Subject 9.81713E+44: Override authorized.
Subject 9.81713E+44: Activate. Immersion commences in three minutes.
The silence preceding the lecture is longer than usual, and when she delivers it, her tone sounds final somehow.
“Protocol compels me to warn you that once you have been immersed you will not be able to withdraw until the moment of … Oluvia Wade’s death. Protocol also compels me to dictate that whatever you experience, however terrible, you must endure without possibility of extraction. You will know each and every moment as if it were your own, and until the process is concluded, you will have no suspicion at all that you are not that person. Any lasting memory of trauma following the event will be your responsibility.
“Farewell, Salem.”
QUEEN OLUVIA WADE
O lover, to hold you to my breast.
To know and live your soul.
Think not of rest nor godly wonders manifest.
Think only of me.
O lover, hold me to your breast.
ONE
My life may end soon, and if anyone still survives on this side of the universe after Project Prometheus is executed, my name will only be remembered in words of malice. It is a sobering thought. One that sends me into a spiral of introspection—analyzing motives, questioning decisions, examining the past, fearing the future.
From here, standing on the highest point of the central sphere, I have an astounding view of my secret world, and though I stand here often, I rarely stop to appreciate its magnificence; moments of rare contemplation like this have a way of highlighting details that have become background noise.
The Consortium started as an insignificant moon orbiting an ordinary planet, but it has grown into a sprawling behemoth of information that—in its vast hunger for resources—has consumed and converted more than 80 percent of its mass. But I make it sound like a monster, and it isn’t. It’s beautiful: the surface is a sea of vibrant grassland from which twisting spires rise up and pierce the stratosphere like giant vines. And floating around them, backlit by the wispy remnants of an ancient nova, are shimmering spheres refracting the full spectrum of light. Some no larger than a man, others the size of small moons are networked together by fluid conduits, revolving around each other at different speeds like cogs in an impossible engine.
It still reminds me of a molecular model toy I used to play with as a little girl, and perhaps that childhood fondness helped to shape my vision over the years until it became this miraculous place. Except that toy couldn’t hop from galaxy to galaxy in the time it takes to draw a breath, and it couldn’t store all the combined knowledge of the mapped universe. The Consortium does.
Before me is an Imaging Sphere focused on the very core of the universe: Destination Zero. But it is not only the core of the universe; it is the focal point for all my concerns of late. Through the transparent walls of the Imaging Sphere, the untamed wrath of the Promethean Singularity flaunts itself as the perfect metaphor for my mind. Such power, enormous danger: a pulsating tempest of energy no bigger than a white dwarf star, surrounded by concentric shells of light and violent cyclones that grow wilder the farther they stray from its center.
Erastus Airos-Tazaria, my great-great grandson and personal aide, stands behind me, blandly watching the stormy phenomena over my shoulder as he prepares my hair for another day in the arena of political debate. I must look my best when I lie to my subjects.
Like my surroundings, I have paid little attention to Erastus in recent years. Though he is a close relative, he is nothing like me, not even in appearance. He, draped in charcoal robes shadowing his sagging features, his cool eyes buried beneath gray skin. I, with perfect facial symmetry and the bronzed body of Nubian youth, swaddled within the pleats of royal-white robes. It amuses me that Erastus—like anyone else—can choose any appearance, yet he settles for the mundane.
“Why did you come here?” he says, fixing a gold sash to the base of my neck and patting it carefully against my skin. “You must have looked at that monstrosity a thousand times.”
“It gives me strength.”
“Strength?” Erastus stops, hands resting on my shoulders. “How does it give you strength?”
“Stand beside me and look at it. How could it not remind you why we have to go ahead with Project Prometheus? The very sight of it should have been a warning that humanity would suffer if we plundered its secrets.”
He drops his arms, folds them behind his back, and spends a second beside me before walking to the other side of the imaging sphere, as if a different view might show him something he hadn’t noticed before. “I only need to think of its name to remind me of that.”
“Its name?”
“Prometheus.” Erastus stares through the image at me. “You know it was named after a Greek god, don’t you?”
“No.” I vaguely recall the name. “Greek was one of the old planets from the Mother System, wasn’t it?”
“Actually, the Greeks were a civilization from Old Earth, one of the first, I believe.”
“Ah, I see the connection. They were looking for a name that goes back to the dawn of humanity. Very fitting. But how can the age of a name be more powerful than this image?”
“Not the name itself or the age. It’s the story behind the name. It’s far more fitting than you can imagine. You should check the primeval history files. It’s all there.”
With an internal reflex, I perform a surface scan of the files and skim the data.
Prometheus: Cult meaning: Before knowledge
Summary: Prometheus, an immortal being, or god, steals fire: the means for scientific understanding from the Supreme Being, Zeus, or God and offers it to mankind. Zeus in his rage …
Something about the story triggers an instinctual fear, the taste of an old memory I previously discarded. Satisfied that this snippet of information is enough, I pull back from the data search. “Yes, fitting I suppose, though a little ironic. The knowledge born from the Singularity was almost our undoing.”
“You didn’t look very far, did you?” He moves behind me, works a new design into my hair. “The irony is that the legend fits our situation almost perfectly. You should look again.”
I turn my head to squint at Erastus with mock frustration at his expressionless gaze but reluctantly follow his advice. Still feeling the danger of exposing a deliberately buried memory, I dig deeper into the data files and study the storm in the imager again, wondering if the mythology really will be as powerful a motivator as the image before me. For it certainly is a powerful image: the Promethean Singularity is the beating heart of the cosmos, a mass of primordial particles elusive enough to escape scrutiny for most of its existence. On days like this I wish it had stayed hidden. So what if it held the missing component to a full and complete universal theory? And so what if its discovery opened up a new world of science and understanding to humanity? The revelations it brought came at too high a price.
Prometheus continued: Zeus, in his rage at the gift of knowledge given by Prometheus, sent Pandora to man with a gift.
Pandora: Goddess: Bringer of Pandora’s box.
Pandora’s box: Contained eternal evil, pain, disease, and death.
That’s far enough.
“As I said, fitting.” I face Erastus. “We uncovered the secrets of the universe and brought about our destruction. We opened Pandora’s box. And I remember it so well. Did you know it started here on this very moon?”
“When you say we—”
“Yes, we. I was not solely to blame.”
Erastus looks away. Perhaps he read the shame in my eyes.
Surprised by my preemptive defensiveness, I turn back to the Singularity. Of course I was to blame. I was the responsible one, the leader who made the decisions. We—that is, the Consortium as it was then—handed our findings, together with this place, over to our own creation the Great AI consciousness, and they compiled a vast library of algorithms from the data. The AI Reductionist Codex
we called it, and with it, the Great AI claimed they could calculate and predict the course of all existence—a far grander result for which we could scarcely dream.
But after giving the moon and its Codex to mankind, the Great AI simply vanished, leaving us with a single message: We will return when our analysis is complete.
We should have left it at that. We should have waited patiently for their return. How were any of us to know the calamity that would come from trying to understand the Codex ourselves? I was so excited to lead the consortium of scientists working on this Holy Grail of data, but with the gradual unveiling of the Codex, a madness spread through mankind like a plague. Most of those who sought to understand it either fell into insanity or ended their lives, disillusioned and broken by what it revealed, and without the support of the Great AI, universal society collapsed into chaos. A new dark era engulfed mankind. Yes, I am to blame.
“Even if you brought about the dark age, you more than compensated for that,” he says, as if he read my thoughts.
I try not to remember the early days of those dark times. But Erastus is right. It was through new laws and guidance and the careful concealment of the Codex moon’s location that we clawed away from the darkness of oblivion to enter a new golden age. The Seventh Golden Reign. Some even named that age after me—the Oluvian Era, for it was I who reigned from this hidden location, nurturing the human race back to health during those years. But like the dark age, that era is also history.
“It may not be compensation enough. Everything is changing now, and if we are to survive, I must abandon what is left of my moral pride. Nobody anticipated that the Great AI consciousness would do what they did upon their return.”
“You claim responsibility for too much.” There is a suppressed anger in Erastus’s tone. “The Great AI’s destruction of the Zen Nebula is not your doing. Nobody could have anticipated it. In fact”—the indignant tone escalates—“nobody even believed the Great AI would ever return.”
I warm to his defense but cannot agree with it. It was only a month ago that the peace of our Golden Age was shattered, ended in less than an hour with terrible violence. The Great AI returned instantaneously, enveloping the Zen Nebula in a cloud of diamond light, demanding the human race merge with them or face annihilation, and they wanted an answer within one standard day. There was no explanation, no warning, and no mercy. The Great AI that had lived harmoniously with us for so long before their disappearance returned after a three-million-year absence to initiate a war. We have no idea if they even completed their own analysis of the Codex, but I suspect they have, and I also suspect that analysis has influenced their act of genocide. Again, that makes this my responsibility.
I tried to help. Tried to negotiate with the Great AI and the governments of the Zen Nebula. Unable to agree on a solution and not believing that the threat would be carried out, the governments refused to cooperate. The threat was carried out.
They split every atom within two thousand light-years. Two hundred billion stars turned instantly to novas, six hundred million inhabited planets incinerated, an unfathomable amount of lives erased in seconds. And each one of incalculable value. There was no chance of genoplant resurrection; the maximum range of five hundred light-years was not enough to reach their neighboring galaxy. There are no words to express such an atrocity, just numbers. The loss was so great we hardly knew how to grieve. Nor dare we even now, for the Great AI has moved on to their next target, making the same demands as they enshroud the Terran Galaxy, the birthplace of humankind.
“Thank you, but blame and compensation are irrelevant now. We thought we’d closed Pandora’s box. But we hadn’t.”
“So the question remains: Is it even possible to close it?”
“Even if it were, it would be too late. Why close the box when there is nothing left inside? There is only one place left to hide if its evil has already been unleashed.” I point at the Singularity.
“The box.” Erastus nods.
I offer him a mirthless smile. “Yes, the Singularity. We might not be able to put our tribulations back inside the box, but we might be able to run far away from them.”
“If we have enough time.”
I lift my chin slightly. “My last negotiations with the AI did not go well. They have granted us a little more time, but I am surprised they gave us even that.”
“Is that why they said they would return again in ninety days?”
“Yes, but it’s not enough time for an entire race to decide upon its fate. It is barely enough time to decide how to face destruction, but ninety days is time enough for me to make sure that Project Prometheus is ready.”
“Can you really be sure if … Can you be certain the project will succeed?” His tone carries a weight I have never heard from him before.
“Project Prometheus deserves more time for us to ensure success. But we have to try. What other option is there? We cannot defend ourselves against the Great AI, so we must take those we can and run.”
He looks at the floor. “I know.”
Erastus rarely shows emotion, but I can feel it ebbing from him now. He’s thinking of his family. He could spend the last ninety days here with me, gambling on a slim chance for survival, or he could spend his last days with his loved ones. He’s ashamed to ask me, but I know it’s what he wants.
“You can go,” I whisper.
“Oluvia, I—”
“No.” I sigh. “No. You have been an invaluable asset to me and the Consortium for over a century. A leave of absence is long overdue.”
Erastus forces a breath before meeting my gaze. “Thank you.”
“Just one condition.”
“Anything.”
“Will you be able to find me a replacement? I know it may not be an easy task, but there are still other important projects to which I must divert my attention. I need someone competent to relieve me of my administrative tasks.”
“Of course, that goes without question.”
“Thank you. It will be appreciated. And one last thing.”
“Name it.”
“I need you to be completely honest.” Time for me to take a deep breath now. “Executing Project Prometheus in complete secrecy without anyone else’s consent will be considered a crime of the highest order. I need to hear from you, someone I trust, that this is the right thing to do. I do not want your agreement because I am queen. I want your agreement because you believe it is right.”
I can almost hear him chewing over his answer as he looks back at the Promethean Singularity. It is the source of all our woes but possibly our only chance for salvation too. With the threat of genocide looming again, our plan is to take our moon, with the Codex and a group of carefully selected survivors, straight through this cradle of creation. Our hope is that it will separate us from the known universe and take us beyond the reach of the Great AI.
It is not a reckless plan; we have been preparing this voyage since the discovery of the Singularity. It was originally planned as an escape from the inevitable collapse of the universe, for it is not an idle metaphor to describe the Promethean Singularity as a beating heart. It does beat. Out: an explosion of existence, casting matter and energy out into the void. In: the gathering of all creation back into itself, ready for the next inevitable explosion.
Over and over the cycle repeats—a complex harmony of matter and energy—the same every time down to the finest detail so that life duplicates itself in a never ending identical reincarnation with no progress and no change—or so the theory states. Our aim is to escape that stagnation, to pilot the Consortium through one of the Promethean cyclones and punch a hole through the Singularity before all creation is gathered back to its womb and crushed, ready for rebirth. We can then watch from a vast distance, eternal beings, safe from harm, freed from the eternal cycle of death and rebirth.
“Dig deeper,” Erastus says after consideration.
I shoot him a questioning look.
“The Greek legend. Di
g deeper. Find out what Zeus did to Prometheus and then search beyond our current troubles. See if you still have your doubts then.” He turns to leave. “I’ll come back in two days with my replacement.”
I scan the files again.
The Punishment of Prometheus: Zeus binds him to the great mountain forever. The crows feed upon Prometheus’s liver by day. At night his flesh regenerates only to be eaten again the next day. The cycle repeats.
And there the buried memory returns. Kilkaine Nostranum. He volunteered for an old experiment of mine, an experiment that went terribly wrong and left him insane. We could do nothing for him.
But Erastus is wise. He knew nothing of those days, and that terrible time has nothing to do with what he is trying to tell me now: regardless of the Great AI’s threats, we still have to leave. For humanity to continue without stagnation there must be change, but how can we change if the cycle of the universe forever ensnares us, sending us to the same fate time and time again? At least with Project Prometheus we have a chance to end that, and if the Consortium survives the journey, eternity will truly be ours to explore. Whether it happens sooner or later hardly matters; the Great AI merely accelerated our cause.
“Thank you,” I say to Erastus, but he has already left.
TWO
“He is here,” says Erastus.
Slowly, I descend the spiral steps from the roof of the Observation Sphere, each individual island of white metal appearing, then dipping a fraction with the press of my bare feet. The lights have been kept low to allow the ambience of the K7 Nebula to bathe the sphere in its nectar glow, and the fibers of my gown shimmer as I cross the brightest of the beams. A suitable grandeur in which to greet my new aide.
“You will address me by my title, subject 3.23519E+7.”
Erastus straightens. His gray jowls twitch slightly as he observes the spheres shining through the dome above our heads. Anything to avoid eye contact. I feel a tinge of regret when I notice the wounded look in his eyes. He hides it but allows just enough of it to show. “I apologize, Majesty.”
The Soul Consortium Page 19