Rourke Interrogates Ace

The council chamber lay buried deep beneath Project Zero, carved from black stone and shaped like an amphitheater. Tiered seats rose in a broad arc, each edge traced with a thin line of red light that glowed steadily, neither harsh nor dim. Above, blue ambient illumination washed down over the white stone floor at the chamber’s center, cooling the space and flattening shadows. Water moved somewhere beyond the walls—slow, constant, almost imperceptible.

Colonel James Rourke stood alone on the white stone, boots planted squarely, hands relaxed but ready at his sides. He had been briefed, escorted, and warned—but nothing in his training had prepared him for the stillness of this place.

At the highest tier, Councilor Saito rose carefully to his feet. Age showed in the movement, but not in the voice.

“She will join us now.”

A narrow doorway behind the council opened into shadow.

From it emerged Ace.

She crossed the chamber without sound. White robes, unbroken and immaculate, fell in clean lines around her tall frame. Her skin was paper-white—unnaturally so—and beneath a white blindfold, her eyes were fully concealed. Long red hair spilled down her back, unmoving. Black triangular markings rested beneath her eyes, sharp and precise, as if etched into the skin itself.

She stopped several paces from Rourke.

Then she knelt.

Not on a cushion. Not on a seat. She folded herself into seiza directly on the stone floor, resting on her legs, spine straight, hands folded in her lap. Despite kneeling, her height brought her nearly eye level with the standing officer.

The room waited.

Rourke studied her for a long moment, then spoke.

“I’m told you’re in charge. And that you are in control of a super-intelligent machine mind.”

“I am.”

No hesitation. No emphasis.

Rourke nodded once and continued.

“Are you the originator of Project Zero, or its steward?”

“Steward. For now.”

“Did Project Zero exist before you?”

“Yes.”

“If you were removed from this system, would it still function?”

“Yes.”

The answers were precise. Bounded. Rourke adjusted his footing slightly, then pressed on.

“Who can overrule you?”

“Truthfully, only myself.”

A ripple passed through the council seats, subtle but unmistakable. Rourke did not react outwardly.

“Who do you answer to when you are uncertain?”

“When I am uncertain, I answer to uncertainty.”

Rourke’s gaze sharpened.

“What decision are you not allowed to make?”

“A beautiful question, Commander. I will not allow myself to make any decision that would jeopardize my conscience—or Krow’s.”

The name hung in the air.

Rourke let it settle, then moved to the core.

“Is the super-intelligent system capable of acting without your consent?”

“No. Not in the sense you seek. I retain control authority over the mainframe. If I deem it necessary, I can scuttle the facility—destroying both Krow and myself.”

The admission was absolute. Rourke’s jaw tightened briefly.

“Has it ever disagreed with you?”

“Yes. Of course. We do not allow disagreements to remain unsettled. We both seek truth, and truth is not subject to interpretation. Where uncertainty remains, our projections may diverge—but time has shown those divergences are often two sides of the same coin.”

Rourke paused, then asked the question every briefing had circled but never dared phrase.

“If the system concluded humanity was a net risk, what would happen?”

“A net risk to what? To reality? To Krow? To me? You misunderstand his nature. Krow was designed by humanity, and humanity’s future is part of the meaning I gave him. He will defend it when the time comes. And if your hypothetical ever came to pass, I would disable the mainframe before Krow could act against humanity.”

Silence returned, heavier now.

Rourke continued, methodical.

“Who decides who is allowed to leave Earth?”

“We have ninety-one thousand seats available. First come, first served. There are disqualifying criteria—most are psychological. Stains on the mind that cannot be removed without changing who a person is. Even that change is a choice. Most will not choose it when offered honestly. My projections suggest we will not reach capacity within the window—not due to rejection, but logistics.”

“Is the expedition allowed to fail?”

Another stillness.

“Another interesting question, Commander. This expedition is the dream shared by the people of this facility, my predecessor, and the machine-mind itself. Of course it is allowed to fail. What is not allowed to fail? I have, however, pledged to the council that I will execute Akage’s Wish, which includes the successful launch of the Doves. So, for the expedition to fail would be for me to fail, and I do not intend to fail.”

Rourke’s voice softened, almost despite himself.

“If the Doves succeed, what happens to Earth?”

“I will leave Earth’s fate in the hands of those that stay. The expedition will return in three hundred thousand years. We will share what we have found with whoever we encounter… if we encounter anyone at all.”

He straightened again.

“What would make you intervene against a human government?”

“I will uphold the protocols of this facility and restrict my actions to the containment zone. If your affairs drift into the containment zone, I hope they align with my plans.”

“Has that already happened?”

“No, Commander. Taking your attention is the first interaction I have had with the outside world.”

Rourke drew a slow breath.

“If we decide we cannot accept your existence, what happens next?”

“You are free to choose what you accept and what you do not accept. I accept only the truth.”

He said nothing for a moment, then concluded.

“That’s all.”

Ace inclined her head by a fraction.

“Your duty remains intact, Commander.”

Rourke turned and walked from the chamber. The red lights did not flicker. The water did not stop. Ace remained kneeling at the center of the white stone floor, perfectly still, as the council watched in silence.