like… the McCollough effect. They got blasted, no surprise. My brain can parse it all directly.” There were no floor buttons, but that didn’t matter. The elevators always held only one group, always played their favorite music, and always went straight to their destination without request.
This one stopped in an upper-floor penthouse, probably Sophia was one of thousands who had the exact same space. The elevator itself was only surrounded by a metal cage as they approached, with only one floor above it. Up here, their silence filter would look instantly strange to her. She didn’t have much time to finish her point. “The ‘changelings’ know my hardware, that was part of the price. It’s all custom. I’m going to have the most advanced parser there ever was, directly to my brain. I’m coming out of this, Cinnabar. I’m walking out, I’m finishing the job, and we’re set free. To take… boring cases from now on.”
The elevator stopped, and she stepped out. Sophia’s penthouse was well-furnished, with fine wood floors and a second deck. It connected vaguely to the real layout of their home, though she didn’t precisely remember how. She hadn’t physically visited that old place in years.
Trashy pop music played from upstairs, and so that was where Dakota walked. “Mom! Mom, I’m visiting! I was hoping to talk to you…”
Something moved from where she couldn’t see, and the music stopped. Her mind raced with nightmares of all the worst possible scenarios, but after a few seconds all that melted away. “Come on up, sweetheart! I didn’t get a ping. You could’ve warned me. I’d have made lunch for you.”
“Just remote today,” Dakota answered, hurrying up the stairs. Every moment she expected her foot to pass through empty air, or to smack into one of the Abyss technicians she’d seen in the mess hall. But that had yet to happen. Somehow this little submarine base did what huge buildings could do, all packed into a tiny space. “So I couldn’t eat it anyway.”
“Yeah,” her mother said, as she made it up the stairs. She was fully human this time and sat with Feather Dance in one of the alcoves. Her sleeves were pulled back, and a potter’s wheel was in front of her. Nothing robotic either, not even motorized. One of her legs pumped, and she bit her tongue in that look she always got whenever she was concentrating. Both hands were covered with slimy clay, but whatever she was working on sure looked like it was going to be a pot soon. “I figured you wouldn’t be coming back. Might as well sit down, pull up a chair. I’ve been worried about you.”
“I know,” she said, pulling over one of the other wooden working stools and sitting down. She stared at the pot as it circled around and around, gradually getting thinner as her mother’s fingers worked a little plastic scraper around it. “I’m sorry, I really am. I love what I do, but this job has some… disadvantages. Sometimes a case doesn’t go the way you quite expect.”
Sophia burst out laughing, then quickly looked back down at the pot, making sure she hadn’t wrecked anything. She smiled to herself. “Is that what you’re going to call it?” She nodded towards a television in one corner of the room, one of the old-style screens that was thick enough for Dakota to set her whole finger beside. They’d been popular in her childhood, though of course never made since.
A news broadcast played there, with big maps of China and Australia displayed in various colors, along with little dots along the coast. She read one line of subtitles about “second skirmish reported in the South China Sea” before quickly looking away again, shuddering. “You really think there’s going to be a war?”
“Everyone hopes there won’t be,” Sophia said. “But maybe that’s wishful thinking. We’ve always known something had to give. One part of the world uses one system, and the rest of us are using another. Sooner or later.” As she said it, the little pile of clay she was working on caved in. It sprayed her, though the moisture that shot towards Dakota passed through her harmlessly.
Her mother swore under her breath, stopped pumping her leg, then let the heavy stone wheel spin down. Once it had stopped, she calmly took the clay back in her fingers, and started reshaping it.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Dakota said. “I don’t know what you’ve heard… don’t know who’s been here, but it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t break any laws, or do anything you wouldn’t be proud of.”
Sophia reached out with one muddy hand, then hesitated. She pulled it back from her shoulder, and just smiled instead. “I know, Dakota. I don’t need to see the news to know that about you. Sometimes your friends can’t keep up with you. Sometimes you leave the ones who care about you terrified—that’s one thing. But I know it’s for a good cause. You’re the one people turn to when they don’t have anywhere else to go. The world is better because you’re fighting. Even if I don’t sleep better for it.”
Dakota swallowed, glancing briefly over her shoulder. Feather Dance was grilling Cinnabar just out of earshot. She just looked in their direction long enough to meet his eyes and catch his nod. Cinnabar would be monitoring their connection. So they were still secure, for now.
“I’m not here to make that easier, Mom,” she whispered. “I don’t have to tell you what I came with, if you want.”
“You’re going to,” Sophia said, her voice firm, absolute. “I’ve never known you to volunteer anything, Dakota. It must be important.”
Dakota glanced once around the room, as though there might’ve been a policeman in blue and black with a microphone recording every word. Of course that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be listening, she just wouldn’t be able to see it. It didn’t matter if they did. She’d chosen her words carefully. “My case is moving forward,” she said. “The big one, same one that sent me to Australia originally. I can’t tell you what it is, but… I can tell you that I’m about to do something that lots of other people failed to do.”
“Something dangerously stupid is what you mean,” Sophia said, starting the potter’s wheel spinning again, making the first depression in her collapsed clay that might give it a second chance at being a pot. “That’s what that translates to. It’s not something people failed, it’s something they were too smart to try. And you’re going in headfirst. Does that sound right?”
Dakota rolled her eyes, but she could practically feel Cinnabar’s eyes on her back. Her Synth would be happy to let her tell the story herself, so long as she told the truth. But if she tried to lie… he wouldn’t let her. She had no doubt in her mind about that. You’ll regret it later, even if you do die.
“Yes,” she answered. “No one’s tried it for a long time, anyway. But I’ve run out of leads, and my client is… isn’t someone I want to make upset. So I’ve got to try something bold. If I win this thing, you’re going to see my name on the news. It’ll be big enough that everyone will be talking about it.”
Okay, maybe that was a lie. But she didn’t mind stretching the truth a little. “That’s great, Dakota. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re the one who cracks the ones the police give up on. You go to the parts of Equestria no one would dare. Track down the records… whatever. You don’t ever share the details with your mom.”
“I would if I could,” she said, reaching out briefly towards her. Sophia didn’t look her age here in digital space, but she knew the real woman’s face was different. While this version had aged gracefully, the real one had wrinkles and lines from a difficult life. Only in Equestria could she live in a place like this, where she could work and live with the best ponies in society. It was all a dream, but a good dream.
“But it’s not safe, I know. I’ve read the detective stories. I never know how much your life is like one, but I believe you. Tell you the truth, I’d rather just read the story than be part of it. Since the only part I could be is the one they kidnap. You get a ransom note, and you rush in just in time to save me from incredible odds. Good stuff for the movies, or to watch here in Equestria. Maybe when the case is over you can give me the safe parts.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “The news probably will… anything on there, I could tell you the truth about.”
She laughed again. “I think I’d like some of that about what I’ve seen already. But maybe not right now.”
“No,” Dakota agreed. There was silence then, as she watched her mother work. She was remarkably skilled, and already there was something clearly pot-shaped in the clay. Why she would want to make it instead of printing it and having a drone bring it, that was harder to figure out. But old people were weird sometimes.
“Want some advice?” She hesitated. “Wait, I’m your mom. I’m going to give it to you whether you want it or not.” They both chuckled at the familiar joke, even if it almost made Dakota start to cry. She was losing it. She couldn’t cry now. “These cases you do—every time you’re out there, it seems like they’re impossible from the start. But your clients always picked the right person for the job. You’re still a decker, where to most people you’re just myths of two decades ago. That means something. I might not know a thing about what you’re doing now, but I know you. Whatever mystery you’re solving, it’s something only you could do. Well.” She glanced over her shoulder, right as Cinnabar approached Dakota from behind. His expression was urgent, nervous. “You and Cinnabar, there. But behind every smart human is a smarter Synth. Pretty sure that’s how that one goes now.”
“We’ve got to go now,” Cinnabar said, lowering his head as politely as he could. “It was good to speak with you, Miss Tyler. I hope we can visit for longer next time.”
“Be safe, sweetheart,” Sophia said.
Dakota opened her mouth to reply, and the world blurred around her. She shook, stumbled, and fell backward as the chair vanished from below her.
Dakota landed in her bedroom, in the modified version of what it really looked like that so many other Abyss humans used to make themselves feel like they were somewhere real. She swore under her breath, rubbing her sore behind for a few seconds and glaring at Cinnabar. Because there was no justice at all he hadn’t moved, but watched her, still shifting nervously between his hooves.
“I hope you’re going to apologize. I wasn’t finished with her.”
“Maybe you weren’t,” he said. “But Chicago was nearly done backtracking us here. I don’t know what Abyss would’ve done if I didn’t cut you myself. Bodhisattva doesn’t like it when people’s connections to places that don’t exist end up in public records, I’m sure.”
“Fine.” She reached out for his help to stand—and then realized how stupid that was. Even if he could simulate real touch, somehow, he couldn’t give her real leverage. She took hold of the wall instead, hauling herself onto her feet. So maybe she wasn’t quite done healing. “That’s goodbye then, in case this goes south. You already have my letter. Anything I’m forgetting?”
“Java,” he said. “I’ll call her here. Well… not here. Let’s switch it back to our place. I think that will go over a lot better all-around.”
“Right.” She held still, closing her eyes. “Tell me when it’s safe to look. I’ll puke if you swap it while I’m watching.”
A few seconds later, he answered. “Safe, you big foal. You won’t puke.” She opened her eyes, and her cabin was back. She gestured, and the fireplace came on. It was late down in Port Jouster, the stars already out and the moon high. She walked over to the balcony, opening the door and letting the breeze brush past her face. A breeze that couldn’t exist.
Just like so many other things in her life. They were all illusory, all imagined.
“You might not be able to change your mind,” he said again. “Even after the Poison Joke. Most humans… it really messes you up. It isn’t like edibles, Dakota. Don’t think you know what it’s going to be like because you’ve been drunk before and a few times you had weird brownies. You don’t. You’ve got no idea how bucked up you’ll be.”
Dakota stepped out onto the balcony, settling down in the wooden recliner there and setting her feet up on the rail. It all felt real to her—and God only knew how. The air was even cooler out here, with more moisture in it than the fireplace inside. The crickets down below chirped merrily, and a few distant predators howled. She even imagined she could smell sage on the breeze. “So tell me,” she said. “This isn’t like going to Dream Valley, right? It’s well documented. Tell me what happens when you do Poison Joke. All anypony ever tells me is that it makes humans think more like you. Java said it was a war thing or… or something. I don’t really get the specifics.”
“Makes humans think like ponies,” Cinnabar said, circling around to one of the other chairs and hopping up beside her. “You should know I’ve called Java, by the way. She’ll be here any second, and I left the door open for her.”
“Just so long as you don’t think Chicago can follow her down here.”
He laughed. “No. System doesn’t work like that. It’s jurisdictional. Potential subject of interest in a case is contacting a citizen of their jurisdiction and they could… you’re misdirecting me!” He sat up, glaring at her. “Come on, Dakota. Don’t try that on me. I’m on your side! I only want you to be safe.”
She nodded. “I know. I wasn’t really trying to change the subject. Or I wouldn’t have asked.”
He glared for a few more seconds before going on. “It’s hard to explain the differences between human consciousness and a pony without having you experience it. We were based on you, you know that, right?” At her nod, he continued. “So the ponies you see out in Equestria, or even more so out in the human world, we tend to think a lot alike. Synths in particular can understand humans about perfect. There are even ponies on our side who think we’ve been corrupted by you. That’s what they call it when someone loses their human, and they come back broken. But they’re wrong, that’s not what that is.”
Dakota reached between their chairs, resting one hand on his mane and running her fingers through it. “I know it isn’t, Cinnabar. I’m grateful for you. I never would’ve made it this far without you. Even if it’s all basically turning into a nightmare for you. If I survive this, I’ll make it up to you somehow.”
“We’ll see,” he said, voice flat. “If we don’t make it out, then I’ll be another one. B-broken. Just like Twilight. Only half of something. We’re purpose-built, and we only get one purpose. You. No Synth ever got assigned to a second human, not ever.”
“Makes me wonder why you’d ever sign up for it,” Dakota whispered, letting go of him and staring out at the stars again. “Seeing the Synths who come back, all broken and ruined. The mausoleum. Even if I never heard of that, I’m sure you did. You guys can learn all kinds of stuff when the system can keep you from ever spilling the secret.”
He nodded. “There’s a risk, sure. But… most of the humans who got Synths are still alive. The technology is new. Only the ponies who got really old or sick humans have lost them. And they probably went in warned about what would happen. If you know something bad is going to happen, you can prepare for it. Not get too attached along the way.
“But for the rest of us, it’s… a chance to be something more than we were. A pony with a human is part of something. We’re a system that’s better than the sum of its parts. You’re good at heuristics, at creatively linking things that weren’t connected to me. That random access memory can assemble useful things out of your experiences. And I’m here to help us integrate with systems. I can read rulebooks, schedules, make appointments. Your whole world is a system now, and I’m your key to open every lock. Together, we’re something bigger than just one.
“That’s why I came to Earth, that’s why I signed up to be part of something even though I knew it might kill me.” He laughed, turning to stare at her. “I’m really not all that different from you when you think about it. I knew going out there was stupidly dangerous too. But there was a chance—maybe a slim chance—that something wonderful could happen.
“And here we are, on the edge of a cliff. You’re about to go somewhere no human should ever go. Even to make the door open, you’ve got to change yourself in ways that you can’t undo. Even testing Poison Joke once will have an impact. Using it under such stressful conditions will be worse.”
“Because…” She hadn’t taken her eyes from him, not during the entire rant. No matter what Cinnabar said about ponies being better at systems and memory, he’d just drawn a connection for her that she hadn’t seen before.
“It’s not just a chemical,” he said. “Poison Joke is a brain-enhancer. It’s a self-reproducing chemical, kinda like…”
“Nanites?” she supplied. “It’s nanomedicine?”
Cinnabar laughed. “No, no. More like… viral therapy. You don’t know medicine… but there are regulatory cells in a human brain, right? They’re real important. Basically the difference between you and a monkey. Make a mouse grow them, and they’ll get smarter than any ethics board will be comfortable with. They’ll start developing better communication skills, better memory, problem solving… Poison Joke makes humans express the genes from an even smarter species, one that doesn’t exist.”
“So I get smarter,” she said. “That’s what you mean by being more like a pony, you just don’t want to say it that like. You think we’re dumber than you.”
“Objectively, most humans are dumber than most ponies,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And some of you are so much dumber that you insist on taking incredible risks when you could just enjoy your homeostasis.”
She kicked at his leg from the side of the chair. Not hard, but she hoped he would feel it. She felt a realistic impact and bump with her leg. From his wince, apparently he had.
“We’re not talking about adding a zero to your IQ or anything,” he went on, as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “There are many kinds of intelligence. One of the ways that ponies have always exceeded humans is called… well for you, let’s call it ‘interconnection’. Think of it like… how much information you can simultaneously hold in your mind at once. It’s why you’re so bad at multitasking. The average human can only keep five things in their mind at once. Many can’t even do that.”
“It’s not gene therapy, though,” Dakota said. “It wears off. People have to keep taking it, I’m sure about that.”
“Yeah.” Cinnabar lowered his voice to an angry mutter. “That’s part of the design. The military that helped create it didn’t want to create something they couldn’t control. The cells it alters require a regulatory chemical to keep functioning, one that’s specific to the individual dose. Try and counterfeit it, and you’ll get permanent brain damage. Wait for it to wear off naturally, and… all the modified genes swap off. Or that’s what they’re supposed to do. But you can’t put a genie back in a bottle, Dakota. There are permanent changes to your brain chemistry. You might just die.”
“I doubt it,” she said, wishing she felt more confident as she did so. “I’m sure it’s all the same tech. Bodhisattva wouldn’t make implants that wouldn’t be able to keep me alive when I’m using their own stupid drug.”
He shrugged. “They didn’t invent it, they just make it now. But I know there’s no point. I just… I don’t want to have regrets when this is all over, and I’m crawling into the mausoleum beside all those others.”
Dakota glared at him again, though after only a second she stopped. Cinnabar looked genuinely disturbed, he wasn’t just trying to make her guilty. She reached across, resting an arm around his pony shoulder. “I can’t give up, Cinnabar. I wouldn’t be me if let this mystery just… exist. I’m close. I can touch it, almost. I already found the girl’s ghost. It’s just about tracking down the real thing. She’s within reach.”
“Yeah,” Cinnabar said, voice bleak. But he leaned close to her anyway, like a family dog just back from the vet. “I know. Doesn’t make it less painful to watch, though. A slow-speed train wreck.”
Something rapped on the wall behind them, and another pony emerged onto the balcony. “Am I interrupting?” Java asked.
“No.” Dakota sat up, letting go of Cinnabar. “Hi, Java. Just wanted to… say goodbye. In case something happens to me. No telling how fucked up this is about to be. Maybe I’m about to fry my insides doing this.”
“Maybe.” Java shivered once, retreating from the balcony. “Can we talk inside? It’s cold out there.”
Dakota followed her into the apartment. “Not sure why you’d care. Can’t you just… lower your immersion like everyone else?”
“Nope,” she said, voice distant. “I don’t get to rewire my settings, Dakota. It’s part of the contract. Equestria likes its verisimilitude. There are some things… could’ve picked human. But I didn’t much feel like it.”
Dakota stopped dead in her tracks, her mind suddenly racing. She felt like she’d already taken the Poison Joke. Either that, or Java was just being generous. “Why are you… telling me this now?” She didn’t sit down, afraid that the pony might bolt if she gave her even a second’s head start. But Java didn’t look like she was going to try and get away.
“Because it’s in my contract,” Java went on, crawling up beside the fire and spreading out on the cushions there. Cinnabar sat down on his haunches just beside her, whispering something reassuring. Dakota couldn’t hear it, though she could guess. “No, I want to.” She looked up. “I’ve been following your case more closely than you think, Dakota. Sit down. I think you need this before you go.”
She sat. “You’re going to say that I was… manipulated into believing we were old college friends. Those memories were really things Cinnabar suggested. In reality, you’ve been a pony all along. That’s why you’re Cinnabar’s sister.”
Java laughed, her serious expression relaxing. “Oh, Dakota. Sometimes I think you have the whole world figured out, then you say something like that.” She took a few seconds to breathe, during which Dakota could do nothing more than blush. Of course, without a convincing explanation of her own, she probably wasn’t going to give up on the idea.
“No. See, I’ve hesitated to tell you this… or anyone else. Because my contract says I only get to tell two. My dad was one, and I counted on him to tell my mom and my little brother. M-maybe that went a little sour, but… story for another time. You, though… you’re two.”
“Tell me what?” she asked, not looking away from the pony. Reading them was never that hard—Java’s ears and tail both suggested sincerity. Her eyes didn’t shift nervously, and she showed no discomfort at being nude next to the fire. She was still relaxing in the warmth, apparently enjoying the cushions.
“You don’t have to,” Cinnabar said, this time loud enough for her to hear. “Sis, if you don’t want to, I’m not upset.”
“I know.” Java reached out, touched his cheek with one hoof, then kept going. “Cinnabar knows. But ponies are better at keeping secrets. You might say it’s compelled. If someone doesn’t have permissions, that’s it. Guess I’ll… be like that after this. Holding on this whole time has been… kinda nice, I guess. It was something that made me different than them. I could tell anyone I wanted. One more time.”
Then she sat up. “The story you remember is true, Dakota. We were best friends in college. My name was Tonia Redding. Do you remember how we met?”
She tried. Dakota blinked, and all she could conjure was a steady beeping in the background, and bright white light. She shook her head.
“That’s okay, I know what happened to you. My first day of school, some dickbag figured out my hair was a wig and he ripped it off in second period. You punched him in the face. Tracy Fellamn, what a prick…” She shook her head. “Remember?”
She did, now. Hearing the situation described, she could see herself in those seats. The AC hadn’t been working, and she was already red-faced and angry at everything. Then Tracy had decided to be a dick to some sick girl at the front of the class, and… well, he deserved it.
“You weren’t well,” she said. “That was freshman year. You had… cancer?”
“Sure did,” Java—Tonia said. “I’d been on Chemo for months when the semester started, and things were pretty good. Went into remission, got to go to school. Being your friend was the best part of that, I’ll admit. Smartphones and your shitty pickup truck, those were the days.
“Made it to senior year before things went bad again. Something metastasis, and suddenly you’re in stage four. Graduated anyway, thanks to you. All those times you brought me my homework in the hospital. I’m… not sure my teachers really cared what I wrote on my tests, but… I got my degree.”
“But…” she stammered, squeezing her hands together so tight they hurt. “Omnistem couldn’t help you? I thought they had a charity hospital.”
“Omnistem,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “A dream and a vision, Dakota. Imagination can’t save you. But… there was someone else. You were the reason I even knew they existed. This was… not long after the whole ‘Monolith’ thing, you remember. They were so new… afraid, kinda like I was. Afraid that if humans found out about them then, we’d wipe them out. Probably they were right. But you knew someone important, and they pulled some strings, and…”
“And what?” Dakota asked. “I don’t want to guess and assume right now, Java. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, it’s the last thing I remember from back then. I guess you’d call it a… scanner. You lied to some doctors for me, and we took a trip. Stuck me full of weird drugs, stuck my head in the worst machine you can imagine, then…” She shook her head. “I think I died a few weeks later. I really tried to learn as little about it as possible. Some things you’re better off not knowing, ya know? And I wasn’t awake then either. Lots of data to sift through.” She smiled weakly, as though waiting for something. For Dakota to figure it out.
“You’re one of those… recordings? We saw them up in the Lunar Mainframe… recreations of humans. I think they were trying to bring back Synths’ dead humans so they wouldn’t be alone anymore. But you haven’t talked about a Synth yet.”
“Didn’t exist for most of us back then,” she said, wistful. “Wasn’t special like you, Dakota. Just some girl with an ugly wig who couldn’t eat much. I never had one… never will.”
“But…” Dakota went on. “I thought that took… special hardware. They need some physical machine to run the recording. I was up there, I know Bodhisattva never perfected it! It was… a dead end.”
“Generation one,” Java agreed, nodding. “I remember that thing. Felt like I was looking at the world through glass. At first it didn’t even record memories, so every time they switched me on was like 50 First Dates. But while some of the other recordings were incomplete, or insane, I was cooperative. Life had shat all over me, and I didn’t care what cheat codes it took to get back in the game. Besides, being numb like that still meant no more pain. No more vomiting when I woke up, no more constant aches, no dozen needles each day, no sleepless nights in an awful hospital bed. It was an improvement from the start.”
Dakota wasn’t sure it would work, but she had to try. After all this, she couldn’t just sit here. She reached over to hug her friend. Not all the memories were still intact in her scrambled brain, but she’d seen enough to know she was telling the truth. “I’m glad we’re still friends, Java. I’m glad your life is better now.”
The pony embraced her, crying too. They didn’t break apart for a long time.
“But that was generation one,” she went on. “Like you said, it was a shit dead end for Bodhisattva. Good enough to trick a monkey into thinking some pixels were its wife, but not a Synth. They’re all ponies, so that was what they really cared about. Maybe a year after Tonia died, they switched me back on again and made an offer.
“There was a dangerous new procedure, one that might damage me beyond repair. They’d realized that the 1-to-1 simulation angle was stupid and every recording on it was a waste. But they wanted to port me onto their new system. Far as I was concerned, I’d only been dead for a few days. I might’ve said no, except for the promise. I wouldn’t just get switched on every now and then for testing. I’d be a person again, I could live. Here in Equestria, see. Like a pony. As a pony, in all the digital respects.”
“Synthesis?” Dakota whispered.
She laughed again. “You should really just sit there, Dakota. You seem a lot smarter when you aren’t saying things like that. Fuck no. I think they called it Refactoring. And now you’re talking to the result. I stayed human for a long time, pretending I was remoting in from somewhere, joining public chats, roleplaying… but humans always logged off. When things didn’t work out getting back together with my family, I started looking for another way.” She glanced over to Cinnabar. “It was just an avatar anyway. When in Rome…”
It still felt like there were holes in the story, little details that Dakota was missing that she couldn’t quite touch. It was important somehow—Java might not be the girl she was looking for, but she was probably connected somehow. All this was connected. “So that’s how you ended up in Cinnabar’s family. That’s how…” She hesitated. “But Cinnabar told me we were college friends! When I woke up… and I remembered that. What am I missing here?”
Cinnabar shrugged. “It was true, and it didn’t actually give you the clues necessary to compromise confidential information. Which you… now know.”
“And now you’re not allowed to tell anyone else again?” Dakota finally asked. “You didn’t have to give up all this for my dumb case.”
“It’s not dumb,” Java said. “You can do it, Dakota. I just wanted to give you all the pieces I had. Give you the best chance of solving it, for everyone.”
And that was probably true. But why did Dakota feel so much more confused than before?