Kade nodded. “And in Iterated Prisoner’s Dilemma, the winning strategy is to cooperate with strangers. But if you meet someone who’s betrayed you in the past, who’s defected against you, you betray them.”

“Tit for tat,” Dabir .

“Generous Tit for Tat,” Kade said. “Start off cooperating. Betray those who betrayed you before. But forgive those who’ve betrayed you in the past, if they make amends by cooperating again. Of all deterministic strategies, that performs best.”

“And you think that’s the situation we’re in now,” Dabir said. “That we’re in this game with future post-humans, and that if we defect – if we treat them poorly – they’ll treat us poorly down the road.”

“Dr Dabir,” Kade said. “How would you feel about growing up in a society that granted you full rights and protections, celebrated you even, versus one that oppressed you, or maybe even tried to kill you?” He paused, looking at her. “What would you do, growing up that way, if you ever gained the upper hand?”

“A beta blocker,” Sam repeated. She was calm. She had to be calm. Remain calm.

“Beta,” she enunciated.

Fucking.

“Blocker,” she went on.

The doctor stared blankly at her.

Sam glared at him in frustration. “It’s standard protocol after a mission with casualties. Reduce adrenaline overload. Prevent post-traumatic stress. I know you have similar protocols here.” She stopped herself before she started ranting.

I am the Sam who’s calm, she told herself. I am the motherfucking Sam who’s calm.

“I’m only authorized to treat wounds and pain,” the doctor said. The armed and armored guards behind him glowered at her.

Calm, she told herself again, calm. Vipassana. I’ll fucking meditate.

“I want to see the children,” she said again.

The doctor gestured to the guards. “You’ll have to ask these gentleman,” he said.

“Not yet,” one of the guards said. “You stay here.”

“When?” Sam demanded.

“When we tell you,” the guard growled.

And then they escorted the doctor out.

Her fists clenched.

Damn it all to hell.

“So I tell him,” Feng went on. “It’s just a butter knife.”

The guards in the room laughed as the orderly placed the bowl of curry in front of Feng.

He grinned up at them, one arm hanging uselessly in the sling, his eyes taking in the patterns of their movements, the structure of their armor, the position of their weapons. His mind superimposed phantom echoes of the future movements they could make atop them all, turning them into multi-limbed Indian gods, all punches and blocks and evasions and drawn guns.

Too many of them. Too many with their armor and their guns and him with only one hand.

“I’ll be back for the bowl in an hour,” the orderly said.

“Well,” Feng said, waving his one working arm magnanimously around the small room, “I suppose I’ll stick around.” More guards chuckled as they escorted the man out.