

%%% content/Ioan/011


\hypertarget{ioan-bux103lan-2305}{%
\chapter*{Ioan Bălan — 2305}\label{ioan-bux103lan-2305}}

Earlier that day, after Serene and Praiseworthy had left, Ioan had thanked Dear earnestly for the opportunity and experience and prepared to leave. Dear had cried and made Ioan promise to come back — \emph{``your wall will miss you''} — to which Ioan readily agreed. They shook hands, hesitated, shrugged in unison, and then hugged. The contact felt important. Necessary.

Ey would soon, but for now, ey needed some distance from the experience to sit and think and remember and write.

No, not remember — ey couldn't forget. To mix the thoughts around. To understand. To perform as an amanuensis.

Ey moved out to eir favorite Adirondack chair on the deck with pen and paper. Fine, cream-colored paper. Soft, without being fuzzy. A subtle inlay of thicker rows of pulp, leaving faint horizontal lines visible across the page without necessarily leaving it bumpy or ridged. Fine paper and a nice pen.

Ey spent a minute thinking back on Dear and Qoheleth, spent another savoring the heft of the pen and the texture of the paper, and then began to write.

Or tried to. The words would not come.

It was perhaps too fresh to begin properly. Too near to the surface. Not yet emulsified into the story both ey and Dear craved. The ending had essentially been reached, but the story was still just an outline.

Ey set the paper aside and stood from the chair to lean against the balcony railing of the deck, looking out onto the manicured lawn of the yard, the ring of perpetually blooming lilacs that served as a fence.

Looked, but did not see, for ey was focused inwards. Focused on story and memory. And then ey was focused on composing a short sensorium message to Dear, requesting a half-duplex meeting.

Unsurprisingly, the response was nearly instantaneous. \emph{``Ioan. I did not expect to hear from you so soon.''}

``Right. I know that I promised I needed some space from the story but I was wondering if--''

\emph{``Yes, of course!''} The fox was grinning wide, ears at full attention. \emph{``Sorry, continue.''}

Ioan laughed. ``Well, I think you answered it already, but I was wondering if I could send a fork to work in the room you offered. It was a wonderful place to write, and that would give me easy access to you for clarifications and whatnot.''

\emph{``As I had guessed. The answer is still yes, then. Shall we expect you for dinner while you stay with us? Please say yes.''}

``Of course, Dear. I'll gather a few things and then head over momentarily.''

The fox appeared to bounce on its feet as it clapped its paws before itself. \emph{``Wonderful. We will see you soon.''}

The few things Ioan needed to gather turned out to be a duplicate of eir nice pen and the few notes ey had made already. It would be easy enough to acquire anything else that ey needed once ey was there, and just as easy to come back to visit this house.

A pen, a few notes, and a new name.

Ey explained eir goals to Ioan\#Tracker. Ey frowned, but agreed, requesting a merger beforehand.

\#c1494bf was startled by a pang of jealousy. The experience had felt so hard-won, more so than most of eir experiences. To leave \#Tracker burdened with it while ey went off to have further experiences felt like an intrusion. To create a long-lived fork was a new thing, though, and ey supposed there would be many discussions on it to come.

Ey forked into \#0224ebe8, a signifier that felt somehow familiar, and then \#c1494bf quit, letting \#Tracker handle the merge. Eir frown deepened, and the two agreed that they would talk about it in the future.

The new fork bowed, then headed to that delightfully modern house on the prairie.

Dear and its partner were already waiting on the path leading up to the door. The fox looked like it had calmed down somewhat, that grin tempered into a smile. Its partner looked pleased as well. ``Ioan, good to see you so soon.''

Ey bowed to the two, then reached out to shake each of their hands. ``Apologies, but you can call me Codrin Bălan.''

Any sense of calmness that Dear had managed to acquire was quickly lost. The grin returned, its tail whipped about behind it, and, in perhaps the strangest display of excitement that Codrin had ever seen, it forked several times over, copies of the fox — of the fox, of what Codrin supposed must be non-anthropomorphized fennecs, of Michelle — briefly littering the path before quitting.

Codrin laughed.

\emph{``A change of name is cause for celebration! Come! Come inside and tell us about it.''}

Once inside Dear's gallery, ey began, ``This little\ldots{}what, adventure? This adventure has been lousy with names. Your whole clade has a unique approach to them.''

Dear nodded. \emph{``Names are important. They put a label on things, sure, but much more than that. Names give voice to identity. A chosen name doubly so.''}

``I was `Ioan' before I uploaded. I suppose a great many trackers keep their names. Despite the masculinity implied by it and my own fluidity, I was rather attached to it. I liked being `Ioan'. It was my identity.''

\emph{``And `Codrin'?''}

Ey regarded the painting of the black square. It no longer felt quite so unnerving. ``From `codru'. Forest. The idea of clades inspired me.''

\emph{``Does it come with a change of identity, then?''}

``Perhaps.''

Dear turned to face em, regarded em pleasantly. \emph{``I promised you at the beginning of this that I would discuss your} Umwelt \emph{with you.''}

Codrin nodded.

\emph{``It is an idea from the field of semiotics. It originally applied to the biological side of it. It was the idea that different species living in the same environment would, by necessity, create meaning for themselves in different ways. It was then generalized to the idea that individuals within the same environment would still create meaning in different ways. You and I looking at a painting will experience different feelings and thoughts.''}

It prodded at Codrin's arm, then at its own. \emph{``Of course, we only have a gesture at biology in the system, but it is still the case that it is the sum of our parts — our experiences — that shape how we create meaning.''}

``I see. Then yes, I had a set of experiences that led to a change of how I create meaning.''

The fox's ears bobbed as it nodded. \emph{``So it is no surprise that you might feel a shift in your identity. The Ioan that finished the experience was no longer the same Ioan that started it. Ey was a Codrin now.''}

``Precisely. It was strange,'' ey mused. ``When \#Tracker-- when Ioan asked that I merge, I felt a bit of jealousy, and I wasn't quite sure why. Despite all of the other projects that I've approached with a fork leading to no such feelings, something about this one made it feel like a stranger was asking me to give up something intimate.''

Dear laughed. \emph{``The very thing that keeps me from being anything other than a dispersionista. Jealousy is a sign of needs not met, and one of my needs — one of the clade's needs — is that of ownership over memory. I would be quite furious if Praiseworthy asked me to merge with her.''}

Ey grinned and nodded.

\emph{``Perhaps you have a bit of dispersionista in you, then.''}

``I suppose I must. You Odists seem to have infected me with the need to own memory.'' Ey sighed. ``I don't know if it will stick, and perhaps once I'm done, I will head back and merge with Ioan. I don't know.''

\emph{``You are welcome to stay here while you figure that out, and as long after as you would like.''}

``You're sure? You and your partner won't mind?''

It shook its head. \emph{``Of course not. I am sure we all have our own privacy needs that will require discussion, but we like you, Codrin. Trauma, if trauma this is, forges bonds. I think we are both open to strengthening this one.''}

There was a comfortable silence, then, as the two digested the conversation.

It was Codrin who spoke up next. ``What do you make of it?''

\emph{``Of what? Of the goings on?''}

``No, of the painting,'' ey said, nodding toward the canvas. The prairie and the ultrablack square.

\emph{``Haven't a fucking clue.''}


%%% content/Sasha/005


\hypertarget{sasha-2113}{%
\chapter*{Sasha — 2113}\label{sasha-2113}}

``To get lost is to go mad,'' Sasha spoke to the small crowd that had gathered in the Crown Pub. Read, actually, for she had written the speech to give — as Michelle Hadje rather than Sasha — at a gathering not too dissimilar from this one earlier in the day. A digital ceremony to follow the analog. ``It is perhaps indelicate to say, but it is true. To get lost is to go mad.

``I think that this applies to more than just the sense that it has come to mean here and now. I think that if you go for a walk in a strange city and get lost, there is some aspect of that which is similar to madness. You walk the strange streets and see the strange people and strange buildings, and eventually, it all seems to blur together and your thoughts wander. They wander beyond the limits of your body and your mind. They soar above the city and try to make sense of these unknown, shifting shapes. They try to draw sensible paths from the turns you took. I turned left there, did I not? Or did I?''

The sombre group of diverse species was mostly looking at her. Animals of all shapes, anthropomorphism of all levels. Even some humans, for there was Carter, looking much as she had at that first ceremony.

And some looked down. AwDae looked at her, keen-eyed. Debarre looked down, shaking with sobs.

``And to get lost in today's sense feels much the same. Your mind flies to strange places and dreams with all the logic of dreams. Only in there, when your mind dreams, so too does reality. If, that is, the word `reality' has any meaning in this case.

``And you go mad. You go mad and you try to control the dreams. You try to control them and you fail, because in the end, lucid as you may be, it is the dream which has \emph{you}, and not the other way around. You do what you can, but you go mad. Your mind is flooded with words. They fly at you like poetry, spill from your mouth or your hands in unceasing torrents. It changes how you speak, how you act, how you create and move within the world.

``And there along with you is all that was stored in your exocortex. All of that data, useful and useless, is in there with you. You can keep it for your very own, browse it at will, build it up into castles as tall as you like.

``We are gathered tonight to remember Cicero. We are gathered because to get lost is to go mad, and now, even a year later, that madness clings to the lost like some horrid stench, hangs from us like bloated ticks. Perhaps it will fade over time, and perhaps not, but for Cicero, as with so many others, the lingering madness grew to be too much, overcame him like a wave, and the undertow took him from us.''

Debarre moaned, tried to stifle his grief with his paws.

Sasha's own voice creaked as she went on. ``But, even as the madness worked its awful magics on him, he gave back what he could. In his time in there, in that horrible forever, he prowled through the data left in his exo. Many of us did, each in our own way, but he had the advantage of being one of the first. He had the advantage of having the much needed information that drew attention to those responsible for the terror we all lived through, some of us directly and many, many more of you indirectly.

``I feel that madness still. Many of the lost do, perhaps all.'' She saw AwDae nod at this. ``We owe it to Cicero and his memory to repair as best we can. To use what he gave us to help build ourselves up better than before. To, in his name, live fuller lives having known him. We owe it to him to remember him as that oh-so-intense cat with a penchant for politics. We owe it to him to remember the whole of him in all ways.

``And we owe it to ourselves tonight to remember the best of him. Let us delight in each other, rejoice together.''

She raised a glass. ``To Cicero.''

The crowd echoed, intent, shaky but one hundred percent present in the moment. ``To Cicero''

The rest of the evening was quiet, subdued. Sasha and AwDae sat with Debarre, each to one side. They supported the weasel as he cried. Cried over his twice lost partner, cried over the cruel vagaries of family which had kept him from attending the day's first funeral. They supported him with silence and listening.

And when he had cried himself out and was willing to admit something other than mourning into the night, then they rejoiced together.

And if Sasha and AwDae were in some way distant, in some way not wholly there, Debarre either ignored it or forgave them their madness.


%%% content/RJ/017


\hypertarget{rj-brewster-2114}{%
\chapter*{RJ Brewster — 2114}\label{rj-brewster-2114}}

Sasha,

I am, in a way, leaving you with a burden. I know this, and I apologize for doing so. I do not ask for nor deserve forgiveness. The only thing I can ask for is that you remember me.

The world within was a nightmare. I am sure that you know some of what I mean. It was a nightmare and I would not wish it on anyone, and yet now, to be without it is to be incomplete. I was changed in there. We were all changed in there. You do not deny that you were not, after all. Cicero certainly was not. None of the lost came away unscathed, even if we awoke hale and hardy.

We lost Cicero, and then we \emph{truly} lost him. The nothing that he experienced in there, the void which contained all his power transmuted into weakness, the way his anger coiled about and turned back around on himself did him in in the end.

And I will not deny that the same has crossed my mind. There was a scent of the void in there, and it was alluring. I have been tempted to follow in his footsteps and seek that void out in some coarser, purer form. I decided against it. Truly decided: I made a conscious decision to stick around.

I did it for STT at first, but integrating with the theater was too stark a reminder. Then I did it for you and Priscilla, but then she passed. Then I did it for you and\ldots{}well, here is where I do not deserve forgiveness. I welcome your anger, should it come, as that is perhaps what I deserve. It is not that you are not in some way worth sticking around for, as you certainly are. You have always been my champion and friend.

It is just that the call is too strong.

I have volunteered for an early procedure. A way back. Or, rather, a way to a new place. A way to be embedded within a system, rather than simply within a hall of mirrors. I cannot say where, other than it is not in the Western Fed. All I can tell you is that the world should expect big things when it comes to what we have learned from the lost.

I will not say that there is no chance that we may some day meet again. My body will die, I'm told, but should my mind and my sense of self miraculously survive, then I will be on my own once more. This time, however, it will be my choice.

There will be those who come after. Perhaps \emph{you} will come after. Perhaps you will yearn for that return to the eternal dream where memory does not die. And maybe those who come after will do so for other reasons, but they will come.

Should I survive and then others come after, perhaps I will meet them. But it is best to assume that I will not. Maybe it is best to think of it as a sort of suicide, in the end. Here I am, going off to find a better place, and doing so through death. A place that is inaccessible to you or anyone, except perhaps some anonymous scientist in a lab, typing at a terminal.

If I see you again, I will greet you with open arms. If I do not, know that I loved you to the last, in my own way.

I have little else to offer but the imperfect words that plagued me while I was lost.

\begin{verse}
I am at a loss for images in this end of days:\\
I have sight but cannot see.\\
I build castles out of words;\\
I cannot stop myself from speaking.\\
I still have will and goals to attain,\\
I still have wants and needs.\\
And if I dream, is that not so?\\
If I dream, am I no longer myself?\\
If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?\\
And I still dream even while awake.

Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen\\
for memory ends at the teeth of death.\\
The living know that they will die,\\
but the dead know nothing.\\
Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:\\
when you die, thus dies the name.\\
To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,\\
and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,\\
and to become immortal is to repeat the past,\\
which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.

Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?\\
To whom do I plead my case?\\
From whence do I call out?\\
What right have I?\\
No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,\\
No unknowable spaces echo my words.\\
Before whom do I kneel, contrite?\\
Behind whom do I await my judgment?\\
Beside whom do I face death?\\
And why wait I for an answer?

Among those who create are those who forge:\\
Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation.\\
And those who remain are those who hone,\\
Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point.\\
To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.\\
To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection.\\
In this end of days, I must begin anew.\\
In this end of days, I seek an end.\\
In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings\\
that I may find the middle path.

Time is a finger pointing at itself\\
that it might give the world orders.\\
The world is an audience before a stage\\
where it watches the slow hours progress.\\
And we are the motes in the stage-lights,\\
Beholden to the heat of the lamps.\\
If I walk backward, time moves forward.\\
If I walk forward, time rushes on.\\
If I stand still, the world moves around me,\\
and the only constant is change.

Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:\\
a weapon against the waking world.\\
Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:\\
a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.\\
The waking world fogs the view,\\
and time makes prey of remembering.\\
I remember sands beneath my feet.\\
I remember the rattle of dry grass.\\
I remember the names of all things,\\
and forget them only when I wake.

If I am to bathe in dreams,\\
then I must be willing to submerge myself.\\
If I am to submerge myself in memory,\\
then I must be true to myself.\\
If I am to always be true to myself,\\
then I must in all ways be earnest.\\
I must keep no veil between me and my words.\\
I must set no stones between me and my actions.\\
I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,\\
for that is my only possession.

The only time I know my true name is when I dream.\\
The only time I dream is when need an answer.\\
Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?\\
Why ask questions when the answers will not help?\\
To know one's true name is to know god.\\
To know god is to answer unasked questions.\\
Do I know god after the end waking?\\
Do I know god when I do not remember myself?\\
Do I know god when I dream?\\
May then my name die with me.

That which lives is forever praiseworthy,\\
for they, knowing not, provide life in death.\\
Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:\\
serene; sustained and sustaining.\\
Dear, also, the tree that was felled\\
which offers heat and warmth in fire.\\
What praise we give we give by consuming,\\
what gifts we give we give in death,\\
what lives we lead we lead in memory,\\
and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.

May one day death itself not die?\\
Should we rejoice in the end of endings?\\
What is the correct thing to hope for?\\
I do not know, I do not know.\\
To pray for the end of endings\\
is to pray for the end of memory.\\
Should we forget the lives we lead?\\
Should we forget the names of the dead?\\
Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?\\
Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
\end{verse}

May this be the end of death. Failing that, may the memory of me die and be food for the growth of those who come after.

Yours always,

AwDae


%%% 


