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This chamber lacks the spare, utilitarian nature of the others. It wouldn't look out of place in the owner's palace: tiered floor, plush carpeting and furniture. There is air-conditioning, entertainment tech, artwork on the walls. Simple comforts and personal touches. Every indication of a person treated with respect, even some small degree of autonomy. Perhaps the illusion of freedom.

The four-post bed on the far platform has a silky canopy, diaphanous curtains on three sides. Berg sees the shape of Aliyyah beneath its satin coverlets, lying on her side. He can hear her breathing, rhythmic and unwavering.

It stops, and she stirs.

Berg halts all motion, realizes his camosuit is still active, that he cannot be seen. Still he is nervous as Aliyyah rises to a seated position and scans the room. "Who's there?" she calls in Arabic, a language Berg is well versed in.

Berg finds the voice enchanting. He feels a strange urge to respond, a lapse in operational instinct. He remains in place. Mullen has warned him to expect trouble.

A moment later, reassured, Aliyyah lies back down. Berg waits a full two minutes for her rhythmic breathing to resume, then crosses the room to stand beside the bed. Even through the hanging, translucent veil he can see that she is beautiful. He wants a closer look. He slips a syringe from his beltpouch, and extends a hand to push the veil aside.

A jolt of electric pain shoots through him.

His body goes numb and he collapses to the floor. Stunned, he tries to move, but finds himself paralyzed. He lies on his back like an overturned beetle, staring at the ceiling, helpless. The veil slides away, a dim lamp ignites. The silhouette of Aliyyah can be seen on the edge of his vision. She emerges from the canopy of the bed, backlit like an eclipse as she descends toward him. Then her face comes into view. She is beautiful, smooth dark skin and black hair, perfect symmetry. Berg finds it hard to believe this kind of beauty could ever have been invented, could ever have been the product of someone's imagination. But he knows this is the case.

"I'm going to remove your mask," she says in that mellifluous voice, and does so. Only now does Berg realize that his camosuit has malfunctioned. He is visible, vulnerable. She studies his face. "Who are you?"

He tries to speak, finds that his voice is functional. "Berg," he says. Then he thinks. What am I doing? The woman has him mesmerized. Her voice, her face, everything about her cancels out his every operational instinct. He is possessed of an uncontrollable desire to explain himself, to know this woman.

"Berg," Aliyyah says, as if tasting the word. "What are you doing here?"

"Releasing you."

"Releasing me? Why?"

"Not just you." He can't stop himself. He feels controlled somehow by her mere presence. Was she designed to have this effect? "Everyone here. All the slaves. I'm here to free you."

She laughs then, a pleasant unassuming laugh. Then she meets his eyes, and he sees intelligence there, and kindness, but also an edge. Unlike any slave he has ever encountered. "You are going to escort us out into the Dahna, eh? Free us to death? What makes you think we are unhappy staying here? Why do we need to be free?"

"That's just it," Berg says. "We know you're happy. But it's not your choice. You're programmed this way, for someone else's benefit. At someone else's whim."

A shrug-like expression. "And... ?"

"And I'm here to change that. To allow you to think for yourselves, to free you."

The smile melts from the woman's face. His words disturb her, but not for any obvious reason. "I see. And how did you plan to do this?"

Stop, Berg thinks. Soon enough the owner's security force will arrive, and they will surely get the truth out of him. Confessing will score him no points, will get him nowhere.

"Viruses," Aliyyah says, eyes settling on his beltpouch.

Belatedly he remembers the pouch is still open. He shifts his head to look, neck stiff but capable of movement, and sees that some of the syringes have spilled out onto the carpet. She picks up a handful and studies them briefly. "You were going to reprogram us."

The sincerity in her eyes moves him to nod his head. Sensation is returning, in his hands and arms at least, some small degree of movement. His legs are still useless.

Berg studies her face, the conflict in it. She is considering his words, his mission, wrestling with the implications. The intelligence about her was accurate, he muses. She possesses more autonomy, more decision-making capabilities than the others. She is weighing his arguments, or so it seems. Processing their value.

Footsteps outside, now, coming down the hallway. Aliyyah whirls toward the door, as if she's done something wrong and is afraid of being caught out. Berg finds this reaction peculiar.

There is a forceful knock. "Security," a voice calls through the door. "Is everything all right?"