Here the sandy, red Arabian ground has been excavated and replaced with imported sod, which supports a carpet of climate-engineered grass and rows of transplanted shade trees. Water brought in from the Red Sea is pumped wastefully through fountains and landscaped waterfalls, irrigating the estate. It is an artificial oasis completely out of context in the rocky, windswept desert through which Berg has travelled to arrive here.

Similarly incongruous are the buildings: huge, elaborate Polynesian bungalows imbued with signs of American excess. Many of them are linked by enclosed, air-conditioned walkways to prevent the owner—an oil tycoon and black market biotech distributor—from experiencing the true heat of the region.

Berg can only guess at the exorbitant cost of maintaining such a place in this extreme Arabian climate. It sickens him to see such wealth and privilege in an area so bereft of basic human necessities. Knowing that the man behind all this profits from the slave trade only serves to intensify his resolve.

He moves silently across the compound, invisible to the naked eye, undetectable to most surveillance. The camosuit is a living extension of his skin, hypersensitive. It strengthens and protects and cools him against the stifling heat. The tools in his belt-pouch are small, not heavy but a constant presence.

He settles into a crouch behind a tree, remembering the words of his control, a man he knows only as Mullen. The security is geared toward repelling locals, not professionals. A lone man with the right tech, once past the perimeter, should be able to roam freely on the compound. So far the intelligence has proven accurate. Interior security has been minimal.

Night-vision implants enable him to see the target building, a bungalow set some distance from the main palace, and he sets off for it. No connecting walkway for this building, merely a hardfoam path. The owner does not wish his guests to chance upon the slave quarters.

Soon he reaches the front door to the building. A quick examination of the lock confirms further intelligence: this is the least secure building on the compound. A message, perhaps, that slaves are cheap here and protecting their welfare is of little concern. Hacking past the door is a simple process, an interface with his wristpad, an uploaded thumbprint, an authorization code revealed and keyed. He peels back the thumb of his camosuit and presses it against the reader; the door shimmers to admit him.

A barracks, uncooled, minus the expensive gloss of the rest of the compound. Short corridor with four closed doors, two on each side and one at the far end. Berg opens the first door, listening for signs of movement. The utter silence concerns him until he remembers Mullen's words: They're perfect. No snoring, no tossing and turning, no insomnia. They're designed that way. He peers inside. Indeed, sleeping men occupy the room in near-total silence.

Physically perfect, they lie naked atop self-cleaning gelatin pads. On the sides of their necks, clearly visible, unnatural knobs of flesh jut like Frankenstein bolts. Permanent catheters, syringe targets for instant programming. No personality to the room, no blankets, nothing but the men, their pads, their pristine uniforms hanging on pegs above them. They require nothing else, Berg thinks. They're programmed to need nothing. They're ciphers.

He triggers the filtration feature of his facemask and moves in, setting a small cannister of potent sedative gas in the centre of the room. The invisible fumes will prevent the slaves from waking up while he carries out their liberation. He exits, shuts the door, and proceeds to the next room: half a dozen more important, more expensive male slaves. Then across the hall to the women's quarters, one of the rooms filled with plain servants, the other with concubines. All of them attractive, perfect and healthy, ornaments picked from a black market catalogue. He sets a cannister in each room and returns to the main corridor.

Give the gas time to take effect. Mullen's voice again, vivid in his memory. In the meantime, take out Aliyyah. Aliyyah is his prize creation, his favourite. She's the only one whose personality is modelled on true human behaviour. If there are problems, they will come from her.

Berg goes back into the corridor, makes for the fifth door, and eases it open.

This chamber lacks the spare, utilitarian nature of the others. It wouldn't look out of place in the owner's palace: tiered floor, plush carpeting and furniture. There is air-conditioning, entertainment tech, artwork on the walls. Simple comforts and personal touches. Every indication of a person treated with respect, even some small degree of autonomy. Perhaps the illusion of freedom.

The four-post bed on the far platform has a silky canopy, diaphanous curtains on three sides. Berg sees the shape of Aliyyah beneath its satin coverlets, lying on her side. He can hear her breathing, rhythmic and unwavering.

It stops, and she stirs.

Berg halts all motion, realizes his camosuit is still active, that he cannot be seen. Still he is nervous as Aliyyah rises to a seated position and scans the room. "Who's there?" she calls in Arabic, a language Berg is well versed in.

Berg finds the voice enchanting. He feels a strange urge to respond, a lapse in operational instinct. He remains in place. Mullen has warned him to expect trouble.

A moment later, reassured, Aliyyah lies back down. Berg waits a full two minutes for her rhythmic breathing to resume, then crosses the room to stand beside the bed. Even through the hanging, translucent veil he can see that she is beautiful. He wants a closer look. He slips a syringe from his beltpouch, and extends a hand to push the veil aside.

A jolt of electric pain shoots through him.

His body goes numb and he collapses to the floor. Stunned, he tries to move, but finds himself paralyzed. He lies on his back like an overturned beetle, staring at the ceiling, helpless. The veil slides away, a dim lamp ignites. The silhouette of Aliyyah can be seen on the edge of his vision. She emerges from the canopy of the bed, backlit like an eclipse as she descends toward him. Then her face comes into view. She is beautiful, smooth dark skin and black hair, perfect symmetry. Berg finds it hard to believe this kind of beauty could ever have been invented, could ever have been the product of someone's imagination. But he knows this is the case.

"I'm going to remove your mask," she says in that mellifluous voice, and does so. Only now does Berg realize that his camosuit has malfunctioned. He is visible, vulnerable. She studies his face. "Who are you?"

He tries to speak, finds that his voice is functional. "Berg," he says. Then he thinks. What am I doing? The woman has him mesmerized. Her voice, her face, everything about her cancels out his every operational instinct. He is possessed of an uncontrollable desire to explain himself, to know this woman.

"Berg," Aliyyah says, as if tasting the word. "What are you doing here?"

"Releasing you."

"Releasing me? Why?"

"Not just you." He can't stop himself. He feels controlled somehow by her mere presence. Was she designed to have this effect? "Everyone here. All the slaves. I'm here to free you."

She laughs then, a pleasant unassuming laugh. Then she meets his eyes, and he sees intelligence there, and kindness, but also an edge. Unlike any slave he has ever encountered. "You are going to escort us out into the Dahna, eh? Free us to death? What makes you think we are unhappy staying here? Why do we need to be free?"

"That's just it," Berg says. "We know you're happy. But it's not your choice. You're programmed this way, for someone else's benefit. At someone else's whim."

A shrug-like expression. "And... ?"

"And I'm here to change that. To allow you to think for yourselves, to free you."

The smile melts from the woman's face. His words disturb her, but not for any obvious reason. "I see. And how did you plan to do this?"

Stop, Berg thinks. Soon enough the owner's security force will arrive, and they will surely get the truth out of him. Confessing will score him no points, will get him nowhere.

"Viruses," Aliyyah says, eyes settling on his beltpouch.

Belatedly he remembers the pouch is still open. He shifts his head to look, neck stiff but capable of movement, and sees that some of the syringes have spilled out onto the carpet. She picks up a handful and studies them briefly. "You were going to reprogram us."

The sincerity in her eyes moves him to nod his head. Sensation is returning, in his hands and arms at least, some small degree of movement. His legs are still useless.

Berg studies her face, the conflict in it. She is considering his words, his mission, wrestling with the implications. The intelligence about her was accurate, he muses. She possesses more autonomy, more decision-making capabilities than the others. She is weighing his arguments, or so it seems. Processing their value.

Footsteps outside, now, coming down the hallway. Aliyyah whirls toward the door, as if she's done something wrong and is afraid of being caught out. Berg finds this reaction peculiar.

There is a forceful knock. "Security," a voice calls through the door. "Is everything all right?"

To Berg's surprise, she turns to him and holds a finger to her lips to gesture for his silence. "I'm fine, just a moment!" she calls, pushing the syringes under the mattress. And then she grabs him under the armpits and drags him around behind the bed, out of view of the door, displaying an easy strength. She's hiding him from the security men. Berg can't imagine why she's doing it, but her actions fill him with hope. "Just be quiet," she whispers, then makes her way over to the door.

The door opens, and he hears numerous footsteps as the security detail arrives. Two men, perhaps three. "Is there something wrong with the security veil?" one of them asks. "We were signalled in the control room."

"I'm not sure," Aliyyah says. "The noise woke me up. I think I may have triggered it."

"Are you hurt? It's not supposed to activate from the inside."

"I know, perhaps it didn't close properly," Aliyyah says. "I'm fine, perhaps I pushed a pillow against it. I don't know."

There's tingling in Berg's right arm now. He tries to move it, finds that he can do so. He wonders whether he can get the mask back in place, reactivate the camosuit. Will it even work? He decides that trying anything is too risky. He'll take his chances with Aliyyah. For whatever reason, she seems to be concealing him from the guards. She's his only chance.

"You didn't see or hear anybody in the room?" the security guard asks.

"No, no I didn't," Aliyyah says. "A false alarm?"

"Even so, we should probably sweep the grounds," the security guard says. "Stay here while we check the other rooms."

"Very well," Aliyyah says, and the door shuts as the guards move back into the hall.

The other rooms, Berg thinks hopefully. He can move both arms now, is starting to feel his legs. The gas canisters in the other rooms will knock out the security force. He may be able to get out of here, after all.

Aliyyah returns to him, looking down at him as if deciding the fate of a wounded horse.

"What do you hope to accomplish by this?" she whispers. "You say you are here to help us, and your plan is to make it so that we are miserable with our plight? Make us aware?"

The challenge in her voice rouses him to the debate. "Yes, free to choose for yourselves... "

"Do I look like someone incapable of making choices?"

Berg shakes his head, but finds his argument. "We know that you're different. But you were designed, just like the others. Whose decisions are you making? Do you really know?"

Aliyyah looks angry now, and confused. "They're my decisions," she says, but it lacks conviction.

"All right, maybe. But the others... "

"They have never needed choice. They don't want choice."

"But don't you see? It's wrong for someone to make their choices for them!"

"Unless it is you?" Aliyyah returns to the bed, retrieves the syringes from under the mattress. She examines them thoughtfully. "We were created to serve others. That is what makes us happy. Why is it wrong?"

Berg is unsure how to respond. It's just wrong, he thinks. It's obvious. It's that simple.

"This seems a strange way to live," Aliyyah says. "Imposing your will on other people."

"That's not it," Berg says, feeling groggy. "I'm doing what's right, it's what I believe in."

"Belief," she says, and sounds sad. "We all have beliefs. Look where it has gotten us." She turns over a syringe with slender fingers and a thoughtful expression that only enhances her beauty. Then she uncaps the needle.

"Wait," Berg says, reaching out to stop her. For a moment, he thinks she plans to stab him with it.

But she doesn't. Instead she takes aim at her own neck, and he sees now that she too has a programming bolt there—smaller in her case, more subtle, designed to look like a mole. A beauty mark, really. She's seen this done before, it seems, or perhaps it's been done to her. With little hesitation she injects herself with the reprogramming virus.

Berg watches as she withdraws the needle, absently placing a finger over the bolt as if to secure the virus within her bloodstream. She wears a look of expectant concentration, as if anticipating some dramatic, immediate effect. He's never administered the drug to a conscious slave, and finds himself intensely curious. "Is it working?" he asks.

She breaks her focus, glances at him. "I don't know," she says, sounding disappointed. Then she crouches down beside him and extends the used syringe. "Here. Take it."

"Why?"

"Get rid of it. I don't want them finding a used one."

He nods; no residual presence. She's protecting the operation. "Then you see," he says. "You agree with us—"

"I didn't say that," she interrupts. "Give me the rest."

"The—what?"

"The rest of the syringes. Give them to me. Or do you want me to call the guards back?"

Berg hesitates for a moment, weighs his options. Is the security detail still moving around out there? He doesn't hear them, but he can't be sure. And anyway, he still finds it difficult to say no to this woman. He reaches into the beltpouch and hands over the syringes. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm testing it," she says, meeting his eyes. "If I think it's right for the others... maybe I will give them the choice."

He struggles to his elbows, flexes his knees. His strength is returning. "And what about me?"

"You're leaving," Aliyyah says. "And never coming back."

Berg struggles to his feet, toggles the wristpad of the camosuit. It seems to be working. "Are you—?"

"Just get out of here, before I change my mind!"

He meets her gaze and, surprised at himself, he nods in agreement. Then he pulls the mask over his face and makes sure it's filtering properly before he moves out into the hall. One last glance reveals she's no longer looking at him. She sits on the bed with a finger pressed against her neck. Waiting for the change. Leaving the door open behind him, he triggers the suit's stealthing tech and leaves the room.

His movements are halting at first. His body feels like a strange fit. But the effects of the veil's shock are wearing off now. Quick glances into the side rooms reveal that the security detail has indeed collapsed, knocked out by the gas. There should be no trouble making it to the perimeter.

He races across the compound, the movement a struggle, mind reeling with questions. Missions didn't go this way; it had always gone like clockwork, in his experience. Slaves made no trouble, they did what they were told. How does Aliyyah fit in with them? She seems no less human than he is.

At the fence, he hesitates, glances around the grounds for signs of alarm. But the scene is silent, deathly still. It will be an easy escape. Leaving now, he will make the extraction point with time to spare.

He wonders how Mullen will respond when he makes his report. The mission has failed, he'll have to say. Or, perhaps, it's partially succeeded—at least one of the slaves was injected. The mission may even completely succeed, if that one slave decides to finish the job for him. It's madness. Mullen will never understand this.

He's not sure he understands it.

He turns back. He darts across the compound toward the slave's quarters, with a renewed sense of purpose. He needs to finish the job. Perhaps the gas has made its way down the hall to Aliyyah. If she's asleep, he can recover the syringes and complete the mission. He can still make it to the rendezvous.

The guards are still out cold, collapsed awkwardly between the slave mats. Staring at them, he feels the urgency drain from his actions. He tears his eyes away, and heads down the corridor to Aliyyah's room. He stops in the doorway, and glances toward the bed.

She's draped across it now, unconscious, a finger still pressed against her neck. Her other hand clutches the syringes, open to view. The gas took her out before she could hide them.

He crosses the room to stand over her, brushing her hair away from her face. Knowing her beauty is artificial doesn't make it any less real. She's designed to be admired, and he knows it, and he doesn't care.

He reaches down and plucks a syringe from her hand, imagining what it's like to be in her position. Engineered, a product, designed to be exploited and not to mind. She's complicit in a system she doesn't fully understand, incapable of trusting her own thoughts. And yet, despite that, she's trying to adapt, to change, to see if there are other ways.

How could he be so certain of things, if she were not?

A decision. He undoes a wrist-seal and rolls up his sleeve. The injection is brief, a momentary pain like a bee's sting, and he sits on the floor beside the bed to let the virus work. He doesn't know if it will have an effect on him, but then why wouldn't it? He and Aliyyah are made of the same stuff; they just came into being by different processes.

He waits for some feeling to overtake him, some immediate change in his mindset as the virus works its way into his system, insinuates itself into his neurochemistry. All he feels, though, is an intensification of the confusion he has already developed about himself, his reasons for being here and doing this work.

Moments pass, a minute. He sits and waits, waiting for an effect, something he can quantify. He feels different, but is it the virus or is it simply him? There's no way of knowing.

Finally he stands, takes one last look at Aliyyah, and backs slowly toward the hall. He makes his way back out into the night, then out into the desert chill. He runs across the unnatural carpet of soft grass, across the synthetic oasis to the perimeter fence. This time he won't hesitate to scale it, and drop to the gritty desert reality on the other side. He feels the need to move, to act, to keep looking.

Perhaps that's the only answer.

---