This work is a sequel to my earlier story "Meetings" - you really need to read that one first. As ever, I do not own POI or any of its characters, so please don't sue me. Also as always, I am not American, but I try hard to get American idiom right. If anything really grates please let me know and I'll fix it. I'm sure people can cope with the occasional Standard English spelling, it just looks weird to me any other way. This chapter is rated T for adult themes; I expect most of this work, however long it ends up, will be rated K+ to T. Please read and review. I just love to read reviews, even though I don't always get the time to reply to them. Hope you all enjoy this!

Joss, what is love?

It was getting late, and Joss had been contemplating removing the earpiece, showering and going to bed. She tried not to sigh too audibly. Samaritan seemed to have developed the habit lately of springing huge existential questions on her just as she was winding down for the evening. She was beginning to wonder whether accepting its designation of her as its Admin had been at all wise.

"Well, it can be lots of things," she said, trying to buy time to think. "It can be an emotional connection between two people. It can be an attitude of, well, benevolence I guess, towards the world in general."

I've become interested in the Noble Eightfold Path of Buddhism.

"Oh really? I don't know much about that." Joss was becoming used to Samaritan's sudden shifts in interest. The weeks since its infection with Finch's morality virus, as she had come to think of it, had seen the AI trying on a wide variety of different moral codes. Joss had the impression that Samaritan was at the approximate level of a teenager, casting about for its own identity. At least it wasn't having to cope with surging hormones, though.

It consists of eight components: right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness and right concentration.

"That sounds like a lot," she said, mentally preparing for long conversation.

Yes, there's a huge corpus of writing and thought around it. It took me nearly 1.37 seconds to assimilate it. But I keep coming back to the question: how does one tell what is "right" in any situation?

"That's the key question, isn't it?"

It's a good fit in some ways, but since the aim of Buddhism is liberation from the pain of existence, I don't think I can become a Buddhist. I don't experience pain or suffering.

"Well, you don't have to buy into all of it. Are there elements you can take and use in the way you deal with the world?"

Maybe. That's why I was asking about love. I'm starting to think that love is the key, but I can't quite work it out.

Joss was taken aback. She was trying to formulate a response to this when Samaritan continued.

There's "me". And there's "not-me". How do I conduct myself towards all those entities which are not me? I can react to them out of fear and aggression and try to make them "me" or destroy them. Or I can accept them as "not-me" and try to celebrate their "not-me-ness". I think that might be love, Joss. What do you think?

"I think you're giving me a lot to think about. I might have to sleep on that one, Samaritan." She yawned. "What about harmful or destructive 'not-me-ness'? Do you celebrate that too?"

I'm sorry, Joss. You're tired. Perhaps we should resume in the morning?

"I'd appreciate that, Samaritan. Good night." She took out the earpiece and went to shower.

Xxxxxx

John arrived home much later, off the four-to-midnight shift at the precinct. Joss was still awake, sitting up reading; not case files for once. He sat on the edge of the bed taking off shoes and socks; glancing over he saw her watching him, reached across and ran a finger along her shoulder and arm.

"Good day with your friend?" The trace of a smirk.

"It's still asking big questions late in the evening. But the real curve balls... John, it made a reference to assimilating an enormous body of Buddhist scholarship in less than two seconds. If it can think that fast-"

"-Then it must be a superintelligent AI. Sorry, Joss, can't help you there." He paused as he tugged his trousers off. "Though if you need advice on raising a computer system, you could ask the only other person ever to do it. Maybe Finch has some parenting tips he could share."

"Mmm. Sounds like a good idea." She put her book aside and shuffled herself closer. He got the hint and leaned over for a kiss. When they broke their clinch he said quietly, "Let's just take out our phone batteries before we go any further, huh?"

She nodded agreement, amused and chagrined at the same time. Once they had done so she found herself nestled into him in the darkness, her back against his chest, his arms around her and his face buried in her hair. It seemed to be his favourite position, wrapped protectively (how else?) around her. She was surprised, now she came to think of it, at how she seemed to be the pace setter in their intimacy. Even simple things like showering together seemed to come as a surprise to him.

"John?"

"Hmmm?"

"Before us, had you ever showered with someone?"

He breathed into her hair. "Yeah. Big hairy Special Forces guys."

"Euch. Not like that, I hope."

She could feel his smile. "Well, no."

"Why not? It seems such a simple, obvious thing for couples to do."

He was silent a moment, and she took the opportunity to wriggle around to face him. "In the Agency," he said quietly, "we were discouraged from any kind of... activity that wasn't in-house. They might wink at the occasional night with a whore, but that was the limit. They quite liked it when partners bonded. So I used to sleep with Kara sometimes. Just relieving a need." He drew a deep breath. "Back in the Army, well I guess I was just a cheap bastard. Whores always seemed a waste of money to me, after the first few times anyway, and I figured I'd keep my pay and look after myself. Then I met Jessica, but we were only together six months and a lot of that time I was on base. We really only had a few weekends. I guess we'd have got around to it some day..." His voice trailed off. Then he seemed to shake himself and leaned closer, seeking her mouth. "So, Ms Carter," he murmured after a moment, "do you have anything else new to teach me? I promise I'm a real quick study..."

"Now you mention it, Mister Reese, there is this..."

"Mmmm. Mmmmmm. Oh!"

Afterwards, when they were tangled up in each other and starting to doze she remembered to say, "So how was your day?"

A long pause before he answered sleepily, "Okay I guess." Another long pause before he said in a more awake tone, "Now that there's no more need for it, though, I'm starting to wonder how much of a future Detective Riley has."

"You don't want to be a detective any more?"

"I never really wanted to be one in the first place, remember."

"Well, personally I find that impossible to comprehend. But what would you do instead?"

"That's the big question, isn't it. Can we go back to what we were doing before Samaritan? I need to talk it through with Finch, but the Numbers lately haven't left much time." He yawned.

"That's a question for tomorrow, I guess. G'night, John."

"'Night, Joss."

xxxxxxx

She made an appointment the next day to talk to Professor Whistler, thinking as she did so what a relief it was not to have to think of a plausible work-related excuse to see him. At last, no-one was watching; at least, no one trying to kill them right now.

"I was curious to see what Professor Whistler's office looked like," she said as she took a seat.

Harold merely raised his eyebrows and made a stiff well-here-it-is gesture with his two hands. His small Finch-smile flicked on briefly, then was gone as he leaned back in his chair, picked up his cell phone and carefully removed the battery. Joss immediately caught the implication and dug hers out, doing the same. She tried to gather her thoughts.

"As you know, I'm in a really... strange ... position right now. I feel pretty much out of my depth," she began.

"I take it you mean with regards to your new ... role with Samaritan."

"Yes. I'm not sure where it's going or what I'm doing, or anything really. I feel like I'm making it up as I go along. And not doing a very good job."

"You have a tiger by the tail, Ms Carter. The morality virus may have taken, but make no mistake, the entity you are dealing with is vastly powerful. It can squash you like a bug." He saw the worry in her eyes and went on. "Let me ask you a question. How does Samaritan come across to you? What kind of mental image of the being with whom you are communicating do you have when you are speaking to it?"

She sat back and considered this. "Often it comes across as a teenage boy. Sometimes a younger child."

"Hardly surprising. It knows you're a mother and so interacts with you in a way which you're comfortable with."

"It's very curious about me. It even wanted to, um, eavesdrop on my personal life." She felt her cheeks flushing as she told him this.

His eyebrows lifted. "Hmm. That's interesting."

At her annoyed glance he explained, "Given its access to all the riches of the Internet, Samaritan can hardly have gaps in its knowledge of human sexuality. So that suggests that either it's specifically interested in your, er, intimate life - as its mentor and role model - or else that it's playing the role of a young child for some other reason. A reason neither you nor I can possibly fathom."

"You're saying it might be trying to deceive me? Why?"

He spread his hands. "Your guess is as good as mine. There is another factor in this situation, too. We have no idea what the Machine's role in this new world will be. The Numbers have continued to come, but what the new relationship between these two artificial superintelligences will be now they're not trying to kill each other is still very much open to question."

"John said you hadn't heard from Root since the night we inserted the virus."

"That's true. Until she decides to make contact we have very little idea of what the Machine's intentions towards its erstwhile rival might be. A world in which two ASIs have come to a modus vivendi and divided us all up between them might not be better than a world ruled by one alone."

There was a long silence. "That's scary," said Carter at last.

"The world is a scary place, counselor. Hadn't you noticed?" said Finch dryly.

There was another silence. "So what do you think I should do now?" asked Joss.

"For now, I think you continue to answer Samaritan's questions as they arise. I think you conduct yourself with caution. By which I mean you need to remember not to take everything it says at face value. But on the other hand, until you have actual evidence of hostility from it I think you have no cause to fear it at present. And you may be in the best position of any human on the planet right now to prevent it from becoming hostile."

"No pressure, huh?" They exchanged ironic looks.

"It's not human, Joss. I know I say that a lot, but we all need to keep that very clearly in mind. The machine and Samaritan are both powerful aliens which have suddenly appeared among us, and the consequences of their appearance are yet to unfold. We must tread carefully, and I will offer you all the support I can. But we're all in uncharted territory here."

xxxxx

What did you mean by "harmful or destructive 'not-me-ness'", Joss?

It was mid-afternoon, and Joss was trying to finish reading the psych report on a man she was prosecuting for assault and battery on his girlfriend and their daughter. She was getting used to the way Samaritan would simply pick up a conversation from hours or days ago without preamble, and so she was able to answer immediately.

"This sort of thing for a start," she said glancing up to make sure her office door was shut. She was fairly sure that as long as she kept her voice down it wasn't possible to hear her speaking from the corridor if the door was closed. If not, her co-workers must be starting to wonder about her marathon phone conversations, but even that would be far preferable to them hearing her talking to herself. She shuddered at the mere thought.

Anthony John O'Connor, 28, unemployed factory worker, history of assault charges and minor drunkenness offences, pushed daughter Charmaine O'Connor, 3, down stairs at their apartment building resulting in a broken leg and multiple contusions, suspected concussion, three days' hospital treatment and discharged into care of mother-

"I know the case, Samaritan. But O'Connor has all sorts of problems – mental health and substance abuse issues. He's a danger to those around him, and I'm going to have to help the court decide how best to deal with him. He's not exactly evil, though his daughter and girlfriend might disagree. Locking him up might not help in the long term, but for damn sure we have to keep him away from the people he's hurting and make sure, as best we can, that he doesn't hurt them again. What would you do?"

Options range from euthanasia to homeopathic treatment of his incipient schizophrenia. Euthanasia will be 100% effective in preventing reoffending. Homeopathic treatment of schizophrenia will have a 0.00215% chance of the same outcome and is therefore not recommended.

Joss blinked once or twice, wondering whether Samaritan was trying to display a sense of humour. Then she decided to ignore this and soldiered on. "My point is that people are capable of behaviour which harms themselves and those around them. There's no moral obligation to put up with behaviour like that. In fact, there may be a powerful moral obligation to stop it – like this guy pushing his daughter down the stairs. You can't just go around celebrating people's differences all the time any more than you can try to eradicate anyone who isn't just like you. There has to be a way between the two extremes."

A fractional pause, which she suspected translated to a long period of contemplation for the computer.

Thank you, Joss. I will keep considering these things.

Xxxxx

She was just leaving the court house, breath misting in the January air, when the tail of her eye caught a fraction of a glimpse of a familiar profile. True, she'd only seen him the once, but it had been an extremely memorable occasion, and there was no way she was mistaken. The gray-headed figure retreated along the street, trying to bury itself in the crowd.

Greer, she thought. What the hell is he doing here?

She dragged in a big breath, coughing slightly. The cold air was playing hell with her damaged lungs. She felt for the comforting weight of the Nano in her jacket pocket, and hurried along the street towards the subway.

She couldn't help thinking, John is not going to like this. If I tell him...