SANITY LINE

Prologue - Amnesiac

 

The more power you wield, the more you fear to lose it. So went the ancient saying, anyway, that old proverb born in one era or another when the unwashed masses wanted to rise up from their "enslavement".

 

                As Vidcund Därk scanned his eyes around Media Management Center #11, he began to grasp the full meaning of that phrase. Such a powerful resource – both in terms of literal computing power, and the actual realpolitik-power such control over mass media generated – had come at proportionally great expense to the powers that be. Millions, if not billions of dollars in construction costs, not to mention the operations and staffing, not to mention the bribes to keep the whole thing in such heavy secrecy that even the vast majority of employees thought it was for a completely different purpose than what it was. Security was tight - so tight that the public did not even know of the Media Management Program.

 

                In spite of a near-lifetime of loyal service to those powers – those men – Vidcund had a doubt that such a large investment could have been enough to stem the inexorable time of history’s great cycle. Human Culture had, in the ages it spanned, cycled more than once between being focused on gods or focused on kings, in all the various permutations that oft-disguised the pattern, ever since the first humans realized they could plant their crops and never have to roam again – likely long before that, in fact. That men – if the invisible purses behind the strings even were men – could hold that power indefinitely was, at best, a fuzzy prospect.

 

                “Agent, the broadcast you wanted to monitor will be going live in 45 seconds.”

 

                Vidcund accepted the usual paper cup of strongly-brewed mint tea from the aide, following him back over to one of the panoramic, multi-component displays that occupied its own little alcove in the large chamber. The mint, which he consumed greedily, was a scar of the psyche; one addiction, exchanged for another. Yet another of Project MOSES's scars, not unlike the barcode tattooed on his scapula.

 

                Ah, the powers of the powers that be…

 

                “I care a little less about the introductory content than I do about the specs. Where’s the livestream being recorded?”
                “Zaxton University, at the Azuldorf Campus, A.P. Castigaine Lecture Hall. Want the IP Number?”

                “The physical address is more than enough for me. What’s the broadcast delay?”
                “From camera to the distribution feed is about 6 seconds, including the two-second delay that the technician set manually.”
               

                Vidcund removed his sunglasses. The feed had, of course, long since started, and it would not do to ignore it completely. With them went a whole host of data streams - headlines of articles that needed his attention, the present time, a few locator pings... “… One of ours?”
                “No.”

 

                A faint nod. Professor Johnson was speaking. “… is, of course, an infinitely-regressive function, fully iterative and for all intents and purposes identical at all scales…”
                “So’s the number one. What’s the subject of the talk again?”

                “Proposed Interpretation of Non-Whole Base Number Structures, with Reference to Ancient Scholarship.”

 

                Right. Vidcund knew his fair share of math – he’d spearheaded a program that did quite a lot of work in taking real-world choas and making it both manageable and predictable. This complex, "hypermathematical" regimen was originally developed for economic simulation and, thanks to him, was now used for dodging bullets of a more literal variety. Even still, he could barely conceive of the idea of a number system that didn’t have its base as a whole number. It didn’t make sense in any of about fourteen different ways.

 

              Still, having weird ideas wasn’t illegal. Today, anyway.

 

                “… which leads us to the conclusion that the number system in the Pnakotic Manuscripts, at least in the 1877 German Editions, could in fact ONLY have been base-5.14.”

 

               Vidcund pursed his lips slightly, setting his cup aside. “I'm going need a longer delay on Professor Johnson’s feed. Thirty seconds minimum.”
                “No problem, we can make that look like buffering.”

 

                While the technicians scrambled at their keyboards to do what had to be done to buy Vidcund his extra twenty-four seconds, the sharply-dressed agent picked up the handset of the corded phone that was a component of a Supervisor’s standing workstation, dialling in a 16-digit sequence before immediately hanging up again, while he tucked his Bluetooth headset out of the pocket of his bespoke, polycomposite jacket and into his ear.

 

                Silently, the RFID reader near the door changed its status light from green to red, and the soundproof, frosted Aluminum Oxynitride fixture to remain quite firmly shut. “Can anyone get me Professor Johnson’s Agency Record?”

                “He doesn’t have one, Agent. We checked when you requested the Special Observance Order.”

                “Fraternal Brotherhood links?”
                “Nothing confirmed. He’s got a few dozen angles of association with Donnovan Kline, but so does-“
 

               “Almost everyone in the country in a faculty position,” Vidcund finished, bluntly and with that frustrated tone that only someone faced with dwindling information to predict what was about to happen to them could muster. “… What’s he going on about now? What’s that graph?”

 

                “A rendering of a figure from the book he’s referencing, if drawn using his fractional base…”

 

                Vidcund’s voice rose above the chatter of the room, though nobody present could recall it rising in tone above the usual frank-and-flat banality of the loyal Supervisory drone. To him, that seemed slightly remarkable. He was certainly as startled as he could remember being. “Shut down his net connection.”

 

                “There’s still a few hundred students in that lecture hall.”
                “Shut down our feed, too.” Vidcund ordered, tapping his earpiece a little more tightly into place to help listen to an instruction, while he replaced his sunglasses.

 

                Before his order had been carried out, a gasp went out from a few of the technicians who had nothing better to do than actually watch the feed. The camera man, who had grown increasingly lazy in his attempts to frame the professor properly in the shot, suddenly diverted his lens toward the doorway, where no less a person than Vidcund Därk himself had walked into the hall. In the next instant, the feed was cut, but the apparent illusion was manifest strongly enough that there was a stunned silence in , tucking his hand into his jacket. The operating room, and more than a few of the technicians, including his own Aide, were staring at him rather dumbfounded.

 

                It was the aide that voiced the obvious question. “Uh… Agent? How did you do that?”
                “Do what?” Vidcund was removing his earpiece and tuck it away. “Due to the nature of the material viewed, it is directed under Agency Division Standing Order that all personnel present for this Oversight Operation remain present until a Cleaning Crew may arrive and administer Amnesiacs.”

 

                There was a general groan. While of course none of them could ever remember having actually needed to accept such an order, they had frequently been drilled on it, and the frequency of the drills had turned the prospect of losing a day or two of memory as collateral damage for one single piece of information they probably hadn’t understood the significance of anyway into less of a negative than the wait that would follow such drills.

 

                That was why there was a slight undercurrent of surprise when the heavy footfalls of the composite-armoured Cleaning Crew arrived only a few moments later, familiar submachine guns tucked under their arms. The leader, shorter than the rest and without the helmet, saluted Därk, who responded with a tap of the sunglasses he had just placed back onto his face.

                “Seargent Drache. Identity verified.”
                “Agent Därk. You’re relieved.”

                There was a moan of protest that Därk himself wouldn’t have to go through the drill, as he slipped out between the barely-opened doors with Drache close in tow, after which the doors snapped audibly shut – far louder than their usual pneumatic hiss.

                “You ever wish they’d actually get around to inventing an Amnesiac, Vidcund?”
                “We’d probably have to cut the Surveillance Budget if they ever did." Vidcund slipped a freshly-unwrapped mint into his mouth. "And then, what would be the point?"