Some of the discussions were more technical—how he had hijacked the satellites involved and how they could take them back—but most of them were just shouting commands to check every piece of software anything important depended on.

“What do you want, Petrovitch?” growled Arendt.

“I told Joe, and now I’m telling you. I want to talk to Mackensie, and, while I’m on, the rest of the National Security Council. Right now, you have a choice: we can go to war, or we can talk.”

Admiral Arendt gave his considered response. “We don’t talk to terrorists.”

“Is that your final offer? You don’t even want to tell Mackensie what I told you? Let him decide?”

The phone went dead.

Petrovitch gave it a few moments, and rang again.

It was answered immediately. It was neither young Armstrong, nor old Arendt. “Brandon Harris.”

The call had been taken in the Situation Room. Because Michael had already hacked the cameras attached to all the workstations around the periphery of the room, and the one aimed down the length of the long central table, Petrovitch could finally see his adversary.

The president was at the far end, his thin white skin barely covering the outline of his skull. He leaned back in his leather chair, almost amused by the tension around him.

“Dobre den, Secretary Harris. Have I got your attention yet?”

Over the background clamor, a sound familiar to the entire globe cut through: a gravelly throat-clearing. President Mackensie was about to speak.

“Go to Defcon one.”

“NORAD have just told us they’ve detected multiple launches from sites in Russia, China and off both our eastern and western seaboards.” Harris leaned in on the phone. “What have you done?”

“Me? What have I done? You might think it’s only one lousy nuke in some shit-hole European city, but the rest of the planet seems to disagree. You might want to put me on the speakers now.”

He didn’t. He put the phone on mute and turned to the table and those seated around it. “Mister President. Petrovitch wants to speak to you.”

“And what would be the purpose of that, Mister Harris? That boy is a potty-mouthed heathen liar, and we should have dealt with him a long time ago rather than leaving that to others.”

“That boy has just coordinated a massive first-strike against us.”

“He is not the cause of this.” Mackensie sat up and raised his gaze to the video screens: satellites were tracking rocket plumes rising high into the atmosphere. All the trails were beginning to bend toward the North American continent. From the Steppes, from the Asian deserts, from the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, lines were beginning to describe the writing on the wall. He spoke in his measured preacher’s voice. “Our enemies have been waiting for this moment for decades, but we will not be cowed: let them pour out the goblets of wrath they have stored for us. God is our mighty fortress.”

Admiral Arendt took his seat at the table. “Mister President, SkyShield is ready.”

“Then you may proceed.” Mackensie watched intently as the tracking stations began to lock on to their targets. Each incoming missile blinked from red to yellow as it was matched with an orbital weapon.

Then to blue.

“Sir. That’s…” Arendt slid backward on his wheeled seat toward one of the workstation personnel. “That’s just not possible.”

Mackensie tapped his lips with a bony finger. All the highest missiles were blue, and more were cycling through the colors as they rose. “Malcolm, there appears to be a problem.”

Arendt was dividing his precious time between receiving information and regurgitating it. “SkyShield components are tagging the inbound birds as friendly.” He stopped again to listen to the whispering voice in his ear. “We can’t shoot them down.”

There was silence in the room. All the assumed confidence gained from having a massive space-based missile defense system, backed up with ground stations and some really big lasers, drained away with an almost audible sucking noise.

“How,” said Mackensie eventually, “could this happen?”

Harris slowly turned in his seat at the long table and looked at the abandoned phone lying next to one of the consoles. “Petrovitch.”

“Explain.” Mackensie gazed with his hooded eyes at the arcs of oncoming missiles. “We are supposed to have the most secure network of any government. Are you telling me now that it is not? Frank?”

The National Security Adviser seemed temporarily paralyzed.

“Mister O’Connell, your president requires your opinion. Be so good as to provide it.”

O’Connell’s skin was gray, like he was already dead. “We know the AI is able to insert itself in command and control structures: it’s done it before. SkyShield—all our systems, in fact—may have been compromised. Even with the protocols we’ve put in place, it looks like it’s not enough.” He shrugged helplessly, and his hands trembled. “We did our best.”

“Then we close our electronic borders. Restart SkyShield.”

“All the reports I have tell me that our infrastructure is mostly or completely infected with an Anarchy-variant virus. Petrovitch says if we cut the AI off, we bankrupt the country. And there’s no guarantee that we would have a working computer to be able to get a command to SkyShield afterward.” O’Connell spoke very quietly, and the microphones strained to pick him up. “Just like that. It’s all over.”

Harris snatched up the phone and unmuted it. “You… you’ve left us defenseless.”

“How does it feel now, you bastard? Mackensie didn’t cook up this nonsense on his own. He doesn’t get to suffer alone. Put me on the speakers.”

“You’re killing us. Not just Mackensie, not just the American people. Everyone, everywhere. You know what’s going to happen next?”

“Yeah. You get down on your knees and beg to Michael. After the shit you’ve put him through, it’s the least you can do.”

“The president will order the launch of our own missiles.”

“Or you could do that. Seems a little drastic, don’t you think?”

Harris’ grip on the phone was threatening to crack the plastic. “Drastic? We are under attack.”

“Are you? Are you really?”

Harris paused, then said: “Petrovitch, is the United States under attack?”

“Well, now. On the one hand, you can detect hundreds of missiles and thousands of warheads, all heading straight for you. On the other hand, what you’re seeing could be what we want you to see.”

“And how are we supposed to tell the difference?”

“You know the answer to that question already, Harris. Hit the kill switch and pray to whichever god you worship that the missiles disappear. Or you could let me talk to the president.”

Harris cupped his hand over the phone. “Mister President: Petrovitch has implied that this is an AI simulation, and no missiles have been launched.” He sounded like a man offered the hope of reprieve at the foot of the gallows. He actually grinned.

“Then what,” asked Mackensie, his expression sour, “are those?” He waved his hand at the screens in front of him, that told him only of the end of the world. “Are we to take the word of some punk street kid over our own satellites?”

Harris’ grin slipped away. He glanced at O’Connell for support, who pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to leave white marks.

“It’s possible… Mister President; the Chinese have no reason to launch. Russia has no reason to launch. The EU—what are they going to get out of this? It makes no sense. Brazen it out, sir. All we need to do is absolutely nothing.”

“Nothing? We have failed to destroy the artificial intelligence. We have failed to neutralize Petrovitch. We have failed to prevent SkyShield from being sabotaged. We have failed to protect our own network from infection. How much less would you like the government of the United States of America to do?”

“He’s provoking us.” Harris thrust the phone in Mackensie’s direction, and lost it, caught between terror and duty. “Petrovitch is playing us. God damn it, what if none of this is real?”