Page 27 of A.I.AM.

“It’s obviously never been in the military,” huffed Bron. “So far it’s been able to predict all the next moves and possible actions. How do we give it more ambiguity?”

“I’m not sure,” frowned Ace. “I think we get back to written word, not computer word. If it doesn’t know what we’re saying and communicating, it can’t predict what’s about to come. We stick to writing messages.”

“How did it know who we were?” asked Bron.

“It expected us because we had been communicating with the FBI and Cyber. I think it identified us from database photos during our military time,” said Ace.

“Those photos are decades old,” said Code frowning at the room.

“Thanks to the pond, it doesn’t matter. We all look about the same as we did when we arrived at Belle Fleur. I’m surprised the computer hasn’t said something about that,” said Ace.

“Time,” whispered AJ. “It doesn’t compute time. It’s seeing us as we were in those photos. Ten, twenty, thirty, hell forty years ago.”

“Make a note of that,” said Tanner. “We’ve got time, ambiguity, and no records. Somehow, we have to make those three things work for us.” Ace nodded at the group.

“Then let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The internet vanished from the animal sanctuary at precisely 0803 on a Tuesday morning, although everyone later agreed that trouble had begun at 0802, when the spinning circle on the office computer completed its seventeenth lap and Gaspar leaned closer with a menacing glare, as if intimidation might improve the signal.

Gaspar was a 20-year Army Ranger veteran, one of nine brothers who had served, and was indirectly related to dozens of men and women at Belle Fleur.

He had controlled complicated operations and run clandestine missions in places where a blinking light could mean considerably worse things than a failed router. None of that prepared him for a sanctuary full of animals whose streaming services had stopped at the most dramatic possible moments. Now they were streaming, and screaming, messages to his brain.

Knowing that the Legacy team was handling the issues with the internet, he was forced to face the animals himself while his teammates ensured that the feeders were running manually. Even that did not amuse the animals.

Gaspar sat in the office, coordinating increased security for the animal sanctuary. It seemed the least likely place people would attempt to get to for internet service, but the staff wasn’t the one’s complaining about no internet. It was the animals.

The first complaint arrived through the office window. Semu, the female silverback, stood outside with a tablet tucked under one arm and signed with brisk precision.

“More Animal Kingdom.”

Gaspar pointed at the blank router. Semu pointed at the tablet. Gaspar pointed at the sky, hoping weather could be blamed. Semu looked at a cloud, looked back at him, and signed again with the patient severity of a customer who had already spoken to three supervisors.

“More episodes now.”

Gaspar was keenly aware that he did not want to piss off the gorilla but wrote NO INTERNET on a whiteboard and held it up to her. Semu read it, erased NO with one swipe of a broad finger, and returned the board. It now said INTERNET. Then she added three underlines and a drawing of a banana wearing a crown.

“Semu, cut me some slack. We can’t use the internet right now. It’s complicated,” said Gaspar. Nine, Trak and Ghost stood beside him smirking. She drew something else beside the banana and the others laughed. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was a middle finger.

“They don’t understand, brother. They just want their regular routine and that includes their favorite programs,” said Ghost.

“What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do? How the hell did we get the animals addicted to the fucking internet? I love how Mama doesn’t show her face at times like these,” he frowned.

Before Gaspar could admire the artwork of the crowned banana and a middle finger, Alvin slid into the office through a door that had not been open when Gaspar last checked. The massive elderly alligator had a remote control balanced on his long, leathery snout. He dropped it on the desk, accidentally turned on the ceiling fan, and stared at Gaspar with the solemn focus of someone awaiting a quarterly earnings report.

“The shopping channel is gone,” Gaspar said staring at the alligator. Alvin blinked once. Behind him, Trak stared at Gaspar. He shrugged. “Tell him, Trak. We cannot use the internet.”

“He wants a response from you. Not me. I don’t like the shopping channel. I want the history channel. If you can get that for me, I’d appreciate it.”

“I liked you better when you said nothing,” frowned Gaspar. Trak raised a brow, a small smile curving at the corner of his lip.

Everyone knew Alvin watched the shopping channel exclusively for exotic handbags. Everyone also knew he watched in complete silence, occasionally making a tiny mark in a waterproof notebook. No one knew why. The general theory involved retribution, a warehouse, and a very nervous luggage industry.

Gaspar tried changing channels. The television offered only blue emptiness. Alvin edged closer until his nose pressed the screen, then slowly turned toward Gaspar.

“It is probably temporary,” Gaspar said. Alvin picked up his notebook, drew what looked like a handbag with teeth, and underlined it. Although Semu could sign and even write some words, the other animals simply entered his head and spoke.