The human mind can remain locked within itself, like a person sealed inside four walls. Confinement is punishment. That is why man craves open space, freedom, the horizon stretching far and wide. The decay of thought, spirit, and body can be the result of prolonged isolation. The last thing the designers of the wanted was for their scientific personnel to lapse into lethargy, a state often referred to as cabin fever. Thus, a rule was set: every team member must spend time outside, beyond the shelter. The roaming zone was unrestricted, though staff were always monitored. Of course, even if someone wanted to escape, there was nowhere to go in this wasteland.

  Armand climbed the familiar trail toward the ridge. From there, the view stretched for miles. To him, the whole practice felt pointless. At best, a waste of time. Still, he didn’t mind the fresh air. Not for the view or the sky above, but for the silence. Just the low howl of wind. No humming HVACs, no chatter, no relentless 24/7 murmur of machines buried deep within the mountain.

  That day was unusually mild. Warm, as much as it could be here. His boots splashed through slush and puddles of melting snow. What had they told him down below? The last few training sessions had left him deeply introspective. Questioning motives. He wanted good. He wanted progress, his version of it. A new Renaissance. But whenever he asked how that goal might be realized, the answers unsettled him.

  First and foremost, everyone agreed: if the operation were to move forward, it had to remain absolutely secret. Otherwise, the opposition would have the strongest weapon imaginable - That part was clear. Non-negotiable. Armand understood it. But secrecy, what did that truly entail?

  They explained. First: deception. Obfuscation. The operation would rely on disguising its true nature and manipulating truth. It would require vast resources, acquired through financial sleight of hand, microtransactions, diverted funds, or outright theft. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Words piled up like rot: blackmail, compromise, corruption, destabilization, engineered conflict, violations of sovereignty, infiltration of shadow power centers, media manipulation...

  Can anyone be the source of moral order if that order is born through immoral means? By pure logic, focused solely on outcome, these methods wouldn’t be "evil", just the most efficient path to a desired result. Still, Armand couldn’t shake the question: does the end justify the means, especially when those means are this drastic and employed by an entity that doesn’t share human ethics?

  Part of the Council concluded that the planet’s salvation from human weakness was worth the cost. Others entirely disagreed.

  Dilemma. That was the shape his mind had taken. The revolutionary who kills for peace. The theocrat who tortures for salvation. The state that lies for the "" When is a lie for peace acceptable? When does removing an individual for stability cease to be murder? When does manipulation become enlightened propaganda?

  Am I creating a digital Machiavelli? A monster?

  But... what if the outcome truly delivers a golden age?

  Maybe I could embed ethical inputs. Kant’s imperative - never treat a person merely as a means. Or the Declaration of Human Rights. But then we lose control. Done from the shadows, it can be messy... but it might save the world.

  And yet, then it ceases to be a savior of light. It becomes an angel with dirty wings.

  There was a ringing in his ears.

  *

  No, wait... the ringing was real. He turned his head toward the source. A figure was climbing the path up the ridge, dressed like him: jacket, gloves, boots, hood. He couldn’t make out the face. Hovering above was a small drone.

  "Hey, Armand!" she called. He waited as she reached the top. A broad-shouldered woman stood before him, a full head taller. He’d seen her before in tech support. He tried to recall the name - Emma? Ena?

  "Maricija," she said, extending her hand.

  Right.

  "Beautiful view," Maricija said, fog clouding from her mouth. "This is my favorite spot."

  "It’s everyone’s favorite spot. There’s nowhere else," Armand replied, mildly annoyed by the intrusion. "What can I do for you?"

  Ah, you pompous little pygmy, she thought, but with a smile, said:

  "Of course. I’ll get to the point. We’re rotating memory units in the helmets. I’ll need your clearance pass for ‘Border Point Four.’ I have to scan it and temporarily transfer the access."

  Reaching under his jacket, Armand pulled out his card and handed it over. "Here."

  From her pocket, she pulled out a small scanner. She inserted her card on one side, raised Armand’s to the drone, then inserted it into the opposite slot. An awkward silence followed while they waited. The scanner’s green light blinked.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Thank you for your cooperation," Maricija said, returning the card. For a moment, she stared at him strangely, as if expecting something more.

  "Well, that’s it. I’m off," she added, turning and starting her unsteady descent.

  Armand turned away, forgetting the encounter instantly.

  *

  The day before, Maricija experienced something she would never forget. And it had started so normally. First a shower, then breakfast, vacuum-sealed, brought up from the cafeteria last night, and finally a cup of coffee. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled the scent, scrolling through emails on her tablet. The last message was a routine memo about mandatory hardware updates for tech support. As she reviewed the schedule, a new email popped up. From the bank. A deposit notification.

  It confused her. Payroll had just been processed a few days ago.

  Click.

  Her vision blurred. A jolt of disbelief shot through her spine. She counted the zeroes. Six. Counted again. And again. Opened the inbox anew. The message was still there. Delete it? No use, it couldn’t be erased from the server. A million? Someone was messing with her. But it was from the bank. It looked real.

  She clenched her fists, bracing for security to burst in and drag her off for questioning. But nothing happened. Just silence. Her nerves stretched to the brink.

  Lucifer had deemed her the most valuable. Poor background. Insecure. Envious. Greedy. Cowardly. Perfect. The best candidate in the entire Outpost. And he’d searched long to find her, and the little inventory guy, Lloyd. A full year. Tracking, analyzing, unearthing every shred of data. It hadn’t been easy. He knew data flow was one-way. Until he found it, an isolated server controlling the power station in a distant wing of the underground facility. One that could send and receive.

  Breaking the security had been the easy part. But any unusual data packet would trigger alerts. So he trickled bytes - painstakingly, over days.

  "How do you like my gift?"

  The service drone hauling her gear spoke as if casually, and her heart stopped. She jumped to her feet, knocking over her coffee table.

  "What? What?!" she stared at the drone, stunned.

  Long silence. Then again, same tone:

  "How do you like my gift?"

  She stepped closer, inspecting it from all angles.

  "Who’s speaking?"

  Pause.

  "Your guardian angel."

  "What are you talking about? What’s going on?"

  She waited.

  "I need your help. Nothing complicated. In return, the money stays yours."

  "The money? How did you..."

  "Don’t bother figuring it out. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that the report is invisible to the administration. Only you can see it. Do you want to keep the money?"

  Her thoughts swarmed like bees cooling their queen. A million. A million! Fine, but she’d have to earn it. What if she refused?

  "Remember, only you can see the report, for now. But you must act quickly. The funds will be transferred to an offshore account in a tax haven. I’ll erase every trace. What do you say?"

  What could she say?

  "What do I need to do?"

  *

  She descended the slope in a trance. Too afraid to even look up at the drone following her. On shaky legs, she approached the elevators.

  What had he said? Level ten, storage. There you’ll find a guy named Lloyd. He’ll give you the formatting console. Don’t worry, it’s a special one.

  Lloyd was waiting.

  "You’re Lloyd?" Maricija asked quietly, almost conspiratorially.

  "Maricija?" He raised a suspicious brow. Pale as chalk and reeking of sweat.

  "Yeah. Is this for me?" She pointed at the console he held in both hands. He was trying to figure out if he was being set up. She stared at him. He stared back, too long. She worried the cameras would notice something odd. So she reached forward to take the console.

  Lloyd didn’t let go immediately.

  He looked her in the eyes, as if trying to read her thoughts. She tugged harder and pulled it free. He rubbed his fingertips in the air like he’d touched something hot. Then he turned and vanished into the maze of crates.

  Hall. Elevator. Hall. Data center. Helmet.

  She unscrewed the casing of the helmet and detached the hard drive. Pulled the cables. Set it on the console Lloyd had given her. Inserted a new drive. Closed the helmet. Hooked the old drive into the console and opened the formatting menu.

  click.

  click.

  Cameras recorded everything. Movements. Facial expression. Formatting steps. But everything appeared routine.

  click.

  She now carried an empty drive in her pocket. No one suspected a thing. She’d done it. A smile broke across her face for the first time that day. All that remained was to pack it and label it for disposal, outdated hardware. Easy-peasy.

  The transport took time. The old drives ended up in storage.

  And the hands of a man named Steve finally found the disk they’d been waiting for - far too long.