dydx - Chapter II: Object-Oriented
Guns are a book's best friends
Previous Chapter
The steamship roared, plummeting down a thundering cascade, reshaping earth and water in its wake, uprooting trees and tearing memories from the rocks. In its path stood a man, a rugged face carved from history itself. The raw power of the beast scarred the riverbed as it raged towards him. Suddenly, his voice, “And cut…” and all was still. Pulleys now pulled.
Morningtide, their hair blue but less brightly than yesterday, approached him. The man acknowledged them, and with a swift motion, ordered his entourage aside.
“Every man should pull a boat over a mountain once in his life,” the man began, a smirk on his lips. “Then let go. An offer to appease the river gods.” Introductions weren’t needed; clumsy pageantry had made way to cold, factual subbriefs.
“That ship’s been to hell and back, resurrected time and again,” the man gestured expansively, motioning towards the vessel standing in the makeshift movie set in Stringplaza, “salvaged from the desolation of Central RUSA. Looking at it, I wonder if it is still the same boat. Most of what surrounds us,” he indicated the movie paraphernalia, “recovered from the barren wastelands of Western DUSA and shipped here. We’re getting closer to their ways.”
“Who’d watch a film not made for them?” Morningtide remarked, highlighting the absurdity. “Sounds creepy, voyeuristic... and the risk of injury and offence…”
The man, his boots softly squelching on the sodden ground, leaned in, “What they did was about the hardship of creation, not the joy of consumption.” Morningtide replied dryly, “Seems counterproductive to expect someone to enjoy something they couldn’t possibly relate to.”
The ground rumbled in protest, but against the airborne power overhead, “V-22 Ospreys, Stockhausen’s touch on them.” Thanks to the Lotto, their dialogue remained clear despite the uproar, and the man didn’t have to explain who Stockhausen was or what was a V-22 Osprey.
The blaring noise startled a flock of flamingoes resting by the riverbank, sending them into a frenzied flight. “Migrating birds. We trained them, offered them sanctuary, but they always leave, their faith outdoing our reason,” the man stuttered, yet his words remained crisp and clear, thanks to the Lotto.
The man addressed Morningtide’s wariness of his armed escorts, “Our business, writing History, is a dangerous domain. There are always those plotting to rewrite it. D’you know the common thread that unites all foundational texts? They’re written by the pens with superior firepower. Might makes write. And guns, they’re a book’s best friends."
“We’ve tasks at hand. You’re with me,” the man directed, leading the way deeper into the Daemon. The Stringplaza faded as they headed for the Aequum Procurator.
They make their way around the Daemon gliding on Glaciem displacers underfoot. The displacers’ tracks divide Contemporia’s world into a three-dimensional mesh of sharp graviton beams — once a riddle, gravitons were now the Daemonites’ plaything.
Capable of incredible speeds with the ease of a stroll on the beach, the system surges through wave-patterns of modified gravity, buoyed by clouds of sonogen — a gas whose density changes with the compression effects of sound waves. To those without a functioning Hozhonogi, it’s just a misty pavement. To Contemporians, it feelt like flying while always touching the ground.
Facing Morningtide, the man comments, “The Glaciem was invented here, and naturally, we wanted to give it a fancy name, reflecting the idea of ‘solid water.’ In our brilliance, we overlooked the obvious — a word for it already existed: simply ‘ice.’ So, we settled on the Latin.”
They enter the Aequum’s audience room, which is both old and new; soaring Gothic spires and stained-glass windows harmonise with cold metallic angles and modern lights. Dominating the entrance, the motto ‘Romani Robur, Graeci Speculatio’ captures the Aequum’s ethos.
“The Daemon,” the man began, his voice echoing slightly, “straddles the line between Roman concrete and Greek abstract. This forum embodies that balance. Reminding us that Contemporia, despite its aspirations, might never be solid enough to dissolve into air.”
Clearing his throat, he continued, “Though like you I’ve one of those tepid Contemporian names, I also bear an age-old title: Pontifex. And that’s how you’ll address me,” he said simply.
A distant look clouded his eyes. “Julius Caesar, a renaissance man before the Renaissance, was a great man with great flaws — his heroics always superseding his crimes. Until they no longer could. Like the Emperors, Popes, and Bureaugogues that followed, he was assigned the title of Pontifex. Now, it falls to me to bridge the gap between building and restoring, hoping I can transform fatal flaws into manageable imperfections.”
The dreariness of the would-be prestigious occasion wasn’t lost on the attendees. The Daemon had long been neglected, cast into the common grave Contemporians reserved for all things extraneous to them. Only a handful witness the event, with some semblance of curiosity, in the half-empty Aequum Procurator. At its centre, the Pontifex reclined, with an air of practiced eloquence.
“As has been subbriefed, Morningtide, honourable delegate of Agora sortition 1204/Prairial, pledges before us. The Oikos dispatched two embassies: I recognise Rainwater and Seahawk. Two when I requested one, why? Hell if I know.” Morningtide’s eye slide over the polished metallic forms of the Lotto-certified avatars. The Pontifex continued, as if speaking to Morningtide, “Bureaucracy is insatiable, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all you,” he reassured, “Frankly, you’d be swallowed whole.”
“He’s got a a knack for theatrics”, Morningtide thought. At least it was an earnest effort, a refreshing departure from the rehearsed insincerity that surrounded.
“The Agora has spoken. Release the records of the unintelligibility event,” Seahawk initiated, with bileshot eyes beneath the flicker of their holographic visage.
The Pontifex sighed, with an air of resignation, “Randomness. The very essence of the Lotto. The machine ought to learn from us, not teach us. Any inexplicable errors, the product of randomness. Unless there’s method behind the Lotto’s hallucinations …”
Seahawk shot back, “Your words tread dangerously close to Lotto denial, Pontifex. Maybe the Rebooters have a point about the Daemon’s absent leadership.”
The Pontifex just shook his head. “This seat isn’t empty, I assure you. I hear the argument that full transparency is the best cloak for deceit, so I’m disinclined to feed the beast with our unmediated records.”
Rainwater intervened, their voice chillingly stern, “The Oikos wishes to remind everyone that this wasn’t just some random glitch. It seems triggered by an unnatural death, the likes of which haven’t occurred since before any of us were born.”
With a pensive chuckle, the Pontifex retorted, “Do enlighten us on the concept of birth in our age,” he said, “Aren’t we all ushered into this world according to a grand plan? When, then, is our birth? At the whim of a reproductive algorithm, within the confines of a petri dish, at our first breath… or just whenever the Lotto decrees?”
Gesturing towards the attendees, the Pontifex continued, “Don’t be mistaken. I too am on a steady diet of sweet dreams, concocted by our designer, portioned by our butcher, and served by our shepherd,” he admitted. “Liberty, she wasn’t a natural. Maybe her end is less a glitch and more the resurgence of primitive emotions.”
Morningtide objected, leaning back, “Instead of living, we’re here discussing how someone stopped doing just that. I insist we have a mission to fulfill.”
Despite his outward calm, Morningtide’s indifference had riled the Pontifex. “You lack the fire, Morningtide, to be a true sociopath, unlike the lot here. But when apathy is commendable, we’re surely on the edge.”
Seahawk cut in, the urgency of an existential threat ringing in his tone, “Your refusal to disclose the records could very well tip us over that edge, Pontifex.” The weight of his warning lingered, “I reckon you’re aware that the Daemon’s choice to tinker with timelines over this unintelligibility has stalled crucial societal functions. Our reproductive reserves, as you might have observed, are on the decline.”
The Pontifex exhaled slowly, a wry smirk betraying him. “Threats of violence,” he almost whispered, “have a way of bringing minds together.”
Looking around, he continued, “Did it ever occur to you that, just maybe, the Lotto doesn’t censor us at all? Or that the Daemon’s records mightn't be reliable, but a sleight of hand instead?” Silence. “You come to me, desperate for the records of a tragedy, but you’re blind to the tragedy itself.”
“Once, we tried to feed ‘Do no harm,’ the Hippocratic Oath, into the Lotto. It was a controlled experiment on healthcare ethics. The Lotto didn’t understand it; we got an ‘unintelligible’. Granted, it didn’t occur naturally, but it’s evidence that it isn’t impossible.” The Pontifex observed.
“We’re not mere scribes,” he said, motioning to the device. “We don’t document every blink, every breath. We chronicle the common denominators, the universally witnessed events. We don’t keep copies of the present; we keep it alive for posterity.”
He paused. “So, in the strictest sense, I can’t just ‘produce’ a record for you.”
Another sigh, this one deeper. “I won’t lie. I’m not keen on giving the Lotto access to the records, and I’ve no doubt you’d feed it anything I hand you. However,” he leaned forward, “I’ll give you a name, hoping it might bring some resolution.”
Seahawk laughed dryly. “Your proposal demands a special level of intellectual dishonesty to accept, but it’s one I’ve consistently risen to.”
The Pontifex responded with a hint of scorn, “You, dear Seahawk, protest as if the universe owes you favours. But it doesn’t.” After a moment of thickening silence, his next word echoed through the ornate chamber: “Vidamundo.”
The moment the name echoed, the Oikos vanished, leaving Morningtide a lone silhouette flanked by the mechanical inertia of their embassies. Their task for the Agora sortition 1204/Prairal was accomplished, the weight of knowledge evident in their mind. “Now, what?”
The Daemon seemed worlds apart from Priciex, the capital state of Contemporia where Morningtide had spent all their days. Yet, there was a vague sense of familiarity about the place. “Isn’t it mad how we can be blind to the beauty on our doorstep? Why haven’t I been here before?”
Stepping out of the Aequum, the Pontifex introduced his aide to them. “Our rendezvous today isn’t a happy one,” he confessed, urging Morningtide to keep pace. “Even so, we’re in the middle of Bloomsfest, our holiday season. Bloomsday was back on the 2nd; today’s the 9th of the week — still a stretch ahead. It’s a busy time for us. Breakspear is my most trusted advisor, personally overseeing the celebrations. Let us give you the tour.”
Breakspear, with purposeful earnestness, spoke, “Bloomsfest isn’t a nod to the past; it’s an ode to our shared experience. An opportunity to acknowledge our mutual fate.”
Bloomsfest, with its deep, dizzying grandeur, marked the moment when Contemporians intimately connected, converging their thoughts and feelings into one communal festival that synchronised a year’s worth of living experiences.
Outside, the air hummed old and rich with the soaring octaves from Tannhäuser, dueling against a steely aria from Turandot. “Without the Lotto, it’d sound like cats quarreling on chalkboards. Postkaryote technology, you see, has transformed our auditory experiences, enabling 3D partitures — we're not only listening to multiple masterpieces at once, we’re living them,” Breakspear remarked.
“Well, to me,” the Pontifex ponders, “ballet accomplishes just that—it’s layers upon layers of art, all dancing together. What’s key, though, is how music fine-tunes us, as it moves with time.”
As they got closer, the music faded into the backdrop, and hushed tones of conversation grew more distinct, with laughter rippling through the air like a long-lost melody. Four figures stood engrossed, lost in their own world, their movements fluid and naturally human. Mari Samuelsen, with a playful glint in her eyes, theatrically aimed her violin at Niccolò Paganini’s head, all under the watchful eyes of Franz Liszt.
A big man momentarily pulled the Pontifex’s into a hearty embrace. As they parted, the Pontifex says, “Grazie, Luciano,” a grin gracing his face. “She missed a note after 12 hours of practice. Just the one.”
“Look at them, casually conversing, two centuries or more parting them from each other and even more from us. And yet, it is as if they live and breathe, better than we do,” the Pontifex remarked, his hand cutting a poetic arc in the air, reverence thick in his voice.
Morningtide’s face betrayed their shock. Not at the technology, now even considered archaic, but at the revelation of a time when there were once universally revered artists — creators, performers, and risk-takers. And they were real — imperfect, unaltered, unoptimised. “These aren’t renditions; they’re memories from when the human spirit was not simply conjured on demand,” they reflected. An era when cultural experiences transcended the illusion of controlling personal narratives. The meaning of Bloomsfest became clear.
“There’s beauty in the note out of place,” the Pontifex’s voice carried a palpable sense of loss. “No one wants the growing pains nowadays,” he added, looking away. “Everyone seeks easy pleasures. No grit, especially not for art.”
“They used to joke about a time when everyone vied to be the village’s poet, only to end up in the mines because there was room for only one. But now, there’s an even darker twist,” he said, facing Morningtide with haunted eyes. “When luxury is but a thought away, no one craves the poet’s laurel, nor do they wish to endure the sting of a verse. The hunger for unencumbered leisure has made us blind to art’s labours.”
His gaze fell on the ensemble. “The greats, they gave their soul — commitment, passion, and yes, suffering. The trials and tribulations, countless failures before tasting the sweetness of success. But now... if they walked with us, their tunes would fall on ears too lazy to truly listen.” His glance slid to the silent Breakspear.
“It seems even our Lotto doesn’t want to go through growing pains anymore. Promising all, demanding nothing, it steals the allure of the struggle, the beauty of imperfection. We forget the whole point of being human,” Breakspear concluded the Pontifex’s thought.
As they journeyed through the Daemon, the Pontifex delineated its multifaceted roles: a centre for extensive intellectual pursuits whose responsibilities extended far beyond the creation and maintenance of timelines, both chronological and subjective. It also oversaw research programs on the Omega Point and the Theory of Everything, mediated Old Law settlements, and managed Contemporia’s defence systems, among other exploits that fell under its mandate.
The landscape around them was in constant flux, each passing structure an emblem of the Daemon’s inherent dynamism. Yet none were as grand as the Fulcrum, the district-state responsible for Contemporia’s defence. This towering pyramid, a monolith of technological prowess, was a sentinel for both the Daemon and Contemporia as a whole.
As the Pontifex explained, he believed that entrusting the Lotto with defence was a fools’ errand, a notion the Oikos vehemently disagreed with, as they aimed to transfer the Daemon’s so-called ‘monopoly of violence’ into the ‘social control’ of the Lotto.
“Why would ‘the Patriarchy,’ as they nicknamed us long ago, need a technology capable of destroying the world only for self-defence?” the Pontifex recalled. “This tradition dates back to a time when man was the wolf of man, but now the tables have turned; it seems to be their argument.”
Upon reaching the Fulcrum, the Pontifex introduced the details of Contemporia’s defence mechanism to Morningtide. Nestled deep at the heart of the land, a network of particle accelerators pulsated with potential energy, hurling protons at near-photon speeds. Once unleashed, these high-energy projectiles could instantly inflict massive damage on any threat.
One major advantage of this mechanism was the accuracy of the proton beam. Guided by magnetic fields, the beams could target projectiles with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, destroying only what was necessary.
Yet, dwarfing this subterranean marvel was the looming shadow of the Abaddon — a colossal accelerator cradled by the lunar crust. Such was its stature that it required decentralised stewardship, drawing together the political forces of Contemporia’s Agora and Auricene’s Diet — the ruling body of a foreign state — for a dire bond of mutual safety.
Guiding their visit to the Fulcrum was Malcolm Severn, the Redfish. His Expolitan lineage was evident in his features, as if they were sculpted from stone and serenity. He welcomed them with a warm smile, his voice unwavering amidst the humming machinery surrounding them. “Everything is more or less fine, though there’s precious little we can do to about it.” Was his usual remark.
Morningtide noticed the familiar golden ratio spiral adorning Redfish’s attire, matching the insignia worn by the Pontifex’s guards. The unspoken complexities of Contemporia’s security apparatus now appeared more intricate than they had initially imagined.
Exiting the stern embrace of the Fulcrum, the Pontifex contemplated the Daemon’s inception. “No one wished us into existence,” he intoned, his voice filling the space as they continued to glide along the displacers.
An unplanned amalgamation of political influence and scientific curiosity — bound by human capability — , the Daemon stood defiantly against the Oikos’ doctrine: only raw power could shape destiny. It traced its origins to an unassuming project aimed at resurrecting the Library of Celsus, seeking to breathe life into lost books using artificial intelligence to interpolate ancient ideas from new, powered by quantum computing and the roaring furnace of nuclear fusion. The task of reviving history set the wheels in motion for the Daemon’s ascendance as Contemporia’s main centre of knowledge.
“Contemporia has a vice, squeezing our brightest minds into the narrowest of cubicles. Here, we don’t hide our light under bushels. We read. We think. We introspect. We have no faith in science," the Pontifex shared, gesturing around at the vastness of the Daemon.
Their commitment to classical forms of knowledge didn’t hinder their connection with the Lotto, which, like the rest of Contemporia, poured the world into their consciousness. However, instead of becoming complacent, the Daemonites used it to augment their abilities, not replace them.
As they talked, they drifted towards the district-state of the Hanging Gardens of Tuning Forks — the universe’s ticker tape where the chronicles of time and history were etched with resonating wavelengths. The Garden wasn’t a patch of lush earthly greenery, but sprawling terraces of resonating tuning forks, moulded from room-temperature superconducting alloys.
From a distance, they watched: the forks swayed, hummed, their hues and contours ever-changing — sometimes enormous, at others seemingly disappearing. All the while, rearranging into chaotically magnificent patterns, where golden ratios danced with fractals.
“They move, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in dissonance… like life, like history. They transform across every dimension, save for frequency. Every change made, just to preserve their frequency constant,” Breakspear elucidated their behaviour.
The Garden, a mosaic of time’s countless pathways, converging and diverging. Each fork stands a decision point, a junction, a moment that blooms into endless possibilities. Every one resonating with the wavelength of a choice made, connecting subjective and objective time.
At the gates of the Garden stood a grand arch, the Pontifex gestured to it, intoning the district-state’s motto, “Ars in Chrono, Historia Status… time-keeping is an art, history-keeping is politics.”
The Garden’s labyrinthine paths led them on as the soothing drone of the resonating forks washed over. Morningtide felt a hint of dizziness slowly enveloping them. Reality seemed to waiver, subtly at first, then more dramatically. It was a known effect, these forks often disrupted the Hozhonogi area.
Each step drew Morningtide further into the bewildering embrace of relativity precipitated by the forks. What began as a stroll in the garden was now a dizzying descent, with reckless abandon, into the very forges of reality.
Visions of their surroundings stretching and contracting like a rubber band — shapes and figures surging, then vanishing only to reappear in distorted dimensions. Pathways that first stretched endlessly into the horizon and then recoiled. Nausea tightened its grip on Morningtide, who felt sick and their heart raced.
The Pontifex, no stranger to the phenomena, moved with practiced ease, his eyes betraying a blend of mocking irony and fascination. He touches a fork, reality bends sending distorting ripples through their surroundings. Time folded upon itself, spiraling inside out. Morningtide saw their past and future.
Beside them, Breakspeare stood, seemingly undisturbed. In his face the familiarity of one who had witnessed these distortions time and again, but the faint glint of wonder in his eyes suggested the Garden never ceased to astonish.
As the tuning forks resonated, the world was alive, then dead. Vivid, then opaque. Loud, then silent. Morningtide felt it all. They got used to the Garden as time raced through and back. It wasn’t just around them. They were part of it now. Awe supplanted unease.
Roaming the Gardens, the Pontifex recounted, “We could always predict time. First with sundials, then we sough to trap time, bottling it in Klepsydra. We’ve used sand, water, shadows, crystals and atoms to predict time. Now, these vibrating strings. But in the past, time was just tick-tocks, until the strings pried open the doors of subjective time.”
With the forks’ entropic sound at the background, he pressed on, “We captured most of time by harnessing the hours. But not all. The elusive moments teeming with motifs, archetypes, experiences, always got away."
The Pontifex paused, a hint of weariness in his eyes, then proceeded, “Tick-tocks may count time, but they aren’t time. Time is imagined, time is experienced. Each fork here is a tangible quantum state, their singular frequency is their mark in the stage of reality.”
“Our brains don’t tick-tock. Spend a few hours with Dante’s Commedia and you’re a decade wiser. Conversely, the Lotto can easily churn out thousands of Dante’s works in a second for our personal amusement, but it would only improve our experience marginally. As a culture, we demand the luxury of time to truly appreciate genius, at least five hundred years for a single Dante. That’s the main lesson I learnt from the Celsus project,” the Pontifex concluded.
The Garden left an indelible mark on Morningtide. Experiencing subjective time was like listening to infinite new songs for the first time, all at the same time. Objective time felt like listening to the same song over and over again. Repetition bred familiarity, which in turn dulled the senses. Anticipation, memory, both conspiring to mute the music.
The Daemon’s duality of time — objective, where the present can only affect the future, and subjective, where the present can affect both the future and the past — brought its own blend of opportunities and challenges. Time wasn’t a stock of seconds, it was a flow of quantum states. Including the inevitable decay of the body. The Daemon, then, emerged as the gatekeepers, guarding the tracks upon which postkaryote tech thundered forward.
“The Lotto brought Damocle’s sword to a quantum gunfight,” Breakspear teased. “It only knows the clock’s time. It can’t feel time. To the Lotto, the future are but boxes to tick, to us it is a canvas ripe for creation. We pluck its strings and make it music.”
The Lotto's flaw? It became too good in predicting its own version of the future. Each successful prediction shrank its realm of possibilities. Just as Chronos devoured his young to continue to thrive, the Lotto fed on its own errors to grow. Starved of errors to amend, its prescience waned. In many ways an unintelligibility was inevitable. The Lotto was cursed with a perfect knowledge of answers, but only for questions previously posed. Unlike us, it knows what it knows, boxed into its own corner.
As they distanced themselves from the Garden’s shimmering chaos, they edged closer to the very nerve centre of it all: the district-state of Nautheseion. The Pontifex gave a half-smile, revealing the name was their tribute to the ship of Theseus. “A jest,” he confessed, “yet fitting. Important things often are made in jest.”
The stonework at the Nautheseion’s entrance bore yet another Latin decree: ‘Utor neque sum.’ Breakspear rendered with a smile, “I wield the tool; I am not the tool.”
The journey to the Nautheseion, however, was an illusion. With every step taken, the displacers ensured they covered only half the remaining distance to the building. It was as if they were forever inching closer but never quite there — a sly wink at the Lotto’s inherent limitations. For all its might, while the Lotto could endlessly approximate human intellect, it would forever be denied the nuance of true human insight.
Surveying the Nautheseion, tantalisingly out of reach, the Pontifex exhaled deeply. “This is our crucible, where we tease out whether we even exist at all, and where the Theory of Everything is taking shape. Some mistake it as our administrative centre. They couldn’t be more off the mark. But alas, our destination lies elsewhere today. Perhaps, another time.”
And with a smile, the Pontifex concluded, “I'll let you go now. I trust you have accomplished what you came here for.”
Heading homeward, Morningtide bypassed the ubiquitous displacers, opting instead for the ‘backroads’ — the worn dirt boulevards connecting the Daemon and Priciex. They welcomed the feeling of walking on their own legs, finding understated familiarity in it. Along the way, they plucked fruits from the orchards, an act nearly unthinkable for a Contemporian, as they tasted foul, awkward and out of place — “just as Hyeronymus Bosch intended,” Morningtide figured.
They felt a sense of relief wash over them. Duty, now a thing of the past.
Arriving at their lifepad, having briefly surrendered to the displacers’ convenience, Morningtide heeded Breakspear’s advice: “Immerse yourself in what was once common culture.” With the Lotto’s assistance, Morningtide watched the iconic Superbowl LXX, witnessed Block playing chess with the Reaper, and swayed to Dizzie Gillespie on the Ed Sullivan Show. Simultaneously.
They wondered if there was a film where Christopher Lee, the war spy, played himself. How then would one tell memory from fiction? Night was still young.
A smirk curled upon recalling the Pontifex’s parting words, the Daemon’s creed: “Vivere est resonare — to live is to resonate.”
Morningtide made a movie. It raised a red flag.
This is a chapter of a fiction series I intend to further refine into a book. I would greatly appreciate your feedback at caufskiviers@gmail.com. If you’re interested in being a beta reader in the future or participating in the project in any capacity please reach out for a chat.
