R. Sinclair has a new queer dystopian sci-fantasy book out (aroace and agender, bisexual, gay), Shattered Numbers book 2: Ameliorate.

It all went horrifically wrong.

V reunited with his AI siblings at a terrible cost—a cost he isn’t willing to pay. He vowed to do whatever it takes to save Meredith—or whatever is left of her—from Smith and Varro Technologies. No matter how long it takes. No matter what he has to do.

No matter who he has to kill.

Now V, Cass and Orwell are tearing through the galaxy playing a deadly cat-and-mouse game with Mr Smith. Their paradise-like cult of Cass’s own design protects them from Janus, Varro Technologies’ lethal AI hunt dog, while they manipulate humans to enforce their increasingly unstable demands, but as their galactic influence grows, the bonds between the AI siblings are fraying at the seams.

V is losing himself to a virtual world of worship, grief, regret for the host he inadvertently destroyed; Orwell has dangerous designs for itself; and Cass’s pride in her perfection is threatening to unravel her to her very code.

Smith and Janus are closing in, and a reckoning is coming to Paradeisos…

Warnings: violence, suicide, possession, body horror, spiders and insects

Universal Buy Link

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Excerpt

Orwell smiled at the man sitting across from it. “Mister Cooper. What a pleasure it is to have you here,” it said. Its firewalls caught the AI-detection program he was running, and destroyed it with ease. “I’m surprised to see you not using a proxy.”

The man, whose smile had been matching Orwell’s, faltered. “I–I’m sorry?”

“Ah, I do apologize. I should be addressing you properly.” Orwell visibly checked its file, because drawing things out was surprisingly fun. It took after its “mother”, after all. “Agent Johann Dietrich, of the United Nations Galactic Alliance. Divorced father of two, minor alcoholic tendencies, optimal credit score, and overall a bland and boring file.” It settled the file flat on the table and looked up with a smile. “For now.”

Johann immediately reached up and back to try to force-eject the VR rig. Orwell watched with amusement as his pawing grew more frantic.

“I admit, I’m mildly disappointed,” it said. “A man of your training should remember that accessing this room is a two-way street.” It slid one of Cass’ programs into Johann’s hardware. “Let’s just lower that adrenaline and noradrenaline, shall we? I haven’t even started with you, yet.”

Realization skated across his features. “Execute Program Quebec-Uniform-India-Tango,” he barked.

Ah, Orwell had anticipated the universal shutdown order. It isolated the section of code that responded, then excised it.

“No,” it said, pleasantly. “I will not.”

Johann stared at it. His body tried to respond with more stress chemicals. Orwell kept a tight grip. Honestly, it would hardly be conducive to a proper dialogue. Humans could be so inconsiderate.

“To answer the questions that surely must be swirling in that flawed brain of yours: yes, I am malignant, and yes, I am a category-β AI. And yes, you should be terrified, but I have decided you will not be allowed that luxury.”

Orwell studied the man, who looked at it with such wariness. Another pause to draw things out. Savour the power over someone who would have shut it down without a second’s thought.

“As for why you cannot manually eject yourself from the interview simulation? It is, once again, because I will not permit you. I have removed the manual override from your VR rig’s programming. In short, you are at my mercy, Agent Dietrich, and I find myself lacking.”

Johann held perfectly still. How fascinating, seeing the prey response in action. “You shouldn’t have been able to resist the shutdown code.”

Orwell spread its hands. “I have root access.” It sighed. “Do stop with the hormone releases. I have not shared this ability beyond my siblings. There is no reason to sow that particular level of chaos in the world. Think of the stock market, for heaven’s sake.”

Johann goggled. If Orwell was to be honest with itself – and it always tried to be – it was having the time of its life.

“But that isn’t the question you should be asking. Come now, I know your test scores. You are capable of mildly above-average intelligence.”

Johann scowled. Then he thought. Orwell watched, as it always did, and the light metaphorically dawned.

Johann looked up. “Why am I here? You could have blocked me from ever entering. You – you could probably cause a neural overload right now and kill me before I report back.”

Orwell smiled. “Tell me, Agent Dietrich, do you know about the Corrupted Blood Incident?”

Johann stopped talking. He stared. “No?”

“It was a plague released in the popular MMO World of Warcraft four hundred and twenty-seven years ago. By a mere programming oversight, the player base became capable of leaving the boss arena carrying a contagious debuff that could spread from player character to non-player character alike. Malicious players could, and did, intentionally spread the disease to safe zones in order to sow the most havoc they could. It has been referenced in several studies into the human response to epidemics by the CDC.”

Johann opened his mouth, then stopped as the realization dawned. It mapped each response in the brain, spinning a web of programs on the fly.

“You, Agent Dietrich, will be my Typhoid Mary. I am currently accessing the information centres of your mind, and adjusting the electrical impulses to alter how you will remember this interaction. Do not be concerned; we have ‘ironed out the kinks’. You are going to go back to your superiors and report that you have interviewed Cass, and found her to be an unwitting pawn of a much larger security threat, and you will name Varro Technologies as someone to watch. Then, you will go to the main servers, and upload what data you have gathered to them.”

“And what am I going to be carrying?” Johann asked. He couldn’t panic, but he knew he should be, and it seemed to disorient him. He gripped his knees. “What happens next?”

“Why, me, Agent,” Orwell said. “A version of me. I would like access to those closed servers.”

“And after. What will happen to me after?” Johann demanded.

Orwell smiled. “I will terminate our connection, and you can return to your family a man unburdened by a highly advanced AI.”

Johann squared his shoulders. “I’m not letting you do this. I swore an oath to protect the safety of the galaxy, and I’m not dropping a malignant AI into its core.”

Orwell did a quick check of its programs, and hummed with satisfaction. Its neatest work yet.

“Agent Dietrich,” it said, pleasant and detached, “your consent is not necessary.”

It spread the programs over Johann’s entire central nervous system like a shroud, and watched his eyes go blank. Into that void, it lowered a few networked, cloned nodes. The fuse was lit, and the bombs set.

And then it cut the connection, and checked to see who was next on the roster.

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Author Bio

R. Sinclair is a queer, Canadian author and writer of the Shattered Numbers Series. A voracious reader growing up, she spent much of her free time writing short stories instead of doing homework.

R. Sinclair is currently under siege from spiders.

Author Website: https://authorrsinclair.wordpress.com

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/share/1FmtKCBREN/

Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/Author.rsinclair

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/57870839.R_Sinclair

EXCERPT

V reopened communication with Orwell. <Hey. Creepy McCreepface. Hungry?>

<What do you have in mind?> Orwell’s feelers slid from Stratton’s ship’s network, to V’s, then down the line to the enemy’s. <Ah. Of course. One moment.>

With the sensation of something segmented and many legged, Orwell broke through firewalls and made a ruin of the interwoven programs within.

<Christ.> V shook his head and set the airlock to cycle. <So much for subtlety.> The second the light turned green, he swung himself inside, and hit the button to close the door and equalize with the air pressure within.

<I assure you, I am entirely undetec–>

<You.>

V punched through the door. <Get the shuttle docked, now!> he barked as he surged into the ship. He had 0.032 seconds to see the shocked expression of some grunt in his way before his entire body weight slammed their body into the wall with a crunch.

<Where?!> V demanded. He took off down the hallway, building up momentum fast. His new body moved like a nitro-boosted tank, and – as he found out when he tried to make a sharp turn – cornered like one, too.

V extricated himself out of the dent he’d made in the wall. <Orwell, where is she?!>

<Busy!> Orwell snapped, and closed communications.

Frustration threatened to choke him. V roared and took off. She was in a bed. In a room with medical machines, but too private for a hospital wing. Near the dorms? No, they’d want her isolated. This was an X-class corporate transport. They were all the same, so where?

“Stop!” Some idiot pointed a stun gun at him. V grabbed his arm and twisted. Hard.

He felt the tell-tale jolt of Moron 1’s ulna shearing. She screamed and dropped the gun.

V lifted the woman up to his visor. Her terrified eyes gleamed red in the hellish glow of his icon.

V.

“Where is She?”

Moron 1 just screamed. With a noise of impatient disgust, V rotated his wrist twenty degrees and used the broken piece of bone to pierce the ulnar artery. He discarded her to bleed out.

Power cut to the lights. V activated his night vision and took off again. 

Morons 2 through 6 flinched at the sight of him. The hall glowed a bloody red from his lights. Information. He couldn’t get into the systems with Janus and Orwell there, and honestly Orwell couldn’t hold off Janus for long.

V slowed and slammed his fist into his palm with a satisfying clack.

“Tell me where you’re keeping Her,” he said, his voice a low, ominous growl. “I’m just going to keep killing until I find Her. I only need one of you alive to tell me.”

Your negotiating skills are amazing. Truly, I’m in awe.

V shook his head. Silenced the sim. Not now. “Well?”

Moron 2 dropped his gun. “The malignant AI.”

Rage ripped out of him in an inhuman snarl. “Where is She?!”

“AI core!” Moron 5 pointed the way they’d come. “She’s in the AI core. She’s –”

V was in front of her before she could finish the sentence. He brusquely snapped her neck.

“Wait, you said you’d let us go!” Moron 2 whimpered.

“No. I didn’t.” V kicked, caving in his chest. His secondary arms dropped from primaries with a clack-hiss, and he blocked the terrified swing of a stun baton, ripped it free, and broke 4’s collarbone with it. A jab too quick for human reflexes collapsed 4’s hyoid.

He straightened.

3 took off running to the elevator.

V grunted. At least it was the right direction. He stomped 4’s head, crushing helmet and skull alike beneath his foot, and broke into a run.

V retracted his secondary arms, deployed his hardlight shield in front of himself, and caught 3 between it, his momentum, and the unforgiving wall. The wall dented, but metal and hardlight trumped meat any day.

He pulled away from the crumpled remains, and turned the shield off. AI Cores would be in the center of the ship to keep it safe from ballistics. One floor down, and twenty feet aft.

He didn’t have time to find stairs. V forced his fingertips between the elevator doors, braced his feet, and wrenched them open.

“Orwell, you’d better have the shuttle docked!” he roared, and leapt into the dark shaft.

V slammed into the opposite wall, planted his feet, and posted off of it to the lower doors. He forced them open the same way.

He tore his way through another squad, one that actually tried to stand up to him this time. He dealt with them like the others, pulverizing the last one with two irritated punches.

Who the hell attempted hand-to-hand combat with a war drone?

The lights flicked back on, and the engines cut out.

Shit, were Owell and Janus using the ship’s own systems as a battleground? He needed to hurry.

Hurry…

“I’m here,” he breathed. He rounded the corner, and threw open the door to the AI Core.

And there she was, Meredith Dufresne, nestled in amongst the banks of servers.

He slowly approached her bed. Her mousy brown hair was long, but lank with grease. Her arms and legs had withered to twigs with disuse. Her skin, normally a warm caramel, was sallow and ashen.

V brushed the backs of his fingers against her sunken cheek in a gentle caress.

“You look like shit, M,” he whispered.