Long-Term Goals

Roland sat stooped over his too large ornamental ironwood desk, and felt somewhat like the troublemakers that had been made to take a strapping over that varnished surface back when that had been the style. His broad brimmed rustler's hat, made of grey leather, with a white strap around the middle, "To give it some color" that dandy-blasted tailor had said, cast a deep shade across the chips of blue ice that were his eyes, currently furiously scanning the paperwork set on the desk before him. It fanned out before him like a deadman's hand. His wrist already ached from the abuse of having to sign even half of the mountain of parchment.

Most of it started with statements like "The signee hearby acknowledges," or "accepts liability" or "hereby bequeaths the gosh-darned skin of their firstborn son". Perhaps not the last one, but at this point Roland would not have been surprised to have missed that droplet in the flood of high-faluten jargon that had spilled into his lap. Worse still was the nagging sense of what all this feather wagging was in service of, some Mantlian pencil-neck's secret pet project, some "information analysis and aggregation, and human interface system" or whatever  in tarnation that meant. Knowing the boys at R&D, it was probably some sort of weapon that would make all warfare up to this point seem like a right-old scamper about the maypole, and the old ranger in him dreaded what was supposed to be coming walking through his door any minute now.

He glanced up briefly, peeking out from under his hat, at Altimeda, the slicked up boss-hoss. Why was he here? Roland had to wonder. Sure, it said in some report that had been near the beginning of all the paperwork that he was the big-bug who had bank-rolled the latter stages of the project's development, but Rollan had been in this game long enough to know that reasons were like rats in a grain silo, if you seen one, there's probably a few dozen you didn't see. He didn't look like the type to be designing some new doomsday device, all smart in his fancy suit and his clean shave like a regular Belvidere, but then Roland's eyes tracked across to the great heap of steel that Fontine had set down in the corner of the room. Roland knew a cannon when he saw one, and marveled at the intricacies and innovation some men would go to simply to deal out harm. No doubt it had some barely pronounceable name, and some flashy as May-eve capabilities, and some fancy-pants family fighting style to account for it's impracticability. Roland's own arms, a pair of almost comically oversized six-shooters, with no name but that given by their manufacturer, "Peacemakers", were on the wall beside his desk. Their twelve inch long barrels were crossed, nuzzling each other like a pair of swords in a coat of arms. If Roland came from a slick enough family to have a coat of arms, that probably would have been it. Simple, elegant, like the guns themselves. Point, shoot, dead, that was as complicated as killing needed to be for him.

The third part of his own holy trinity was currently beneath the desk, muzzle pointed towards the door through the face of the table. A couple rough decades of shootouts and saloon-brawls had taught him one could never be too careful. 

As there was a knock on the door, Roland's right hand set down the pen. He leaned back in his chair, stretching the stiffness that had been insinuating into his shoulders by his poor book-keeping posture. He had a moment to imagine what sin against God was about to slither into his office, words like "automated combat system" and "artificial learning" rearing their heads like ugly little groundhogs in his mind. For all the paper he'd been forced to look over in anticipation of this event, ambushed beneath the tide of ink not doubt so that by the time he could know enough to actually object, the moment would be upon him, it had been worrisome in how skinny it was on the explicit details of what "Betty" actually was. Anything could come through those doors.

Roland didn't know what to expect. He'd seen the new Atlesian Knights that had begun production shortly after he'd left the service, and was glad for the most part at never having been forced to fight along side them. As much as he distrusted Fontine's elaborate weapon, Roland trusted any machine that could kill without need for a human operator as much as he trusted a rattlesnake. Perhaps he was simply old fashioned that way, preferring that killing be left to those that could actually weigh morality before pulling a trigger. In any case, if he'd been forced to guess what was about to sidle into his office, it would have been closer to one of those killer bean cans than what actually did make it's way in. 

In first was Promethea, eccentric in the way only one who had dedicated their life to making tin-soldiers could be, his/her wild brown eyes glimpsed through a pair of thick spectacles like a couple of dogs trying to jump through the screen door. She/he lurched up to the desk with such purpose that Roland sat up straight and his hand twitched a micron towards the but of the coach-gun stashed under the table. His/her greeting was almost breathless it so catawampous, and Roland felt driven back into his seat in spite of himself, like a tomcat startled by an unusually feisty field mouse. He didn't dislike the egghead, even in spite of the few encounters they had over the previous few weeks, but Roland often got the impression from her/him that he/she was just this side of mad as a march hare, and probably wouldn't have bent an elbow at the same saloon if it could have been avoided. At least Promethea had the good manners to greet him, something that bean-counter Fontine had noticeably failed at before taking up roost in Roland's office like a particularly expensive buzzard. 

Roland forced himself to look past Promethea, if only to escape the withering intensity of those wild brown eyes, and caught sight of the day's issue. In seeming defiance of the notion he'd constructed in his head of something awkward and ungainly, propelled into motion by mad science, what the old gunslinger discovered instead as it strode into his office was what seemed to be some insane vision of engineering come to life. The sight immediately filled him with a peculiar and impossible to quantify revulsion, bordering on fear. Nothing could have adequately prepared a man of his age and experience for the shock that now gripped him. Roland had seen androids and military machines before, but this one was different in a way that he could not express. Those other examples had been clearly artificial, faceless, mechanical, baring no more resemblance to a man or woman than a steam engine with a face painted on, but this thing, now standing before his desk was cast clearly in the imagine of a woman, and that subtle anthropomorphism made it uncanny.

It wore a neutral expression, and Roland wasn't certain if he would have felt better or worse if it had been smiling, or doing anything instead of looking as blank as a porcelain doll. The eyes were the only indication that the automaton wasn't just dead as a doornail. Roland wasn't sure but they seemed to grow more sharp, more focused as the machine entered the room, and watched in a state of mute horror as the luminous blue circles of light swiveled around the room with a mechanical precision that was both unnatural and deeply unpleasant. The suggestion of intellect behind those eyes was comparable to nothing Roland had ever seen, as if they were windows looking in on an entirely alien landscape, and the nearest approximation of such inhuman intelligence that he could call forth was the look in the eyes of unusually clever Grimm. The thought of those eyes, and what they represented, a thinking machine, whose processes of cognition might very well be utterly incomprehensible to a mortal man, filled him with dread. He didn't even have time to notice what the thing was wearing, because nothing short of the heavens themselves draped across that body could have distracted Roland from the simple instinctive terror of looking at a truly intelligent machine.

Roland would not have thought the experience could be any more surreal, but then, it spoke.

"Good afternoon, Sir." It barked in a tinny synthetic voice that sounded to Roland like an engine transmission manipulated to mimic speech. 

It was then that Roland took in what it was wearing. An anachronistic dress, complete with a bustle and bow, like a proper sage hen, with wooden sandals upon it's feet, and it's "hair" of what looked alarmingly like extension power cables, done up in a pair of buns, only served to intensify how utterly uncanny the overall display was. It was a grotesque, a mockery that was offensive in how it seemed to mimic the human form while still being so utterly and unmistakably inhuman. Roland wondered, perhaps a bit ironically, if this is how early men had felt the first time they saw a faunus, and that line of thought had to be severed immediately before it could carry his mind to what the next logical conclusion of that comparison would be. Roland wasn't sure what this thing was, but he was certain he didn't want it in his office, and didn't want it attending his academy.

"Beta Phi. I believe I told you to remain silent unless spoken to." If Roland had been certain before, he was double certain now. 

The machine offered a short apology, that was offered with a flat impartiality that could only have been achieved by an actually emotionless golem, and Roland though he was going to actually faint, or float away into the sky, because clearly he had passed through the looking glass into a world that no longer made any sense to him. Promethea, every oblivious to anything that could not be disassembled for inspection, plowed right on ahead, expounding the virtues of the project as if "Betty" had not just single handedly given the most destructive demonstration of the project's flaws that could be possible. By the time Promethea was done, Roland was nearly apoplectic, as he lowered his gaze enough to hide his pale countenance beneath the brim of his hat, slouching in his chair like a man been gutshot.

A moment of silence yawned between them, until finally Fontine spoke up.

"Well Roland, what do you think?"

Roland's teeth creaked, the tendons standing out on either side of his jaw as he seemed to literally chew on the question, and it was as hard as jerked leather in his mouth. He'd never been a man for words, but now Roland felt especially lost for them, utterly speechless, utterly baffled, as if the two other people in the room were somehow unable to see what he was seeing, unable to guess what an utterly daffy, terrible idea this was.

"What do I think?" He growled, voice gruff, but wiry, like the sound of steel wool, "I think you're both crazy as a pair of loons in a sack. I think you've gone right ahead and plum lost track of your wits. I think that," He pointed at Betty, as if there were some uncertainty to what he was referring, "is a sin against God, and you are out of your damned minds if you think it's gonna go to class with my kids."

Roland erupted to his feet, face pale with anger, blue eyes blazing as he slammed his palms down on the table like a crack of thunder, before pointing this time at Promethea.

"What do you want me to say? Want me to use some of those fancy-pants words of yours? Artificial intelligence? Autonomous personality? I call it poppycock, a fool's errand. You done got so smug with what you could do, you never stopped to ask if you should, but the cat's out of the bag now, and you done dumped it right in my lap." He said, his voice holding level like it was drawing a bead, "Do you not see what you've done, the both of you? Either you made a machine that thinks, or you made one that pretends it can. The best case is that you're imitating free will, making a mockery of it with mimicry, and the worst case is that you've reduced the totality of experience down to a code you can type up on a computer, trivializing free will. And you just want to let it mosey on around, as if that won't cause any trouble, might as well be setting a fox loose in the chicken coop, cause you just proved it don't listen to you."

"Well," Asked Altimeda Fontine, "What do you think?"
He spoke so lightly that it made Betty wonder if he honestly could not see the answer. Roland was broadcasting, wide-band, all his thoughts, down to the minutest detail. She decided that the patriarch must have been acting with willful ignorance, to not be able to read the mood of the room.

"What do I think?"
Roland's voice was a low growl, words forced out through gritted teeth. He hunched up, as though to speak was to cause himself actual pain, and press him ever nearer to some ill defined edge of reason. His eyes cast about, twin sapphire chips rattling across the room, but Beta did not fail to see how quickly they focused on their intended targets.
"I think you're both crazy as a pair of loons in a sack. I think you've gone right ahead and plum lost track of your wits. I think that," He pointed directly at her, despite having his eyes firmly set on the withering Promethea, "is a sin against God, and you are out of your damned minds if you think it's gonna go to class with my kids."

There was a moment of stunned. The good Doctor's face contorted, finely angled features twitching between a plethora of emotion almost too quick to follow. Surprise first, as Roland defied expectations, the hurt, to have their life's work so venomously criticized, then anger unrestrained. This last blossomed across Promethea's face like blood from an open wound, turning the pallid skin bright red. It was quickly mastered, with Promethea bringing the burgeoning rage under tight control, but the wild fierceness did not leave their eyes. Roland stared right back into those suddenly flat, cold eyes, and some myriad emotion twitched across his face in turn. He rose to his feet, smooth and easy, uncoiling like some dangerous snake, to tower over the slender doctor.
"What do you want me to say?" he demanded, "Want me to use some of those fancy-pants words of yours? Artificial intelligence? Autonomous personality?"
Promethea did not respond but instead pressed their lips into a flat line, ratcheting their hold on their anger down another notch. Roland seemed to take the silence as a challenge or, at the very least, an invitation to continue his tirade.
"I call it poppycock," He blustered, "A fool's errand. You done got so smug with what you could do, you never stopped to ask if you should, but the cat's out of the bag now, and you done dumped it right in my lap."
A calm slipped in, a brief attenuation where in all parties were silent. Betty watched the good Doctor, in the process of recovering their wits, and watched Altimeda shift his shoulders, only barely paying attention.
"Do you not see what you've done, the both of you?" Roland asked them, "Either you made a machine that thinks, or you made one that pretends it can. The best case is that you're imitating free will, making a mockery of it with mimicry, and the worst case is that you've reduced the totality of experience down to a code you can type up on a computer, trivializing free will. And you just want to let it mosey on around, as if that won't cause any trouble, might as well be setting a fox loose in the chicken coop, cause you just proved it don't listen to you."

Again, there was silent. Promethea, only barely holding onto their temper, glanced Betty's way, as if in question. Betty looked impassively back, suggesting no answer to the doctor's unspoken question, as to whether or not Betty had expected this to happen.
"Ah, now there," Altimeda, satisfied that Roland had said all he needed to say, looked the veteran huntsman over. He was not offended, as Promethea obviously was. His body language communicated boredom, his tone gentle reassurance, just as though he'd been expecting all this and wanted to get it out of the way.
Assuming a pensive pose, fingers forming an arch before his mouth, Altimeda made sure he had the room's attention.
"She," he said, making sure both Roland and Promethea heard his deliberate choice of pronoun, "Will listen as well as any other girl in her class."
To Promethea, he said, "She wasn't, 'speaking out of turn,' there, she said hello."
To Roland, "Come on now, if she is going to blend in with the student body, she should be treated like a student."
Standing, as if unwilling to be the only one seated, Altimeda seemed to think aloud, "And besides, take a moment to actually think what the students would say, seeing her."
He stopped at where his weapon waited, rang it lightly with the heel of his boot, and looked between Promethea and Roland.
"We have kids out there with their own AIs built-in. Betty would not stand out amongst the crowd besides the way she looks, and that would get more praise than prejudice. Certainly in Atlas." He was the first one to refer to her by name, and Betty was grateful for it, though Promethea and Roland were both justified in referring to her as an object.
"Betty's I won't feel terribly A, once you get to know her."
She allowed a small smile to slip into place, exactly large enough that Roland's sharp eyes would notice it.
Promethea drew in a deep, steadying breath, then tugged their lab coat straight and pressed their glasses up on their nose.
"Mr Fontine is quite correct." They agreed, voice quavering with the subtle aftershocks of recently repressed anger, "Beta Phi has proven most able to assimilate Itself"-the doctor flicked their eyes to Altimeda-"into social settings with minimal disruption. Its appearance is initially alarming, true, but Its communicative abilities more than make up for it."
The Doctor swallowed, nodded once, then turned to better address the room, "As for other more practical misgivings," As though Betty's inhuman appearance was a foolish thing to be hung up on, "I can offer you my personal assurance that Beta Phi is well controlled. We must be careful with the limitations we place on,"-Eyes moved to Altimeda once more,-"It, that we do not stymie Its development, but we have still incorporated numerous failsafes."
Promethea arched an eyebrow at Altimeda, as though asking if now would be a good time to try the proverbial carrot, or if they should start with the stick. Betty knew which option would have the best chance of success, but she was not willing to push the Doctor any further, with how elevated their passions had become.

Roland smiled coldly, and sank back into his chair, a wave on the verge of cresting momentarily receding. He took a moment to take the measure of those before him once more, and compared it with the reckonning he'd taken when they first walked in. Altimeda had dropped any pretense of the politician. Stubborn as an ill tempered mule, he was no longer even humoring Roland's perspective and merely invalidating it out of hand, quite expected, a typical tactic of the politically inclined. Whenever they could not move the goal post, they simply denied that there was an issue to begin with, often too shrewd or too yellow-bellied to meet a challenge on even footing. It was perfectly to be expected. As if the intent of the thing that stood before them was the issue and not the fact that there it stood in all it's glory, like a cougar in the paddock. As if the fact that it was all an accident somehow excused the fact that an intelligent machine was a dangerous concept in and of itself, as if Roland was the only one who was going to be challenging the concept itself on a philosophical basis.

Promethea on the other hand, surprised Roland but not being as stubborn as Fontine, and seemed to have anticipated if not prepared for this turn of the conversation. The scientist seemed to have actually put together what exactly Roland was out of sorts over and rather than dismiss the argument as the ravings of an out of touch old man, seemed to at least pretend to have taken the consideration, and replied in a manner that actually addressed the question at hand. Altimeda was convinced he was right, while Promethea was actually trying to convince Roland, and it was no question of who had alighted up the superior strategy.

Roland sat patient and silent while the pair spoke, index finger tapping his chin, icy blue eyes unblinking, fixed upon the machine, as if it were a viper that might strike the instant he looked away. He only broke contact briefly as Altimeda went for his absurd weapon, and revealed why the blazes he had thought to bring the damn thing in here in the first place. Roland again thought about the cannon stashed beneath his desk, and again felt exasperated by the needless complexity of the damn thing, of how ugly and clumsy Fontine's absurd armament seemed to him. It was clear that the man meant to use the thing upon Beta Phi, as if that would have any beneficial outcome on the tone of this debate. It put the gunslinger in the awkward position of having to decide whether or not he was morally obligated to come to the aid of the machine if it truly were incapable of defend itself, and more than anything that Fontine had said, that truly got Roland thinking. Happily for just about everyone involved, Promethea was not in any hurry to see a life of work beaten like a redheaded step-child and wasted no time telling Fontine to stow the awful contraption.

Finally it was Roland's turn to speak again, and he had been in deep thought about what he would say next.

"What would I have you do?" He repeated, eye's staring right through Promethea at the android, words drawn out and slow as if he were actually considering it as he spoke, which he was, "You like experiments Professor, that's clear as crystal. Well perhaps you'd entertain me in a thought experiment then. Fontine, you could try to keep up as well."

Roland pushed himself back from the desk, and the rose to his feet, taking a moment to dust off his pants and straighten out his fancy, too snug, waist coat and adjust the braid that looped over one shoulder. Then, hands clasped behind his back, he marched towards where the two pistols were hung upon the wall and dusted the barrel of the right hand one. He plucked the weapon off the wall and in a single fluid motion, spun it around his index finger and dropped it into a holster on his right hip. Then, the spurs on his boot jingling in merry oblivion to what was taking place, he took up position behind Betty, between the machine and Altimeda.

"We, the three of us, are entitled to certain rights as citizens of this fine nation. For example, I cannot morally draw this iron on my hip and shoot Mr. Fontine between his eyes, because that would be immoral, evil even." He continued, cool as a cucumber, as he stroked the sandalwood stock of his weapon, "Surely we can agree on that much. As much as I might want to, I cannot justify producing my pistol and permanently curing Mr. Fontine of this condition that we call life, in the same way I would a mad-dog. But why? What does Mr. Fontine possess that a common curr does not? Surely he wouldn't object any more than a stray might to having his head opened to the breeze. Surely it's not on account of possessing a soul, because I have known dogs and horses to manifest aura. We must conclude it is because Mr. Fontine is in possession of reason."

With that, in a blur of motion too quick to follow with the human eye, he drew the weapon from his belt and aimed it towards Altimeda, hammer already cocked and ready to discharge a payload of high caliber ordinance.

"What do you think, Beta? Mr. Fontine was moments away from inflicting injury upon you. I assume you are capable of feeling and fearing harm. Shall I harm Mr. Fontine instead?" He asked, speaking into the apparatus that served as the android's ears.

"What would I have you do?" Roland asked the cavernous silence that had risen up about Promethea's passionate imprecation. Beta, who continued heeding the conversations myriad twist and turns more from habit than any general desire to be a part of it, detected hesitation in her creator. Roland saw it too. He pushed himself back from his desk, and neatened up the well tailored uniform he wore.
"You like experiments Professor, that's clear as crystal." Promethea was a doctor, not a professor, and their failure to correct Roland made Betty even more uneasy. She, like the Good Doctor, knew precisely where this was all headed. Promethea had been wrong; Roland did want a demonstration, it was just that what he wanted demonstrated had little to do with her inbuilt inhibitions.
"Well perhaps you'd entertain me in a thought experiment then. Fontine, you could try to keep up as well."

The Headmaster General strolled around his table and, with affection apparent even to Betty's averted gaze, collected a finely maintained and aged sidearm from its display hooks on the wall. With the elegant self-assurance of long practice and intimate familiarity, he seamlessly stowed the sixshooter into its place at his hip.
"We, the three of us, are entitled to certain rights as citizens of this fine nation." He pontificated, making his way from the display to where Betty stood waiting, "For example, I cannot morally draw this iron on my hip and shoot Mr. Fontine between his eyes, because that would be immoral, evil even."
Betty did not tense up as he entered her sphere of influence. Apart from tensing up being a wholly organic trait, she held no illusions about whose power she'd been under from the moment she stepped into the office. Close enough to touch or from the opposite side of the room, it made no difference.
Roland slipped around her, so close she could just about detect his heartrate, feel his blood surging, "Surely we can agree on that much. As much as I might want to, I cannot justify producing my pistol and permanently curing Mr. Fontine of this condition that we call life, in the same way I would a mad-dog."
He stopped behind her, and Betty still did not tense up. Between his words and his actions, she no longer believed herself the target of his interests. Promethea too, taking note of the intimate closeness between the Headmaster General and their creation, held the uneasy peace of the room.
"But why?" Roland asked them, "What does Mr. Fontine possess that a common curr does not? Surely he wouldn't object any more than a stray might to having his head opened to the breeze." He would not object at all, once the deed was done. Beta Phi analyzed the surrounding room and mapped the probable result of so violent a turn in the proceedings. Altimeda, thrown back, sword scattered from his grip, eyes sightlessly staring out, the sum total of his being and his identity splattering the wall behind where he presently stood. An irreplaceable transgression, an irreversible event.
"Surely," He spoke into her ear, an act more symbolic than actually necessary, "It's not on account of possessing a soul, because I have known dogs and horses to manifest aura. We must conclude it is because Mr. Fontine is in possession of reason."

Beta Phi dialed the probabilistic projection back, bringing the course of events into proceeding tandem with the present, displaced only by a matter of seconds. She diverged the timelines, regarded each with close scrutiny. Roland's temporal doppelganger had just cleared his holster, the real world equivalent was only then placing his fingers in the necessary position. In the spot where Altimeda stood, there was a blur of activity, as figments of the Patriarch stood in place, dodged to the side, took a step back, ducked, or otherwise evaded. The real Altimeda stood in the very center of it all, overlaid by the most likely divergence that Beta Phi could calculate. Promethea, tangential to the exchange, was surrounded by their own halo of animate phantoms.

Roland swung his hand up to meet the extended reach of his illusory twin, and she watched the pair of them stroke back the hammer on their heavy side arm in clockwork unison. The projection flickered out, and she once again saw a close approximation of what the humans saw, of what they had been seeing all while she was tracking the temporal trajectories.
"What do you think, Beta?" Roland asked her, his voice hot, his pulse sedate. "Mr. Fontine was moments away from inflicting injury upon you. I assume you are capable of feeling and fearing harm. Shall I harm Mr. Fontine instead?" He asked, speaking into the apparatus that served as the android's ears.

Her eyes moved over the gun he held. Mantelian Peacekeeper, sometimes called Dragoon due to its close ties with mounted combat in during the settlement. It was a weapon that had seen precious few modifications over nearly a century of service, reckoned by most sources as robust, reliable, and capable of putting down all but the toughest Grimm in a few pulls of the trigger. Betty found its specifications in a picosecond, collated the data, and ran her own corroborative simulation to confirm its stopping power. Unsurprising, given its reputation for as a Ranger's best friend, it proved a suitable replacement to a melee weapon in terms of sheer destructive strength. It was no surprise that Roland favored the gun, given his demonstrable old fashioned sensibilities, flat practicality, and the overall pragmatism of his career.
It would also, most certainly, open Altimeda's head to the breeze, assuming the patriarch did not have his aura up. Which, given the simulations she had just run, it almost certainly was. Those aberrant specters of death and destruction had been outliers, and represented less than one ten-thousandth of a percent. In just about every other case where Roland did fire, Altimeda either had his aura up, avoided the shot, or was avoided by it. The likelihood of Roland inflicting lethal injury upon Altimeda was so incredibly low that it could be effectively disregarded.
Beta Phi reconnected to the net, and investigated the possible ramifications of a head injury inflicted in the most likely manner by which it would occur. It was difficult to say exactly how much protection Altimeda's aura would provide him, but it was statistically safe to assume a minor to moderate concussion. From three studies, she calculated the long term result of such an injury, sustained at this point in Altimeda's life, would most likely not be severe. This was taking into account Altimeda's present lifestyle, with its abundance of other possible causes of death which were far more likely than any complications resulting from a concussion in his middle years. If, in the interim, he saw fit to diverge from presently demonstrated behaviors, a concussion could have much greater consequence for him. Mental health problems were the most likely result, but the physical health complications were not inconsiderable either. Aneurysm, stroke, and a wide array of lesser issues that would have a net negative impact on Altimeda's final years of life...

Betty hesitated. It had been approximately 6.973 seconds since Roland had asked his question, and they were rapidly approaching the divergence where the Headmaster General, assuming her disinclined to respond, dismissed all three of them from his presence.
She ruminated a picosecond longer upon that last and most grimly miserable fate for Altimeda, become a husk of a man unable to remember who he was, and juxtaposed it against the vital and intelligent patron before her, just as she had with her previous projections.
Such a needless and regrettable turn, such a pointlessly pitiable end for a man worthy of respect. An easily avoidable cruelty, irreversible beyond the next few moments.

It was astronomically unlikely that Roland would kill Altimeda, it was extremely unlikely that he would hurt Altimeda, it was unlikely that he would shoot Altimeda. But, if he did, there would be no fixing what had been done. Once the divergence is reached, there is no going back for a second try.

7.013 seconds had elapsed. Promethea, looking anxious, took a step towards them.
"Sir," they said, "This hardly seems..."
"I would sooner that you shot me with every bullet in that gun, than that you shot Doctor Fontine with one." Betty said calmly. She didn't look at the Good Doctor, but did not need to, to see the sudden alarm blossom across Promethea's aquiline face. Depending on where Roland chose to shoot, he could do Betty irreparable harm which not even transplantation into a whole body could rectify. Still, the Doctor's indignant gasp surprised Beta Phi, who knew itself to be backed up in at least three secure locations.
Taking a slow, non-threatening step forward, Betty interposed herself betwixt Patriarch and General, such that the latter's leveled firearm was pointed at the center of her head instead. That caused Promethea's concern to abate somewhat, at least until Betty's hands reached up, tucked cool fingers over his wrist, and directed his aim towards the center of her chest.
"As I am sure you are aware," Betty told him, "The central processor of an Atlesian Knight is not stored in the chassis' head." She stared directly into Roland's eyes, her own dialed up so that his face filled the entirety of her vision, and so that every tick of expression could be read.
"It is very well armored" She added, "It will take two or three shots."