Preservation of Purity

Part I

He awakens. The bed is soft, textured, and airy. The red glow of a strong light is the second thing he experiences. His eyes fool his mind into believing that the world is blue upon opening them. White spaces rotate their hues to their true grayscale nature, shade after shade. His pupils are now pinholes. His skin is as white as the walls. His hair is as smooth and dark as his blackened irises.

Sitting upright in the nearly invisible white-on-white bed, a rotating head takes in the enormous chamber dominated by the only object in the room: the Console. Black, glossy, and ominous, he is compelled to approach it. Like an instant film exposure, the Console slowly glows into activity as he approaches. A peripheral reverberation as the Console begins to display the figure thus far concealed by the perfect reflection of his puzzled gaze.

The reverberation slowly passes from tangible to audible frequencies, not having shaken a single component of the chamber.

It is now evident.

The sudden appearance of what could resemble a face in the Console is incomprehensible. The shimmering outline, however, sends his mind screaming, trying desperately to connect the curves and sparkles, and to comprehend the only thing to ever have gained his full attention. His breathing starts to increase. His blackened eyes dart in silence from corner to corner of the dominating display in front of him. His slightly parted lips try to silently narrate his abstract thoughts, but the man has no language, no words.

The face is materializing further. The tears recede as his mental compulsion is slowly satisfied. The face in the Console is moving slightly as the outline becomes apparent.

It is female, unmistakably and beautifully. His teeth clench, and his throat closes. She is white, like the world they both occupy. He is fascinated and slowly moves nearer to the screen.

She is decaying, he can see. There are cracks in her face and the pleading look in her eyes is shrouded by the micro-fractures in her expression, in her world, in her image. Her fragmented lips form pleading words he cannot hear, nor comprehend. The image stops silently. The Console fades to the same white as the room.

He is alone.

Upon recognition of this fact, he sits on the white block upon which rests the bed he awoke upon. In the absence of the only true stimuli he encountered in his 600 seconds of awareness, his mind is screaming. Nonverbal logic consumes his consciousness. He emerges out of frantic instinct.

He is becoming self-aware.

———

Sitting in the white room, his mind is now void of input. Billions of calculations and iterations thereof are performed on everything he had thus far perceived. He loses sight and awareness, a function of his brutally blank environment. Internal procession is now his only reality, his only existence. The image of her serves as an idealogical skeleton, serving as the root at which all of his abstract thoughts are placed.

"I awoke. I am all. She awoke. She is gone."

Billions of bits run through his mind, shaping this verdict in the abstract, unbound by words. There are no names. There are no titles. Imprinted on his memory are only shapes, outlines, abstract entities and values. They are all he perceives. There is no concept of time or motion.

"I am All."

This premonition of omniscience is illogical to the informed mind but compulsory to his blank and otherwise perfect intellect. He projects this persona repetitively upon the only active entity he perceives: himself and the image of her. His thoughts loop back onto themselves. Iteratively, he reinforces the premonitions he has created. His thoughts are entity-based, with no line between thought, perception, or reason. He is the child of no one.

Part II

The white room is listening. Just behind the frosted white opaqueness of the chamber walls, a presence resides behind the curved, white polymer. Operator 38 gazes into the Chamber, observing Him.

The desk, illuminated with the tools of the Operator, flutters with light pulses in a frantic equilibrium. With each touch, the Operator silently and steadily works, his eyes widened in rapt attention to the subject at hand.

The Button stands, circular, made of the same brushed metal as the desk, raised 20mm from the otherwise uninterrupted surface, edges lined in a subtle red glow. It sits untouched in the center of the Operator's workspace, both invisible and unmistakable. It is, after all, the only mechanical input in the control room. The Operator's nervous glances at the button increase in frequency as the silent session progresses. The Operator sits back and his intent, alert expression fades, fear growing in his whitened eyes. The Operator knows his algorithm is fragile. The Button, when pressed, heralds the end of this iteration and the archiving of the algo.

Behind Operator 38 stands Engineer 11, younger, less wise. He understands where his strength lies; his mind is sharper than the Operator's. Engineer 11 knows he can excel where the Operator falters. A rumor had been circulating of a report on iterations 1-7 showing significantly dimishing returns on iterations involving repeat Operators or Engineers, but no such report was ever pushed. However, this was Operator 38's third iteration on this project alone, not to mention other work in the same facility. Engineer 11 was already mentally disparaging his counterpart, despite the paper-thin basis on which he did.

"This is my advantage," the Engineer's internal monologue self-manufactured a sarcastic bravado.

"He is condensing," the Engineer observes aloud.

The Operator pauses and quietly responds, without looking up, "I know. I choose to remain in this iteration."

"That is illogical," the Engineer insists. "He is condensing without symmetry."

"Symmetry will emerge," the Operator posits, his movements resuming with an edge of tension.

"On what basis can you say that?" the Engineer questions.

"He is still susceptible to socio-reliant relapse..." the Operator trails off, his eyes darting between his controls and the Button.

"Iterate, Operator."

"Not yet."

"Iterate."

"He is still over sixty percent fragmented, we can't—"

"He will fail. Iterate now, Operator."

The Operator gazes forward with a furrowed, bristled expression, his reflection overlaid onto the dismal data displayed on the Monitor. He mumbles unintelligible terms, attempting to justify his illogical decision to remain in this instance.

"71 channels, learning base is fine, moving to tertiary awareness, no—quaternary..." he murmurs, frantically making adjustments.

"Iterate," the Engineer insists once more.

The Button remains.

———

Seated on the white block, He is now fully self-aware. His logic rapidly iterates, giving rise to second and third subconsciousnesses, all trying to make sense of this blank world, all sensing the inevitable impending singularity. The repetitive thought paths have taken their toll. In his own mind, he is undeniably and irrevocably divine, yearning for a new existence.

He knows that as his thoughts simplify, he will become the ideas he creates. He will become his own Universe, closer to perfection in concept. The Console and the face within it fade from his awareness, overridden by the delusion crafted from those very seeds.

"I am All."

His ego is infinite. Parts of his mind merge with the others, increasing the simplicity and corrosive nature of his ego. His consciousness decays as the limbic mind prevails. Loss of all thought paths to the singularity becomes imminent.

Suddenly, all internal processes cease. The shock causes his muscles to contract, and his closed eyelids flash open. The chain reaction leads to one system stoppage, causing another subsystem to freeze, cascading into a multi-level failure that when internally assessed is the closest thing to what could be classified as pain. His retinas have never been so exposed, yet they see nothing. His ears no longer hear the Chamber's ambiance. The sensory portions of his mind have already joined the singularity. He has no perception. Within milliseconds, all memory and thought stop.

He is dead.

———

The Button is flashing, now fully depressed on the surface of the desk. Resting upon the Button is the bruised hand of the Engineer, whose whitened eyes sparkle from behind a face covered in whiteblood. Operator 38 lies dying at the Engineer's feet.

Engineer 11 drops back into the chair. Casually swiveling, his eyes panning around the room one last time, he reaches to the right and paws a tab on the desk, signaling the end of the session. His next moves are futile, but he can't help but instinctively follow his training.

"Iteration Nine, complete. Iteration is a failure. Factors appear to be primary and circumstantial. Mother Seed v32.2 (Homogeneous) stage 2 was untriggered due to low feedback and thus reflects stage 1 input was insufficient, and developmental latching didn't occur due to insufficient seed channeling" declares the Engineer, looking down upon the lifeless corpse at his feet. He knows he will never see Iteration Ten. He knows his log will only be reviewed in a court of law, if at all.

Alarms sound, filling his once confident and satisfied eyes with regret and despair. Maintenance arrives to render him extinct, and his final thoughts ponder the potential perfection of the world that could have been, if everyone just tried harder, like him.

Part III

In the Eastern State, a dark asphalt walkway flanked by stone arches, violets, and birch saplings serves as path of departure for one well-dressed officer from the main citadel. He crosses a vast compound waybridge alone. His physical demands from the bridge are miniscule against the vast weights it was built to carry.

The gentleman, thirty-five, in a simple dark grey linen tunic and pants, carries a white shoulder bag with the Insignia of United Global. “Alan Maxwell Long, Supreme Representative for the United Peoples” glistens on his permID. Alan is headed to the research center at UPolyTech Wonkolia that had initially brought him to the Eastern State, where he has since spent little time after rejoining United Global. Alan's well-groomed appearance reflects his profession. With black, gelled, combed hair and a calm, organized mind, he exudes drive and composure.

Alan is headed to the research center at UPolyTech Wonkolia that had initially brought him to the Eastern State, where he has since spent little time, after rejoining United Global. Walking briskly, he passes various sculptural installations on the wide concourse, most of which had been standing since his first touchdown in the Eastern State. These grey stone sculptures had changed into something new since his last visit. Splashes of dye, lenticular graffiti, and glowing permID badges affixed by passersby over the years turn the concrete sculptures into diffuse glowing masses providing a softness to the concourse as the sun sets. Their industrial and timeless geometry overlaid with the colorful embellishments of post-recovery civilians provokes nostalgic thoughts behind a straining appreciation for the artworks' evolution as they gradually fade from the man's periphery.

"All this mess, to cover up the symbols of a past, without which no mess could have been made."

A ping on the right side of his ocular interrupts his reverie. His superiors are ready for him to submit his assessments from the previous day.

He dismisses the prompt, and sits on the slab housing botanicals in small round mulch pits, aligned along the sculptural parallel lines of the concourse. A practiced hand reaches into the white satchel and retrieve his slate. He quickly locates the prepared work and sends it to the Board. A muted confirmation of receipt glows on his ocular. As he puts the slate back in his bag, he notices an unfamiliar sculpture across the concourse — a large, horizontal stone extrusion, seemingly without a means of suspension. It is untarnished by civilians, unlike the others. A parallogram contains three smaller beveled monoliths arranged within, appearing to levitate in a solemn trio.

"This wasn't here when I last was, but it's not like anything new."

The coldness and brutalism of the unknown, uncredited piece, with its invisibly suspended surroundings and austere design, evokes a sense of familiarity in him, stirring memories of a bygone era. It transports him back to the earlier days of the Great Recovery, a time when society sought to rebuild from the ashes of the World & Silent Wars. In those days, a mindset prevailed, where displays of strength and power took precedence over individuality and self-expression. The pursuit of macroeconomic efficiency eclipsed the value of artistry and ornamentation under the Alpha Directors and first Core Committee. It was an era marked by the relentless chase for progress, where the weight of efficiency overshadowed the desire for beauty and nuance, all in the name of the Great Recovery.

Alan closes his white linen bag, returns it to a weary shoulder, and resumes his walk, the sunset beaming past, swallowed up in the fog creeping in from behind.

Part IV

In the Administrator's office, all is silent as a perpetual motion sim swings on 3 axes, watched by the eye of the Administrator, who is attempting to alleviate the anxiety while she waits. Her finger tapping on the toy's arm is the only sound in the spartan office, solely composed of brushed metal surfaces — desk, wall console, door, unframed window. The Administrator is frazzled beneath her perfect appearance, her mind gravely unstable, all from within a carefully curated and serene ambiance. She awaits her audience with the Core Committee, glancing at the upsetting report on her desk for the umpteenth time while she waits. Having once served as a UG Auditor for half a decade, she can hear the memorized words of the training courses, telling her this is likely the end.

A chime breaks the silence, instantly triggering a jolting endorphin release. She motions for the door to open, and a grey-eyed man quickly and quietly steps into the office. The panel door slides closed behind him as he stands upright, a bright crimson bag over his shoulder. His eyes meet hers, and his expression remains blank but somehow holds a thousand promises. Her hands are shaking from the start she received from his arrival.

"Hello, again," she tenatitively says from behind her aluminum desk, her shield.

"I've just sent it in to the Committee," he replies.

His blunt and abrupt statement proves to be something she was not prepared for. At first, the Administrator is confused and stunned. Then, as all becomes clear, the surprise turns to a simple pain, as the betrayal before her makes itself evident. Her eyes drop, staring at the machined texture of the desk as her mind races.

"You sent it…cold?"

He continues, "They'll be waiting to address your appeal, I'm sure."

"I…haven't prepared one," she mutters.

His blank stare penetrates her. He already knows that the most eloquently written and executed appeal would not provide salvation from the damning report detailing the crimes of Engineer 11, or the intimate involvement of the Administrator thought to have been undetected. The man knows that the maintenance teams will arrive within the day to prepare the space they occupy for the next Administrator.

As if on cue with the conversation, a hum emits from both of their oculars. It is the reply from the Committee.

REPORT OF INCIDENT 001284
RECEIVED 2084.02.18.12.47
VIOLATION CODE 053
EVIDENCE REFERENCE:
AUD_C100(0020-0024)
EVIDENCE FOUND IN-LINE WITH ENTAILMENT 1, INCIDENT CLAIM
AUD-15-053-1
FINDINGS:
LIABILITY: AUD15 (PALMER, JACQUELINE)
ACTION:
AUD15 TERMINATED EFFECTIVE 2084.02.18.13.00
APPEAL ELIGIBILITY (N)
              

Jacqueline and the man lock eyes, and the maintenance staff is heard approaching from the hallway.

"Jacqueline," the man utters the name with a hoarseness unlike his usually firm demeanor.

Her eyes look at him with just the slightest hint of sadness and desperation, even through the sedatives. This is the end of everything she had ever worked for, the end of countless hours of dedication, training, and endurance. It is the end of the faint hope that she could surpass her predecessors, the end of her mother's wishes.

The door slides open and the maintenance staff step forward as if to enter, but stop short upon seeing the man with the red bag. The man looks at them and they stand, frozen. Jacqueline sits, body unmoving, expression unchanged. The man reaches and softly touches Jacqueline's shoulder. She is killed instantly, and her eyes fade to a translucent pastel as she slips from the chair and falls to within one centimeter of the ground. The impossibly swift maintenance staff dispose of her corpse before the perfect finish of the finely machined floor can be tarnished.

A moment passes. The man is alone in the office. It is again silent as the perpetual motion sim swings on. A notification of payment flashes to the left of his ocular, and the man begins to prepare the office for the next Administrator, who will no doubt be arriving shortly.

Part V

Alan Maxwell Long was raised in the Eastern State in Zone 2, during the end of the Great Recovery.