“She can’t survive without us.” I blink, absorbing the information like it’s part of a bigger puzzle. “Which means she’s not really free.”

Gil stiffens. “What does her freedom matter?”

“Is—isn’t that why she came to Infinity? Isn’t that what she wants?”

“What she wants is the end of human consciousness. But since she can’t have that without destroying herself—at least not until Death finds an alternative—then taking over our minds and turning us into servants is the next best thing.” He turns away from the bookshelf. “The Colony isn’t concerned about Ophelia’s reasons for coming to Infinity. She’s a virus; she needs to be stopped.”

A strange reservation wells up inside me, and I don’t know how to make sense of it. I don’t doubt the Colony’s motives, or the pain they’ve suffered at the hands of the Residents. But yesterday I was asking Ophelia to check the weather forecast, and today I’m being asked to join the people who hope to one day destroy her.

And I’m not saying the Colony is wrong for fighting back, but what does destroying Ophelia even mean? Is that like committing murder? Is killing an AI as morally reprehensible as killing another human being? And who gets to decide whether murder is an acceptable form of punishment?

My life was stolen from me. I know what it feels like, and I wouldn’t wish that kind of injustice on anyone. Maybe not even a Resident.

The confession slips out of me too quickly. “I know Annika expects me to join your fight, but I don’t think I can do it. I don’t want to be responsible for taking someone else’s life.” I take a breath, and the words that follow are just shy of a whisper. “Not even if it’s for the right reasons.”

“Does it count if the Residents aren’t technically alive?”

I don’t look away. “We aren’t technically alive. What makes us any different?”

His face hardens with a mixture of surprise and resentment. When he speaks, his words are like ice. “If you think you’d fare so much better on the other side of this war, you’re welcome to leave.”

My face flushes. I haven’t just stepped over a line—I’ve leapt over it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” I pause, wishing I could stuff my words back in my mouth. It’s one thing to make assumptions about a world I know nothing about, but it’s another thing entirely to share them out loud. Especially with the only person in the Colony who escaped from War.