Dr. Price smiles and leans back. He seems almost serene. “We’re not giving up, young man. We are winning. We’re outgunned in every imaginable way. The machine can calculate odds and outcomes a billion times faster than the most intelligent human, it cannot be killed by violence or poison or time, it has an army ten times bigger than ours, it controls the weather, it has access to weapons we can’t even dream of … Should I go on? The only way we can win is by not being afraid, don’t you see?”

And I almost understand why not fighting is a kind of victory. I almost get it.

“You’re really not afraid?” I ask.

“No,” Dr. Price replies, “not at all.”

“One day, it could be tomorrow, it could be a year from now, everything will just cut to black?” Malachai asks. “No warning, no chance to say goodbye?”

“Blinked out without ceremony,” Dr. Price agrees.

“So why did you bother fighting at Midway Park?” I ask.

“Midway was the final straw,” Dr. Price explains. “The final loss of life I was willing to tolerate.”

We sit in silence for some time, contemplating this.

“Bullshit,” Malachai says finally, getting up from the table. “I’m not hanging around this place waiting for the end. I’d rather die fighting.”

“Would you rather become one of them? A host?” Dr. Price asks. “There are fates much worse than death, Mr. Bannister.”

Malachai hesitates, looks down at the old doctor with fear in his virtual eyes. “You’re right,” he tells him. “That’s why we fight.”

Malachai storms over to the stage, where the expressionless band tap away at their instruments. He shoves the double-bassist out of his way and the music comes to a spasmodic halt, a final cymbal splash echoes around the room as the dancers stop dancing and the hushed chatter dies out.

“People of Purgatory,” Malachai says, both hands raised to gain the attention of the crowd, “your brothers and sisters are dying out there, being tortured out there, being used as hosts out there in the real world while you sit here in lifeless comfort awaiting an easy death. You fought at Midway, you fought for what was right, you fought for our right to live and not to have our fates decided by machines! Come with us, come with Luka and me, and together we can defeat Happy!”

Silence fills the virtual room, the dancers—still clinging to one another—are motionless, the people at the bar in their suits and their dresses stare back at Malachai. Dr. Price smiles.

And then the bassist shoves his way back onstage and the music restarts. The people of Purgatory start talking among themselves once again, the dancers resume their swaying and turning, the barman pours tasteless drinks, and Malachai scans the room, dumbfounded, before shuffling back to the booth.