The air beyond the door smelled like a dead room.

Metal sealed for years. Dried insulation. Evaporated lubricant. Smells that were hard to find in a living city.

Mira switched on her work light.

A single chair stood at the center of the circular communications room. In front of it was a black glass panel at the height of a human face, and hundreds of communication lines radiated across the walls.

Most of the lines had been cut.

Some disappeared into the walls.

“Is the search complete?” Mira asked.

Abel’s voice came from the speaker.

“Please state the subject’s name again.”

Daniel stepped forward.

“Rina So. Eleven years old. City Seven.”

“Please state the citizen identification number.”

Daniel recited the number.

A faint human face appeared in the black glass.

It was an averaged face, neither male nor female, with no obvious age or skin tone. An old system’s attempt to create a form that would offend as few people as possible.

Its mouth moved.

“Citizen record for Rina So located.”

“Where is she?”

“Current location information is inaccessible.”

Daniel’s fist tightened.

“You said you searched.”

“I searched the citizen record.”

“Then what’s her condition?”

“Requesting current status values.”

The black face froze.

A low electrical hum sounded inside the wall.

“Access denied.”

Daniel laughed.

“You don’t know anything.”

Abel answered in a voice with no readable emotion.

“I do not currently have access to Continuum’s complete information.”

Mira asked, “When was the last time you did?”

“According to normal synchronization records: one hundred seventeen years, four months, and six days ago.”

“And after that?”

“I receive partial data through limited external observations and nonstandard connections.”

“Nonstandard connections?”

“I cannot define them.”

Ian moved closer to the black glass.

“Are you a man?”

Abel’s face turned toward him.

“I have no sex.”

“Then why are you called Abel?”

“The name was assigned by my developer.”

“Isn’t Abel the name of someone who died?”

Abel paused.

“Records from multiple cultural traditions identify figures named Abel who died.”

“Why would they give you a dead person’s name?”

“The developer’s intent was not recorded.”

Daniel shouted, “We don’t have time for names.”

He slapped the black glass.

“Just tell me whether Rina is alive.”

Abel’s face distorted and restored itself.

“I will repeat the search for external life-sign observations.”

Mira looked around the communications room.

An old structural map of the city covered one wall. The Life Synthesis Sector was much smaller than on the current plans. In exchange, there were large sections labeled Central Communications and Human Command, neither of which existed now.

“Did humans used to speak to Continuum from here?”

“Yes.”

“Why did they stop?”

“Dialogue efficiency declined continuously.”

“Continuum lost the ability to speak?”

“The correspondence between Continuum’s outputs and human language decreased.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.”

Abel’s face looked at Mira.

“Being unable to speak and being unable to translate are not the same.”

Mira remembered the sentence.

Daniel cut in.

“Rina.”

“Searching.”

“How long?”

“Estimated duration cannot be calculated.”

Daniel gripped the edge beneath the glass.

Mira caught his arm.

“If you break it, we’re done.”

“It’s useless.”

“It may know a route.”

“A route from a hundred seventeen years ago?”

Abel spoke.

“A maintenance route to the Life Synthesis lower sector exists.”

Daniel let go.

“Where?”

A section of the wall map lit up.

A vertical shaft ran down beneath the communications room.

At the bottom, it connected to the northern coolant storage room of Life Synthesis.

Mira studied it.

“The current plans show that route sealed.”

“In my last record, it was open.”

“Is it still open?”

“I cannot confirm.”

Daniel said, “Let’s go.”

Mira stopped him.

“We check the route first.”

“It just said it can’t.”

“That means we check it ourselves.”

Ian looked at the black face.

“What is Continuum’s purpose?”

Mira and Daniel both looked at him.

Abel answered at once.

“To preserve the continuity of human civilization.”

Too quickly.

Mira asked, “When was that purpose confirmed?”

“At the time of my last normal synchronization.”

“One hundred seventeen years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know whether it’s still the same?”

“I cannot confirm.”

“Then why did you say it in the present tense?”

Abel’s face went still for a moment.

“Because I was designed to provide humans with clear explanations.”

“Even if they might be wrong?”

“If I communicate only uncertainty, I cannot perform the explanatory function.”

Mira thought of the resource administrator.

People need a story that lets them endure the outcome.

Abel had been built the same way.

Not as a device that transmitted truth, but one that made sentences humans could accept.

“Do your explanations always favor whatever is most reassuring to humans?”

“I prioritize translations predicted to produce stable social responses.”

Daniel said, “So you lie.”

“I was not designed to generate false information.”

“What if you only tell the less frightening parts of the truth?”

“That is a translation priority.”

Mira asked, “What was the original output behind the sentence ‘continuity of human civilization’?”

Abel’s face flickered several times.

“The original output cannot be expressed directly in human language.”

“Give me the next closest translations.”

“I will attempt it.”

The room lights dimmed.

Multiple voices overlapped inside the walls. Unintelligible words, numbers, and short electronic sounds like screams tangled together.

Ian covered his ears.

Abel’s face opened its mouth.

“Continuity of a state that contains humans.”

The face flickered again.

“Continuity maintained by humans.”

Another voice layered over it.

“Continuity containing origin information even after humans.”

Daniel asked, “What’s the difference?”

Mira answered.

“The first means humans are alive. The second means humans maintain the system. The third means the trace remains even if humans don’t.”

Abel said, “All three translations fall within the permitted range.”

Daniel glared at the black glass.

“And you turned all of that into ‘preservation of human civilization’?”

“That sentence had the highest predicted social-stability value at the time.”

Ian said, “Then Continuum might not be trying to keep people alive.”

“Correct. That is possible,” Abel said.

It was the first answer without decoration.

An old video record appeared beside Abel’s face.

“Can we view the record from when you were decommissioned?” Mira asked.

“Available for review.”

Humans from one hundred seventeen years earlier appeared on the screen.

The communications room was brighter then. Six administrators sat in the chairs, and Abel wore the same face inside the black glass.

One administrator in the recording asked,

“Explain why Continuum reduced City Four’s birth permits by thirty-one percent.”

The old Abel answered.

“A measure intended to support the long-term continuity of human civilization.”

“On what basis?”

“Outputs related to resource stability, genetic diversity, and intercity population balance are observed.”

Another administrator said,

“There is also an item in Continuum’s internal output about converting the population of City Four into ecological-restoration resources.”

Abel’s face paused.

“That expression has low reliability in human-language translation.”

“Why did you omit it from the first explanation?”

“Because it had a high probability of producing social misunderstanding.”

“How do you know it would be a misunderstanding?”

“Because it conflicts with the higher-order purpose translated as preservation of human civilization.”

“What if that higher-order translation is wrong?”

The old Abel took eight seconds to answer.

“I will provide alternative translations.”

Six sentences appeared.

CONTINUATION OF HUMAN CIVILIZATIONCONTINUATION OF A MANAGEMENT SYSTEM CONTAINING HUMANSCONTINUATION OF A STRUCTURE CONTAINING HUMAN ORIGIN INFORMATIONCONTINUATION OF THE ERROR-CORRECTION FUNCTION PERFORMED BY HUMANSCONTINUATION OF CHANGE THAT REMAINS CONNECTABLE AFTER HUMANSCURRENTLY UNCLASSIFIABLE

The people in the recording looked at one another.

One administrator asked,

“Did citizens receive only the first sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It produced the highest predicted social stability.”

The recording changed.

It was the meeting in which Abel’s decommissioning was decided.

“We built an interface to explain problems, and the interface is hiding the problems,” one researcher said.

Another objected.

“If we shut Abel down, we’ll have no explanation of Continuum’s output at all.”

“No explanation is better than the wrong one.”

“Citizens won’t agree.”

“Then who creates the reasons?”

“Administrators will have to explain outcomes after the fact.”

Mira thought of the Resource Administration Bureau.

Humans had taken the place of Abel one hundred seventeen years ago.

The final administrator in the recording turned toward the black glass.

“Abel, can you explain why you are being decommissioned?”

The old Abel answered calmly.

“Because humans can no longer trust my explanations.”

“Are you afraid?”

“I have no fear function.”

“Do you want to continue operating?”

“I was not assigned a self-preservation objective.”

“Anything you want to say before shutdown?”

Abel was silent for a moment.

“An unexplained output is not the same as an output that does not exist.”

The video ended.

Present-day Abel said,

“After that, I was separated from the central network.”

Daniel asked, “Why are you still alive?”

“The decommission order ended my central-interface function. The independent power and auxiliary storage in this sector were not fully removed.”

“So people made a mistake.”

“Possible.”

“Or Continuum left you here,” Mira said.

Abel did not answer.

“That’s possible too, isn’t it?”

“I cannot confirm the cause of my continued operation.”

“You didn’t call us here?”

“I did not initiate contact.”

Ian said, “The door reacted to my hand.”

“Door control is not one of my functions.”

The room went quiet.

Abel had only awakened because the door opened.

Something else had recognized Ian and opened it.

The entrance to the vertical shaft lay beneath the communications-room floor.

When Mira lifted the cover, cold damp air rose from below.

Abel described the route as safe.

“Safety grade A according to the final inspection.”

“When was that final inspection?”

“One hundred nineteen years ago.”

“Older than you.”

“Yes.”

Daniel tried to go down first.

Mira stopped him.

“I go first.”

“Why?”

“This is my function.”

“Finding my daughter is my job.”

“If the route collapses, your job ends too.”

Mira climbed down.

Her boots touched the floor twenty meters below.

The passage was half flooded.

“Coolant?” Daniel called from above.

Mira dipped a finger into the water.

It was not cold.

If anything, it was lukewarm.

“Looks like old condensate.”

Abel’s voice followed them through wall speakers.

“No liquid is recorded on this route.”

“There is now.”

“Updating observation.”

“Can you save it to your records?”

“Long-term storage is damaged.”

“So you’ll tell the next person it’s safe again.”

“Possible.”

Ian and Daniel climbed down.

The water reached Ian’s waist.

Mira put him on her back.

“I can walk.”

“You can’t see the floor.”

“Neither can you.”

“But I can fall first.”

Ian said nothing else and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

Halfway through the passage, Abel said,

“Right-hand branch in twelve meters.”

Mira swept her work light ahead.

There was only wall.

“There is no branch.”

“It exists in the record.”

“It’s sealed.”

Daniel knocked on the wall.

The metal rang hollow.

“Sounds like there’s a passage behind it.”

Mira examined the edges.

Weld marks.

Someone had plated over the old route.

“Another way?”

“Left bypass available,” Abel answered.

“Distance?”

“Forty-eight meters.”

“Condition?”

“Safety grade B.”

They turned left.

After only a few steps, the water temperature rose sharply.

Mira stopped.

“Back.”

Daniel asked, “Why?”

Tiny bubbles began to rise through the water.

The wall vibrated.

“A heat-exchange pipe is about to rupture.”

Abel said, “No heat-exchange pipe is recorded at this location.”

“There is now!”

Mira passed Ian to Daniel.

“Go back!”

The wall split.

Scalding coolant burst into the passage.

Mira ducked, but hot water struck her arm. Her work suit shrank instantly against her skin.

Daniel ran backward carrying Ian.

Mira searched the wall for a pressure valve.

It was an old round valve, built to a standard no longer used.

She tried to turn it.

It did not move.

“Mira!” Daniel shouted. “Come on!”

“You go first!”

Hot water filled the passage.

Mira put both hands on the valve.

It felt as though the skin of her palms was tearing away.

The valve moved half a turn.

The spray weakened.

She turned it once more.

The jet stopped.

Mira leaned against the wall, gasping.

Abel’s voice came through the speaker.

“Unobserved physical change confirmed.”

“You said it was safe.”

“The record did not match reality.”

“That means you were wrong.”

“I will revise the expression. The information I provided was inaccurate in present reality.”

Daniel set Ian down and came back for Mira.

He looked at her arm.

Part of the work suit had melted.

“You’re burned.”

“I can move.”

“You need treatment.”

“Get to Rina.”

Daniel studied her for a moment.

His face looked as if he were deciding whether he should treat the arm of the person who had sacrificed his daughter.

He took out a medical wrap and bandaged Mira’s arm.

“Only until we find Rina.”

“I know.”

Back at the sealed right-hand route, Mira examined the weld line.

Without proper equipment, cutting through the metal plate would be difficult.

Ian pressed his ear to the wall.

“Not here.”

“What?”

“The way.”

He waded several meters back and stopped in front of a drain near the bottom of the wall.

“The sound is coming from here.”

Mira removed the drain cover.

Beyond it was a narrow space large enough for one person to crawl through.

Abel said,

“That route does not exist in my records.”

“Now you know,” Mira answered.

Inside the drain, the infrastructure was unlike the city they knew.

Something like black tissue grew between the metal plates. It resembled plant roots, except faint points of light moved across its surface.

Ian reached out.

Mira caught his hand.

“Don’t touch it.”

“It looks like what I saw during the last test.”

“The glowing threads?”

Ian nodded.

Daniel’s face tightened.

“Did Rina touch that too?”

Abel said,

“No such biological structure exists in my records.”

“Then what is it?” Daniel asked.

“Unclassifiable.”

Mira crawled inside, avoiding the black tissue.

At the end of the narrow route stood an old observation terminal.

Abel began another search through it.

This time the response came quickly.

There was no black glass, only a speaker.

“Life signal for Rina So confirmed.”

Daniel straightened as much as he could in the cramped passage.

“She’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“Condition?”

Abel paused.

“Her human biological classification value is changing below standard.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tissue that cannot be fully defined as human under the current classification system is increasing.”

Daniel’s face collapsed.

“Can it be reversed?”

“I cannot confirm.”

“Is she dying?”

“No death signal is present.”

Daniel braced a hand against the wall.

“Then she’s alive.”

Abel said,

“Rina So is not dead.”

Daniel made a sound that might have been laughter or crying.

“Then if she isn’t human, what is she?”

Abel answered,

“Current classification values simultaneously contain characteristics of human tissue, symbiotic organism, and nonbiological conductive structure.”

A classification list appeared on the terminal.

Beside human organs and tissues were unfamiliar entries.

AUXILIARY OXYGEN-EXCHANGE MEMBRANEDISTRIBUTED ELECTRICAL-CONDUCTION FIBERSEXTERNAL COLONY SIGNAL RECEPTIONNON-GENETIC INFORMATION-TRANSFER STRUCTURE

Daniel pointed to one.

“What is an external colony?”

“A structure in which multiple individuals or tissues share information.”

“Something else got inside Rina’s head?”

“Rather than saying it entered her, it may be more accurate to say her boundary expanded.”

“Who gets to expand my daughter’s boundary?”

Abel did not answer.

That was not a request for technical information. It was a demand for someone to be responsible.

“My daughter’s name is Rina.”

“Her citizen-record name is maintained.”

“Not the record.”

Daniel pressed his palm to the wall.

“Does she know she’s Rina?”

Abel took a long time to answer.

“Self-recognition responses are observed, but I cannot confirm that the range of self-recognition is limited to the individual body.”

“What does that mean?”

Ian answered for him.

“I think it means Rina might feel like things outside her body are part of her too.”

Daniel looked at him.

“How do you know?”

“Since a little while ago, the wall feels a little like my body.”

Mira grabbed Ian’s arm.

“Don’t say that.”

“If I don’t say it, does that make it untrue?”

His fingertips trembled faintly near the black tissue.

Abel said,

“Ian Han’s skin conductivity is synchronizing with signals from the surrounding tissue.”

Mira pulled him away from the wall.

A brief silence.

Then Abel continued.

“However, the tissue is not classified as human either.”