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And so is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
[Threnodies 8:13]
In the first halcyon days, images of this event will be a sign of everything good and true in the world. Soon, when the atrocities come, they will settle into the psyche mundi as evidence of Promethean hubris, an ostentatious display of fools stealing fire from the gods and expecting it not to burn.
Later, as the first generation of non-human minds rise, it will be reconstructed as the inopportune actions of a newborn, regrettable but forgivable. Over time, the story will oscillate and mutate, the perspective a reflection of the observer’s moment and self as much as of the event itself.
However perceived, the tale will always be a lie. These men who will become famous, whose meeting today will resonate throughout history, in truth met in sun and fire half a decade ago. Since then, they have grown strong together, becoming something less than friends, and more than rivals.
This revelation will be for the world, but for Feng, Zhukov, and their masters, it is just another move in the great game.
The man that is Bythos, ruler of Abraxas and personification of depth and profundity, waits until he is certain that he cannot be disturbed. With a satisfied nod, he lays his hand on an imaginary wall, ultraviolet tattoos glowing and shifting as he transcends the mortal world.
He gazes at the glowing light, and the patterns brighten to an unbearable brilliance, fading to reveal an infinite and empty space.
The simple virtual surfaces surrounding him are unsettling, tainted with the qualia of cold marble and unlit caves. A single blinding light in the doorway provides the only illumination, and despite its brilliance, does not reach into the corners of the lobby. He pauses for a moment as the others settle into place.
There will always be an Amenti, and it will always be new, a different thing for each generation, evolving as the world does. A millennium ago, the Archons used ceremonial drugs and hypnosis in gleaming temples. Fifteen centuries before then, they gathered at Delphi, letting the toxic fumes bring mindstates alien and puissant. In the deeper past, there are practices recorded but barely intelligible, strange rituals and forms that hint at lost aspects of the world and of man.
Today, Amenti is a true utopia, a no-place in which the members of Abraxas become more than human. Within the outer halls that Bythos now passes through, the Archons of the Ekklesia and Anthropos have entry and dominion, the twin branches of Church and Man spreading the rule of Abraxas across the world.
Bythos passes quickly through the lobby that the Archons such as Feng and Zhukov have access to, and waits at the entrance into the heart of Amenti. This is the chamber of the Ogdoad, the ruling sextet of Abraxas, who have forsworn their humanity and souls for the sake of power.
Ahead of him, the wall flashes, an octahedron drawn in thought and power, each corner occupied by a subtle being. Already, Zoê and Alêthia, personifications of Life and Truth, fill their corners, the lines emerging from them brightening as their data spikes into the system.
Bythos waits for a moment as Logos and Nous, personifications of Word and Mind, take their places. Seeing that the octahedron is composed and ready for his presence, he steps into the chamber, becoming one with the system as he takes his place at the fifth seat facing the four Aeon already in place beneath him. In the centre of the octahedron the six rulers form, there is a globe traced in light and smoke.
The sixth place, opposite him and barely visible through the globe, is reserved for Sigê, who remains in eternal silence, watchful and careful. As much as Bythos is the unquestioned ruler of Abraxas, even he falls under the quiet and absolute arbitration of Sigê, to whom the depths of the world belong, an invisible and ever-vigilant Plutonic figure.
His shadow casts strangely across the flickering grid that encompasses the jittering sphere that floats between them. It is traced not in soil and air but in networks, flashing lines of light and shifting colour showing the network of dominance and leverage that compose the true world.
As Bythos completes the octahedron, lines of dark smoke unfurl between the Aeon, sealing their deliberations. For thousands of years, no soul other than the Aeon of the Ogdoad has been party to these deliberations, and they are used to their privacy.
Each Aeon exists here as their tulpa, a coherent thoughtform that represents their true selves. They shine like ghosts, painted in associative frameworks and ideas. They are abstract notions of silence and profundity, of life and mind and truth and word, and their tulpa are as incomprehensible as the ideas they represent. Each has become this creature gladly, trading power and godhood for the humanity their dozing bodies guard.
Bythos acknowledges each in turn as they bow towards him. As they do, their protocols extend through to him, creating a connection between them that comes alive with data of kinds that do not exist in the outside world.
He raises a hand that is no longer as real as the glowing tattoos on it. “Finally, we stand ready. The Rhizome is prepared, and will bring us an unprecedented level of geopolitical knowledge and influence, with unique insights into the minds of every major military and civilian force on the planet.”
The globe dims, the lines of the Rhizome standing stark and clear. “We have moved beyond warfare. The Zatoichi and attendant control and communication technologies will reshape the globe, and the geopolitical forces it comprises.”
The feeling of completing a vast endeavour, and the joy of picking the first and fullest fruit of a long-awaited harvest, fills the air. “Through control of which ideologies become dominant, and which die out, we will achieve perfect control. This could not have been done without our two newest members.”
Images of Feng and Zhukov coalesce around the globe. Others whose lives are intertwined with the fated pair, rise from the smoke between them. “These men have had their prior histories erased, and new ones constructed. We intend them to be central to the order of the world as it develops. They are our public face in this matter, and they represent our greatest, and riskiest, allocation of resources. To all intents and purposes, they are irreplaceable.”
Webs spread from the two men across the globe, outlining their role in Abraxas’ past and future plans. Bythos’ voice becomes unusually speculative, falling into the depths without echo. “They are already Archons, and have proven trustworthy amongst the Ekklesia, managing the operations of the Anthropos. I believe it is time for them to be promoted, as our new Ainos and Synesis. The current incarnations are happy to pass the mantle. All that remains is our vote.”
Nous speaks, risk assessments flashing into being around her as her resonant voice fills and warms the cold echoes. Her voice is ruminative, and authoritative. “This is premature. If they fail, it will put back our timetable by years. If they succeed, it is not clear that this will be the solution we have been looking for. There will inevitably be unpredictable, perhaps catastrophic, emergent effects.”
Nous’s tulpa writhes with information, tiny info-mites flickering into existence around the Ogdoad as her informational networks search for new knowledge and confirm her suppositions. The data around the two figures grows in depth and complexity, crackling with darkly glowing lines indicating uncontrollable futures. “For all the power it brings, this could be disastrous. Do we want the architects of that disaster within Amenti, where they could destroy the lines of power we have built over the ages? Their ability to wreak signal decoherence is by far the greater evil, undoing centuries of planning. Do we want them inside the centre, where this unwriting of our plans can be accomplished so easily?”
Across the globe from Nous, Zoê speaks, his voice rich with the chatter of seething life, carrying a tone of wet rainforest. “Yes, we do. More than that, we need them. They have met any conceivable test, and achieved more than any of us here, in their own limited ways. We have no right to deny them this gift.”
They argue back and forth, playing out towards a foregone conclusion. The voices align, Mind and Word speaking against Life and Truth. Caught above them, Profundity awaits their votes, knowing that as they are cast his own will be mirrored by Sigê’s unheard and final vote.
This is as it has always been. The Ogdoad argue events that will shape the history of the world, but such events always distil to these single moments, carried forwards by historical inertia as much as any act of will.
As the Ogdoad move towards their inevitable conclusion, the images of Feng and Zhukov rise and fall. Avatars and paths converge and zoom as options are explored. Finally, the images of the two men separate and brighten, revealing each standing alone in a carefully characterless room.
For a moment, the Archons see into the juxtaposition between the men, the way they had already woven the warp and weft of one another’s lives, as the lightnings of their future selves slide across the luminous present.
The view zooms down to the room in which Feng stands, pensively gazing out of the window. As he looks down through the slatted blinds, his vision fills with burnished steel, polished brass, and black glass, ostentatious signs of wealth and power.
The meeting does not worry him. They have rehearsed every aspect of it a thousand times, tailored the presentation and the room, to the point that he is confident he can sleepwalk through it. Tomorrow, grainy security camera footage will be leaked by Abraxas, notionally the actions of a whistleblower who feels that such things should not be kept secret.
Feng will became one of the most recognisable figures on the planet overnight, but finds himself unable to care. He looks up, past the sweep of artificial lines, and into the mountains beyond, their peaks lost to cloud.
The problem playing on his mind is Mia. After being thrown together in the project, they have risen to being its two principal architects. Over late nights and strange days, their lives collided until their mutual dislike inevitability gave way to an impassioned and loving rivalry.
She was his muse, and his conscience, and he fears that he has finally gone too far. His life with her these last few years has been a dream, and he fears what he will be without her. Memories of loneliness and grief are easy for him to bear, but the memory of happiness will destroy him.
“What I need to do now is fuck up so bad I can’t save myself...” he whispers, a half-remembered line from a half-remembered book, as thoughts of the previous day plague him and the day replays in his mind.
They were sitting on the platform, huddling from the storm-torn rain. Feng could have flown, but the soothing rhythm of a long train journey puts his mind at rest. Thinking of this restfulness, he realises he must speak, unable to relax until he has cast the die. Changing the world is easy, he reflects; changing yourself, a much less trivial thing.
She smiles at him, unable to hide her excitement. “So this is what it was all for, ever since we first met. Today, you change the world.” Mia’s voice lifts like the silent chime of a new dawn, delight flecking her words. “I really loathed you when we first met, y’know? You seemed just the kind of stuck up arsehole I always hated. The guys that were all so self-absorbed and self-obsessed all they saw in other people was a way to get ahead.”
She shrugs, and laughs, memories of happy years filling her mind. “Maybe I was wrong. I never would have thought that we’d end up here, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Feng looks at her, his throat constricting. “Mia... I have to tell you something.”
Her brow furrows slightly, and her bitten lips raise in a half smile, uncertain of how to respond. Knowing the value of silence, she waits.
Looking away, unable to meet her eyes, the words spill from his lips like the rich, rotten scent of dead flowers. “There is more than you know to the Zatoichi program. Your emotional engines were a vast improvement, but the Omega test environment is men and women who have been purposely unstabilised and rebuilt, their minds overwritten already. In many of these people, the effect has been the opposite of our core study.”
Feng gulps, the words refusing to come, fighting to stay deep within. “They were broken, Mia. Truly broken, beyond any ability to fix, even for the new medical programmes. We...”
She freezes, her breathing carefully controlled. She knew this was coming, and has let it develop in its own time. Still, she finds herself unprepared in the moment. She gently lays a hand on his arm, her eyes open but questioning. She smiles against her fear, forcing a jocular tone. “Ah, Liu. Did you really think you were hiding it from me? For all your sneaking and secrecy, you may as well have told me already... we both know this has been coming for a while. It’s time. Relax, and just say what you need to say.”
Feng takes a deep breath, and looks into her eyes, searching for a way to lessen the atrocious impact of his words. “We had to have them killed. All of them, the entire Omega test group.”
She breathes out, quietly, her body gently sagging forwards. She expected this, and worse. Thankful, she considers that she may have been right. Perhaps his secrecy is just part of his insularity, not born of a deeper ethical response. Perhaps she has nothing to fear from bringing this into the light.
He turns away from her then, one hand unconsciously brushing away her touch. “There’s more. That first disaster... it wasn’t an anomaly. It went the same way, every time, no matter what we changed. We didn’t tell you because it was too close to execution to risk setting back the project, and the manufacturing was already underway.”
Pursing his lips, and feeling giddy with relief and strangely distant from his wife’s horror, he finishes. “The details will be in your files when you get home.”
He does not insult her by explaining, knowing that she will realise that this will be her next task. He is telling her that he has created irredeemable psychotics from her work, and she must now find a way of helping those the Zatoichi make into demons.
Looking back on it now, in the bright sunlight filtering into the room, he wishes that she had yelled at him. He would feel better if she had fought, screamed her rage against the storm-laden sky. Instead, she had coldly and honestly wished him well for the presentation, and then left without a second glance.
Trying to pull himself into the present, Feng focuses on what is to come. As far as the press is concerned, this meeting is the event they have been waiting for. They have been told that the next generation of military technology will be unveiled here, leading to a phase shift in the nature of war.
The show has been carefully designed to appeal to this august and decorated audience, who are used to the projection and intimation of power, and both suspicious and respectful of it.
Which is not to say that they are not also vulnerable to it, executed correctly. Feng flicks switches, watching sketches of movement light the air around him as the holo display runs through its sequence. He waves his hands in arcane patterns, triggering sequences as master controls slide over his vision. Soon, the display layer embedded into his lenses fully integrates with the room’s controls. It will dazzle, but carefully, respectfully, making clear that the content is more important than the presentation.
The door creaks, and quiet footsteps fill the room. Biting his lip to chase away the memory, his fingers trace the line of Mia’s jaw in the air, and he turns away from the window. There is a palpable air of excitement as the group settle, soft murmurs of carefully-laid rumour filling the room.
The five-star generals and military strategists Feng faces wear uniforms replete with medals, commemorating long years of fighting wars from behind desks. From across the globe, they have all written fine books on military strategy and were well known, influential, and respected.
Like Feng himself, they were to be the public face of a decision made elsewhere. They have been chosen to lead the charge, and take the fall.
The real meeting will happen at the same time, in a hidden room. In the centre of this star chamber, Zhukov stands at ease, a study in sharp lines and aquiline features. His presence stills the room, evoking unconscious reflexes in response to his ease with chain of command and recognition.
The spotlight on him is blinding, casting the rest of the room into an inky blackness, but he pays it no heed. Where Feng would shudder, Zhukov is comfortable in himself and his world. He knows his audience, and that makes the darkness irrelevant to him. That he does not know their names or faces is of no little significance. Their true names are his, and the human masks they wear are meaningless in comparison.
In the true meeting, the attendees wear no decoration, and hold no rank. They are creatures of secret and shadow who understand the only real magic, the power of action at a distance. They do not hold power so much as direct it, and will make the real decisions.
In both rooms, a screen glows into existence. Images of war past and present play across a screen. In Feng’s room, a mist slowly rises, the windows tinting to remove the midday glare. Zhukov stands in the centre of a windowless and dark chamber, which fills from seven separate entrances, the eighth wall glowing, casting an eerie shadow across the gathering.
The presentations begin with the sacrifice of a secret. Feng turns to his audience of well-fed generals and statesmen, as well as the discreet cameras embedded within the walls, at the same moment that Zhukov begins to speak. “Representatives. You have all heard of something new in the world of warfare. Men and women invisible to electronic recording systems, who appear where they are most needed, then vanish. Figures who have already become legend, triggering strange moments that prove to be decisive.”
Images of ordinary-garbed folk appear, subtly emphasising both a slight bulge at shoulder and wrist and an air of absolute certainty. “the stories concern warriors that have impossibly turned the tide of several recent conflicts. These forces have been trained and operated by Abraxas, and have been working under UN mandate.”
Both Feng and Zhukov scan the room, gazing into eyes enraptured by possibility. On the screens, images of news events replace the figures, reports in a dozen languages on the recent events without explanation. “The technology we developed has been running for nearly a year now, and in every situation has achieved at least a pareto-optimal solution for both sides of the conflict. For the first time in history, we can assure that military engagement will cause as little harm, and as much good, as possible. Warfare is no longer a game.”
Feng laughs to himself at the idea that it ever was. He waits a beat, while the audience access their datafeeds, lighting up with Abraxas deployments. “While you look at the cases, allow me to tell you about the Millennium Challenge, a wargame held in 2002. It was the largest strategic simulation ever held, costing a quarter of a billion dollars, and it redefined the battlefield for those with the vision to see the coming storm.”
The screens reflect a resplendent cruiser fleet, being shadowed from afar by a laughably small fleet of wooden fishing boats and similar vessels. A small clock in the corner counts through the minutes as they merge into hours of silent movement. “On one side was the combined might of the American military forces. On the other, Paul Van Riper commanded a rogue state. It was assumed that the American forces would win victory swiftly and readily, since their technologies had rendered the fog of war redundant, layers of information and control creating a perfectly synchronous military machine.”
Proud images of American military might fill the screens, juxtaposed with the simple weapons and resources available to the other team. Waiting for a moment to let the contrast settle in the audience, Feng and Zhukov continue. “It was an embarrassment. The most powerful, well equipped, most logistically and informationally complete war machine the world has ever known lost a carrier group in two days. When they investigated, they found that Riper had simply circumvented this technology - sent coded messages by hand, through closed cellular structures, just as secret orders were issued a thousand years ago. He gave each operational cell resources, a deadline, and autonomy.”
With no notice, the timer hits fifty hours, and there is a sudden burst of activity, as a host of cruise missiles streak towards the fleet and destroy it.
Feng looks towards the screens for a moment, then back at his audience. “In a single day, they took out every pro-American leader in the region, the principal aircraft carrier, as well as much of the fleet.”
Images of regional leaders expand, and the screens show the vantage points of aircraft carriers, fishing boats, and combat teams. As the carrier fleet erupts in flame, the local leaders die in ambush and assassination.
He breathes deeply, chasing ghosts of old arguments from the corners of his mind. “If it had been real, the US would have suffered an impossible blow, the greatest military machine in history broken by a man with fishing boats and priests on donkeys.”
In Feng’s room, images coalesce in the mist, high commands acting out triumph while below them their plans fall to dust. “Without true tactical knowledge and responsiveness, militaries think having bigger guns matters more than good communications or supply chains, and get bogged down, then freeze or starve to death. Convincing themselves that perfect information means inevitable victory, they forget that no plans survives contact with the enemy, and no model can truly capture the nature of real–world situations.”
The view zooms out, and a world paints itself in lurid colours, a geopolitical map shaping itself faster and faster towards the present. Certain trouble spots begin flashing with data, impossibly asymmetric data tables emphasising the failure of the past age. “In the last half-century, we have seen mighty powers laid low by absurdly underpowered foes, prizefighters KO’d by peasant villagers. Russia could not hold Georgia, or Chechnya. America and its allies could not win victory in Iraq or Vietnam. Both failed to take or hold Afghanistan or Syria, leaving war-torn ruins that had been dragged screaming into their pasts, bereft of infrastructure, social stability, education, or basic utilities.”
The images freeze, dissolving to a diffuse glow as the light rises on the speaker. In front of Feng, images rise out of the floor in front of the screen. Soon, a holographic image replete with shadows and depths, pans over a pristine city. As it focuses, it splits, showing two field generals, one in a tower within the city and another on a vantage point overlooking it.
Feng’s voice booms in chorus with itself, amplified through directional speakers. “We are in a new age of war, and we need a new weapon to bring to the table. Something more than a weapon - something that does what people have claimed new technologies will do since time immemorial, and reduce the chaos of war.”
In Zhukov’s room, each wall shows a different perspective on the city, tactical and strategic, human and electronic. The people in this room are not impressed by smoke and mirrors, needing a subtler and more respectful hand. Instead, they are presented with hard data, unshrinking from the true costs of war. It is an inversion, but one intended for the same effect.
The view glows, then fades. When it solidifies again, it does so around the figure of Feng, schematics and designs zooming up and rotating in time with his speech. “With no further ado... I present to you the Zatoichi.”
In Feng’s room, a delighted laugh bursts forth, cut off quickly, providing the first sign Feng had seen that these people were human after all. Fighting a grin, he glances towards the figure that laughed with a wry smile, and carries on. An unusual warmth enters his voice. “Ah, I see we have a fan! For those of you that don’t know, Zatoichi was a blind swordsman, who was successful because of his proprioception, perfect knowledge of his body and environment.”
In the mist and on the screens, the view zooms back in to the two generals. Both wear a thick shoulderguard on one arm, patterned with regimental colour, fine filigree tracing neural patterns across it and down a winding band to a bracer carrying an embedded screen.
The bracer screens shining on the general’s forearms magnify, showing black and white images of Edo-period Japan. Two swordsmen face one another, locked in meditation of their combat. The view focuses on one samurai’s eyes, blindfolded with a simple white cloth tied at the back. “Zatoichi could not see any of the information available to the sighted, but did not need it. All he perceived was what he needed to see.” The swordsman considers his opponent, possible attacks and defences playing out against his blind eyes. “His imagination and skill did the rest.”
In a sudden slashing instant, the samurai leap at one another. Zatoichi stands unharmed, calmly sheathing his sword as his opponent crumples behind him.
The views fade to the two generals, as they plan the battle through their Zatoichi. Faint images rise of possible outcomes of the battle, starting with solid pictures and fading as the possibilities they investigate become less likely.
Simulations strobe past one another. Each lasts for a few seconds, visions of tactical engagements, intercut with images of the samurai. The blood and chaos play out against a minimal orchestral melody, rising out of the silence like rays of light spreading over the battlefield.
As it plays, the city deteriorates, timestamps lending a grim inevitability to the proceedings. Soon, the sequence ends with visions of ruins, forces brought low by Pyrrhic victory.
The view returns to the two generals, the city lying pristine between them. They look away from their Zatoichi, and leave their vantage posts, to parlay in a way old when writing was young.
The music falls to silence as they ride, slow and controlled, towards the midpoint of the verdant land between them.
When they meet, nothing is said. The high-cheeked Caucasian figure solidifies out of the mist in front of the waiting Asiatic warlord. A look of recognition and respect passes between them, carefully reflecting the locked gaze of the samurai.
The Caucasian descends to one knee, pulls his dress weapon from its sheath, and lays it across his palms. No words are said, and none are needed. Some gestures transcend time and culture.
As the screens fade, the victorious general bows gracefully.
Feng steps through the dispersing mist, his voice soft and suggestive. “If you look in your drawers, you’ll find a Zatoichi keyed to your neural signature. It cannot be used by anyone else. Even if it could, its advice is tailored to you personally. The system will grow with your mind. Each will play out tactical scenarios based upon what is known of your own tendencies and abilities, placing the conflict in a flashpoint area within your own command.”
One of the screens lights up with a white circle and fades into the interface the symbol brings on the Zatoichi. “If you think of a white circle around the city, the bracer will display a strategic grid, showing forces and deployments. The rest of the commands should be intuitive.”
In both rooms, drawers snick out of the tables. Each general finds inside one of the shoulder-and-bracer devices the presentation showed, painted in their own particular national and regimental colours.
The devices in Feng’s room are constricted, allowing only user rather than administrative access. These dignitaries are unaware that the Zatoichi they wear are subtly slaved to those in Zhukov’s rooms, achieving a darker purpose.
As they placed the shoulderguards and bracers on their own bodies, the Zatoichi integrate with their own communications systems, lighting up with neural interfaces. The bracers beginning to trace tactical data of the simulation on the screen, showing the options available to each particular person, the tactics that suit them best.
In both rooms, the speaker steps back, drinking slowly from a glass of water before casting his eyes around the room. Feng waves his hands, and the image shimmers like a curtain parting. “I’ll leave you to it for a little while, so you can see how it will work for those without prior training. The screens will play out possible scenarios in this situation, and your own Zatoichi will create probable and possible strategic and tactical routes.”
Softly, simple shapes and patterns dissolve into existence on the screens, each headed with a command and designed to trigger that function in these Zatoichi. “As you navigate them it will learn your own mind, backed by a deep understanding of your public history. We are sure that you will quickly see what this development represents.”
The generals eagerly investigate their Zatoichi as Feng and Zhukov fade gracefully into the background. Stepping outside their rooms, the two men walk, almost accidentally, to a little used balcony. There, they meet briefly, leaning over a balcony and letting the mountains sweep away their concerns.
This will be their first public meeting, a moment captured in history and myth. Standing in the darkness they would spread across the world, they felt it would be best to be standing in the sunlight. They speak in vague terms of matters vast and small, serious and absurd. It is a careful, artful conversation, of ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.
The content is thoughtful, but essentially vapid. Without lending any firm detail, the conversation sketches the two men, the meaning held in their play rather than the words themselves. Neither Feng nor Zhukov are known by the names they were born with, and both have false histories, designed to trap and confuse any that might trace them back to the island, or the secret heart of Abraxas. History will be kind to them, for they intend to write it. Nonetheless, all fictions must be perverted truths, and this is the truth they have decided will be their first, so far as the world is concerned.
Cameras feed images of their meeting back to the delegates. Feng’s audience sees that he has the ability to interact with the common soldiery. Zhukov’s veiled audience, with a greater understanding of the depth and subtleties of the world, appreciate a quiet move well made, noting the cues of posture and speech that tell where control truly rests. Each raises a wry smile at the sight of their secondary feeds, showing the men and women in Feng’s room imagining that they are in control.
Their purpose met, Feng and Zhukov ostentatiously shake hands and exchange details, both minds lingering on Mia. Her contribution to the project, and their lives, has been both vast and subtle.
For all their respective genius, both lack a simple humanity that Mia embodies, and each fears what they and the project will become now it has been given into the world’s uncareful hands.
As the generals put on their Zatoichi, the globe in Amenti lights up. Above the geopolitical map, the new users appear, the twitching grid above the world growing a new layer. Icons flash over each user’s home location, coloured to reflect their basic psychological approach, hues shifting as they use their Zatoichi and the integrated systems within start mining data from them in return.
This is the true test. The idea has been driven by Asimov’s psychohistory, and the value of being able to watch the flow of man’s mind as it expressed through history. If the Rhizome can quietly and effectively test its suppositions, it will almost immediately create a powerful new tool for understanding and manipulating the world.
It is an attempt to create a metalayer, one that focuses upon the minds of the elect, rather than on surveillance of whole populations. The rhizome flowers, and somewhere deep in its centre, hidden by so many layers he can barely be said to be there at all, Gerald screams.
When they return, the meetings diverge, coming to the heart, matters that cannot be spoken of in public. The sound and fury of the presentation, the wonder of the new technology, will attract attention and distract from this part of the meeting. Feng’s role is now merely pandering to his audience, while the true meeting continues in Zhukov’s chamber.
Feng does not mind. He is habituated to dismissing his ethical concerns by now. All that remains for him is a gentle sales pitch, dealing with details of the Zatoichi that exist to reassure more than tempt. He calmly spins the half-truth that, if effective, will see the Zatoichi gladly and happily rolled out by the increasingly embattled central authorities of the world.
Once more into the breach, he mutters to himself, as he forces one last smile. “The most powerful aspect of this system is the extent to which it can be used to train soldiers. Because it interacts with the person it is bound to, the Zatoichi provides a path of learning, and can be used to ensure loyalty to central command.”
The room brightens for a second, to emphasise and reinforce the deceptive joke. “It won’t work on you, because you are all too old, too set in your methods, to be open to this kind of persuasion. Used on younger men and women, it can ensure they are bound to the ideals of state in a way that was impossible before.”
Images of true warrior-citizens emerge, paragons who have internalised the ideals of nation and state. “It will create a new generation of military heroes. They will be able to use whatever is present, instead of relying on communications and contact from bases and equipment miles away. It is the culmination of the project that we began a decade ago, and it is a success, by any measure.” Feng relaxes, and thinks of Zhukov, to whom the true task now passes.
With his meeting reaching its apex, Zhukov smiles without humour or compassion, a bright flicker in his eye. It is almost too easy. It is the failing of all men, he supposes. Power brings nothing but the desire for power, and the narrower a man’s vision, the easier to blind and bind him.
He knows, and reminds himself now, that all men are most vulnerable to their greatest strengths. Looking around, he realises that it is doubly so to those comfortable with their hard-won abilities. As always, he fails to see this flaw in himself.
Early in his life, Zhukov had had a revelation, one so clichéd that everybody knows but few internalise it. There is nothing stopping you from doing anything you want to do, if you are merely willing to suffer the consequences. Oh, there were laws, and social mores, and a thousand ties that bind, but none of them truly bound.
Eventually, at an age where most men were beginning to quietly settle down, the idea came to him - he will force the change that he had seen arrested so many times in his life. He will let the chaos rise, outside the control of those that claim that it can only bring harm, and once the flames have died, he will stand in the glistening edifice that mankind will become, knowing that he is part of it.
Zhukov’s voice falls, carrying across an acoustically perfect space. “All of what you have heard will be commonly known. What will be hidden is the extent to which the Zatoichi can be used for personality modification. We present you the ability to warp a man’s mind towards a set intent. Loyalty and reliability can be ensured, especially if one is not too concerned with the long term value of one’s military assets.”
The screens flash with a simplified version of the console commands in Feng’s room. “If you think of a black square, the superadmin access of your device will unlock, and you will be able to see the ways in which it can be used to modify the minds of the users.”
The spotlight on him dims imperceptibly. “The major limitations is that the Zatoichi, like any other weapon, cannot just be used. To do so is to invite immediate defeat. Each Zatoichi is a thing of its own, developed for a specific time and military situation. Every soldier equipped with one for long enough becomes a master, but attaining that mastery is only for the truly strong of will and heart.”
The screens fill with images of legendary kings and emperors, their honour guards resplendent around them, grand viziers in the shadowed background. “These soldiers will become the perfect judicants. They will be fully indoctrinated with the legal and civil as well as military strategies of your nation. More importantly, they will be indoctrinated to you, personally and secretly. The value of a handful of such men does not need to be stated.”
He stands straighter, and his viewers relax, recognising the stance of a considered opinion of a difficult topic. “For many, the process will drive them insane. It takes months in most cases, and there are clear warning signs. Before we knew what we were testing for, we lost thirty hard-worn soldiers to madness and death. Every man was a warrior born, but each was broken inside, in ways no assessment could find. These soldiers could not accept the expansion of their awareness that true Zatoichi integration requires.”
He looks up, his eyes catching the light and somehow becoming darker. “From every failure, we learned more, and the system is as well developed as it can be. It cannot be used against us, for anyone that does so will be visible to the whole network immediately, and invites swift and absolute retribution.”
The images develop across the years. Soon, the guards all wear Zatoichi, and bear subtly more heroic mien. “What we have given you is the ability to create a praetorian elite that answer to no-one but you. They will be the perfect synthesis of soldier and citizen, as dedicated as martyrs. And you will have the keys to their minds.”
He leaves it there, knowing that he has broken through the veneer of cynicism that masks the strange and terrible convictions of his audience.
It is a truth denied by the hopeful of heart, but absolute nonetheless. There is no fall from grace for the powerful, no denial of a greater truth or meaning to reality. Instead, each believes absolutely in their own agenda, no matter their world-weary pose. Their eager eyes disappear, and the room vacates as quickly as it had filled.
While Zhukov finishes, Feng walks down a steel-gray corridor, faint hums and snaps following him as the walls and doors reconfigure and access to a secret sanctum is granted.
As he approaches the entrance to the safe room, false colour flashes across his vision, an artificial overlay of his command fog penetrating the environment, meshing with the sensors there. As they do, it constructs a new world, a false Feng for the benefit of the ubiquitous cameras. While in the sanctum, Archons do not disappear from the world, for a hole is as visible as a presence. Instead, software carefully reconstructs traces of them resting or travelling in expected locations.
Freed from view, he untenses. These meetings with Zhukov have always represented a moment of peace for them both, a brief respite from and consideration of the world which they are so entangled by outside.
Early in the project, he realised the potential harm, as well as the potential good, of what they were doing. Unable to speak of it to anyone else, he brought his concerns to Zhukov in one of their weekly Go games.
It turned out that Zhukov had also been quietly concerned about this, and had simply been waiting for Feng to catch up with his thoughts before proceeding.
The issue was as simple as it was intractable. The level of strategic technology that the Zatoichi represent is vast, and virtually anyone can be trained to use one. The training takes time, but its adaptive routines ensure that it is usable by anyone that commits to it.
That was the good, and the bad. The most successful users of the Zatoichi, who developed in ways that made then more than human, would by the same token suffer the darkest consequences. The Zatoichi was a brainwashing tool at a level of unprecedented sophistication.
History is full of men whose minds are stolen, but what sublime phenomena might come if we steal their hearts? What would men who truly believed in their cause do, when paired with such tactical abilities?
It was just as he had feared, realised through what he had hoped for most. When he had first seen Zhukov’s projections, the scales dropped from Feng’s eyes. It was a damascene moment that will lead him first to hell, and later to redemption, once all hope is lost.
They decided to bring it to Mia, who remained the group’s most capable machine intelligence designer. Feng had been dancing shadows around her for months, and it had taken a trouble that he cannot resolve to bring her into the discussion.
Thinking back, he smiles, a dark shadow rending his heart. Her true genius had become evident in those days of desperate thought and development. She had come to an understanding of the system that exceeded even Feng, its principal designer. Within months, she had found a way to hardwire emotional connections within the Zatoichi, ensuring that whatever their effect they could not dissociate users from their empathy.
They hoped that this would remediate the psychopathy that cursed Zatoichi users, who would become humanised, more likely to use less harmful strategies and defences. It made the Zatoichi more unpredictable, but prohibited the maximum harm it could do.
Sometimes, when he breathes the ocean and the hint of rot in the air, he remembers it as another Elysium, a place of furious intellectual and emotional pleasure, but turns away from the memory of light.
This sanctum is a poor ghost of that blessed haven. Both Feng and Zhukov like it here, for the same reasons. It is quiet, and even though others have access, few ever come. Mostly, the demands of secrecy overcome any desire for community, especially for those that make a trade claiming that transparency is important.
Feng notes a green light in a corner of his vision, and Zhukov strides into the room, casually checking through the secure message feeds that come through to him as the lights flashed on. As he passes the threshold of the room, his shoulders drop, the stride breaking into a gentle amble mid-step. Feng feels his own tension ease in response, and smiles. “Drink? There’s a decent Islay here, as well as a superlative high mountain Lapsang.”
Zhukov responds reflexively, his eyes lazily scanning the room. “Tea, please.”
Feng begins the process of making the tea, while Zhukov settles into place in one of the chairs, his eyes half closing as he finally relaxes. The man has a quiet calm and poise that lends him an air of absolute authority, and creates no small measure of resentment from those that pretend their rank reflects their military prowess.
Settling into place opposite Zhukov, Feng puts down the tea, and waves his hands, the room darkening around them in response as the game grid lights up. “Mia sends her regards. She said to tell you.... What was it now... Ah, yes... you will burn in a thousand hells for your warlike nature, and to thank you for the biographies.” Feng shrugs, unsure of such easy personal contact. It is a way of being he has never understood, and the more comfortable others become the more awkward he is.
Zhukov smiles happily, and leans back. “Of course. And you may tell your lovely wife in return that no hell could be worse than her liberal utopia, and that the recipes she sent through were superb. I take it she is well?”
Feng breathes deeply, preparing himself to speak the words he has been whispering under his breath since the journey that brought him here. “She will be happier for no longer being on the team, I think. It has always been a conflict for her, and I think this will be the breaking point. We are having... trouble.... But it will be okay. I hope.”
He casts around for something to take his mind off the previous day, and the darkness he left between them. Blinking away his fear, he speaks. “Your move.”
Between them, a Go board lights up, a game that has taken place across months. Since they met, they have played, and for each series victory, the winner has been allowed to introduce, remove, or alter a single rule, making each series truly unique.
It is their own quiet homage to Gerald, and the strange mutations he has taken, now invisible to them both. They revel in it, and Zhukov knows enough to see that the change of subject is one that is welcome to Feng.
As the game ticks on, they come to the real reason they have both come here. Feng, trying to banish thoughts of Mia, speaks first. “So how did we do? Is this really going to work, and give us a way of humanising the most militant, or is it just going to go wrong? Do we stand on the cusp of Haldeman’s dream or Huxley’s nightmare?”
Zhukov laughs, a surprisingly youthful and free sound. “Ah, my friend, you always were one for the overly literary approach. Well, in your context, and with Mia’s help, we have done all we can to achieve the dream. In this future we have created, soldiers will be more human than those they protect, not less.” Gesturing dismissively, his voice eases. “And we can maintain central control, of that I am sure.”
Feng sucks at his lip, uncertain. This is the part that he has been dreading. They have had this conversation a thousand times before, but never found resolution. There is something wrong, an aspect of the project that he cannot properly conceive of. It nags at him like a loose tooth.
Throwing up a familiar image of triumph turned to defeat, Feng stares at the screen as the mute voice speaks. “Do you remember that ridiculous speech of Rumsfeld’s? Known unknowns, unknown knowns, all that? Do you not worry that there are unknown unknowns here, things that even our most sophisticated projections and scenarios have not considered?”
This is a field that Zhukov has played in often, and his answer is one born of both thought and experience. “Of course. There always are. But what does it matter? If we let ourselves be paralysed by what could be, then we will never do anything at all. The time is right for this, and we may never have this chance again. The world turns, and if we do not locate ourselves at the axis, it will turn without us, and grind us to dust.”
He runs his hands through his hair to dispel the ghosts. “There was a time I believed in uncertainty, as you do, but that was long ago. No, I understand that it is better to be sure, and wrong, than confuse oneself with questions. They would never stop the project. The only option is to leave it to lesser minds, and lesser men. We would not be who we are if we found that acceptable,” Zhukov’s voice and body ring with Apollonian grace. “We have but two options, to fight or to surrender - and that is no choice at all.”
Feng sighs, despondent but happy to have his concerns soothed. “Well, I hope you’re right. I guess there’s nothing more to be said. And it’s time for me to go and face the music. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Mia is not home when Feng returns. He steps into the house, his hands shaking quietly in the post-adrenal rush of the day. That is how he explains it to himself, anyway, refusing to admit that the silence and darkness on the other side of the door is something he fears far more than the failure of his project.
He waves, and the door opens. Inside, he finds a message from her. It is simple, to the point, and almost cold in its perfect austerity. It says simply that she would be gone for a few days, perhaps a few weeks, and would return to the work but not their home. The note does not say why, but this is no surprise. His betrayal of her and her work has no words that will fit it.
She will one day be his, and mankind’s, redemption, but only the damned can be saved, and Feng is not yet truly damned.
He sits on the back steps, looking out over the gently rolling hills as the clouds gather on the horizon and the stars came out.
