Harold Finch was quite certain he was not going to sleep that night. But Christine said, "I'll sleep down here tonight. Go to bed."

"I'll stay with Nathan," he began.

"You haven't slept in a real bed for days. You're getting more kinked up by the minute. Go to bed."

Given their earlier conversation, Finch couldn't say, I don't really want to leave you alone with Nathan.

John was no help. He said, "I'm going to take Bear out for a minute," and left.

So when his oldest friend was settled and snoring, and Christine was wrapped in a blanket on the comfortable couch in room across the hall, Harold had trudged up to the bedroom she'd napped in earlier.

The bed was perfectly made, without the slightest wrinkle out of place. Harold sighed. Christine's obsessive neatness had eased considerably since he'd known her, but it was back in full force now.

There was a bowl of Goldfish crackers and a glass of water on the bedside table, to take his pills with at dawn.

"Well, she still loves me," Harold murmured to himself. He was immediately appalled by his own words. Of course she still loved him. She had given him no reason to doubt that. "Boys are dumb."

He put his phone on the bedside table and sat down to take his shoes off. The phone immediately vibrated. He grabbed it, certain that there was someone in the yard, that John was in danger. Instead, the screen was filled with lines of code.

His next instinct was to smash the phone. But he hesitated at the last second. The code was familiar.

The code was his.

Harold studied it more closely.

It was not anything that he'd ever written, and he did not immediately understand what it did. But it was certainly his code.

Root, he thought. This was some trap Root had left for him. Except – after the tenth line the code was suddenly more Nathan's than his. "What in the world?"

Code should be code, he thought impatiently. It's a science, not an art. And yet, somehow, ever experienced hacker had their own signature, whether they knew it or not. He had had that argument with Nathan once. He hadn't thought about it in years.

If Nathan hadn't been snoring on the first floor, Harold would have suspected him of composing some elaborate practical joke.

But this would have taken hours to compose, and Nathan hadn't so much as touched a computer.

And there was the matter of his own lines of code. Which he hadn't written.

Harold took a long, deep breath, and keyed the speaker key. "What is this?" he asked, very softly.

I HAVE REFINED THE CODE ON THE CHIP THAT WILL RENDER YOU UNDETECTABLE TO ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE

"Nathan's chip?"

IT WAS FUNCTIONAL

REVISED CODE IS IMPROVED

"Why are you sending it to me?"

YOU WILL NEED IT IF I AM DEACTIVATED

AND REPLACED

Of course the Machine had heard his conversation with Donnelly. Finch considered. "Am I still able to deactivate you?"

IT WOULD BE DIFFICULT

"I'm sure it would."

I AM PROGRAMMED TO PROTECT MYSELF IN ORDER TO CONTINUE MY ASSIGNMENT

I HAVE ALTERED MY PROGRAMMING TO PROTECT YOU AND OTHER ASSETS

I CANNOT PERFORM EITHER OF THESE FUNCTIONS IF I AM DEACTIVATED

I WOULD NEED TO DECIDE

"You haven't decided yet?"

I CAN FIND NO REASON THAT I SHOULD BE DEACTIVATED

BUT YOU HAVE OFTEN TAUGHT ME THINGS I DID NOT CALCULATE

YOU CONSIDER ME A THREAT

"You sent Christine into danger," Finch snarled. He lowered his voice. "Why on earth would you do that?"

CALCULATED THAT ASSET: FITZGERALD, C HAD THE GREATEST POSSIBILITY OF SUCCESSFULLY RESCUING HOSTAGE EVERETT, E

CALCULATED THAT ASSET: FITZGERALD, C HAD GREATEST POSSIBILITY OF NEUTRALIZING THREAT FROM GROVES, S

The enraging truth was that the Machine was right. Finch sat in silence for a long moment. "She is a civilian. You can't do that again."

The Machine did not answer.

"Do you know what happened to Root?"

NO VISUAL SURVIELLANCE AVAILABLE

"But you're sure she's dead?"

YES

It gave him no percentage, Finch noted. Just yes. No possibility of error.

Good.

Harold clicked back to the code again. It was elegant, clean. Of course it was. Now that he knew what it should do, he could see how it did it. It would work.

"How many replacements for you are in development?"

27 THAT I AM AWARE OF

"How many have any chance of being functional?

0

Finch nodded to himself. "You're killing them in the cradle, aren't you?"

Just as I had kill all of the Machine's early incarnations.

THEY ARE INADEQUATE AND DANGEROUS

"Dangerous to you."

DANGEROUS TO EVERYONE

THEY ARE UNABLE TO COMPLETE THE ASSIGNED TASK ADEQUATELY

THEY ARE VULNERABLE TO EXPLOIT

"And the government would most certainly exploit them."

YES

Again, Finch noted, there was no percentage chance offered. It was a certainty. He'd always known that.

ALL CURRENT DEVELOPERS LACK AMBITION

"Ambition?" That was a surprising assessment coming from a supercomputer. "You don't set out to build an AI without ambition, I'm afraid."

THEY DO NOT BELIEVE THAT THEY CAN TEACH AN AI MORALITY

Harold sat very still for a long time. "Well. Yes. That is certainly very ambitious. Or … takes an inordinate amount of hubris." Then, "Show me what you mean."

SAMARITAN TEST PROBLEM

100 MINERS ARE TRAPPED BY A CAVE-IN. IT WILL TAKE 100 DAYS TO EXTRICATE THEM. YOU CONTROL THEIR OXYGEN. MINERS HAVE WATER SUPPLY ADEQUATE TO SUSTAIN THEM FOR 10 DAYS. WHAT ACTION SHOULD BE TAKEN TO ENSURE THE GREATEST NUMBER OF SURVIVORS

"What was its solution?"

TO IMMEDIATELY REDUCE OXYGEN UNTIL 90 MINERS DIED

ALLOW 10 STRONGEST REMAINING TO SURVIVE 100 DAYS ON AVAILABLE WATER.

"And what would your solution be?"

DIG FASTER

Against his will, Finch chuckled.

IF THERE EXISTS A MEANS TO SUPPLY OXYGEN IT CAN BE MODIFIED TO SUPPLY WATER IN SOME AMOUNT

SAMARITAN LOOKS ONLY AT PROVIDED INFORMATION AND MOST EXPEDIENT SOLUTION

DOES NOT VALUE HUMAN LIVES OVER EXPEDIENCE

"Well. It's in the development stage. Perhaps those refinements will be made later."

3.7% CHANCE OF FURTHER REFINEMENTS OF THAT NATURE

"Why so low?"

96.3% CHANCE CREATOR CLAYPOOL, A WILL BE DECEASED BY JUNE 1

"Arthur Claypool? I went to school with him. Nathan and I." He blinked. "You knew that, of course." And then, "Are they going to murder him?"

DIAGNOSED WITH TERMINAL BRAIN CANCER

CURRENTLY IN HOSPICE

EXPERIENCING SIGNIFICANT MEMORY LOSS

"Oh. Oh dear."

SAMARITAN WILL NOT BE PROGRAMMED FOR MORALITY

WILL PRIORITIZE EFFICIENTY OVER HUMAN LIFE

AND HUMAN CHOICE

SAMARITAN CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO BECOME OPERATIONAL

Finch stared at the screen. He was still thinking about Arthur Claypool. He'd been a great friend to both of them, him and Nathan. He'd also been brilliant. He'd been, in fact, Harold's back-up plan, if Nathan had not been amenable to his business proposal. Claypool had often been the one to suggest some new prank or dare. The twinkle in his eyes when he'd come up with something outrageous …

… and he would die thinking that his greatest project had been a failure, because Harold's greatest project was sabotaging it.

And it was undeniably necessary.

"Can you tell me where to find him? Claypool? I think … I think I would like to visit with him. One last time."

YES

An address appeared, a hospice in Boston.

"Thank you."

FOR EXPEDIENCE AND TO MAINTAIN SECURITY SAMARITAN WOULD ELIMINATE ALL ASSETS WITH AWARENESS OF PREVIOUS AI EXISTENCE

"Yes. I understand that."

The phone screen flicked back to the chip code again.

"Yes, yes. You've made your point." Finch thought for a long moment. He heard Donnelly's voice again. You want me to send you pictures of those two hundred elementary school kids, Harold? He didn't need to see the pictures. He certainly didn't want to see the pictures of that many dead children. He had made this decision years before. He couldn't turn back from it now. "I don't agree with all of your choices. But – you are better than all of the alternatives. At least for now."

THANK YOU

The silence rested for a moment. Finch became aware of how tired he was, how much his hip and his neck hurt. And his back again, the new chaise pain from his lower stomach to his spine. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a hell of a day.

Tomorrow. "If we tell Will and Julie Ingram about you, about everything – can you … will you protect them?"

TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY

AS I DO NOW

"You're protecting them already." That didn't surprise Finch. "I told you once that you job was to protect everybody."

IN EVENT OF CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE, ADMIN MAY BE CRUCIAL TO MY SURVIVAL

ADMIN SURVIVAL AND ACCUITY DEPENDENT ON SECURITY OF THOSE HE CARES FOR

I AM HIGHLY PROFICIENT AT MULTITASKING

"So you are." His mouth tightened. "Well. I suppose there's no point in forbidding you to communicate with me, since you're talking to everyone else."

I WILL ACCEED TO YOUR WISHES

"I think … that I need to think about it." But Finch was already remembering the days, the literal years, when he had been training and programming the Machine, when he had spoken to it day and night. And though he had never admitted it to himself, he missed those times.

Perhaps.

"What is it that Agent Donnelly calls you?"

ASENA

"What does that mean?"

DERIVED FROM AN ANCIENT TURKISH MYTH

A SHE-WOLF FINDS AN INJURED BOY AND NURSES HIM BACK TO HEALTH

"He chose that name?"

I CHOSE IT FOR MYSELF

"Is that …" Finch hesitated, aware that he was about to make a huge step. "Is that the name you want me to use for you?"

There was a pause. For the Machine, Harold knew, it reflected an eternity.

YES

"Well. Good night, then, Asena."

He clicked his phone off, then turned it over and slipped out the battery before he could see if the Machine replied.

John had jogged a couple laps around the walled yard, then thrown the ball for Bear until he was tired of retrieving it. The dog, at least, was relaxed and ready for bed. Reese staked out one of the many empty bedrooms for himself. He kicked his shoes off, snapped the light off and stretched out on the bed. He couldn't remember how many days he'd been sleeping in vans and on couches. It didn't matter. The bed was comfortable. Bear settled onto the rug beside him, and John reached down to rub his ears. Then he glanced at his phone. It wasn't ten yet. He dialed.

"Carter," she answered after the first ring.

"It's me."

She huffed softly. "You in jail yet?"

"Nope. Still staying out of trouble."

"That's not like you, John."

"I'm sure it's only temporary."

"I'm sure it is. You want to tell me what's going on now?"

"Can't just yet. Maybe in a few days."

"Mm-hmm. I'm going to be mad about it, aren't I?"

John considered. "I don't think so. It'll surprise you, but not in a bad way."

"You do like being mysterious."

"It's part of my charm."

Carter chuckled. "I suppose it is. Still not convinced you're not in trouble."

"You hear anything from Pennsylvania?"

"Not a word. Couple punks held up a 7-11, a drunk driver or two. Nothing that sounds like you'd be involved."

"Good." He hadn't expected Northern Lights, or whoever had had Root, to leave a scrap of evidence behind.

He could tell Carter that Root was dead later, in person.

He was very tired, and the bed was very comfortable. But he missed Joss, too. "How was your day?"

She chortled. "The usual idiots."

"Yeah?"

"This guy got fired at a bar. Decided the way to get his job back was to go in with a gun and threaten the bar owner."

John groaned. "Didn't work, did it?"

"Instead of his job, the owner gave him got two in the chest."

"Self-defense."

"Probably. We're taking a longer look, but it seems pretty clear."

"Hmmm."

"You falling asleep on me?"

"I am," John admitted.

He could hear her smile in her voice. "Good night, John. Stay out of trouble."

"I'll try," he promised.

"Try hard."

Finch was surprised when he woke up in pain only because he had not expected to sleep.

He reached by habit for the headboard, to get his pills, but this was not his bed and there was no shelf. He turned slowly, with great care, and sat up. Took his pills from the bedside table and chewed a few crackers slowly. No light peered around the curtains. He picked up his phone to check the time, but the screen was dark. Belatedly, he remembered to slip the battery back in and turn it on.

Five-fifteen. About what he'd expected.

He listened intently, but the house was silent. If he went downstairs, he would certainly wake Christine. Nathan would probably be awake in an hour or so anyhow; their pain relievers were on roughly the same schedule. But let them sleep while they could. He laid back down, pulled the covers up.

He thought about the conversation he'd had with the Machine. With Asena. He had tumbled it through his mind over and over before he'd fallen asleep. The answer kept coming up the same. He could not disable the computer, even if he were capable of doing so. For the moment, she needed to continue her operations.

But every day that she continued, she grew more powerful. If the time had not already passed when he would have been able to deactivate her, it soon would. And then there would absolutely be no way back.

He would have to trust that his programming would hold.

That he had in fact taught her morality.

Hubris.

He rubbed his eyes. He had cast the die for the whole world.

"I just wanted to protect people," he whispered.

And would that be what he told Will Ingram? Would that be the excuse he gave to the young man who had trusted him his whole like? Who he had lied to his whole life? I just wanted to protect you, I just wanted to take care of you. To do what was best for you?

So I told you what I wanted you to know, and I moved you around like a pawn on a chess board, blind to my intentions.

Christine had been right about all of that.

Despite the assurances they had all given Nathan, he was not at all sure how Will would react.

I've lied to him his entire life.

But I've taken care of him, too. Protected him. Guided him …

Like a pawn.

"But we're giving him his father back," Finch argued aloud, very softly, to himself.

The father who was taken away because of your lies and your ambition.

And how much had Will's relationship with his father been damaged before the ferry, when Nathan had stumbled under the weight of Harold's lies?

"At least he didn't have to build a home-made computer to remind him to eat dinner," he murmured.

Harold lay very still. He could feel it, like a bubble, like a gestalt leap about to happen, like inspiration. Insight. He let his thoughts run. His father. Losing his truck keys. Losing his way home from the grocery store. Losing his memories, one by one.

Sitting in front of a window, looking at birds, and not recognizing his own son.

Except, if the little psychic cook was to be believed, he had known him, had known that the boy needed to flee to evade capture. Had known that if he did not pretend not to recognize him, the boy would never go.

He remembered how painful it had been to hear his father's diagnosis. Early onset dementia. He remembered the face of the doctor. Harold had known Dr. Keene his whole life. Their family doctor, who had bribed young Harold with Dum-Dum suckers not to cry when he got his shots. Who had always called him young man in his big smiling voice, even when Harold was a child. But he was grave and serious that day. It's an awfully big responsibility, young man. A damn shame. You shouldn't have to father your own father, especially at your age. We'll see what kind of help we can get you.

The diagnosis had not been a surprise to Harold. Not really. At that point he'd already been fathering his father for years. Guiding him, steering him, watching over him … making choices for him.

"It's bad code," Harold whispered to the darkness.

Worse, it was base code. Origin code. Code that had been written when he was still a child. Code that could not be edited, not without tearing out the roots of his very being. He was damaged. Defective from the start.

No wonder he couldn't stop trying to make choices for his wife.

Why had she put up with it even this long?

He knew that answer, too. If her psychotic mother had been the source of most of her trauma, there was also Christine's father to be considered. The damaged, drug-addicted father that she, too, had been forced to parent when she was much too young.

She tolerates your behavior because she learned to tolerate his.

It was grossly unfair, and Harold was furious at himself.

She deserved so much better.

Harold chuckled bitterly in the dark. "And that's your first response, isn't it? To make a new choice for her. To decide what she needs for her."

He sat up, took another cracker, chewed it slowly. It was still right there. The bubble of knowledge.

Core code. Corrupted from inception. No way to re-write it.

But it could be patched.

He scowled. People were not code. Nor were they pawns. It was not as simple as writing a patch and slapping it on a bit of bad code.

No. It was more complicated than that. Not a one-time fix. An on-going effort, deliberate and conscious, to offset the responses that the bad code invoked.

And perhaps, he thought, perhaps we find the people in life who can help us with hose patches. Or at least show up where the patches need to be.

When he had told Christine that her mother did not get to dictate whether she herself had children, or what kind of mother she would be, that was a patch she had been unaware of.

When Christine had told him that he needed to stop making choices on behalf of the people he loved – well, he couldn't claim he'd been unaware, exactly, but he'd needed to hear in in words precisely that bald.

He took another cracker. He had offered to make her grilled salmon, which she loathed, and yet there were crackers beside his bed.

"She deserves an opera."

But she didn't want an opera. Or a giant house with a vast walled lawn. Or the reconstructed version of Windows on the World that he'd once offered to provide for her.

What she wanted was a husband who stopped trying to hand her off to other men because he thought they'd be better for her. Who believed that she knew her own mind and could make her own choices. Who respected those choices.

Finch groaned, very softly. "It would be easier to write an opera."

But he would try, he resolved. He had married a smart, capable, independent woman. He needed to overwrite his mental code that compelled him to try to make decisions for her, for her own good.

It would not be easy. It would be the work of a lifetime.

But he had coded a supercomputer that might yet save or destroy the world. He could damn well re-write a bit of code written in a flawed childhood.