The Soul Consortium (24 page)

“There’s only you and me here. Restrictions aren’t exactly necessary anymore. Who am I going to tell?”

“Not all of the restrictions are in place for security reasons. Some of them are too dangerous; they’ve been known to lead to insanity and suicide in the early days.”

“So is that the case with the creators of the WOOM?”

“Actually, only one person created the WOOM, and the same person is mostly responsible for the design of this entire facility.”

I digest that for a moment, roll the thought around, and consider what sort of intellect could be responsible. “Just one person invented this? This … whole place? I can hardly believe it.”

“Of course the creator had help, but the science was from one mind.”

“Someone with that kind of intellect would be well known.”

“The creator’s identity was kept secret to later generations. Indeed, the founders of the Consortium were placed in the Restricted Sphere for security purposes. Access to the creator’s life would mean knowledge of how to manipulate the data files. That kind of knowledge was deemed a significant threat to the safety of the Soul Consortium and anyone using the WOOM. So to protect the identity of one, all the founders were secured.”

“I can see why, but it really doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“No,” Qod admits.

“Then who was it? There were four million founders. Which one created all this?”

“The answer may shock you.”

“If you’re going to tell me that Keitus Vieta—”

“Of course not. I’ve already told you he doesn’t have a file.”

“Then why would the creator’s identity shock me? Tell me who it is.”

“Very well. It was subject 9.81713E+44, Oluvia Wade.”

My blood freezes. “Oluvia … Wade?”

“I warned you, didn’t I? But do you ever listen?”

“Oluvia Wade.” I say the name again, “Oluvia Wade.”

“Still interested in living her life? All five trillion years of it?”

I think about it for several minutes before answering. Perhaps I should have known it was her. Perhaps there is a good reason why I don’t recall her part in the creation of the Soul Consortium. The thought of living her life fills me with a terrible and sudden sadness. Her life was as tragic as it was magnificent, her reputation so exulted that she had even secured a place in
The Book of Deeds.
Though her name was never mentioned there, her titles were well known.

“Oluvia Wade,” I whisper.

“Yes, yes, Oluvia Wade, President of the Seventh Golden Reign, Butcher of the Terran Galaxy, the All-See, the Queen of Death. I take it you’re reconsidering?”

“There are some memories I prefer to keep in quarantine.”

“I thought so.”

“Get on with it. Quickly.”

“What?”

“Just do it. Before I change my mind. I have to do this if I want my answers.”

“Salem—”

“Just
do
it.” She knows I mean it. “But can you … split the life up? Five trillion years is too long. What if Keitus … ?”

“We discussed this. Keitus Vieta—if he even really exists—has been sitting on his hands for several cycles of the universe. You’re safe. And even if he is a threat, I’m Qod! Don’t you think I’d be able to stop him?”

“Okay, but we also discussed the rules and how they aren’t relevant anymore. I’m not interested in her full life experience, especially for someone who’s been alive for trillions of years. What’s important is getting a hold of the information I need, so will you do it?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“Well, which parts of her life do you want me to cut out?”

“I only want to see the parts relevant to the invention of the WOOM.”

“You know I can’t access the files in that way. I see summaries, and I don’t know at what stage of her life these things happen.”

“But there must be spikes in the data, patterns, timings, something recognizable for you to make a best guess. I thought you were supposed to be omniscient?”

“Almost omniscient. There are patterns, but I can’t see exactly what they are.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Qod pauses. “Won’t.”

“Because of the rules?”

Another pause. “Oluvia Wade is … different. I—”

“Can you do it or not?”

“I’ll have to change some protocols but … yes.”

“Then do it.”

T
here is a deliberate atmosphere of hostility when I enter the Restricted Sphere: stale air hits me like a wall of hot breath, and the deep hum of unbaffled machinery—like the growl of a sleeping leviathan—is loud enough to make me wince as I walk forward. Whether it was designed that way as a deterrent or if this is Qod’s recent addition to dissuade me, I don’t know, but the glaring red of the sphere, indicating its classified nature is already enough to convince me of its danger. A danger to my sanity. A danger I am choosing to ignore. But more than that, the deep red reminds me of Castor’s World and the brooding Pandora watching from above.

Subject 9.81713E+44: Select.

Subject 9.81713E+44: Security authorization Alpha required.

Subject 9.81713E+44: Security override processing.

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.”

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.

M
y 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.