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The room's all graceful curves and beveled edges, all oddly colored wood-grain and subtle metallic ornamentation. It's a style that seems to keep repeating throughout the city, not present everywhere but distinct.

The chair in front of the main screen is firm but yielding, molding itself to the weight of whoever sits in it. There are a few discreet buttons at the front of each armrest, suggesting (at least to any observer from a society with similar technology) that there may be something computer-controlled inside the chair itself.

Everything is shining, and spotless, and silent.

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Too silent, as far as Gaeta's concerned: like a ship gone adrift, its power source cut. Of course, if the aesthetic's anything to go on, its power source could be less than typical.

He doesn't sit just yet. The most he does, in fact, is touch his free hand to the back of the chair, very lightly, as he studies the monitor.

Kaya moves up next to him, staying close.

"Do you know what it is?" she whispers.

"I'm not sure," he whispers back. Not all the disbelief has faded yet. "It's, ah, some sort of monitoring station at the very least, but..."

His gaze drifts up.

"I wouldn't be able to speak to the complexity until we turned it on."

"That will not be necessary, sir. The system is already online."

It's a calm female voice, directionless, accompanied by a faint glow on the monitor screen.

"Motherfr -- "

Gaeta, it should be noted, is not an exceptionally twitchy person.

So it says a fair bit that his startlement is enough for him to almost lose his grip on his crutch, almost lose his balance on account of jerking away from the chair, and only save (some) face by grabbing back onto the selfsame chair.

He exhales in a long whoosh, shutting his eyes in mild embarrassment.

He also doesn't answer the computer.

Kaya starts too, if not quite as violently, and may contribute somewhat to Gaeta's near-loss of balance by grabbing for his arm.

"I apologize if I have startled you, citizens," says the voice, still calm. "May I be of assistance?"

This is not good.

Still braced on the chair with his head bowed, Gaeta opens his eyes, flicks his gaze up to the monitor.

Levelly: "What are you?"

Kaya glances up at him, more unsettled by his reaction than by the disembodied voice.

The voice itself seems unruffled. "Special Integrant First Class Tarena Makthe'iuvh, sir, currently serving as custodian for Computer Bank Aln. I can provide a visual if it will facilitate interaction."

It has a rank?

His grip doesn't loosen; if anything, it goes a fraction tighter. Slowly, Gaeta straightens, and his voice doesn't chance one iota when he speaks again.

"I would appreciate that. Thank you."

The image that forms on the screen is the head and shoulders of a handsome woman on the edge of middle age, in a smooth high-collared tunic of a dark grey with metallic scrollwork around the neck and along the shoulder seams (uniform, it says subtly). Her hair is dark and neatly braided back from her face; her skin is about three or four shades darker than Gaeta's.

"Sensors indicate rising stress levels," the woman on the screen says. "You may be more comfortable if you sit. I apologize that I am unable to provide a second chair; maintenance service has not yet been reactivated."

Turn off your sensors, he wants to say.

"I'm fine where I am," he says instead, and punctuates it with a quick glance down to Kaya. "Kaya, do you want to -- ?"

Kaya's staring at the image with a hungry intensity, and barely seems to hear him.

"Who are you?" she asks, her voice hushed.

The image shifts slightly, appearing to look directly at her, and the woman smiles.

"Welcome home, citizen. You may call me Tarena, or Integrant if you prefer to use the title."

"May I ask what the title signifies?"

Despite the individual politeness of the words, the cumulative effect -- when combined with Gaeta's tension -- skirts the edge of a wary challenge.

There's the slightest of pauses. "Of course, sir. The term integrant describes a human consciousness, digitally recorded and uploaded into a computer bank to serve as its directing intelligence. In terms of relative rank, an Integrant of a city computer bank is a public servant and may provide service to any citizen or guest who requires it."

Gaeta's mouth parts, very slightly, as he listens.

"Human consciousness, he repeats at last, with a dim disbelief. The pressure on the chair back loosens.

Gaeta has walked a fine line for most of his military career: he knows computers, and he knows the joy of tapping into a new technology he's never seen before, exploring its limits, imagining what it can do. Ever since the attacks, that's been buffered on all sides by the knowledge of just how dangerous unchecked technology can be.

This is different. The barriers drop; not gone entirely, but significantly lower, and far easier to clear.

"You're not an AI," he says, and by now, his hand's on the chair for balance and nothing more.

Kaya glances up at him. "A what?"

"Searching," says Tarena. "I apologize, sir, that term is neither in personal memory nor any data banks I can access. May I request a definition?"

"Artificial intelligence," he says -- to Kaya, not Tarena. Half a beat later, though, Gaeta has shifted his attention back to the monitor to elaborate.

"It's used almost entirely in the context of computer sciences. At its most basic, it can perform simple tasks requested by the user and, um, interact with them on a limited, unscripted level. At its most advanced, the machine itself develops sentience."

"True machine sentience is a staple of fiction," says Tarena quite calmly. "It has long been deemed unachievable by science. The integrant is a harmonious compromise that allows a human sentience to integrate fully with the capabilities of the computer."

"Maybe here it is," says Gaeta, just as calm.

Thinly so, but.

Clank. He starts to navigate around the chair, one hitching step at a time; eventually, some seconds later, he takes a seat and leans his crutch against one of the armrests.

Kaya moves to his other side and leans against him, eyes still intent on the screen, alight with rising wonder.

"She can tell us about the city," she whispers.

"That is correct, citizen." Tarena doesn't seem perturbed by the fact that the whisper should have been too low for her to hear. "What would you like to know?"

Gaeta glances to Kaya. His expression softens considerably.

"It's your city," he whispers back. "Go ahead."

There's a long pause.

"...I don't know what to ask," she whispers back.

"Oh. Uh."

To be honest, Gaeta himself isn't sure what to ask, either. Or, more accurately, where to start with the whirl of questions going through his head.

He meets Tarena's eyes again, thinking it over.

"Okay, how about..." Gaeta shifts position in the chair. "Why haven't we seen anything like your technology the entire way here? Does it have to do with the, ah, exile?"

Kaya's glance goes from him to the screen, interest flickering higher.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that with a high degree of reliability," Tarena says. "We do not have a great deal of data on human settlements outside the city. Contact with our orbital systems has yet to be reestablished; most if not all of our satellites' orbits may have decayed in the interim. However, given the circumstances of the event you refer to as the exile, it is statistically likely that such technology as our original citizens were able to take with them could not be maintained without an infrastructure."

Another long pause, and Kaya looks back at him as if hoping for a translation.

"Wait, orbital -- "

For the moment, unfortunately, Kaya won't be getting one. Gaeta's as transfixed as her, leaning closer to the screen.

Wondering: "Are you referring to simple information satellites or to ships?"

"Information satellites. Our colony no longer possesses functional ships."

There's a note of something in her voice that might be regret.

No longer.

But that means they did, once.

If Tarena didn't even know what an AI was, if their technology never advanced to the point of sentient machines, then -- leaving aside any logistics of time, or distance -- it can't be possible. He knows.

And yet there is still a low, aching hope when he asks, very softly: "Where are you from?"

Another of those tiny pauses, noticeable only if one's already noticed that Tarena almost always responds without pausing.

"Our planet of origin was called Ahre in what was at the time its primary language. I am afraid further information on Ahre is stored in data banks that have not yet been reactivated. If you would care to return later, I may be able to answer your question in more detail."

Gaeta glances down, just for a beat.

"Yeah, maybe later," he agrees, no louder than before, when he lifts his head. Another beat; his expression smooths over. "Thank you, sir."

Kaya's looking back and forth between Gaeta and the screen, aware that something important's being asked even if she doesn't quite understand what.

The look on his face there, though, before he erases it --

(She remembers playing with the fox cubs, watching him scratch one of them behind the ears, murmuring to it: I'm from Picon, too. And, later, but it's just a myth.

Something to do with his home. Or with Earth.)

"What's a satellite?" she asks, low, directing the question at Gaeta.

Gaeta blinks; it draws him the last few inches out of his thoughts.

"Oh, it's, um -- " As usual, there is the pause to sort through, and to translate the concepts to ones Kaya would be able to understand. "It's a kind of machine that's built to stay in space and orbit a planet -- circle it," he corrects. "Mostly they're just used to gather information you wouldn't be able to get on the ground, or...get as easily, I guess. They can also help project messages over long distances."

"If you would be interested, citizen," Tarena puts in, "there are children's teaching programs on this and many other subjects available in the city's computer banks. Some time will be required to autotranslate them into the contemporary language. I can initiate the process now, if you so request."

Kaya blinks at the screen. "...Yes," she says. "Please. Thank you."

Tarena smiles at her. "My pleasure to assist, citizen."

Gaeta can't help but smile, too, just a bit.

It fades into a brief twinge of embarrassment as he folds his hands, leaning to put his elbows on his thighs.

"I, ah. Understand if this offer's not extended to me as well," he says. "But if you have any programs for improving reading comprehension, would it be possible to...?"

"Of course, sir. Access to basic information shall not be curtailed."

That last has the sound of rote recital; the sound of a principle frequently restated.

He's spent enough time in the military to notice, and enough, too, to let it skim by without much thought.

Gaeta nods, and says again, "Thank you." A beat; then, to Kaya, rather more lightly: "Not that you weren't a good teacher on the way here."

She smiles, but it fades into something a little more sober as she leans against him again.

"Everything's different now," she murmurs.

"Yeah."

Gaeta straightens, shifts again. This time, it's to drape a gentle arm around her shoulders.

"And it'll take some time to get used to it," he whispers. "But...I think it's mostly different in a good way."

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