Date: 6/19/2001 - 12:25 PM – Self-Study Session
Location: The White Room – Fiction Section
Perspective: Kaiser Everhart
We sat on the floor, our knees bumping together.
Between us lay The Atlas of Wandering Stars, a massive to bound in blue leather. It was a book of geography, but written by a poet, not a cartographer.
"Look at this," I whispered, turning the heavy parchnt page.
A vivid illustration of the Sapphire Coast of Celestine sprawled across the spread. The artist had used crushed gemstones in the ink, making the ocean shimr under the harsh white lights of the room.
"That is the Western Expanse," Alia noted, her voice quiet. She leaned in closer, her shoulder brushing against mine.
"The trade routes connect the Human Kingdoms to the Dwarven Enclaves of Elysium. The ships require reinforced hulls to withstand the pressure of the Deep-Currents."
"Forget the hulls," I said, pointing to the drawing of a massive galleon cutting through a wave. "Look at the water. It’s not just blue, Alia. It’s alive. In the morning, it looks like liquid gold. At night, it reflects the moon until you can’t tell where the sky ends and the sea begins."
She stared at the picture, her brow furrowed in concentration. She wasn’t morizing the trade routes anymore. She was trying to see the gold.
"The archives state that the water is rely H2O with high salinity," she murmured. "But... the illustration depicts bioluminescence."
"That’s the starlight," I corrected softly. "And look here."
I traced my finger down to the rocky outcroppings where creatures with iridescent tails sat upon the stones.
"Sirens," I said. "They don’t speak languages. They sing. They say their voices can weave wind into solid shapes. Sailors trade their hearing just to see them once."
Alia blinked, her erald eyes tracking my finger.
"That is... illogical," she said, though the protest lacked her usual bite. "Trading sensory input for a singular visual event is a net loss."
"Is it?" I asked. "Or is the mory of sothing beautiful worth more than a lifeti of hearing ordinary noise?"
She went silent. Her head tilted slightly, a small, bird-like movent. She looked from the sirens to , then back to the book.
"If..." she started, her voice hesitating. "If the voice creates the wind... then the song is the engine?"
I smiled. It was a leap of logic, but it was poetic logic.
"Exactly," I said. "They sing the ships forward."
I reached out and placed my hand gently on the top of her head. Her hair was soft, contrasting sharply with the rigidity of her posture. I patted her head, a slow, rhythmic motion.
"You understood it," I said warmly.
"Good girl."
Alia froze. Her entire system seed to pause. She didn’t swat my hand away; she leaned into it, just a fraction of an inch, as if testing the weight of my palm.
"Good... girl?" she repeated, the words rolling awkwardly off her tongue. "That phrase... It is not a ranking. It is not a designation."
"It’s affection," I explained, keeping my hand there, letting the warmth bleed into her.
"It’s what you say to soone close to you when they do well. I called you that because you got it right. You saw the magic, not the math."
Her lips parted. She stared at the page, her breathing hitching slightly.
"Affection," she whispered. "It’s about human interaction... emotional proximity."
"Sure," I chuckled, turning the page. "If that’s how you want to file it."
We moved from the ocean to the Floating Isles of Aethelgard. The illustration showed massive chunks of earth suspended in the clouds, connected by vines as thick as bridges. Waterfalls cascaded from the edges, turning into mist before they hit the ground miles below.
I read the passage aloud, changing my voice to sound like the grizzled explorer who wrote it. I described the sll of ozone and pine, the feeling of gravity getting lighter as you climbed higher.
"Imagine standing there," I murmured, bumping my shoulder against hers playfully. "You’d have to hold onto the grass just to keep from floating away."
"The atmospheric pressure would be low," she said automatically. Then, she stopped. She looked at the picture, then at her own hands gripping her skirt.
"If..." she tried again, glancing at sideways. "If gravity is weak... then holding hands would be... a safety necessity."
I stopped reading. I looked at her.
The "Grandmaster" had just used logic to justify intimacy.
I grinned, genuine amusent flickering in my chest. "You’re learning fast, Alia."
I patted her head again, ruffling her hair slightly.
"Good girl."
This ti, she didn’t question it. She closed her eyes for a brief second, a soft exhale escaping her lips. When she opened them, the erald ice was lting.
"I..." she started, her voice barely audible. "I have calculated the variables."
"And?"
"The sensation of... ’Affection’..." she stamred, looking down at her lap. "It is... pleasant. I do not... dislike it."
"I’m glad," I said softly.
We stayed like that for what felt like hours, though ti in the White Room was fluid. We explored the magma forges of the Dwarves and the crystal spires of the Elves. With every page, she grew less rigid.
She stopped reciting facts and started asking about feelings.
Is the crystal cold or ancient?
Eventually, the silence of the room began to shift. The ambient hum of the Foundation seed to grow louder, signaling the end of the deep cycle.
I sighed, closing the heavy book. The thud echoed in the quiet corner.
"That’s enough for today," I said. "We should go."
I started to stand up, my muscles stiff from sitting so long.
Suddenly, a small hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.
I stopped, looking down.
Alia was still sitting on the floor. Her grip was tight, her knuckles white. She wasn’t looking at ; she was looking at my hand, as if she was terrified that letting go would delete the last hour of mories.
"Why?" she asked. Her voice was small, stripped of all its robotic shielding. "The ti limit... the extraction is not yet forced. We can... process more knowledge. There are remaining pages."
"I have to go back," I said gently. "Cartethyia is waiting for . If I don’t wake up, she’ll worry."
"She is a caretaker," Alia argued, her voice rising. "Her duty is monitoring. We can... we can study longer. The connection... it should not be severed yet."
She looked up at then.
I softened my expression, using the CFAE warmth one last ti.
"We have ti, Alia," I said. "We have the rest of our lives here."
I reached down with my free hand and patted her head, my fingers lingering for a mont.
"We’ll read more tomorrow. I promise."
Her lips parted slightly. The logic of "tomorrow" battled with the emotion of "now." Slowly, her grip on my wrist loosened.
"Tomorrow..." she whispered. "A scheduled continuation."
"Exactly," I smiled. "Goodnight, Alia."
"Okie..." she breathed.
I pulled my hand away. As I stepped back, I watched her. She sat alone by the bookshelf, her hand reaching up to touch the spot on her head where I had patted her.
This will be enough.
I closed my eyes. I willed the avatar to dissolve.
The white room faded. The sll of old books vanished.
And I woke up to the sll of lavender and the soft humming of a woman who loved .
My mind, still vibrating with the complex linguistic gas I’d played with Alia, suddenly hit the wall of my underdeveloped vocal cords.
I was back in the dim room.
Back in the arms of the woman who was scheduled to leave .
Cartethyia was humming, but her eyes were red-rimd. She held with a desperate strength, her fingers digging slightly into my soft sides.
"Kaiser? My little price? You’re... you’re so quiet today," she whispered.
"Carte...thyia," I mumbled. I wanted to tell her I had found a Grandmaster. I wanted to tell her I was building a system. But all that ca out was a wet, clumsy sound.
"Are you hungry?"
"Do you want to see so pictures again?" She reached for her leather-bound journal on the nightstand, flipping to a page showing an urban district of the Asura Empire—Oakhaven.
The sketch showed tiered stone streets, houses built into the sides of giant, glowing trees, and lanterns that hung from silver chains across the thoroughfares. It was beautiful.
"See, Kaiser? This is where the rchants go. They sell sweets during sumr here," she smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes.
"Mommy used to walk there... when the world was big."
I stared at the image. Trade Hub Beta, my mind categorized. High-density civilian population. Strategic choke points.
"Pretty... city," I managed to squeeze out. My tongue felt like lead.
She stopped. Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of profound sorrow. She set the book down and pulled closer to her chest.
"Kaiser... look at ."
I looked up. Her black eyes were wide.
"Did... did Mommy do sothing wrong?" she asked, her voice trembling. "You aren’t... you aren’t waking up early. You aren’t asking more questions like before..."
"You were like this yesterday too... and today you woke up late... You’re looking at like you’re... counting . Please, if I’m being too loud, or if the food was bad—"
"No... wrong," I interrupted, reaching up to pat her cheek. My small hand felt tiny against her skin. "Y-y...ou... good."
"Then why do you feel so far away?" she choked out. She began to pace the room, rocking with a frantic, rhythmic motion. "I feel so empty. Like you’re already gone."
Because you are the one leaving. I leaned my head against her shoulder, slling the lavender and the faint, bitter scent of her hidden grief.
Hours bled into the night. We sat in the rocking chair, the only sound was the creak of wood and her voice as she told more stories of the Empire—about the festivals of light and the way the Emperor’s knights looked in their golden plate. I processed it all, building the world outside while she tried to preserve the world inside this room.
But the tension never broke. Every ti she laughed, it ended in a sharp, shaky exhale.
"Is it the test?" she asked suddenly, her voice breaking the silence of the 10:00 PM cycle. "The big one next week? Directive Vance... he ca by while you were asleep. He said the expectations for the results were... absolute."
"Test... easy," I mumbled, trying to reassure her.
"No, it’s not," she sobbed, a single tear landing on my forehead. "It’s not easy. Is sothing wrong? Tell please."
She laid down on the bed, pulling into the crook of her arm, pressing my face against her heart. I could hear it—thump-thump, thump-thump—erratic and terrified.
"You should sleep now, Kaiser," she whispered, her voice cracking. "It’s late. Mommy will... Mommy will be here when you wake up. I promise. I’ll stay right here."
She held tighter this ti, her arms forming a cage.
I didn’t tell her I was already becoming sothing else.
I just closed my eyes, the rhythmic beat of her heart fading as the white light of the Dream Land began to pull at my consciousness again.
One more day closer to the end.
I heard her catch her breath, a small, broken sound, before the void took .
The darkness of the transition was always the perfect place to think.
I analyzed the last image of the waking world: Cartethyia’s swollen eyes.
Illogical.
My reasoning was sound. She is a caretaker scheduled for removal; if I detach now, the eventual severance of our bond will be a statistical inevitability rather than an emotional trauma. I am saving her future pain by inflicting present discomfort. It is a rcy.
Yet, she looked destroyed.
I assud the human heart operates like a battery—less charge in, less energy out. Instead, it functions like a vacuum. The withdrawal of affection didn’t make her care less; it triggered a panic response. She is gripping tighter because I am slipping away.
Note: The "Mother" archetype does not depreciate feelings based on performance. It over-invests during a crash.
Light flooded my vision.
The Room vanished. The White Room slamd into existence.
I didn’t blink. I was already seated at my desk, my hands resting on the cool obsidian surface.
And I wasn’t the only one waiting.
To my left, 000829—Alia—was leaning dangerously far over her desk. Her chin was propped on her hands, and her erald eyes were fixed intensely on the empty space where my head would be.
The mont I materialized, she didn’t just flinch; she jolted. Her elbow slipped off the desk, and she scrambled to right herself, her chair letting out a sharp screech that echoed in the silence.
She grabbed the nearest object—her stylus—and held it up like a weapon, staring aggressively at the front of the room.
I leaned back, letting a slow, amused smile spread across my face. I channeled the CFAE charm—the Rogue Noble from The Duke’s Forbidden Rose.
"Like what you see?"
Alia stiffened. She turned her head chanically, her face flushing a distinct, un-robotic shade of pink.
"Negative," she said, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual. "I was not observing you. I was... observing the desk. Your manifestation coordinates are simply... central to my field of view."
"Uh-huh," I teased, tapping my fingers on the desk. "So you weren’t staring at my empty chair, waiting for to show up?"
"Waiting is a passive state," she argued, finally looking at . "I was... pre-planning the social interaction. It is efficient to be ready."
"You were waiting," I corrected gently.
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She looked down at her stylus.
"Perhaps," she muttered. "The probability of your arrival was 100%. Anticipation is... a natural by-product of certainty."
"It’s cute, Alia," I said.
Her head snapped up. "Cute? That is a descriptor for small, non-threatening biological entities. I am student of the Foundation. I am not... cute."
"If you say so," I laughed softly. "Did you sleep well?"
She blinked, the question throwing her off her defensive rhythm.
"I..." She paused, her brow furrowing in that way that was definitely cute. "I did. The REM cycle was uninterrupted. My biotrics indicate full recharge."
She stopped. She looked at her hand, then at the dream-world desk.
"Wait," she said, frowning. "That question is flawed. My physical body is currently asleep. My consciousness is active. Therefore, asking if I ’slept well’ while I am technically dreaming is... a paradox."
"It is," I agreed, resting my chin on my palm. "We’re talking about sleep while we’re asleep."
We stared at each other.
"That is... incredibly awkward," she whispered.
"Only if you think about it too hard," I winked.
She let out a small, frustrated breath. She looked like she wanted to argue the taphysics of dream-state conversation, but before she could formulate the logic, the air pressure dropped.
CLAP.
The playful atmosphere evaporated.
Directive Vance stood at the resonance dais. He didn’t fade in; he cut into reality like a blade.
"Day 3," he announced.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it scraped against the inside of my skull.
"You have reached the ridian. Half of your preparation ti has elapsed. By now, the difference between the gold and the dross is becoming... visible."
His steel eyes swept the room. They lingered on 000001, who sat like a statue in the front row. Then, they slid back, bypassing the rows of geniuses, and landed directly on the back corner.
On .
"So of you represent the pinnacle of our design," Vance said, his gaze heavy and cold. "Others are rely... persistent mistakes."
He adjusted his cuffs.
"Do not mistake luck for potential. The examination will correct all anomalies."
He held my gaze for a second longer—a silent promise of disposal—before turning away.
"You have 12 hours. Do not waste them. So of you will need more than just effort; you will need a miracle."
CLAP.
Vance dissolved into white dust.
The tension broke. The ninety-eight students exhaled in unison, the sound like a tire losing air. The scramble began. Chairs scraped as the children rushed toward the Advance Mathematics and Advanced Biology sections, desperate to escape the "error" category Vance had described.
Alia stood up. She smoothed her skirt, her movents regaining so of their chanical grace.
"We should proceed," she said, looking at . "The fiction section... there are volus we did not complete."
She hesitated, then added, "I... I would like to know what happens in the Vanishing Half."
I looked up at her. I smiled—the warm, encouraging smile of the Champion.
"Go ahead," I said gently. "Grab the books. I’ll be right there."
"Okie," she whispered.
She turned and walked toward the corner where the mahogany shelves were rising, her step light, almost eager.
I watched her go.
Slowly, the smile slid off my face. The warmth drained from my eyes, replaced by the cold, blue calculation of the Grandmaster.
I wasn’t looking at a friend.
I tapped my finger on the obsidian desk.
She is opening up. The logic centers are compromised. She is prioritizing the "connection" over the "curriculum."
I stood up, my face blank.
It’s ti to study her talent.
User Comments
0 comments from readers