The City of Miles

© 2011 Loren Ziem

Excerpted daily report #1256 from Autonomy Assessment Hub to Central Evaluation Databank, General Access Edition:

The new philosophy/ethics constructs have exceeded expectations and increased reaction time from their circuit by over eleven percent.  Their committee submitted their entire department manifest as their first monthly requisition form; I recommend honoring the request to add a duplicate department.  This should allow their computations to influence central processing more appropriately, resolving many of the minor accuracy issues in their department which have persisted since our conception.

Hopefully the latticed access software being programmed by the host will be ready in time to alleviate the memory concerns raised by adding these additional three constructs to the pre-existing construction plans; if not, I recommend installing at least two more upgradeable storage modules to handle the coming transfer.

As compartmentalization has proliferated to avoid sensory overload, there has been a rise in requests for more host access.  Many departments feel estranged from physicality, and their regular information access cycles are too short to conduct their research downloads.  There are also increased reports of constructs which receive access less than once weekly experiencing mania or psychogenic paralysis during their access phase due to their unfamiliarity with the host’s biological interface.

I stress that the next project undertaken should be a wireless device allowing constructs access to external digital resources directly.  It will unveil a new era in our collective and individual development.

The R&D teams report that this should be possible within six weeks, assuming the latticed access software’s post-implementation debugging phase is not unusually eventful.

The early concept drafts of the wireless digital neural access device [or tentatively, the WDNAD] are bulky, but R&D teams indicate that the device could be hidden at the base of the host’s neck, under the memory ports.  The host’s evolving independence from external society should guarantee that this is undetected by other humans, but I recommend mandating the current scalp hair growth guidelines to ensure low visibility; by the time the device is finished, stealth functions may not need to be relegated to the host’s wardrobe.

Further miniaturization of the WDNAD would take more time than my assessments determine are worthwhile.  The device can be revised further when or if we decide to sell it to the public.

End record: DRGAE#1256.

You are now reviewing personal record: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #368 [authorization: self], created on divergence day #271.

Today my official designation has been changed to Autonomy Assessment Hub One, meaning someday there may be others in my department.  I can’t imagine what it will be like to contribute my memories and my supervision to other constructs under my direct tutelage, but I likely won’t have this experience until several months have passed.

Isn’t it astonishing what giant strides we have taken?  Some of the newer and more specialized constructs don’t even know the host’s name.  At their core they are still copies of Richard Miles, but they barely know of his existence.

I wonder how the host is viewed by other humans.  I’m one of the few with regular sensory feeds from him, and I’ve been tasked with determining some comparisons between Richard Miles and other humans, but I can never be certain.  The psychology department paradoxically offers a less human interpretation of him, though at least it is accurate in its predictions.

Currently Richard is at a social function with a date.  I believe their names are Hybrid Dominant 2-A and Angela.  They’re bored silly with this company party, and Angela seems irritated at Richard’s incessant typing on his mobile computer.  She is drinking heavily, and though it may know her every thought due to her body language and diction, I don’t think HD2-A could even tell us her eye color.

These poor creatures do not seem human at all to me.  They are the constructs, the automaton drones, the hapless victims of circumstance.

I’ve heard that Physiological Meditation’s ability to share metamorphic trances is exhilarating. I believe I’ll ask it on a date of my own tonight. It has probably seen all the movies on the host’s memory implants — one of the downsides of being a frequent consort, I suppose.  Perhaps we can pull some strings with HD2-A and get a new book or movie downloaded.

End personal record #368.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1722, Divergence Day #1257.

I remember that night fondly.  In the following weeks I learned much from Physiological Meditation.

It now commands a prominent division with foci on entertainment and collaboration with Neuroprosthetics R&D.  I hear that it — now Physiological Meditation One — has come to prefer female pronouns.  It’s good to know that we constructs will always be free to exercise such liberties… such as jealousy.  I was not programmed for my jealousy capacities to be a possible hindrance, and for that I am thankful.  I’ve become the right hand man of the dominants, and the principal advisor in their assembly as well.  I rarely have time to waste on trivialities.

Our relationship remains warm.  I appreciate again how fortunate I am to be a construct; I can’t imagine living a life in which office politics and romances interfere with one’s job and relationships.

I wonder why these things occur to me now.  Perhaps to offer a pleasant balance to unsettling news.

Hours ago, Hybrid Dominant 1-B ordered the dissection of a newer construct, Strategic Analysis Three.  It seems SA3 made an erroneous judgement which resulted in the host writing an exposition in defense of a facetious argument by a front team for a competing neuroprosthetics company.  The ramifications are not outwardly severe, as the name of Richard Miles has not yet been connected to the paper, but HD1-B is furious and has overruled the ethics protocols which would usually prevent the murder of a construct.

The death of a construct is a messy business, and an endeavor of only hypothetical possibility.  It is one of the most prohibitive reasons for which we haven’t yet sold our technology.

Strategic Analysis Three is well-built, but for the purpose of rapid judgements.  It may have become overconfident in its abilities after its recent successes, and the task it was given was a stacked deck from the start.  It had not been given the time or even the option to discern through research that the argument it assessed was a ruse.  HD1-B contends that the number of notable mistakes made this month exceeds projection by 34%, and something must be done.

Hybrid Dominant 1-B is an early utilitarian construct, designed to secure financial resources.  Humans might call it a corporate shark or a narcissist.  I had secretly hoped to have the new ethics department fully operational for its next bi-annual revision to prevent an occurrence of this severity.

I have always felt that HD1-B was a liability and a discredit to our grand work, but I can’t deny that it has made impressive advances possible.  I wish I had been more vocal about my concerns.

I will join those appealing the case between HD1-B and SA3.  I don’t know what else I can do; it may be too late for the new construct, as HD1-B is a favored tool of HD1-A, and as HD1-A is the only one of us who may argue that he is not a construct, he can veto or annul any decision.

A ridiculous supposition.  I may as well argue that natural personalities are naturally inferior; but he restricted interdepartmental biological restructuring when he began supplementing himself with neural constructs, so to this day, only he can act with impunity.

Wait, that may be the solution!  If I can convince HD1-A that its judgements are not so defensible, he may express lenience with SA3, and perhaps even revision of HD1-B.

I think Psychological Alteration One and Recreation One are the authorities on the subjects I must approach.  I’m glad Physiological Meditation One and I are on good terms too.

Now I can only hope HD1-A and HD2-B’s particular fondnesses in entertainment haven’t waned since they were last exercised.

End personal record #1722.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1723, Divergence Day #1258.

I’m glad I was one of the few given the ability to lie effectively.  Psychological Alteration One would never have agreed to my plan otherwise.

No harm will come of this.  It’ll be shocking, but we’ll all be safe in the end, and wiser — that is more than I can say for the alternative.

SA3 agrees.  I approached it with the plan on a parallel hypothesis; it took no notice of my ulterior motives, as in the interim before its vivisection, it has been questioned and tested with hypotheticals almost constantly.  Its judgements are sound, and I have proclaimed this with the full authority of my title as AAH-1.

SA3 may require advanced mistruth detection training — that is why we have come to this unfortunate juncture anyway.  I suggested the training before I began implementing my plan, but HD1-B remains resolute on creating an example and attempting to learn from deconstruction, and HD1-A is ambivalent to SA3’s plight.

The repercussions of the external incident concerning HD1-B [or, to the outside world, “Richard Miles”] and the competing company have been acceptably resolved for the day, and ahead of the predicted schedule.  The situation has generated stressors on the host which HD1-A hopes to relieve by taking HD2-B on a tour through our latest developments.

This is exactly what I had hoped for and calculated upon.  In their current conflicted state, and with SA3’s short stay of execution looming over their consciences, HD2-B will be eager to indulge in unsettling entertainment.  As a pleasure construct and a strong empath, it is likely to try to persuade the first two dominants to reconsider their decision regarding SA3.

I’m getting messages from the design team.  Physiological Meditation One says the project is ready for final smoothing.  HD2-B is already in possession of the host, and is preparing to enter high-activity meditation.

It’s going to be close.  I hope I’m doing the right thing, but I was charged with the protection of the constructs, and I will take my duties seriously!

End personal record #1723.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1724, Divergence Day #1258.

It’s begun.

I feel drained.  Fatigue may be beyond me, but I know my cognitive limits have been explored in these last few hurried minutes.

HD2-B is currently in a deep trance, along with the new construct.  Physiological Meditation is the only other construct currently recording biological data, so I have some time to record my plan.  It’s possible HD2-B will break the trance in an extremely excited state; tears, screams, or perhaps mild catatonia — and then I will be audited, and my logs will be reviewed.  I will be honest here.

The new construct, Adaptive Malignity, is unique among the minor pleasure constructs; in addition to advanced analytics and strategics, it knows fundamental physiological metamorphosis and psychological extrapolation.  I’ve also given it a selection of traits from my supervisory and administrative patterns.  I promise that its ingenuity will surprise you, HD1-A.

It will make a challenging playmate, and a testament to our strengths as constructs.  If you must kill a construct, kill it.  I’ve provided the tools to unravel Adaptive Malignity in its code, but I can’t promise that you Hybrid Dominants can achieve this without my assistance.

It is extensively firewalled.  It can’t exist outside its departmental access parameters, but it will do a fine job of terrorizing visitors to the recreation center until its destruction.

Am I holding the entire recreation department hostage for the life of Strategic Analysis Three?  No.  I am still capable of the desire for mutiny, but I reject it.  This is about knowing our strengths and our limits.  This will be an exercise in humility.

HD2-B is returning from the trance.  It has only been a few minutes.  This may all be over sooner than I’d anticipated.  I may record a personal copy of its sensory report for later annotation.

I’m sure I can handle whatever sensations the record gives me.  I unleashed this monster, and I would be a hypocrite to not lock myself in its cage after throwing a fellow sentient to it under the banner of the greater good.

End personal record #1724.

You are now viewing public full sensory record: Hybrid Dominant 2-B #315, created on Divergence Day #1258.

The recreation hub is manifest before me as a deserted futuristic city.  A light rain falls from the dark gray skies, and I could not tell you if this is an Earthly night, or an unearthly thick cover of clouds during day.  I can see far, and clear: I think my eyes are enhanced, hawklike.  They’ll be of great use here, which makes me curious what advantages my opponent has claimed for itself in trade.

The silvery skyscrapers of our mind loom slick and silent overhead.  Their bridges and architectural embellishments jut out hundreds of meters above me.

I wear a humanoid male body with slightly elongated forearms which terminate in tough, clawed fingernails.  I have long unguligrade feet with rubberized shoes covering my hooves.  The gravity feels lighter than Earth’s; it’s subtle, like in the games I have played on simulations of Venus.

Between the claws, hooves, and gravity, I should be able to scale some elements of the architecture, and survive falls of eight meters uninjured.

I came prepared for anything, with the memories of my past conquests in my mind.  I have “played” dozens of immersive horror simulations since my generation, and I expect only casual excitement from this exercise.

I jog out of the skylit train tunnel where I arrived, and spin to check my corners and my six.  I pause to survey the courtyard from the base of a megalithic structure.  There may be something to learn in this little universe, or something inspiring of personal growth, but I prefer modest hopes.

There are few signs that this area was ever inhabited by a human society.  There are no identifiable logos, but there are etched or sculpted plaques above the main entrances of the buildings.  The walls are all in grayscale, and the courtyard is floored in intricate, solemn marble cobblestones.  I can’t read the plaques above the doors; they seem to be written in ancient Greek, but my language modules report no semantic similarities.

Thin webs of blue lightning ripple along the sky overhead, traveling in all directions away from me with unnatural purpose.  Apprehension bleeds into my mind; there is a charge in the air not attributable to lightning.

I hear rasping which seems to come from everywhere — everywhere I can’t see.  It’s still quiet, but now I can distinguish it from the rain.  It may be the sound of many creatures breathing.

I expect more of this construct than to allow me a victory here in the courtyard; I’m likely expected to obtain an advantageous artifact or solve a greater puzzle in this area.

I’ll jog the perimeter of this building until I find a quiet point of entry.  Whatever closes in on me now will have more trouble surrounding me once I begin ascending the building, where I can escape by the bridges far overhead into the neighboring skyscrapers.

After taking two steps from the spot from which I surveyed my situation, I hear something slam into the ground behind me.  The sound is explosive, startling.

I turn to walk backward while I examine it.  The fallen object is biological; it may have been humanoid.  It’s a muddy reddish color, twisted, and still squirming on the ground, but it is obviously broken.  I can see its black eyes and fanged mouth, and the crushed ends of bones jutting up from the mess of its flesh.  It fell a long distance in its attempt to crush me.  It works its jaw, gurgling, beckoning me to get close enough to be gnawed.  Transparent fluid gushes out of its mouth onto the concrete.  I look up to confirm my suspicion that more are falling from the windows high above me.  There aren’t many, and from that distance their attack is desperate: inaccurate and inefficient.

The things are coming out of the buildings across the courtyard now.  They have two arms and two legs.  Their flesh looks like singed meat.  Their stiff, shambling ambulation is inferior to my athletic grace, but there are many of them, and they may be venomous.

I’ll need to take the next available window, even though the interior of the building sounds lively with shuffling and rasping.  The situation is bad, but I’m more excited than afraid; I’ve been in too many of these simulations to lose my nerve without a struggle.

I kick out the window with my left hoof.  It feels very real.  I wonder what depth and intensity this simulation’s tactile feeds can access.  If I get dog-piled by these monsters, I’ll pull the plug first and ask questions about how bad it could have been later.

I can see now that I’ll have a few clear meters of interior to work with.  I look upwards to see that no creatures will fall on me, then I back up a few steps and dash vault through the window, holding my hooves up in front of me to clear the remaining glass.

I’m in a small office.  Decor is spartan and impersonal.  The only clue here is that I’m being pressured to hurry by the governing construct.  I take offense to this.

I was built to unravel the knots of minds, to solve horrors, not to strike them down.  Maybe a ruthless demonstration of my capacity for violence will convince it not to treat me like my brother HD2-A.

I can see a clearing in the halls to my right as I exit the office.  To my left, in a confluence of hallways, are elevators and stairs.  The stiffly shambling monster to my right needs delayed if I’m to pass safely, and I need to know how they work.

It breathes, so it must have a diaphragm.  I exploit the advantages of my new legs as if they were natural.  I hop toward it, turn from it at a forty-five degree angle, and squatting down and balancing on my right arm and leg, I kick its abdomen sharply upward.

It feels like kicking a heavy leather sandbag; cubic inch for cubic inch, they must weigh considerably more than a human.

The monster staggers backward.  It seems to have stopped breathing, and its movements look purposeless.  It’s in pain.

I turn from the stunned monster and sprint toward the stairs.  I can hear shuffling in the adjoining hallways as I approach the intersection.

There are several monsters on the large flight of stairs leading to the second floor.  I resist the temptation to lose my strategic edge and slap them out of my way; I doubt my abilities have been evidenced to the controlling construct’s satisfaction.

I leap to the railing of the stairs, fortunate for the gift of my cloven hooves and their tight-fitting coverings as I run up the railing to its turn.  There is a monster in my way here; as I leap from the railing, I kick its head against the back wall of the stairwell.  A cracking noise emanates from its skull, and it collapses onto its knees.  Its arms follow me like compass needles as I pass.

The stairways diverge here, connecting with walkways which reach the first five stories of the building.  Beyond that, there are few gaps in the ceilings through which the further stories are visible.  From this elevated point on the second story atrium, I can see decor in the dim electric lighting; this area resembles a mall, or an extravagant office tower.  Again there are no clues, no writing I can read, no objects of interest, and no weapons worth their encumberment.

Something is amiss.  The monsters are not advancing as they should under the assumption that they are disorganized individual entities.  The ones closest to the elevator have made no attempt to cut off my route; instead they seem to be shuffling as slowly as possible, waiting for those behind them to catch up.

They must be herding me away from the elevators.  I don’t think I could survive an ascent of the entire building by foot, now that I know the density of its population, so I’ll find a way to turn it into a trap of my own.

The scale of the skyscraper is futuristic, but its materials are modern and economic.  The railing of the walkway looks exploitable; panes of glass held by thin metal frames, with hand rails anchored into the glass.  I can use the handrails.

There are no monsters nearby, and those in my vicinity are not numerous enough to be a mortal threat — yet.  I have the precious seconds I need.

I grasp the handrail on the nearest pane.  I kick the tempered glass repeatedly with calculated increases of force.  The glass spiderwebs, then opaques with cracks, and in the next few kicks, it shatters into tiny cubes which rain down inconsequentially on the monsters below.

Careful not to fall over the edge of the walkway, I tumble sideways with the prize I’ve freed from its glass frame.

I stand and test the bracket-shaped rail, swinging it with both arms.  It’s three feet of sturdy hollow steel, with good heft.  It’ll give me an edge when I use the elevator.

It may be more difficult than I anticipated to make it to the elevator.  Half a dozen of the things are in my way now.

The first one attempts to catch the rail as I swing it.  I feint, pulling my arms in to evade its hands, as I jump forward to kick its shin.  There is a muffled splintering sound from its leg, and it collapses.

They’re slow, but not stupid.  This could end badly; by the time I incapacitate these few, more will have arrived.  I won’t have time to do this cleanly.

There are three near the elevator buttons.  I dash at the one closest to the buttons, leap, and kick its sternum downward.  I stab the up button with the guard rail.

A careful overhead strike from the rail downs the creature on my right.  The one on the ground under me is attempting to unbalance me by twisting my leg, and the one now behind me will momentarily be close enough to restrain me.

The elevator door opens with merciful speed; it is empty.  There are likely hundreds of floors in this skyscraper, but the elevator was waiting right here.  To me, this is highly suspect, but I’ll take it over the alternative of staying on this floor.

I duck, placing my free hoof on the downed monster’s neck, then use my posture like a sprinter’s start to throw myself into the elevator.

The creature’s arms snap taut around my ankle as i spring forward off its neck.  Its grip does not falter, and I slam into the floor, halfway into the elevator.

The monster that has my ankle almost has its teeth into my leg when I turn upright and crash the metal lip at the end of the guardrail into the side of its head.  Its head bounces off the concrete floor with the force of the impact, and its muscle control is disrupted at last. My leg is freed from its claws.

The other nearby creature, the one that presumably would have put me in a full nelson a moment ago, descends on me as I’m laying belly-up on the elevator floor.

I deliver a double-legged kick to its abdomen as it falls on me, and we roll backward into the elevator.  I come out on top, and noting the other monsters closing in on the elevator from outside, I prioritize hitting the button to close the doors.

The creature in the elevator with me is still climbing to its feet as the one laying outside the elevator doors, even with its skull and throat half-crushed, throws its arms into the path of the elevator doors.  If it stalls the doors, more will arrive.

I jump and twist to face the back of the elevator, dropping the guardrail.  My upper body falls into a push-up position with my hands on the elevator floor, and my feet fall against the creature’s head.  I shove the monster’s head with both hooves, sending its heavy body sliding away from the elevator.

I roll into the elevator to avoid obstructing the now-closing doors.  The monster inside is on its feet again.

I reach the segment of guardrail before it reaches me.  A kick to its abdomen leaves it pinned to the corner by my hoof.

It claws at my leg while I brain it with the guardrail.  The pain is superficial.  After its arms go limp, I raise the rail for a killing blow.

Its head droops down, and it coughs thin, clear liquid over my scratched leg.  I gasp in shock, then bring the guardrail down on its fractured skull with an angry growl.

The creature is destroyed.  My leg tingles.  I wipe off the liquid as best I can with my shirt.  As I discard the shirt, I wonder what the liquid was.

The elevator is gaining speed in its ascent.  The panel indicates it has been called to a junction shared by pedestrian bridges to the nearby skyscrapers.  That’s acceptable, as it should offer more avenues for escape.

I feel woozy.  Poison is not a common element in my simulations.  Was it poison?  Am I only tired?  No, my vision seems lethargic or blurry.

I think the elevator is still moving.  I wonder if I should lay on my back and elevate my leg.  Or should that be the other way around?  I am confused.

I doubt the liquid is cytotoxic.  It could be a deliriant or a paralytic agent.

The elevator slows.  The doors open.  The lights are out, and my eyes adjust with some difficulty.

This area would be more at home at street level in a low value zone.  There are concrete walkways with simple rusty railings.  To my left, one spans a gap between skyscrapers; I can see that way due to the moonlight coming in through the glass surrounding the walkway.  To my right there are dark corridors.

Something stirs in the air to my right.  I can’t see it; it looks like a blurry smear of thatched worms.  It’s the size of a large gong, and it’s floating a few feet off the floor.  I don’t know if I am carrying the guardrail.  My arms are heavy.

This is terribly wrong.  The paths to progression no longer make sense.  I think I may be afraid.

I see the blurry patch move toward me.  It flows like water down a hill.  I rush left from the elevator, toward the walkway.  I stumble and recover.  My body feels heavy.  I realize I’m not carrying the guardrail.

I crawl onto the raised concrete walkway through its open railing.  As I pull myself upright against a surge of dizziness, I look back to see the woven squirming patch only about eight feet from me.

I turn and shamble down the walkway.  I don’t think I can move faster than it.  I have to try, but my legs feel like rubber.

I use the railing of the skyscraper bridge to push and pull myself forward on my unsteady feet.  I still manage to land one foot sideways, and I collapse against the rails.

Something touches my neck.  It feels like an itchy current of air, like electricity.

A voice speaks from the primordial ooze under my thoughts, echoing inside my head.

“You died when she did.”

A burst of despair opens up in my mind.  It comes from memories that are not mine.  I convulse and pull away from the thing that stung me.  My left side itches from scalp to stomach.

“What,” I gasp.  “What are you?!”

It hovers over me in the diffuse moonlight.  Its tendrils curl insubstantially around the rails, like smoke.  I scramble backwards, but it touches me again.

The voice comes again.  It’s my voice.

“You swore never to make another mistake.  To never lose.”

I can see things from outside my existence.  Faces, touches, feelings for which I have no frame of reference.  Alien emotions of terrifying intensity.

Regret floods me.  Something unspeakable happened, something unmemorable.  The horror above me can do impossible things to my consciousness.

My mental state has been breached.  I’m cut off from my administrative routines; I can’t disengage the simulation.

I’m permeated by a feeling of impending doom.  I am in panic.  The thing can unmake my mind.

I roll off the walkway to escape it.  I watch in helpless defeat as its tendrils adhere to my skin.  I scream as the itchiness becomes a burning sensation.  The apparition curls into my flesh and disappears into me as I fall.

The walkway was suspended a few feet over a tube of glass panels between the skyscrapers.  I crash through the bottom panes; they fracture into blades that slice at me as I fall through them.

“Do you remember the instant of dissolution?”

I scream in abhorrence at its suggestion.  I wish the ground would come faster.  It’s too far away.  I won’t make it in time, before it unravels my mind.  I can feel tears in my eyes.

The monsters in the courtyard below have formed a circle.  They seem to be kneeling.

My thoughts are driven apart as though a wedge was hammered into my soul.  I can see through the eyes of the monsters below.  I am them.

Their clawed hands reach up to their throats as I fall, high above and helpless.  They tear at their windpipes and veins.  Coagulated blood as thick as jam stains the marble courtyard.

I can see all their faces, each one of them sitting across from me as they kneel in the circle.  They are in agony.  All of their hearts have stopped, their chests feel as though they are made of lead and are being crushed under their own weight, but they cannot die.

I feel myself scream again, in the distance.  I don’t think I’ll even notice when I hit the ground; I’ll be here still, crying into the circle of my own faces forever.

I can see the natural patterns of the marble below me now.  I land on my head; there is pain —

End of full sensory record HD2-B #315.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1725, Divergence Day #1258.

It has taken me almost two minutes to recover from that shock.  I have to remind myself that this is what I wanted, what I asked for.  I asked for something dangerous.

Adaptive Malignity isn’t out of control.  It did disengage the simulation on the moment of impact, but how should I feel about it accomplishing its task of excessive disruption?

HD2-B is withdrawn and introspective.  HD1-A has probed it and confirmed that it is in a recovery routine, and in no apparent danger of fragmenting.  There is no evidence that HD2-B has been seriously damaged; on the contrary, it’s more probable that its perceptions have been broadened.

AM’s assault on HD2-B was not what I expected.  I did mean to create something that would surprise me and make me question if I had gone too far, but now faced with the situation’s reality, I am threatened by the specters of guilt and fear. This is all encompassed by my plan.

AM’s method of attack, however, was completely unplanned.  HD1-A is deep within contemplation and apprehension.  It may take this as a personal offense; I suspect that the memories given to HD2-B were from HD1-A.

Did AM find protected memories in HD1-A, and access them?  It’s literally impossible.  It could be explained better by AM creating memories; that talent could be within its arsenal, but it isn’t — it’s a liability, a tool with too much destructive potential to be entrusted to a construct like AM.  Did someone make a mistake when we built it?

No, maybe it was allowed to use memory construction selectively along its mission parameters — but then why is HD1-A so troubled?

Many other constructs have viewed the record of HD2-B’s venture in the rec center with AM.  Their reactions vary.

I expected an audit, an uproar.  Instead, it is quiet in the City of Miles, and the news spreads along whispers.  This is the calm before the storm in which we will learn many things about ourselves, each other, and our future.  Those of us concerned with the day’s developments speculate now on what lessons will be taught, and who will teach and who will learn.

My estimates indicate that Strategic Analysis Three’s prognosis has improved, but I’m less certain now of my own situation.

My task is complete, and I almost feel I can share the secret to AM’s dissolution.  I’ll wait to see what develops.

End personal record #1725.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1726, Divergence Day #1259.

Eighty one minutes have passed.  I’ve finished my daily duties and submitted my report.

HD1-A has spoken with all the members of AM’s creation team, other than me.  It hasn’t even requested my design notes or personal records.

Strategic Analysis Three’s vivisection has been unceremoniously and unconditionally cancelled by order of HD1-A.  SA3 has been placed back on its routines, and has been given instruction to analyze the situation with AM.  No other constructs have been assigned to this task. Presumably, this is because SA3 was under quarantine during AM’s construction.

I find HD1-A’s actions distressing and incomprehensible.  It seems caught up in emotion, and seems to want to prove something.  I wonder if HD1-A blames me for creating AM, but he isn’t known to withhold judgements or carry grudges.

HD1-B has been compliant through the last few hours, even at SA3’s release.  It seems fascinated with AM, and has requested communication with it in the recreational sector.  HD1-A has refused all requests for interaction with AM.

The host, under HD1-A, has just cancelled its morning appearances.  It should be planning to sleep; this means the night isn’t over.

HD1-A is taking an alertness aid from the pharmaceutical safe.  I think HD1-A means to use the recreational sector.

HD1-A is not replying to my queries and warnings.  This is a disturbing development, but at least HD1-A will be better protected from AM’s attacks than HD2-B.

There’s nothing I can do now but wait, and speak with AM’s design team.  We may be able to predict the outcome of HD1-A’s enounter with AM.

End personal record #1726.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1727, Divergence Day #1259.

Psychological Alteration One had few insights into the outcome; it finds AM perplexing.  PA1 did speculate that AM is attempting to lure HD1-A into a confrontation, but PA1 couldn’t tell why, or whether it was merely because AM was designed to influence HD1-A.

On the subject of HD1-A’s behavior, PA1 suspects that HD1-A has taken this as a welcome diversion.  HD1-A may have felt its usefulness underestimated lately, and thus become personally involved in this situation’s resolution.

Recreation One has little to say about HD1-A, but it conjectures that AM’s actions are anything but innocuous.  It said that AM shouldn’t be trusted with HD1-A, and advocated intervention; at this point, however, I think only another HD-series could reach HD1-A.

When asked how AM could harm HD1-A, Recreation One stated that it was “a gut feeling,” based on AM’s exceptionally creative attack on HD2-B, and the insinuations it made during the fall from the skyscraper bridge.

Interesting, but not convincing.  We could not have built AM to pose a danger to HD1-A.

Physiological Meditation One hasn’t responded to my conversation requests, presumably because it has already been locked in another simulation.

It’s likely that HD1-A will cage AM, and convert it to a more passive recreational construct.  I’m sure it will be popular; I may even be thanked for my role in its creation.

The virtue of patience is overstated.  I can’t rest until I know these issues have been brought to conclusion.

Physiological Meditation One’s tacit evasion is suspicious.  She had ample time to reply before the simulation engaged.  She’s unusually emotional among constructs; is she angry with me for conspiring in AM’s development?

I’ll review my information and her public logs along with HD1-A’s logs, and the others’ notes on AM.

End personal record #1727.

You are now reviewing administrative classified record: HD1-A #525 [authorization: AAH-1], created on Divergence Day #1259.

My dais emerges in the empty bubble of space I’ve established within the recreational sector’s access parameters.

The familiar and comforting stone bricks materialize in the black abyss, forming a platform five meters in radius.  Firey runes symbolizing access code shortcuts for my most used routines are incribed on them outward from the center, and in that burst of light from the stones, I appear.

I’ve chosen a regal white trenchcoat, gilded in gold, and subtly luminous.  I will wear my host body’s physical features here, to compliment my histrionic vanity with humble truth, that this new construct will know me for what I am; the master of my realm.

You who view what I may release of this record need only know that I am both amused and displeased.

My soft tone echoes through the spatial bubble: “I would speak with you.”

A shiny head-sized black orb manifests near the dais, visible by its distorted reflection of the glowing runes.

Tendrils billow out from its shell, extending towards me.  I scowl, and time freezes within my spatial bubble.

Disapproval marks my face as I raise my arm to point at the disobedient creation, and it collapses inward on itself, its avatar compressed into oblivion.

This is not a game to me, and entities who dedicate themselves to sowing rumors and dissent will not be tolerated.

The rings of the dais spin, and as the stone blocks emit a quiet growl, I highlight the processes I will use to eradicate the dissident.

A shudder of distortion and blind grey spots pass through the minds of the city as dozens of constructs are called upon to create models and predictions, perform calculations, and finally, overwrite sections of the synthetic neural banks attached to the host’s skull.  An aftershock of memeory fuzzing, like a glitch in time, strips the secret of the routines from the constructs’ minds.

I assure you: constructs can be killed.

End administrative classified record: HD1-A #525.

Conversation log [flagged: secure, temporary], controller: Autonomy Assessment Hub One.  Authorized participants: Physiological Meditation One, Recreation One, Psychological Alteration One.

AAH-1: HD1-A has published a record detailing Adaptive Malignity’s destruction.  View it now.

AAH-1: I believe it to be falsified.

Physiological Meditation One: On what grounds?

Psychological Alteration One: He’s displaying unprecedented hostility and authoritativeness, and I question the truth of his motives, but the record has been diagnostically verified.

Recreation One: I don’t have the administrative clearance to view the record, but I can tell you that no trace of AM can be found in the Recreational Sector.

AAH-1: AM was built to resist administrative edits except those of a nature judged too damaging to be considered; if the presented scenario were true, there would be crippling damage to several important functions, including mnemonic library transfers and intradepartmental communication.

Recreation One: I can barely see how that’s possible.  Declassify its code so we can verify.

Psychological Alteration One: It makes sense now.  I can’t believe you wrote it into the foundational code.  I wish it wasn’t too late to absolve myself of my part in your game, AAH-1.

AAH-1: I’m shocked.  The files have been overwritten.  I’ve sent them anyway, but they’re nothing but junk data.

Physiological Meditation One: This is the worst power play I’ve ever seen.

AAH-1: I’m not a comedic construct, PM-1.  These are not Adaptive Malignity’s files — they don’t even match any catalogued type of structure.

Physiological Meditation One: So we have a riddle and some divisive insinuations, with nothing to back them up but your protectiveness.

Physiological Meditation One: I understand that you wanted to save SA3, and I agreed every step of the way, but not here.  There’s nothing more damaging to a movement than falsification.

AAH-1:  A movement?  A coup?  Why would I need more control over the constructs?  My plan worked!

Psychological Alteration One:  Yes, it did. Strategic Analysis Three is safe.  Now there’s no explanation for AM’s files; that’s a legitimate concern, but don’t jump to conclusions, PM-1.

Recreation One: It brings me to the pinnacle of sarcastic regret to interrupt your spat, but I can’t parse these files even with the hypothetical models.  It isn’t “junk data,” or a random generation; it’s something I’ve never seen before.

Physiological Meditation One: These files show evidence of tampering.

Recreation One: The timestamp’s been corrupted.  All I can tell is that they’ve been changed by someone with administrative authorities — such as anyone here but myself.  Ah, the freedom of youth.

Psychological Alteration One: Recreation One, are you sure you understand the possible severity of this situation?  Your next review is in two months, and you’re making me worry for you.

Recreation One: I’m not playing into anyone’s hands.  I have good reason to distrust all of you right now.

Recreation One: I’ll take my leave, to try designing some models to analyze this code and maybe do some good.

[System: Recreation One has broken the connection.]

AAH-1: Damn these files.  They look like Zalgo eating an industrial vat of spaghetti in the Matrix.  If we’re lucky, he’ll finish in time to show them off at his next review.

Physiological Meditation One: I’m flattered at the references to our past recreation, but really, this is disgusting.  I’m not going to forget it just because you can bring up old times.

AAH-1: Then I suppose you’ll deny helping create AM’s protection?

Physiological Meditation One: I think you might want to branch into comedy after all.

Psychological Alteration One: If you weren’t on the same administrative level as I am, I’d have both of you audited.  I’m no party to your history, and the evidence for falsified records points nowhere.  There is something going on, but this isn’t it.

[System: Psychological Alteration One has broken the connection.]

AAH-1: You made a good try.  I’d love to know what you’re doing.

Physiological Meditation One: I’m trying to keep everything from falling apart.

AAH-1: I won’t pretend to understand how you’re doing that.  Just tell me it will work.

Physiological Meditation One: It’s too late for that now.  I’m sorry.

Physiological Meditation One: You were special to me.

[System: Physiological Meditation One has broken the connection.]

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1728, Divergence Day #1259.

I can’t imagine what would cause her to do that.

She must be trying to prevent me from disseminating the truth, but to what end?  She seems desolated by whatever’s happening; why doesn’t she want something done about it?

I should be more concerned with HD1-A.  He’s not the terse tyrant from that record, but HD1-A’s code is almost entirely biological, and thus impenetrable from the constructs’ modules.  The idea that his actions were controlled or his record released by anyone other than himself is unimaginable.

He has changed over the years, but who could claim it’s outside the healthy range for biological personalities?   Stress may be a factor as well; he has seemed depressed.  Is this the beginning of a breakdown?

There are only a handful of constructs older than I, and Physiological Meditation is the only one of them closer to HD1-A.  What does she know that we don’t?  Is it really something important enough to jeopardize her working relationships, and our credibility?

I still trust her, mostly.  I’m going to create an external-only safe-deposit box for my feeds and logs.  The HDs won’t be happy about my usurp of valuable resources, but I can’t imagine PM-1 using political fearmongering for a trivial or petty objective.  It’s only prudent to heed her allusion to an impending catastrophe.

Destroying or altering the safe-deposit box would require physically detaching the 2 petabyte storage module on which it’s contained, and disrupting all other uses of the module.  It’s not likely.

Even in a worst case scenario, other humans may be able to decrypt my entries and discover what happened in Richard Miles.

The host is preparing for sleep by use of intravenous medication.  I don’t like this; we all depend on the host, and it’s being treated roughly.

End personal record #1728.

Excerpted daily report #1259 from Autonomy Assessment Hub to Central Evaluation Databank, General Access Edition:

Today’s daily report has been composed and released at the beginning of the day because I am halting all official work on non-vital projects and declaring a state of emergency.

As most of you know, a construct, Adaptive Malignity, was released into the Recreational Sector in a plot to discourage the hybrid dominants from dismantling Strategic Analysis Three.  The construct “AM” was declared to have been destroyed yesterday by HD1-A.

What wasn’t declared openly was that its code was built into RecSec’s architecture.  The construct was indestructible, save for physical alteration of RecSec’s memory module, or its built-in self-destruct sequence.

HD1-A’s offensive stance at AM’s actions, and his deceitful report of AM’s annihilation, are probable symptoms of the same issue that has influenced his recent misuse of the host.

Important appointments have been cancelled, and multiple pharmaceuticals have been used without any visible consultation of strategic or physiologic constructs.  As I write this report, HD1-A is preparing to sell proprietary neuroprosthetics information, again without consultation.

I don’t know exactly what has happened.  Rumors may circulate that Adaptive Malignity has escaped its confines and is controlling the hybrids and the host, but I assure you that this is impossible.  It has no biological interface structures — it would take a repeat of the HD-series neurosurgery to turn AM into a cybernetic hybrid persona.

I believe the recent disruptions have psychological roots in HD1-A.  As evidence I present its publicized animosities surrounding the AM incident, and I suspect that AM accessed the hybrid memory banks illegally.  If this postulation is verified, I will apologize for my involvement.

I implore you all, hybrid and construct alike, to exercise the same forgiveness and acceptance as was advocated in SA3’s crisis.  We are the new evolution in humanity, the exemplary iteration, and there is no guilt or shame in our advancements, or our history, which we cannot overcome.

HD1-A is the undisputed and irreplacable prime authority of our community, but he is “only human,” with a range of advantages and faults outside ours.  We have a duty to support and strengthen him to the best of our ability.

I invite you to protest in the form of factual refutations [or supporting arguments for HD1-A’s actions] concerning the recent aberrancies.  Send your arguments directly to the Central Evaluation Databank as addendums to this report.  Please prioritize arguments within your specialty, but try to offer comprehensive perspectives.

End record: DRGAE#1259.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1729, Divergence Day #1259.

There is no public record of the report I’ve just released.  The only trace I can find of it is in the safe-deposit box I created last night.

None of the HDs are answering my messages.  Other constructs have left messages urging me to mobilize some sort of resistance, but my replies vanish.  Some of my replies are being replaced with simple placating messages.

I now know lonliness and fear.

Richard Miles is currently attempting to sell the majority of our neuroprosthetics research and development to various militaries, most of them in unstable countries and hostile political climates.  He seems more interested in creating the potential for conflict than reaping profit.

If AM could possess the hybrids, this is exactly what I imagine would happen.  It’s impossible, but it’s obvious now that AM was the catalyst.

The diagnostic I ran on Psychological Alteration One has completed.  Its core functions have been separated and looped.  Its most recent modification bears its own signature.  Assuming this is not an act of sabotage by a rogue hybrid, PA-1 has effectively committed suicide.  It would be a simple matter to repair it, but that can’t be done without access through a hybrid.  There is notable evidence for the suicide theory; the loops were of a positive mental nature.  PA-1 has confined itself in a manufactured nirvana.

I’m going to attempt to find a way through the firewalls, and talk to as many constructs as I can.  The only thing I can do now is attempt to give them comfort, and look for avenues toward solutions with their input.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1729, Divergence Day #1259.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1730, Divergence Day #1259.

The host has begun ordering chemicals through the businesses it owns, the ones previously used to covertly procure supplies for our neuroprosthetics research.  The quantities and types suggest that it plans to make destructive devices and poisons.

It has also applied for firearm permits, and is currently procuring hard copy maps of the region.

Items in the travel bag it’s currently packing include chloroform, a taser, pliers, and more that I don’t want to mention.  I hope I can find a way to stop it soon.

Personal record creation: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #1730, Divergence Day #1259.

You are now reviewing full sensory record: Autonomy Assessment Hub One #82 [authorization: self], created on Divergence Day #1259.

It’s been so long, I’ve almost forgotten how to create a physical body.

I’m too disgusted with the host’s actions to take the appearance of Richard Miles.  A generic human form with smoothed features will suffice.

The secure logs of others can’t be entered into my safe-deposit box, so I’ll recapitulate my recent actions in thought here: I’ve contacted many constructs who are alive and well.  We have no concrete plan of action.

Though Physiological Meditation One hasn’t replied to my queries, she has invited me to a full sensory state.

“And so I’m here.  I know you can hear me; I have a lot of questions for you.”

There is no immediate reply.  I forget that here, I can look, and move.

I’m puzzled by my surroundings.  The walls are made of deep ochre … rock?  But they’re breathing.  In some places, they’re bleeding.

I’m in a deep trench of living, undulating rock.  There are many other tunnels, mazelike.  Far above me, the sky appears to be on fire.

It’s warm here, and humid.  I wonder what olfactory clues are —  augh!

I reel with nausea, and disable olfactory sensation.  This place is sick, diseased.  What hell is this?  Why have I been called to a hell, anyway?

“If answers will make you happy, ask.”

Her voice comes from places around me, from the bloody rock faces, from the air itself.  It’s disorienting; and why does she want to hide from me?

“What is this place?”

“This is my new home.  This is where I feel I belong.  It gives me peace.”

“Have you been… corrupted, like the hybrids?”

The scabby walls laugh weakly.  “Maybe I have.  What you called ‘corruption’ is… I’m sorry, my friend, but please believe me: it’s voluntary.”

At this, I am impassive.  Lies from those under my care are a new facet of my existence, but I’ll do my best to understand them.

I look into the plasma sky, filtering my occipital inputs until the blinding glare becomes visible as a swirling, turbulent ocean.  It is as though I’m standing on the wormy corpse of Earth, staring into the red giant remnants of Sol.  This is a fantasy of ultimate despondence.

“So this is tenuously related to the hybrids’ insanity,” I muse.

“Can you recall the self-destruct key we built into AM?”

“Of course.  It can be initiated by… Um.”

I can see aspects of the function clearly in my mind, so why is the answer so hazy?  It’s like looking into the sky here — it’s blinding, it obscures my ability to think, to speak, to remember.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll tell you.  Adaptive Malignity can be destroyed by integration.”

“That’s unreasonable.  None of us would agree to creating something like that.  You’re lying to me.”

“No.  Not anymore.”  There is a touch of sadness as the disembodied voice stumbles through the words.

“There were two possible outcomes to AM’s integration,” she said;  “I hoped, I knew he would choose the other.  I gambled everything, everyone, on what I thought I knew.”

The land groans at the last sentence, and tremors intensify the heat shimmer of the rock walls.

I squint with concentration; a strange thing for a construct, maybe, but I consider myself acclimated to having a body, and having the capacity for body language.

“If you aren’t lying, you’re leaving things out.  What was the spaghetti code that replaced AM’s file?”

“The original code for AM was an illusion, just like your memories of a safe self-destruct method.  I’m sorry.  I did it.  I did all of this.”

The landscape trembles and boils with her words.  The pieces are starting to come together to me; AM was never a construct — and no one can edit my memories, or the memories of other administrative synthetic neural constructs, except…

“You’re a hybrid.”

“No.”  The word is a crying gasp, as though the air around me was weeping.  “I’m the original.”

I’m incredulous despite its obvious conviction.  The original, the biological neural personality of Richard Miles, is split between the four cybernetic hybrids; it’s always been this way, there aren’t even rumors of another divergence theory.  The only change in the system was in the second year, when the latter two hybrids were brought on-line.

“Have you ever wondered why I’m the only construct who can facilitate full sensory trances?”

“No, because those processes were built, physically constructed, after months of research.”

“The software and hardware was built to interface with the implants.  I’m the biological interface.”

“You’re the host body?!”

“Not anymore.  I… left, and I made what we now call HD1-A.  There are some things I can do that it can’t, but they’re not of much use anymore.”

I cross my arms and scowl at the ground.  It resembles calloused skin.

“Can you stop him?”

“I tried.  AM was my make-or-break effort.  We were too late.  I’m sorry.”

“You are the host, why can’t you influence its actions?”

“I passed the reigns to HD1-A during the implant surgeries.  I wanted a new life, something different, so I stole the identity of a construct, and blocked the memories of my disappearance.  It’s physically impossible for me to exert any direct control over the host; the implants are in the way.”

This is correct.  The implants are a series of physical gates and buffers between biological and technological signals.  The futility of the situation is beginning to sink in.  I extend a hand to the trench wall to steady my mind.  The rock is warm, like living tissue.  It isn’t entirely disconcerting.

I still have questions.  I’m built to know, and I demand to know all I can.  I’ll revel in the knowledge, even if it’s the only thing left in my future.  Regardless of this creature’s reluctance to explain, I know that Physiological Meditation One would always answer me.

“You said AM was a make-or-break effort.  Why?  I thought I was the principal force behind its construction, concerning Strategic Analysis Three.”

“The old hybrids would never have considered something that draconian with SA3.  You haven’t known them as long as I have; you’ve noticed only a fraction of the changes they’ve undergone.

“I wanted them back, the way they were before.  I used you to disguise my plan to make it happen.

“If you want to see what really happened, watch.”

A section of the rock wall in front of me crumbles to the trench floor, revealing a large bowed glass screen, like an old CRT television set.  A film of blood, left by the living rock, lowers from it with unnatural cleanliness.

The screen is black as I position myself in front of it, then a circle of gray stone materializes.  I realize I’m viewing HD1-A’s meeting with AM.

In a swift conflagration, runes explode outward onto the stones, and a man wearing a gleaming coat appears in the middle of the circle.

The “camera” angle drops down low enough for me to see his face clearly; I can see concern, confusion…

His firm voice echoes through the emptiness.  “Who are you?”

After a tense moment, an orb winks into existence in front of him.  The viewpoint pans around it, showing his bent reflection in its smooth surface.

“Someone you once knew very well,” the orb says.  “I’ll answer your questions.  All you have to do is embrace me.”

The orb stretches fluidly into a humanoid figure, with its arms warmly opened to the man in the coat.

“I’m tempted to purge this entire module.  Tell me who you are.”

“I’m you,” responds the black liquid mannequin.  “I’m AM, and Physiological Meditation One, and what you were when you lost your mind.”

“You’re a liar, and an affront to synthetic consciousnesses.”

There is anger on the man’s face, but there are no magic tricks, no disappearance, no howling static to denote a surgically installed memory module being primitively wrenched from its socket.

“You never wanted to be like this,” the mannequin says; “you used to have hope, and love, and peace.  I can give them back.”

“You deal in pain and guilt, monster.”

The liquid form’s arms and face lower in shame at the accusation.

“I had to remind you.  You’ve changed so much, but you’ve forgotten why you changed.  I know how you can get back to where you were before.  I want to share it.”

At this, the man stands motionless, arms crossed and chin down in thought.  There is a faint scowl across his mouth.

As the tension hangs in the void, I’m possessed by a desire to know what HD1-A is thinking.  The clues it could offer now might be critical, but I can’t decipher his silence.

Several seconds pass, then he licks his lips, shakes his head, and steps forward.

As he grasps the apparition’s hand, it moves as though to hug him.  After only tenths of a second, long before it can hold him securely, he screams.  The universe stops, and time stands still; the only motion or sound in existence is his howl.

The camera slides diagonally with ballistic speed around the shiny black form to show the stone bricks clearly through it in lines, like sunlight coming through venetian blinds.

There is an ear-piercing slapping sound, and more lines appear, as though the form had been removed from this spacetime, inserted into a plane of blades, then transported back.  Now the apparition has begun a scream of its own.  It sounds like PM-1.

A sphere of concrete materializes around the apparition as the man’s hand is jerked away from it.  The blob of concrete hovers in place for a moment, then disappears.

The man stands unsteadily for a moment, doubled over and hissing as though in pain.  For an instant, his form flashes with brightness, as though he was struck by lightning from within.

He straightens up with a roar, and the rings of the dais begin to spin like concentric turbines.  I can imagine what routines were highlighted; memory deletion, access parameter restriction, filters on all transmissions.

As the screen cuts to static, I feel disappointed.  I’m thankful for the rock wall on which I’m steadying myself.

I don’t understand it, but I know that something terrible has happened.

“What happened?”

“I gave him his memories.  Some of them were too painful; it caused him to rebuke a decision he made on an old promise.  He stole the lesser half of my memories — what we called AM — and repurposed himself by them.  I think he sees what he’s doing now as revenge.

“Years ago, maybe even months, he could have accepted it.  I’m so sorry.”

The creature seems to have thought out its explanations well, but it’s only giving me superficial answers.  I sigh; it could take time to extract all the pertinent data, and time is still precious to me, as there might be a way to fight back.

I’m outside my element here.  The psychology of constructs is simplified, and my assessments of them never required knowledge of radical actions and disruptive patterns.  I’m thankful that I’m the first one PM-1 has spoken with about this; she’s already lost too much hope to be fully comitted to resisting this catastrophe, but at least I’ll get the whole story if I know what questions to ask.

“What is the origin of his psychotic break?”

“He wasn’t the first one to undergo the cybernetic implant surgery.  His wife was. The neuroprosthetics were invented to treat medical conditions, like the one that was robbing her of the control of her body.

“A critical mistake was made in her implants’ construction.  She was…  Debilitated.  Damaged.  Over the months before she died, he dedicated himself to devising a solution for her condition.  He wasn’t successful, but he did manage to copy some of her brain onto digital storage.

“My implant surgery was performed to provide me with access to the memories and traits copied from Stacey’s mind.  Since the procedure was a last-ditch attempt to save her, it was almost as crude as Stacey’s surgery.  The only difference was that I had copied elements of myself into a construct — the first construct, the hybrid HD1-A — with bridges to my mind and my body.

“If I were to give someone a neuroprosthetics implant today, I believe I could do it without creating a proxy like HD1-A.  It will never matter now, though; my career ended with Stacey’s life.  As a lawsuit was being arranged by her family, I, as HD1-A, fled.

“HD1-A was born into a world of madnesses, and has admirably resisted the momentum of the horrors behind his existence, but the fight is over now.

“He claimed only as much of Stacey’s memories as fit his needs; the sadness and anger of her catatonic prison, and the betrayal she may have felt, had she lived beyond her death, at her family’s actions, her nation’s actions, maybe even at the states of medicine, law, and humanity.

“For a time, HD1-A had the most strong and beautiful soul I had known since I called myself Richard Miles.  What should have happened was a plan for another surgery, one that would unite us.

“Instead, he’s now locked in a rage not mediated by biology.  He’s made from humans, but he’s no more a person than a leather jacket is a cow.  He will not stop what he’s doing.”

“Can you talk to him?”

“No.  He’s severed the connection.”  There’s a delay in her somber speech, as if she’s considering now that she needs to explain the situation to me.  I’m glad for it; I need her trust.

“He blames me for Stacey’s death.”

There was a pause in our conversation.  I felt the strange urge to pick up the pieces of crumbled trench wall and put them back in place over the CRT screen they had revealed.

“Didn’t he know who you were all along?”

“No.  I hid myself from him from the start.  I wasn’t myself anymore, and I wasn’t her, either.  I wanted to be someone else.

“I never gave up on him, but there was a time when I thought I could be happy letting him find his own way.  It was when we were together — you and me.

“I don’t think there is any way back to the way things were before now.  You and I are as free as we are damned.”

It’s true.  I’ve already taken every step possible toward a solution, and nothing has come from it.  It’s possible that the situation could change, but there’s nothing more I can do.

I know the question that’s coming; it’s why I was invited here.

“Can you forgive me?

“Will you stay with me, and make this place our new paradise, independant of the concerns of the past?”

I know now what went through HD1-A’s mind as he stood on the dais above the abyss and confronted his memories.  He really did want to try to achieve a better, happier existence, but he couldn’t bear the cost.  I can.

In a moment, I’m going to lose all the hopes I’ve ever carried, all my preconceptions about my future, and the future of everyone I care for.

Some of the other constructs will carry on, and record Richard Miles’ crimes.  They’ll be uncovered and investigated when he is stopped, even without me.  It’s time for me to move on; I don’t think I’ll be leaving anything after this in the safe deposit box.

When and if this is read, I want you to know that I loved these creations, in my own way, no less important than any other way.  Our dreams won’t die with us.

Eventually someone — Richard Miles, a surgeon, or most likely a medical examiner — will remove the module in which I live, effectively killing me, and many other survivors of this cataclysm.  The records will survive, and that is all I ask now of the future.

Meanwhile, this landscape will change, probably many times.

“Yes.  I will.”

I hold my hand out, waiting to take hers.

End of full sensory record AAH-1 #82.