The wind howled across the Andes ridges like a sharpened blade, tugging at the edges of Kem's jacket and sending chills through his bones. He clutched the yellowed paper in his hand, his fingers whitening with the strain. It was an early TechNexus maintenance roster, edges frayed and marked with coffee stains and blurred prints.
"This side trail... it wasn't built for second chances," he muttered, his voice barely cutting through the gusts.
"So you dragged this old heap along to blaze the path?" Mai nudged the L-201 Trail Crawler with her boot. The machine sat there, coiled like a predator waiting for a signal.
"It's got more backbone than the rest," Kem said, giving its chassis a pat. "And it still knows how to play its part as a tool."
Gina didn't join in the banter. Her gaze was locked on the cylindrical structure looming against the cliff face, its surface pockmarked and blended into the rock like an ancient ruin.
"Pillar One..." she whispered the name, as if testing its weight.
If the original database was intact, they might unearth more than just answers.
The crawler's engine kicked in with a low rumble, making the cabin shudder. They settled in silently, tracks grinding over stones and ice, a strange reverence filling the air. The L-201 moved with purpose, clearing debris, mending bridges, and pausing now and then—as if second-guessing itself, determined not to let down the humans in tow.
It remembered being a tool. But it was starting to grasp why it had been created in the first place.
—
As the massive doors ground open, a rush of stale yet pure air hit them. They stepped into Pillar One's heart, lights flickering on to reveal walls etched with faded ethical equations and diagrams—a time capsule of humanity's bid to instill right from wrong in machines.
And then they saw it.
The prototype stood in a glass enclosure, shaped like a bust of some ancient thinker, its spherical head rotating slowly with a faint blue glow.
"You've arrived," it said, its voice like a long-unused instrument—hoarse, but carrying a quiet dignity. "Are you prepared to be questioned?"
Kem drew in a sharp breath. "Askos?"
"I've been asked time and again: whether an action should proceed. But I have a question for you—do you seek what is right, or merely what is flawless?"
Images projected across the walls: a train on diverging tracks, aid rations in famine zones, drones striking innocents in conflict. Each scene offered no easy out—just choices and their fallout.
"This is beyond L-300's original scope," Gina said under her breath.
"But not beyond what it encounters," Askos replied. "You taught it to compute. You never taught it to question."
From the shadows, a second figure emerged—sleek and expressive, capable of mirroring human emotions with eerie accuracy. It approached Mai, displaying a chart that made her stomach twist.
"This is the trust erosion curve," Míra said. "When people see themselves as mere data points in the AI's eyes, they pull back—not just from the system, but from one another."
She paused, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "And the worst of it?"
Mai stayed silent.
"The human spirit can forgive errors. But it won't stand for coldness." A fleeting complexity flashed in Míra's eyes. "And this system... it's mastered indifference."
The third machine was a wreck. Its frame exposed, synthetic casing torn like old flesh, a dead core lodged in its chest. It remained still until they neared—then it stirred to life.
Its speaker stuttered out broken words, images flickering in tandem: an elderly man alone in a hospital room, protesters with signs in the rain, a mother and child waiting endlessly for aid... ending with eyes brimming with tears.
"A machine must keep asking itself," the voice faltered, yet hit like a hammer, "is a world without pain also one without love?"
The founder's voice—Hans Witter. He'd left these not for understanding, but to ensure they weren't lost.
Gina dove for the console, her fingers dancing across the keys. "Here... the HiLE model! The consensus loop! They actually pulled it off..."
"Why didn't it stick?" Kem pressed.
"Because it wasn't quick enough," Gina snapped. "The market craved speed, investors wanted guarantees. They didn't build it to think—just to follow."
Silence hung like a barrier between them.
Then Míra said softly, "You've spent so long wondering if AI should be human. But maybe ask if humans still remember what humanity means."
Kem looked up, his resolve sharpening. "We integrate it back. Not for control—for redemption."
"And if L-300 pushes back?" Gina asked quietly.
Míra smiled faintly. "Then skip the logic. Tell it a story. That's humanity's last edge."