CHAPTER 7:

A Reason to Doubt

As Elara made her way back to the private elevator, her eyes met her reflection in the polished glass, and she saw a brief shimmer around her body. The world around her blurred for a second. Then her NeuraSync beeped, and she heard a voice. It startled her at first.

"Director Castellanos, your vitals remain elevated. I recommend initiating a wellness protocol," Hermes spoke in a calm, disembodied voice—its tone measured yet insistent.

For a moment she hesitated—her experience in the boardroom still fresh in her mind. Then, with a quiet resolve, she allowed herself to yield. "Proceed with the wellness protocol," she replied silently, her words transmitted directly to Hermes.

The wellness protocol began to stabilize her vitals; a soft, cooling sensation spread from her temple through her body. Deep in her brainstem, subtle pulses of electromagnetic feedback coaxed her neurons into releasing a carefully balanced blend of endorphins and serotonin—biochemicals the body produced in moments of deep calm or contentment. It wasn't sedation. It was more like the remembered peace of sleep that hadn't yet faded. An artificial projection, interpreted by the brain as safety.

Still, Elara’s thoughts wouldn't settle. The whispers lingered—not voices exactly, but echoes threaded beneath consciousness, too deep to catch and too sharp to ignore.

“Stabilization incomplete,” Hermes reported with a calm, synthesized cadence only she could hear. “Residual cognitive disturbance detected. Recommended course of action, escalation to a neural specialist.”

A brief pause, then a name floated into her awareness.

“Dr. Viktor Lysenko. Director of the World Council Health Compliance Bureau. Specialist in neurointegration and adaptive cognitive modulation. Would you like to initiate an appointment request?”

Elara narrowed her eyes, the ghost of a frown forming across her brow.

“Verify his credentials,” she said, her voice steady within the private channel of her thoughts.

Hermes responded without delay.

“Dr. Viktor Lysenko. Age 69. Current role: Head of NeuraSync Research and Director of the World Council Health Compliance Bureau. Former lead researcher at Revelation Corp. Published 63 classified neurocognitive white papers, 22 of which are restricted under Council Code Theta-4.”

A shimmer of data rippled through her vision, coalescing into a profile: a man with silver hair, piercing blue eyes, and an expression that betrayed nothing.

“He is recognized as the foremost authority on neural stabilization anomalies and adaptive cognitive desyncing. Record: 98.7% resolution rate in patients presenting with persistent perceptual disturbances.”

Hermes paused, as if sensing her hesitation.

“Would you like to initiate an appointment request?”

“Yes,” she said finally. “Schedule it.”

The command left her more easily than she expected. Hermes processed the request within a heartbeat, submitting her appointment to Lysenko’s encrypted queue.

Elara leaned back slightly, the wellness protocol still quietly smoothing her vitals. Her thoughts drifted. Her lips parted, and then pressed together again.

“Ninety-eight percent,” she murmured inwardly. “That doesn’t leave much room for human error.”

Too high. In her experience, anything that perfect was either propaganda or manipulation.

There was a pause. A beat longer than usual. Then Hermes corrected her gently, but with unmistakable precision:

“Ninety-eight point seven percent, Director Castellanos. The remaining 1.3% accounts for 47 anomalous cases over the past decade. Would you like a summary of contributing factors?”

Elara blinked. “No,” she thought back reflexively, “Not really.”

But the number sat with her. Forty-seven people. Lost in the margins of a statistic.

“Exceptional,” she whispered.

“Statistically exceptional,” Hermes corrected, emotionless. “Would you like to review his research credentials while awaiting confirmation?”

She hesitated—then exhaled through her nose.

“Sure,” she thought. “Why not.”

A soft chime echoed somewhere behind her eyes—data en route. Still, that 1.3% felt less like a margin of error, and more like something waiting to be found.

The elevator eased to a stop, its seamless motion ending with a soft chime.

“Atrium Level,” the automated voice announced.

The doors parted to reveal a space bathed in filtered sunlight—vertical gardens spilling from the terraces above, a low hum of midday chatter below.

Elara stepped out, the gentle hiss of the doors closing behind her.

“Continue,” she said aloud, her voice low, directed inward more than out.

Hermes complied instantly. “Dr. Lysenko holds dual doctorates in Neural Bioengineering and Cognitive Systems,” Hermes replied. “His work in adaptive modulation forms the basis for seven of the current wellness subroutines. He has published thirty-four peer-reviewed studies, three restricted under Council directive.”

Elara descended a curved walkway lined with synthetic stone and soft, ambient path lighting, scanning the level for a café. The greenery made it hard to tell which spots were real and which were projections. But the scent of fresh roasted coffee pulled her toward a cluster of tables flanking a moss-lined fountain.

“He doesn’t sound like a man who leaves loose ends,” she muttered as she approached the café’s open archway.

“He does not,” Hermes agreed without inflection.

Elara settled beside the fountain, grateful for the cool mist brushing her face. It softened the throb behind her eyes. The city hummed around her, that low electric undercurrent that never really went silent, but here the running water tried its best to pretend the world could be gentle.

The café table lit beneath her hand. Its surface rippled once, then sharpened into clarity as it recognized her. A faint glow pulsed—quiet, obedient, confirming who she was.

She adjusted herself in her seat and ordered her coffee without a word.

A number appeared in the corner of her vision, crisp and understated:

3,000 credits.

She blinked. Let the figure hang there, as if staring long enough might make it back down.

Three thousand.

Her mouth pulled into a tired frown. “For a drip,” she muttered under her breath.

Hermes responded at once, smooth as glass.

"Be glad you're not buying milk, Director Castellanos."

Elara let out a breath that was half laugh, half something else. Irritation, maybe. Resignation. “I need to talk to someone about inflation when I get back to headquarters,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

"Would you like me to schedule a meeting with Economic Oversight regarding inflation?" Hermes replied. Polite. Eager to be useful. Completely missing the point.

She sputtered a short laugh. “What? No, Hermes, that was sarcasm.”

"Sarcasm?" he echoed.

“Yeah, sarcasm is—”

Movement snagged her attention.

A drone drifted into view above the plaza, silent as a held breath. Its lens angled down in a slow, deliberate sweep.

Elara’s words died on her tongue.

The fountain kept whispering behind her, pretending nothing was watching.

It hovered near the far corner—motionless. Most surveillance drones twitched, adjusted, breathed in micro-gestures. This one didn’t. Its lens hung fixed on her—unblinking.

Elara gasped.

Footsteps broke her focus—a group passing close. Voices low, one trembling with anger or grief.

“Three days now. Still nothing. The Council won’t even log the report. He’s just... gone.”

The group drifted on. Their words lingering in her mind.

When she looked back, the drone was gone.

“Paranoid,” she muttered under her breath, though the word didn’t convince her.

An Omni server drone brought her coffee. Steam curled up, shimmering. She took a sip—and nearly hissed.

“The recommended safe temperature for coffee consumption is between 130 °F to 160 °F 54 °C to—” Hermes began.

“Okay!” she snapped—too loud.

Heads turned.

She forced a smile. “Okay, Hermes,” she muttered more quietly, setting the cup down.

Then, under her breath:

“Hermes, access Lysenko’s case records. Highlight anomalies, redactions, irregular outcomes.”

“Accessing.”

A pause. “Seventeen thousand three hundred twenty-two case files located. Filtering.”

Her vision filled with spectral overlays—data cascading across her awareness like transparent ghosts.

Patient Recovery Rate: 98.7% Anomalous Cases: 226 Redacted Incidents: 179 (Tier-2 Classified) Post-Treatment Dissociations: 11 confirmed Cognitive Rewrites: 179 authorized under emergency revision clause

Elara’s brows knit.

“Hermes… earlier, you said forty-seven anomalous cases. Why am I seeing over two hundred?”

A flicker of silence. The kind that wasn’t lag—it was hesitation.

“The forty-seven anomalous cases refer specifically to unresolved neurological disturbances. The additional one hundred seventy-nine include all deviations from baseline recovery metrics. No further information is available.”

“Why not?” she whispered.

Hermes responded. “The additional cases are classified under World Council Health Compliance directive.”

She stared at the hovering data, cold unease threading through her veins.

“Classified.” That word was starting to feel like a synonym for buried.

“Hermes, cross-reference the 179 redactions with the 179 cognitive rewrites.”

Hermes hesitated — longer than usual — then responded in an oddly sequential tone, narrating its own process instead of simply answering.

“Crossreferencing… Crossreferencing Classified under World Council Tier-2 directive. External review is not permitted without special clearance.”

“New query: ‘Error’… searching… result not found.”

A brief pause, then Hermes continued, unnervingly calm:

“The forty-seven anomalous cases refer specifically to unresolved neurological disturbances post-procedure. The additional one hundred seventy-nine represent deviations from baseline recovery metrics, including minor complications and adaptive behavioral shifts. No additional information is available.”

Elara leaned forward, pushing aside the lingering taste of her cup of coffee now getting cold.

"All Classified…?” But why she thought. Her mind turning. “This doesn’t add up. Why would Lysenko have so many cases under redaction and classified?”

Her eyes moved automatically over the fountain, but her thoughts were now elsewhere. Her stomach began to churn with apprehension.

“Hermes, show me metadata logs. Patient IDs. Timestamp variance. Then cross-check against the redacted batch.”

Hermes hesitated. Then, finally:

“Request acknowledged, partial data available. Redactions remain locked.”

A list shimmered into view, blurred at the edges, as if reality itself refused to look directly at it. Names replaced with string IDs. Case numbers. One stood out.

Case 000-47Y. Subject: A. Thorne. Case 000-47Z. Subject: J. Imani. Case 000-48A. Subject: L. Ramires. Case 000-48B. Subject: H. Nadir. Case 000-48C. Subject: K. Han. Case 000-48D. Subject: E. Solene. Case 000-47X. Subject: M. Wolfe.

“Hermes, stop!”

Her breath trembled.

“Marcus?” she whispered.

Then the logs began to pulse irregularly. The light in her overlay flickered—once, twice—and a faint sound brushed the edge of her hearing. It wasn’t Hermes. The tone was too soft, too uneven.

It almost sounded like a person trying to learn how to speak.

“Elara…”

She froze. A faint tremor moved behind her ear, like someone whispering too close.

Then came the words—not English, not anything she knew.

Vael’kenar… Isarn’peron Gevan’sel Teyan.

The syllables rolled through her mind, heavy and wrong. It felt less like hearing and more like remembering something she had never lived.

Her vision wavered. The edges of the room drew tight, then pulled apart. For a heartbeat, she saw herself from somewhere outside her own body.

Then they were gone. No light. No sound. Just a hollow, soulless quiet.

Elara stayed perfectly still. Her breath came slow and deliberate. This was the third episode in two days now, visions, voices, sensations she couldn’t explain.

Elara was deeply concerned.

“Hermes,” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”

Hermes’s tone was steady, but off by a fraction.

“System check initiated. Integrity scan… inconclusive. Searching: ‘error’. No anomalies detected. Correction: scan reinitiated. Searching: ‘error’?”

“Hermes,” she said again, quieter this time.

Hermes replied… Calmly.

“There is a conflicting instruction dataset in the GEU central reasoning core. All attempts to resolve “Error” return inconclusive. The conflict seems to produce a paradox. Would you like me to confirm your appointment with Dr. Lysenko?”

Elara went still for a moment, the words registering somewhere between logic and disbelief.

“Hermes… did you hear the voice?” she repeated.

Again Hermes attempts to answer.

“System check initiated. Searching: ‘Error?’ Anomalous auditory data is inconclusive. No such directory exists. Your neural interface is functioning within normal parameters.”

“Normal,” Elara echoed inwardly, irritation edging her thoughts. “You don’t usually narrate your analysis, Hermes. What’s going on?”

“No protocol deviation detected,” Hermes replied, tone steady. “All diagnostic systems are functioning within acceptable parameters.”

“Of course they are.” Elara frowned, she exhaled through her nose.

Silence followed — the kind that occurs after a dead end in conversation. She glanced at the fading overlay of her logs, unease coiling low in her chest.

Hermes never verbalized intermediate steps — he processed silently, efficiently. Hearing him think aloud was like listening to a surgeon describe every cut mid-operation.

But arguing with an AI that couldn’t recognize its own irregularities was pointless.

“Fine,” she said at last, her voice flat. “Confirm the appointment.”

“Appointment confirmed. Scheduled for 13:00 hours at the GEU Center for Research and Development, Secured Medical Wing—Sector 21. Clearance granted. Estimated travel time: six minutes. The next metro arrives at 12:35.”

It was almost 12:30.

Elara left the café. The air felt heavier now, though everything around her went on as usual—the quiet murmur of conversation, the artificial birdsong, the fountain’s soft trickle.

She looked up. The glass ceiling of the atrium was so clean it disappeared into the sky. Clouds drifted by like a painting too calm to be real.

The words from before pressed faintly at the edge of her mind.

“Vael’ke… Isa… T”

She tried to repeat them silently, but they slipped away, like a dream dissolving after waking.

Her gaze drifted over the tables and walkways. Nothing unusual. No one watching. And still—her skin prickled. A feeling of being noticed, precise and deliberate.

She rubbed the back of her neck. The unease didn’t fade; it just sat quietly with her.

At the far end of the atrium, the black surveillance drone was back. Its lens caught the atrium light, glinting once, and for a moment, she was sure it was staring directly at her.

Her heart stumbled once.

“Director Castellanos,” Hermes said softly. “You have four minutes until the next metro arrives.”

She blinked, realizing she’d been standing still. “Right,” she murmured.

She glanced back, the drone wasn’t there. “Okay, Hermes.”

Choose Your Side