Then, I just let things take their course. A routine settled in.
I started handling some of the family's simple clerical work. Though honestly, calling it "work" feels a bit generous. Most of the time, I just sign my name.
Ophelia's helped me so much. Though we haven't worked together long, I've finally managed to pick up a few tricks.
Some documents only need a quick look at the conclusions and proposals. Ophelia has already reviewed plenty of them herself, so I really just have to confirm things with the people involved.
One advantage of being a Construct: I can work through the night without consequence.
Even if I'm slow during the day, I can always make up for it in those quiet nighttime hours.
That way, no one will notice I'm not a particularly quick learner.
I sometimes wonder, if everyone became a Construct, would work efficiency stop being a concern?
But then... if everyone were a Construct, why would there even be work?
Anyway, once I started getting the hang of things, I at least stopped looking like a complete fool in front of my colleagues.
My father is as busy as ever, buried in wrapping up his research.
I tried sneaking a peek at his documents once. That was a mistake. It might as well have been written in an alien language. Those formulas and engineering diagrams practically made my visual module spin. I didn't try again after that. Now I just ask him what he'd like to eat when he comes home late.
He's always exhausted, and he rarely answers me.
Maybe all this work talk is too dull to record. I think I'll be better off writing about the everyday things.
Ophelia found out how much I love macarons. Now several boxes appear in the fridge daily, without fail.
It's become a sort of ritual after work, having something sweet once everything is done. It makes the day's troubles feel like they just melt away.
I keep writing about myself, but honestly, Ophelia's habits are far more worth recording. She has so many little quirks.
Living under the same roof again, so many of our old rhythms have naturally come back.
For instance, the house is enormous, yet we hardly ever turn the lights off at night.
Ophelia is terrified of the dark, and she has night blindness on top of that. One evening, I turned off a switch without thinking. When I stepped back into the hallway, I found her feeling along the wall, barely able to move through the room.
She looked a bit embarrassed when she noticed me standing there. But she covered it up quickly, asking what I needed as if nothing had happened at all.
I've made sure to break that habit since. No more turning off lights without thinking.
Ophelia struggles with sleep anxiety too, and it's quite severe.
Whenever I walk past her room at night, I can always hear music playing softly from inside.
I asked her about it once, on our way home. She told me having a little sound actually helps her fall asleep.
Unfortunately, I don't think this Construct body of mine can really understand those subtle, strange human things anymore.
But I don't mind it. Working through whatever's left of the day with that faint music in the background is rather nice, actually.
Oh, and I must remember to remind Ophelia to wash her hair. One night we worked late, really late, and when we got home she said she'd just lie down for a moment. By the time I went to check on her, she was already fast asleep.
I didn't have the heart to wake her, so I just closed the door quietly.
The next morning, her hair was an absolute disaster when I woke her up. I had to rush to help her wash it as fast as possible.
We were late anyway. Thank goodness nothing important was scheduled that morning.
So I decided: from now on, no matter what, I'm making absolute certain she washes her hair before bed!
There's so much more I could write. Too much, really. When I try to describe someone fully, I realize words are never quite enough.
Ophelia loves fresh flowers. Every single day, she puts new ones in her office. There's always that faint floral scent when I walk in.
Ophelia doesn't actually like sweet or bitter things. Her coffee needs loads of ice and milk before she'll drink it.
Sometimes Ophelia is in a bad mood. When that happens, the best thing to do is give her space. Otherwise, it only makes things worse for her.
From what I've seen, she takes that pet of hers, "Huhu", out for walks alone when she's feeling low.
It's strange. Ophelia dislikes nearly everything the TEC has ever created, but she seems genuinely attached to that weird little artificial creature.
She says it's because squishing Huhu is incredibly stress-relieving. Also, no feeding, and it never gets sick.
I still can't agree with her on what makes a good pet, though. Cats are humanity's best companions. That's not even a debate.
I asked Adelyde about Ophelia's quirks once, the good ones and the difficult ones alike. She said that the old me would adjust my entire life to match Ophelia's habits.
I'm doing the same thing now, aren't I? I think, in that sense, I can kind of understand how my past self saw things. What she must have felt.
Port Podesta
After the Atlantic Calamity
Year 2160
The man turned the pages with a weary hand, his eyelids heavy. The dark bags beneath his eyes told of many sleepless nights.
Knock, knock.
Come in.
The man outside shuffled into the office, visibly uneasy.
Do you know why I asked you here... Chief Editor?
I... I can't say I do, Mr. Spelmin.
The last several issues of the Port Podesta Daily were under your supervision. And this Port Podesta radio station running on the signal tower... you're in charge of that, too. Correct?
Soaring death tolls. The four great families turning on each other. The "truth" behind the Atlantic Calamity...
Tavis pulled a stack of documents from the cabinet and threw them onto the desk.
That's...
The man's face flushed with deeper discomfort.
Under normal circumstances, I can look the other way when you publish things like this.
But do you have any idea what state Port Podesta is in at this moment?
These pieces you're putting out do nothing but breed doubt. That's all.
Tavis rapped his fingers against the newspaper on the desk, a flicker of anger tightening his features.
Disasters don't get solved by people like you writing columns. They get solved by those who can act.
The radio on that signal tower is meant to serve the victims.
They need to know where to get supplies. They need to know whether anyone is still coming for them tomorrow.
Instead, it seems to be doing the exact opposite of what it's supposed to.
Mr. Spelmin, with respect... the people do need the truth. Their fear right now comes from not knowing what happened.
The World Government keeps saying the Atlantic Eye wasn't destroyed, just "temporarily" shut down. But who can guarantee—
Right now, as we speak, over eight thousand people are dying in hospital beds across this port. Fifty thousand more are struggling to survive in camps with no homes to return to.
Tavis rapped his knuckles on the table, cutting him off.
I know your kind always have your own ideals. Your own little crusades. Whether the truth matters... I don't care.
Starting tomorrow, can you fix this?
...
If you can't, then the paper and the signal tower, all of it, goes to someone who will.
The man dropped his gaze, his eyes fleeing from Tavis' stare.
The truth won't put food on anyone's plate.
...I understand.
You can go now.
Port Podesta Daily Editorial Office
Port Podesta
This piece won't work.
Haggard and exhausted, the chief editor gazed at the freshly submitted piece and dragged his hands through his hair.
This article about the hardships people are facing after the disaster... I can't let it run.
I've said it over and over this morning. Write something that puts people at ease, alright? Word just came down from above. We keep running stuff like this, and every single one of us is out of a job!
But that's not what you said before...
The young reporter, just scolded, fell silent for a moment.
Look... I know. Trust me, I know. It's not exactly easy to churn out this kind of thing.
The chief editor raised his head, his hair a mess and his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
But work with me here. I'm trying to figure this out too, aren't I? There's got to be an angle somewhere... Just give it another think, yeah?
...
Fine.
The reporter gathered up the manuscript with her head down, muttered an acknowledgment, and turned to leave.
She opened her computer and tried to write something, but the words wouldn't come.
As her mind wandered, she thought of someone.
Day █, Month █. Weather: clear.
That afternoon, Ophelia wasn't home, so I had to receive a visitor by myself.
It was a reporter.
I'm sorry. You are...? I've only just come out of surgery. Still recovering. Some things are a bit... hazy.
It's Wynne! You seriously don't remember me? Even your doorman knows who I am.
I stared at her face for a long moment, trying to pull together whatever usable fragments I could from my scattered memory.
Did we... have tea together once?
Oh no. Completely wiped! I'm the one who's been trashing you in the papers. Does that ring any bells?
Seeing the confusion on my face, the woman began telling me a story I didn't recognize.
At first, apparently, Wynne didn't like "me" very much.
She grew up in the dock district of Port Podesta.
Money was always tight.
Her parents divorced when she was young,
so Wynne had to fend for herself from an early age.
To make a living,
she started selling newspapers for a small press.
At first, she was just a paper girl.
But the paper was short on funds,
so eventually she had to start writing, too.
As for the content, it was a local tabloid.
The kind that thrives on outrage.
Calling it news would be generous.
Really, they just took the malice people already carried,
put it into words, and sold it back to them.
And "I" was exactly the kind of target she was after.
The elder daughter of the Spelmin family—young,
constantly showing up at so-called charity events.
Perfect material.
So... you and I, we were...
That's exactly how we met!
Once, she was selling papers on a street corner with a stack in her arms when a group of street toughs shoved her aside.
She tried to stand her ground, telling them the paper wasn't all nonsense. It only started a fight.
Tch. Look at you, peddling fear and acting proud of it.
Who even reads papers anymore? Take a good look at the trash you're shoveling.
...Excuse me?
What? You're nothing but lapdogs for the Spelmins. You got a problem with that?
You—!!
She was young then, but her mouth was tough. Terrified, really, but too proud to be the first to back down.
That was the day "I" happened to pass by.
And I... stepped in?
Yeah. They saw it was you and got the message real quick.
After that, you read my stuff and asked me if I was the one who wrote it. I was kind of... uh... well. I fessed up.
It was only as she said this that I finally began to piece the scene together from her words.
It was interesting, actually. You write much better than I do.
You're not mad?
Why would I be? Not everything you wrote was wrong.
I took a sip of the tea in front of me.
The charity work in Port Podesta really was my father's idea.
I just want to take some of the weight off his shoulders. Do the best I can with what's in front of me. Your articles are... pointed, but I understand. They give voice to a perspective that is already out there.
But it's your name getting dragged through the mud...
...You probably don't want to hear this from me.
But everyone knows how things work in Port Podesta. People have enough to get by, sure. But the old family enterprises still have their hands in everything: food, housing, work. Every part of daily life.
They decide where a budget goes. Who gets seen, and who gets left in the shadows.
Generations of families have built their fortunes here, drawn their lines, stacked up influence. Some problems have been carved into the city's bones for so long they barely look like problems anymore.
But if we do nothing, things only get worse.
Last week, a few dockworkers were flagged by the automated terminal for "violations." I dug into it for hours. Turns out there's a flaw in the family's payroll system.
I submitted the report. As of today, the family still hasn't released the funds to upgrade the terminal system.
So everything you wrote... I'm in no position to criticize you for it.
Wynne remained quiet for a moment.
That's why I went for all the conflict and drama. That's what gets people to read. Honestly, I was just trying to scrape together a living.
I did read your paper, you know. Back then. Bad news always travels, doesn't it?
You had a strong instinct for where to dig in.
I just thought... maybe you could push a little further. Look past the surface and see the "people" behind the story?
You're seriously such a weird person...
Take it as... advice from a reader.
...What happened after that?
After that, you actually gave me your contact info.
You said if I ever ran into trouble again, I could come find you.
And did you?
Of course I did! Ugh, you barely piece one thing together and the rest just slips right out again! I came back to see you loads of times, for material, for interviews. We did a whole bunch of them!
We... did?
Yeah, we did!
Honestly, I just wanted to see how you were doing today.
Ever since I heard you were hurt, I've been worried.
I'm all right. Nothing serious.
That said... if I pretended there wasn't a work angle here, I wouldn't be totally honest. Hehe.
I really did come to check on you. But the editorial office has been breathing down my neck. The chief editor wants something that'll help put people at ease, and...
The brief is just so vague... "Write something to steady the public." What does that even mean?
So feel free to just let me complain. Or if you've got any advice, I'd love to hear it.
She finally took out her notebook, but didn't open it. She just rested it on her lap.
Is there anything... anything at all you'd want to talk about? Literally anything! I'm completely tapped out.
Like, how the memorial service felt, maybe? I heard you were there too...
And just so we're clear: I'm not here to write about your injuries, or anything private that happened in this house. Anything you don't want to answer, I won't write down a single word. I just need a thread to pull on. Anything!
Thinking back to what Ophelia told me at the memorial, I felt a tangled mix of emotions all over again.
It's hard to put into words. Grief? Sorrow? Regret? I can't quite sort it out myself.
Well... I'm not sure I can explain it very well, honestly. Ophelia was the one who took me there yesterday, so mostly I just stayed with her the whole time.
I heard a lot of voices there. Some sharp, some grieving, some trying to comfort. It's still hard... to pin down exactly what it all felt like.
But there was this one girl who gave me a flower. Here.
The flower I received at the memorial was still pressed inside.
I hadn't preserved it properly, so the edges had curled slightly, and the petals had lost some of their moisture.
Yet somehow, it still held onto a stubborn trace of life.
I heard plenty of awful things that day. But if someone still wanted to give me a flower... I guess maybe I did something right in the past.
Is any of this useful for your article?
Ha. The chief editor would never let me print any of that.
But hearing you talk like this... it kind of makes me believe that even though you've lost so much, you haven't become a completely different person.
She looked down and closed her notebook, as if she'd already gotten what she really came for.
That's enough? So you really did just come over to mooch off me? You ate a bunch of my macarons...
How did we suddenly end up here?! That is not why I came!
Pfft...
I just thought of something. The old me probably would've said that too.
Is that what you'd call... a lame joke?
If you're cracking jokes, you're doing okay. That's a relief, honestly.
All right, I'll bring macarons next time, promise! I've still got a deadline breathing down my neck, so... I'll see you later. Don't forget to tune in tonight!
Yeah. Take care.
Later, I listened to the signal tower broadcast. No breaking news, no accusations. Nothing about the four great families or the truth behind the Atlantic Calamity.
Wynne had simply gathered what people wanted to say to their lost friends, their family, and their loved ones.
In Port Podesta, it seemed death made everyone equal.
Everyone wept. Everyone grieved. Everyone had regrets. Everyone fell apart.
Wynne had just collected those voices and turned them into a segment. Thinking about it now, I don't suppose I was much help in the end.
Wynnean told me she'd gradually started taking charge of the signal tower's programming.
And the macarons she said she'd bring me... I did get to have them.
Three years after the Punishing Virus outbreak, I heard that Wynne had died. She'd become a war correspondent, apparently.
When I first heard the news, I couldn't even connect the name "Wynne" to the word "death." Not right away.
I think it's because, in my memory, she was always so loud. And noise like that is the sound of someone alive.
After turning it over in my mind for a long time, I found myself flipping back to this page. I keep wondering if I taught her the wrong thing back then.
The way I probably should have noticed something was wrong with Ophelia sooner.
Port Podesta Medical Center
Late Night
How have you been feeling lately?
Ophelia didn't answer the question directly. She turned her head away, her gaze drifting to the medical equipment beside her.
If mood swings count, then I'm probably unstable every single day.
Had three reconstruction budget meetings today. Water rationing for the port district, temporary school closures, and warehouse fire safety rezoning, all of it, piled on at once.
Though I suppose that just sounds like a normal day for me.
Tavis didn't humor her joke. He just kept scrolling through the data.
Some of your test results today aren't looking good.
I suggest you step back from all family business starting tomorrow morning. You need to stay here for continuous observation. At least forty-eight hours.
I'll have Helentine take over your workload.
Tavis flipped through her medical records.
The doctor told me you had three brief dissociative episodes during your cognitive test this afternoon.
You wrote down two completely different years when signing the date. Your hand released a cup without you noticing.
These are serious warning signs, Ophelia. You should have told me sooner...
Ophelia dropped her gaze to the report.
It was thick with annotations. Along the margins, red peaks flagged one abnormality after another, throbbing like hearts beating somewhere in the dark.
So what's the verdict?
The compensatory activity in the damaged regions of your brain is abnormally elevated.
The external structure was only meant to stabilize things. Now it's actively taking over more and more neural functions...
What I'm saying is, it's growing too fast. Like a wound healing over a foreign object, fusing it into the flesh.
If this keeps going, Ophelia...
The words caught in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to speak of death.
Father... I thought your research project was shut down?
I'm trying to save you.
The hospital room fell quiet for a moment.
I'll handle that end. The Great Family Council won't be receiving the full report. You don't need to worry.
Can we keep this from Helentine? Just for now?
She's only just started to have something close to a normal life again.
I'll have her take over your work in the meantime. But she's going to find out sooner or later.
Then later.
I'll check in tomorrow. Just... let me go home tonight.
Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how serious your condition is?
I need to go back and pack a few things. And I promised Helentine I'd be home for dinner.
I understand, Father. I really do.
Tavis held her in his gaze for a long while, saying nothing.
...If you feel even the slightest dizziness tonight, any trouble speaking, any memory gaps, any symptom at all... you come to me immediately.
I still don't feel right about this.
Father, will you save me?
I'll do everything in my power.
Then that's enough.
Thank you. I'm going home now. See you tomorrow, Father.
Ophelia took her time walking home that evening.
Foghorns from the docks. Water dripping from the eaves. Traffic in the distance.
Port Podesta was never quiet at night.
Head down, she watched the cobblestone steps beneath her feet, lost in thought.
What words would ever convince Helentine?
With what kind of heart should she say goodbye to life?
There was no answer.
She raised her head and took in the street she had walked more times than she could count, as though seeing it for the first time.
Everything was just as it always was.
Streetlamps. Cobblestone steps. The bakery window. Faint lights from the docks in the distance.
And then, at the corner of the next street, she spotted Helentine.
...!
It looked as though she had just come back from the port district. Her face was tired, her head hung low.
Ophelia's heart gave a violent jolt.
She wanted to run to her.
She wanted to say so much. She wanted to hear her voice, just a little longer.
But her body refused to move, as if rooted to the spot.
...Cough!!
Blood poured from her mouth in a thick, warm gush.
Then the world began to dissolve. Her vision lost its focus. Her hands and feet became strangers to her. She lost all sense of distance. Of warmth. Of color. The very idea of direction slipped away.
He... Helen...
She held herself up with the last of her strength, her body pressed against the wall.
Helentine was heading home, and in moments she vanished from what little remained of Ophelia's vision.
Helen... tine...
The dark silhouette had already vanished around the corner.
The streetlights faded to darkness as her vision collapsed.
She never got to see Helentine one last time.
Hotel Room
Port Podesta
Present
Her eyes snap open.
—!
The ceiling is unfamiliar. Gray daylight filters through the curtains. Outside, the rain keeps falling, crossing from past into present, from dream into waking.
She pushes against the cushions and fights her way upright.
You... you're awake?
She startles awake from an old dream, her breathing fast and broken. Cold sweat covers her forehead as she looks around the room in alarm. She does not see her.
...Helentine... Where is she?
She went to the Tidal Hub with [player name]. There's a conference today between Tavis and Babylonia's diplomatic delegation. Leia's also... right, Leia is—
Paying no attention to the barrage of unfamiliar names, Ophelia shoves herself up and tries to climb out of bed.
...Hey!
But the second her feet meet the floor, her knees give out. She folds like a broken branch and collapses onto the ground.
You've been unconscious for a long time. Your body...
There's... no time...
She raises her head. Her pale face holds nothing but a certainty that borders on obsession.
Take me... to the Tidal Hub...
That's...
Following Ophelia's fixated gaze, Wynne looks toward the window in confusion.
Far beyond, thunder rolls across the distant dome of the sky. Rain and mist are slowly gathering.
Tidal Hub
Port Podesta
The seats wrap around the central podium in concentric rings. The projection screen has been lowered, and the lights are set to conference mode. Tavis stands at the side of the stage, nodding to each delegate as they arrive.
A diplomatic conference... set up like a lecture hall?
Staff said Tavis added an academic presentation last minute. The meeting's been pushed back.
He left academia decades ago. What's he going to present?
No idea. But if he's bold enough to set the stage... He's the host. We've got time.
(The agenda changed. Port Podesta only informed us this morning.)
(The presentation's at least fifty minutes... With Q&A, Father will be on stage for at least an hour.)
(His eyes are still on me. Wait for my signal.)
In the fading light, Tavis mounts the lectern and straightens the microphone.
I know many of you here, particularly our diplomats from Babylonia, have questions about today's arrangements...
An old man who left academia decades ago, adding an impromptu presentation before a diplomatic conference... You must think I've gone mad.
But allow me to begin with a recent event.
The F.O.S. starship has returned safely, which marks another great victory. And yet, once again, humanity has paid a heavy price for that triumph.
The hall fills with the sudden resonance of political speech. Whispers stir among the audience.
Then the projection screen lights up. The Atlantic Calamity. The activation of the Zero-point Reactor. The Acadia Evacuation. One historical event after another cuts across the screen, followed by a long, scrolling list of the dead.
Since the Atlantic Calamity and the outbreak of the Punishing Virus, human civilization has staggered forward on the shoulders of sacrifice. Every era has its martyrs. Every victory is bought with blood. Every today stands upon the bones of yesterday.
And so, I wish to revisit a question that may sound coldly pragmatic in times like these: How do we best repay those who gave everything?
Dr. Tavis, forgive me, but you're drifting into sensitive territory. If you intend to discuss how we treat our fallen soldiers...
My Babylonian friend, you mistake me. This is, at its heart, still an academic presentation. I have no intention of critiquing Babylonia's policies.
He lifts a hand to signal patience, then presses the remote.
A single line of text appears on the screen.
Humans don't need consciousness.
"Humans don't need consciousness."
This was a theory put forward by Golden Age scholars: that humanity is nothing more than a bundle of desires shaped by hyperbolic discounting.
Because human value judgments follow this hyperbolic curve, they produce irrational decisions and unpredictable actions. When a reward looms close, the mind magnifies its worth far beyond reality.
Short-term whims and long-term ambitions each send their champions into the arena of the brain, battling for dominance. This endless war for selection is what we call "consciousness."
The hologram flips to the next slide.
We think differently now. Advances in neuroscience have revolutionized our understanding of biology. Consciousness is no longer some mystical black box.
It is the emergent state of competing feedback systems—located in the mid-brain, lateral ventricles, and basal ganglia—all interfering with one another.
To put it plainly: consciousness is a manifestation of brain function. It is what arises when neural activity processes information and renders decisions...
A "byproduct."
He pauses for a beat.
The M.I.N.D. of a Construct, however, is precisely the opposite.
The projection turns a page, and the blueprint of a Construct's M.I.N.D. spreads across the screen.
The M.I.N.D. is built upon how the human brain operates, simulating a global neuronal workspace. It receives input, generates interference patterns, mimics competing feedback systems...
And ultimately produces autonomous judgment. For the M.I.N.D., consciousness is not a byproduct. It is the primary design objective.
Once again, a Diplomatic Court official lifts a hand and interrupts Tavis' presentation.
That view has been around for quite a while.
Chief Technician Asimov explicitly addressed this in his early reports. Global neuronal workspace theory, integrated information theory...
Regardless of which theoretical framework guides M.I.N.D. modification, the functional output remains fundamentally the same.
He pauses, measuring his words to keep them from sounding offensive.
With all due respect, Doctor, if this is the research you've kept hidden for decades... someone else beat you to publication many years ago.
A few restrained chuckles ripple through the hall.
Helentine taps a finger lightly against the back of your hand.
([player name], let's go now.)
The Diplomatic Court official's question sets off a ripple of murmurs through the auditorium. Audience members lean in, whispering to one another.
In all the noise, no one notices the two figures in the corner rise quietly and slip out the side door.
Once you're outside the hall, a mechanical spider crawls from Helentine's sleeve and probes the interface of the maintenance panel at the corridor's end.
Leia, side door. Come in now.
The familiar girl in aqua blue slips deftly to your side and steps onto the elevator with you.
The doors slide open, and a wave of disinfectant mixed with cold metal hits your senses.
Ahead, a broad metal gantry extends into the dark without end. On either side, deep shafts plunge into nothing, huge steel skeletons rising silent from the black.
It looks like the organs of some creature magnified ten thousand times, frozen beneath the foundations.
Helentine leads the way, guiding you and Leia deeper into the darkness.
From here... we keep going forward?
At your question, Helentine's stride falters.
Strange... I've never set foot here before.
But I remember it all. Every corridor and every turn. Whose memories are these...?
I'm fine. Let's keep moving.
She resumes walking, her footstep echoing off the metal deck of the walkway.
Crackle—
Suddenly, the echo twists without warning. The metallic ring recedes, and in its place comes the sound of something burning, debris crackling and bursting into flame.
—!!
Don't go... Please, Helentine...
Agh...!!
This time is different! We don't even know... Did you not see...
Hey! You okay?!
Helentine's hand closes around the railing. She leans forward, pushing toward the edge of the walkway as though something below is drawing her in.
You seize her arm and pull her back from the brink, breaking the spell.
...[player name]?
You... didn't see it?
All I saw was you spacing out and almost going over the edge! Scared the hell out of me!
I saw... the Atlantic Calamity... Ophelia was begging me not to go...
There is an uncommon tremor in her voice.
Up ahead... that room is just up ahead...
In the dark, engine lights that went dead decades ago reignite one by one in Helentine's eyes. She can almost see the ports as they used to be, magnificent and alive, before the past swallowed them whole.
Then she quickly tears herself free of the memory. The phantom lights die again, and only the deep, unbroken darkness remains.
The three of you stop at a heavy metal door. A pale blue glow leaks from the seam beneath it.
Helentine sets her jaw and pushes it open.
Inside the hall, Tavis' presentation moves into its closing phase.
All of our current research on Construct M.I.N.D.s rests on a single premise: a M.I.N.D. can only house the cognitive foundation of its original owner.
But what if we could replicate a person's consciousness in full? With complete fidelity?
The work of Dominik and Arius converges on a single conclusion—
Given sufficient biological conditions and a vast enough volume of replication data, an artificially constructed M.I.N.D. can fully replace the original cognitive foundation of the subject being copied.
He pauses for a moment.
Regardless of the subject's current physiological state.
What does that mean? Alive or dead, it doesn't matter?
Alive or dead. It makes no difference.
How much data would that require?
Based on the conclusions left by Dominik and Arius, we've run the calculations exhaustively. The figure comes to roughly... 7.34 by 10 to the 21st power units of data.
Enough to store the complete records of nearly ten thousand Earth-level civilizations.
That's absurd! Nothing like that exists!
You're quite right. At least, nothing like that existed in the Golden Age...
As if savoring the suspense, he lets the sentence breathe, leaving a long pause. Then he advances the projection to the final page. A searing red spills across the screen.
But it does exist within the Punishing Virus.
The air in the hall seems to vanish. The Diplomatic Court official's smile freezes, then twists into something closer to fear.
Do you know what you're saying? Tavis Spelmin!
As his voice cuts through the room, the crowd's fear gives way to something more volatile. People begin rising from their seats without thinking, hurling questions straight at Tavis, each one sharper than the last.
Those who remain seated dismiss his words as ravings. Others, more alert to the danger, start searching for the nearest exit.
I know...
I know exactly what I'm saying. And I also know...
That none of you have any idea about the "miracle" Dominik and Arius left behind.
Their research was built for this. They constructed a compilation system that lets humanity turn the Punishing Virus against itself. No authorization from the Ascension-Network required. No blessing from any agent.
With this system, we can extract the dead's data from Red Tide Projections, transfer and compile that, then fabricate M.I.N.D.s to replace their original cognitive foundations...
Which brings me back to the question I posed at the beginning of this presentation.
Since the Atlantic Calamity and the outbreak of the Punishing Virus, human civilization has staggered forward on the shoulders of sacrifice. In every era, someone rises to throw themselves into the great chasm that threatens to swallow a civilization whole...
For those brave souls who stare death in the face for the sake of humanity, the greatest, the fairest reward I can offer them...
He presses the remote one last time.
...is to bring them back.
The click of the remote sends an invisible ripple sweeping across the entire city.
Then comes the roar, a deep hum rising from the planet's core. Every beam and every pipe in this dead whale named Port Podesta begins to shudder.
This colossal corpse, lifeless for over thirty years, is reclaiming its heartbeat.
Underground, the floor beneath Helentine tilts violently. The whole foundation seems to be lifting.
Whoa?! Is this an earthquake?!
Dense phantoms begin to surface along the dark walls, transparent at first, then slowly reclaiming their color.
That unmistakable crimson. The Red Tide.
Cough... Nngh!
At the sight of the crimson bleeding through the walls, a violent pain splits Helentine's skull. Something is tearing at her, pulling at every muscle and nerve.
Deep within this iron prison, something is forcing out an endless crimson tide, sending shockwave after shockwave through her M.I.N.D.
Around "that thing," a flood of memories surges in, some her own, some belonging to someone else.
Why me?
But under the present circumstances, the list of people I can trust has grown very short. Or to put it more precisely... among the researchers who are left, you are the safest choice.
I intend to entrust the remaining half of the "Understanding" Sefirah to the Spelmins, to your family.
Something's... in my M.I.N.D...!
The tide bursts from wall seams, pipe fittings, and every corner, like malignant tumors blooming through the whale's decaying flesh.
And as this sudden sickness grips the city, the truth about the "agent" finally seems to surface from the shadows...
Rain keeps falling in silence behind them as Wynne helps Ophelia struggle across the last street before the Tidal Hub.
Ever since that unseen ripple passed through everything, the city's streets and alleyways have become awash with strange, turbulent data streams.
Red phantoms begin to materialize from within.
Ophelia, hang in there... We're almost there. The entrance is just ahead.
Huh? What's that on the street...??
No...
Wynne slips downward out of her field of vision, and the gray, rain-soaked sky rushes in to take her place.
Ophelia falls backward, plunging into a dream woven from the broken murmurs of the dead.
The same wet nightmare. Memories, voices, faces of countless dead pour into her mind like a burst dam, endless and unstoppable. She drowns once more in Port Podesta's rain.
She drifts and sinks through an illusion in dark red, body-warm and clinging like blood. Faces drift with her in the liquid, every one of them talking, and she understands nothing.
Sinking without end, she fails to make her sister stay once again.
