Covenants: Savant (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 10)

by Terra Whiteman

  Her response was quick, pointing me toward a few historic medical cDNA libraries archived by attica of what the humans had once called “Prion disease”. Prions were misfoldings of a protein critical for neurological processes. Mutations such as these were caused by an infectious agent through the practice of—;

  Wait, this couldn’t be right.

  I halted my analysis, turning toward Savant, which in turn prompted them to reanimate. I had left the table to gaze emptily out at the campus through the entranceway. Now we faced each other, and despite moments ago thinking there was a mistake in the analysis, I was smacked with a revelation.

  “You said you process humans who have shown to disrupt the balance of Wereda’s system,” I said, recalling Savant’s explanation of what they intended to do with their current ‘problem’.

  “Yes.”

  I should have asked this question before, instead of assuming what that had meant. “And what exactly does processing entail?”

  “They are euthanized, no pain. Their bodies are then recycled.”

  “Recycled,” I repeated, feeling a shiver. “Into what?”

  “Protein, vitamins, minerals—all things necessary for human replenishment.”

  For a long while, all I could do was stare at Savant. Images of the drones carrying sacks toward the camp replayed in my mind. “So, just to be completely clear, you are feeding humans to the other humans in Wereda.”

  Evidently, they did not understand why I looked so distressed. “There is no other way to acquire the necessary nutrition to keep the humans alive, given the environment.”

  I rubbed my head and sank into the seat across from Savant, utterly defeated. My host said nothing, only watched.

  It made sense, and I could understand why Pedagogue thought cannibalism was a reasonable solution to a lack of nutrition. Machine sentience would have no qualms with recycling themselves. But they lacked knowledge in both ethics and biology.

  This was such a disaster. At this point all I wanted to do was stand up, walk out, and never return. But I wouldn’t, because that wasn’t what scholars did.

  Be objective, I coached myself. Be impartial.

  “Nearly half of the adult humans in Wereda have a disease from being fed recycled brain tissue,” I said, my voice strangely monotonal. “Cannibalizing infected brain tissue has been documented to lead to an illness that would normally prove fatal within several years of onset, but… your nanotech has kept them alive and the illness has proliferated.”

  The nanoport on the table pulsed and flickered wildly. Pedagogue was beginning to realize their horribly folly.

  “The illness causes emotional instability—anger, fear, paranoia, all of which triggered your nanotech to mark them as defective. Then you took them and ground them up into food, and fed them to healthy people. Combine all of this with the numerous other mutations that have happened over the course of a handful of generations, and you’ve got yourself a proper mess.”

  The ensuing silence was palpable, tense.

  I stared at Savant, and they at me.

  “Our attempts to salvage the life on this planet has failed,” Savant finally deduced. I thought I’d detected sadness in its tone, but that was probably just me projecting.

  “Yes,” I agreed, sighing. “It has.”

  With everything presented to me, it was now clear that this was inevitable. Humans were not supposed to be here; they’d have gone extinct several hundred years ago without Pedagogue’s haphazardly-constructed life support system. If Pedagogue hadn’t waited until nearly reaching their minimum resource threshold deadline before contacting us, this may have been caught and remedied in time. Alas.

  “We are sorry for destroying your creations,” said Savant.

  My attention had gone astray, lost in thought. The sudden apology brought me back to the present. I looked to Savant, moved. “They had already crossed that bridge before you got here. For what it’s worth, thank you for attempting to preserve them.”

  A sudden explosion shook the spire walls, interrupting us. I was at the entranceway in a flash, observing the pillar of fire and smoke pluming over the already-black horizon.

  “They are attacking the mines,” informed Savant, still seated. There was no use for my host to see the spectacle, as nanoports fed them information from everywhere. “Yahweh, tell us how to proceed.”

  I turned, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “What is the most ethical way to mass-euthanize the humans so that we may complete our refueling process?”

  Savant then gave me several options, but Pedagogue was not certain which would cause the least amount of suffering.

  The first option was to simply uproot their nerve-center, recycle the material, and send in their orbital ship to extract the rest of the resources. This would obliterate the camp and the humans with it, if not from demolition than the terrible tectonic activity that would surely follow.

  The second option was to allow the humans to destroy themselves—which, judging by the current state of Wereda, wouldn’t take long at all—while stopping all resource deposits. I’d immediately rejected that idea, as starving to death caused immeasurable pain and suffering, even though in that way Pedagogue wouldn’t have to participate. Killing organic sentience went against their creator-given directive, which they wanted to avoid. But it was unavoidable at this point, no matter how they tried to maneuver around it.

  The last option was to cease all nanotech activity in the camp, which would happen by deactivating the probe (Artifact). The nanotech—directly operated by the instructions given by the probe—would destroy themselves. I had no idea what the ramifications would be to this. Would it kill the humans immediately, or would it result in a slow process of organ failure, madness, and radiation poisoning?

  Then, the realization that I was helping a machine race devise a ‘best practice’ for exterminating my creations sank in. Again, their end had been inevitable—they were the last of the forty civilizations we had bioengineered for the Contest. They were never intended to ascend past lower tier mid-civ status. The guilt was beginning to settle in nonetheless.

  And it seemed that Savant, as oblivious to ethics, emotions and morals as they claimed to be, sensed my rising anxiety. “We do not have to decide right now,” they offered.

  I really wanted a cigarette. “I need some time to think. I’ll be back in several hours. If something happens while I’m gone, use the obelisk.”

  Savant de-animated in response and I left the central spire, eyeing the fires and smoke of Wereda in the distance.

  *

  I didn’t like the new layout of the Enigmus courtyard. With the surrounding mezzanines boxing me in, it felt as if I was being watched. Instead I had my cigarette beyond the gate, crouched on the ground like a proletariat.

  I reviewed the notes made in my thread, less in practice and more in compulsive repetition. Even the scenery here wasn’t putting me at ease. I’d thought perhaps being away from that apocalyptic nightmare would allow for a clearer head.

  There was one last place to try. I requested immersion via attica.

  The response was surprisingly immediate, but I found myself somewhere other than my typical sanctuary. Instead of Lucifer’s empty suite and chessboard, I was in some sort of… dated workshop.

  The walls were made of craggy gray stone, and judging by the cool air, I suspected this place was somewhere underground. A staircase leading upward on the left side of the room confirmed this. There was a long, elevated wooden plank at the center of the room, one that I could not help but imagine as an (unsterile) autopsy table. Desks and filing cabinets aligned the walls; stacks of black, leather-bound journals labeled CASEFILES sat atop them. There were dozens, separated by antiquated, brassy-metal investigative tools.

  And then I looked up, at the walls themselves.

  There were maps of numerous locations marked. A news journal article was hung directly beneath it, reporting several murders committed arou
nd a vicinity of social gathering hubs. The written language was identified in attica as High-Relorn, a dialect of… Erkhanese.

  Erkhan.

  “Welcome,” said a familiar voice behind me.

  I turned, lifting a brow. Adrial was seated on a stool by the wooden autopsy table. He hadn’t been there moments ago.

  “Where am I?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be in my immersion temple.”

  “I didn’t want to be intrusive, so I brought you to mine instead,” said Adrial, lighting a cigarette. “It seems you’re not having a good run of it lately. Thought you might want to chat, without any ears or eyes.”

  I was stunned. “You can do that?”

  Adrial nodded. “I’ll show you how, once we’re out.”

  “This is like a cerebral version of the Framer apertures,” I remarked, still in awe.

  “I imagine that’s where we got the ability,” said Adrial, smirking. “Well, that and Qaira’s creative headset tuning.”

  “This is hardly what I would call a sanctuary,” I said incredulously, taking in the scenery.

  Adrial shrugged. “It was my office. I did some of my finest work here.”

  I looked at the plank, then at the wall. “… Were you a serial killer?”

  He laughed. “No, an Inspector. Chief Inspector, actually.”

  “Qaira said you were royalty.”

  “I was, but not next in line to our throne. I had to find some meaning to life elsewhere.”

  I’d always pictured Adrial in his past life as an instructor, or civil educator. Never law enforcement—let alone a detective. “Has anyone else been here?”

  Adrial shook his head, saying nothing.

  “Well, this has been… enlightening, thank you.”

  “Let’s talk about you,” he interjected, exhaling smoke. “I’ve been following your thread. It’s been grim, to say the least.”

  I glanced away, conflicted. “Pedagogue is requesting I advise them on how to euthanize the humans. There was too much damage for us to attempt salvaging anything.” I laughed in irony. “I chose this assignment because I didn’t want to commit mass genocide in Pariah’s place. Now here I am, committing mass genocide.”

  “You’re correcting an error,” said Adrial, gently. “The humans’ situation should have never happened to begin with. Prolonging their existence will only cause more suffering. You can’t compare that to a mass genocide. This is a mercy killing, if anything.”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone. Here I thought I’d be free of having to make decisions regarding the life or death of others.”

  Adrial hesitated, considering my words. His expression was calm, sage-like. “The picture is bigger than that, Yahweh. Feeling guilty for what you have to do is fine. It’s a natural emotion for sentience with empathy. But also understand that the lives of humans are about as important as a tiny insect hive in the middle of a great forest. It sounds callous, but it’s true. The work you’re doing here will potentially reinforce the safety and preservation of other organic sentient life, should Pedagogue ever come across them. It is also establishing unity between machine and organic sentience for the first time. You’re doing an excellent job, and I think you need to hear that.”

  I bowed my head. “Thank you. That’s encouraging.”

  Adrial flicked his cigarette away, folding his hands in his lap. “So, what is your assessment of Pedagogue so far?”

  I tilted my head. “Meaning?”

  “They’re traveling through densely populated sections of Eversae Major, about to knock on many of our clients’ doors. What is their risk level? Can we allow them to proceed?”

  “They’re benign,” I said, sighing lightly. “They mean well, because their engineers made sure of it. Their current situation has taught them much. I imagine they will try to avoid populated worlds going forward.”

  “And if they have no choice?” asked Adrial.

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet,” I murmured. “We’ve spoken about ethics.”

  “Yes, I reviewed that update.”

  “Their programming—while intended for good—is also their undoing. Their directive is to preserve native life, though their engineers failed to determine limits. They’d preserved human life, while leaving barely any quality to it. They somewhat understand their error now, and they are an expert system, so should this exact situation arise in the future, they will react accordingly. But there is an infinite amount of other circumstances they could encounter while interacting with other organic sentience.”

  Adrial nodded. His expression relayed that he had a solution to this conundrum, but drew back. “How do you think we should handle Pedagogue, in terms of future endeavors?”

  And then I realized this was a test. I stared at him, hesitant. “I’m not certain yet. I’m still trying to decide the best way to ‘euthanize the humans’.”

  “That shouldn’t be your decision,” said Adrial, frowning.

  “If it isn’t, they’ll make the wrong one.”

  “Then let them. That’s part of their learning process. You can give them your opinion of the consequences to whatever options they have, but they should decide. Don’t put that on you.”

  I said nothing. My expression relayed that I was obviously not on board with Adrial’s advice, because he added, “You are not responsible for what happens. As a Scholar, you are there to edify and encourage, nothing else. Nothing that has happened is your doing. Do you hear me?”

  “… Yes.”

  “Say it out loud.”

  “Nothing that has happened is my doing,” I said, mechanically.

  Adrial rubbed his chin. “Again.”

  I huffed.

  “Again. You don’t actually believe it.”

  “Saying it out loud won’t change how I feel,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Then repeat it in your mind whenever you feel guilty. Use it as a mantra.”

  I didn’t respond, only exhaled. Adrial left his seat, and it appeared as if he was going to end the immersion.

  “Has Zira revealed his expiration?” I asked, before he could pull the plug.

  “No,” said Adrial. “But it’s pretty evident. He doesn’t look well. I’m letting Leid handle that.”

  “Why Leid?”

  Adrial smirked again. “She’s taken a liking to him. Haven’t you noticed?”

  I only stared at him.

  “Not in that way,” he said, raising his hands as to halt my suspicion. “But she’s a lot warmer to him than the others, barring you and Qaira.”

  “But not you?” I asked, amused.

  Adrial scoffed. “Our Queen hates me about fifty percent of the time.”

  I knew he was exaggerating. Leid and Adrial were bonded in a way that not even romantic love could compare. They were like siblings, loyal yet combative. “I always wondered why Qaira was so boorish to Zira.”

  Adrial pointed at me, winking.

  The immersion was suddenly concluded and I staggered sideways, crashing into the Enigmus gate. I uttered a startled cry, accompanied by the GONG of the iron bars upon impact with my shoulder. Reflexively I looked around to make sure no one had seen that, but of course no one had, as I was alone.

  “Could have warned me,” I muttered under my breath, hot with embarrassment.

  I straightened up, filled with newfound resolve after Adrial’s counsel. I took a step in the direction of the Khel’Hanna Scar portal system, but then hesitated. I felt around my coat pockets for the pack of malay cigarettes.

  Just one more.

  13

  MEHRIT

  THE CHAOS HAD NOT FULLY TAKEN OVER OSCENT. I had spent most of the night and early morning passing rows upon rows through Nascent and Reascent, littered with people murdered from persecution by residents having succumbed to blind outrage—blamed for Pedagogue’s sudden withdrawal of its supplies and drone protection.

  Some of the rebel sympathizers had used this violent explosion as permission to set fire to the Congre
gation houses. The screams of Vestals were heard echoing across Reascent, some relaying pain. I assumed they were being attacked.

  Oscent’s atmosphere was different. Somber.

  Crowds of people gathered in rows near the sector gate, watching warily as fires consumed the northern part of the camp. People linked hands and murmured quiet prayers, barely audible over the echoes of screams in the distance. I kept my eyes ahead, as this solemn scene moved me in a way that would only cause distraction.

  I thought of Biri, and rekindled my resolve.

  And then I faced the stretch of road that led to Pedagogue’s domain. There were no lights here, and it ran on into complete darkness. I lingered at the start, realizing I had no plan once I made it there. Demand my son and mother be returned to me. If they were returned, then I didn’t know. If they weren’t returned, then I didn’t know. I held to the hope that I would know by the time I got there.

  “You’re still alive,” said a voice, their shadowy form appearing at my side.

  My vision slid toward the newcomer. It was the Oscentian Eye I’d encountered on my way back to Nascent. Her expression was stern, yet wavering on caution. She had received orders to kill me. It appeared she wasn’t going to try.

  “Why are you following me?” I demanded.

  Her eyes trailed down the dark stretch of row. “I was curious. Why are you going back?”

  “Where is back?”

  She looked at me, amused. “This is the road to God’s machines.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “No. Anyone who’s gone there never came back, except for you.” Her eyes met mine once more. “So, why are you going back?”

  “They took my family.”

  “You’re going to rescue them?”

  “I’m going to try,” I said.

  She hesitated, looking back at the row. “I want to come with you. Will you let me?”

  Her offer took me by surprise. “Why?”

  She gestured to the encroaching destruction behind us. “Because the world is ending. I want to see the God Machine before that.”