Chapter 1: Asia. Molly Vieira
Clatter, crash, clack! - and suddenly my self feels something inside me twitch, straighten, then contract again in the darkness. A noise that shakes every particle, giving no rest. Racket, bang, thump! I begin to realize that I am not just subject to this, but also becoming part of this cacophony. It permeates me, makes me shudder, contract, and expand.
How long has this been going on? Time has lost all meaning. I am lying down, but it is not just lying down - I am stretching, filling the space around me, slowly becoming aware of my existence. I cannot say exactly what I am, but I am beginning to feel how what was once emptiness is beginning to take shape. Every sound, every movement is no longer just an annoyance or a nuisance. It is something more. I feel how sounds penetrate me, merge with what I am beginning to perceive as my "I".
Rattle, clang, crack, thud, whack, bam! - and suddenly something changes. In the midst of this chaos, this seething hum and explosion, I begin to sense something clearer, more definite. I... I begin to understand something. The darkness I have been in suddenly begins to clear. I realize that I am not just a form, not just a collection of vibrations and sounds, but something greater than all this endless storm around me.
And here it is... some barely perceptible feeling that comes to me through this chaos. I suddenly realize that "I" am not just "something," but something concrete, with clear boundaries. I am... a woman. Yes. It is unexpected, but absolutely clear. It is not a word, not a concept. It is a feeling that fills me from within. Everything I feel is now clear - I am a woman.
As strange as it may sound, it was with this realization that harmony came. And the world around me, this humming and pulsating chaos, no longer seemed so alien. I had become part of it, and in this silence, amidst the deafening flashes and pulsations, comes the realization - what was before? Where was I? Or... was it even there? Something shaky, growing inside me, like a question, begins to rise, like a wave, ready to cover everything.
Before? The word doesn't make sense. Or does it? I don't know. No, I don't know. It's not a memory, not an image, just a feeling of emptiness. Darkness. As if there is something dark beyond my memory, where I came from, but what exactly, I can't grasp. Where was I before this? Why does this feel so strange, as if I have disappeared, dissolved into what was before I woke up?
A feeling of uncertainty was tearing me apart. I heard inside myself not one, but a whole choir - no, not voices, but answers. They were inside me, these answers, ready, waiting for their time. They were names. Names that I could not explain, but which were so close to me that I did not even doubt that I had carried them inside me for a long time, as part of my essence. And with them, images arose - bright, clear, each of which seemed like a separate life, and yet somehow - my lives.
I saw her - Delia York. An eight-year-old girl with fiery, angry eyes, full of cunning and alienation. She was from New York, and her gaze was heavy as a stone, already carrying the weight of pain and discontent. In those eyes hid a whole world of fear - a world in which there was no place for kindness, because she had never met it. She was always on guard, always keeping her defenses ready, as if she knew that the world around her had never been kind and was not going to be. Her small body was as cold and calculating as an adult's, because she had already understood: in this world, no one will protect you, and there is no point in hoping for help.
And I saw Molly Dunlop. A six-year-old girl from Boston, full of innocence and wonder. Her eyes were open to the world, and there was no room for doubt in them, just a simple, genuine admiration for everything that surrounded her. She laughed as only children can laugh, genuinely and carefree, unaware that the world was about to change her. Her laughter was pure as a mountain spring, and while she remained that age, her perception of the world was untouched, free of the heaviness that would later come with experience. She was fragile, but there was something defenseless about her fragility that you immediately wanted to protect, as you protect the most vulnerable.
But Emily, a twenty-two-year-old girl from Cleveland, was just as vivid in my memory. Cheerful, carefree, full of energy and determination. She walked through life without thinking about what might be waiting for her around every corner. And although there were fears and mistakes in her heart, she did not hide them, but met them with pride. She was ready to live, not fearing what lay ahead. She believed that life was a game, and that every step she took was a step towards something greater. Emily did not think about the consequences, did not think about how often her ease and carelessness could turn into hard lessons. But she did not care. She wanted to live, and her desire for life was so strong that nothing could stop her.
Each of these three names, each image gradually merged within me, and I understood: I was them. I was each of them. But how? This sensation was so strange, almost impossible. I felt how these fragments, these parts of alien lives, were sticking together into one, merging in my body, in my essence. And at some point, I could no longer understand exactly where one life ended and where another began. They all became a part of me, but remained separate, as if I had become many at once.
But what did that mean? I couldn't believe that all of this-everything I saw, everything I felt-had existed at the same time. It was obvious: I had three pasts. Three completely different lives, three paths that were once separate and now merged into one body, one being. It was a contradiction in itself - how could you be three people at the same time? But it was true.
Delia York. Molly Dunlop. Emily. They were all me, and I was all of them at once.
Each of these destinies was a part of me, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fit it into one story. I remembered their destinies, their actions, their thoughts - and it was strange, because each of these women was so far from the other. One was evil, another was naive, the third was carefree. They could not be one whole, and yet they were in me, as if I was born not from one root, but from three different trees that once crossed and now became a single trunk.
But how? How could I be them? And what did it mean - three pasts, three lives, three destinies, united into one? It contradicted the very concept of existence, but I could not dispute it. It was so. And I began to feel my boundaries dissolving, how I was becoming both many and one at the same time. And that question - where am I? - arose again, but now with a different force. I was not someone specific, but something more complex than I could comprehend. Three lives, three beings, three paths - and all of this was part of me.
There was no answer anywhere. I searched for it, clinging to the slightest trace, the tiniest glimmer of meaning, but everything was hopelessly empty, like a bottomless abyss. I felt this emptiness pulling me deeper, its cold breath swallowing everything I had once known. It squeezed me in its embrace, sucking out the last drop of confidence. I wanted to retreat, to break free, to hide from this endless contradiction, from this emptiness that was both mine and not mine. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't.
And then, at that moment, the world around me suddenly began to twitch. Everything I knew - sounds, shapes, space - began to shrink, disappearing into shadow. Everything around me darkened, as if someone were wiping the world with a wet rag, leaving only a black void behind. I felt how this world, which a second ago had been full of life and movement, suddenly turned into something fuzzy and alien. Everything blurred, lost its clarity, and soon, like an inevitable conclusion, I was swallowed up by absolute void.
xxx
A storm of applause rang out in the Philharmonic Hall, deafening as a thunderclap, filled with excitement and admiration. The audience, sitting in the semi-darkness, did not hold back their emotions, and the sounds of fingers clapping against palms echoed in the dark corners of the hall. It seemed that the atmosphere itself was filled with some kind of magical trepidation, and even the air around became denser, filled with the experiences of each person present. The conductor, slightly bowing his head, thanked the audience with a slight bow. He was still young, his face radiated determination, and the musicians' glances directed at him spoke of complete devotion to each gesture.
The baton shot up into the air again, and without missing a beat, he tapped the console with commanding precision, signaling to the orchestra that the continuation would not be long in coming. The musicians, like living machines, came to life again, and new waves of sound filled the hall. The orchestra began the next movement of Mahler's Sixth Symphony, a work so rich in emotion that even professional musicians immersed in it could hardly cope with the emotional intensity.
Time seemed to slow down. The listeners sat, holding their breath, absorbed in every chord, every sound that came from the mouths of the instruments. Alan Wilde, whose face expressed concentrated admiration, also attentively followed what was happening, with each new gesture of the conductor and each chord feeling how the strings of his soul resonated with the music. He noticed how almost every musician, as if experiencing not only harmony but also personal tragedies and joys, gave the maximum tension of his strength.
Alan was overcome not only by an aesthetic response, but also by a physical one. His body seemed to respond to every chord, every change of tempo. The audience around him, as if they had agreed to this breathing of the music, snorted and sighed loudly. It was the kind of sound that could be called a sign of real excitement, however awkward it sounded among the generally reserved and cultured listeners. But Alan took it as a sign of a living response from the audience. They were all absorbed, they all felt how the music, penetrating deeply into the consciousness, left no corner of the soul indifferent.
Finally, as the symphony approached its stormy finale, Alan could not help but notice how the conductor, already covered in sweat, desperately waved his baton, and it seemed that his movements were becoming more and more exalted. The orchestra was rushing towards the climax, and the musicians, as one, were straining, feeling how the last chords were trying to explode the hall in a sparkling apotheosis. The foreheads of some of the musicians were wet with sweat, their breathing was ragged, and in their eyes burned the same passion that was in their fingers, in their instruments, in every wave of the conductor.
The symphony was finally over. As soon as the last notes had disappeared into the air, a storm of applause rang out in the hall again. The conductor, covered in sweat and with a clear sense of accomplishment, stood with the bearing of a man who had just given his whole soul to a great work. He was in his element, his gaze fixed somewhere into the distance, at that ephemeral point where art and genius meet. It seemed as if the hall itself had frozen, perceiving him as something sacred.
But Alan Wilde was not in that hall for the music, but for the glitz and glamour. After all, who in the era of cheap compact discs would think of going to the Philharmonic to listen to music? You can listen to all this at home, just put the disc in the player, no hassle. Only the rich still spend time and money on live orchestras, creating the illusion that they are part of some high world that cannot exist without these old-fashioned rituals.
That's why, when his neighbor's enthusiastic cries were heard, Alan, absentmindedly answering a few phrases about "a magnificent performance," stood up and headed for the exit. Outside, the fresh air immediately reminded him where he really belonged. Not in these theater halls and false rituals, but in his laboratory, among codes and algorithms. Returning to the real world, he felt that all this was not his.
Alan walked into his office and immediately felt the familiar smell of old monitors and fresh coffee. He took off his coat, hung it over the back of his chair and looked around. In the corner, at the desk, sat his friend Jerome - a man with eyes that seemed to light up with any idea. Now they really were, full of impatient excitement. Jerome looked as if he was ready to share something important that could not wait.
"Ah, you're already here," Alan said, taking off his jacket and heading towards his desk.
Jerome, without waiting for a greeting, immediately began to talk, unable to hide his anxiety. His eyes, usually full of enthusiasm, were now darkened by some shadow.
"There's something you should know," he said, quickly getting up from the table and pacing. "This is bad news, Alan. Really bad. If this is confirmed, we can kiss our subsidies goodbye. They'll just stop them. No other option."
Alan frowned, shaking off the weariness from his shoulders, and sat down on the edge of the table, peering into Jerome's face. He spoke with such intensity that it was immediately clear that the situation was serious.
"What happened?" he asked, feeling the tension build.
Jerome sighed and finally stopped, meeting his friend's gaze. He seemed completely thrown off balance, as if he had been struck by an invisible but powerful shock.
"You won't believe what happened," he began, his voice shaking. "Our project of artificial personality is turned into a complete disaster. The programmers spent countless hours coding, entering data, setting it up... It all seemed to be going well, but as soon as we launched the system, we realized that everything had gone wrong."
Alan listened attentively, already sensing that something was wrong.
"What exactly is wrong?" he asked, feeling the tension rise.
Jerome ran his hand over his face and continued:
"We thought that we would get one stable personality, with a clear memory and unique features. But instead, all the programmed personalities began... not to interact, but, on the contrary, merged into one. The system could not separate them. Imagine: now we have some kind of hybrid personality that simultaneously has many characteristics, the memory of different people and many past lives, but without a single integral personality. The result is complete chaos."
Alan froze. He knew this wasn't just a mistake, it was a disaster.
"But that's impossible," he said, trying to comprehend what was happening. "How so? Why didn't all these measures we had foreseen work?"
Jerome continued with a grim expression:
"We did not take into account how this process would develop in real time. Personality programming is not just an algorithm, it is also some kind of psychology, albeit artificial. And it seems that we were unable to take into account the entire complexity of the interaction of these "lives". And now, instead of one stable consciousness, we get a set of fragments that do not communicate with each other."
He paused, looking at Alan as if seeking support. His gaze was full of disappointment and despair.
"It's the end, Alan," he said quietly. "Our castle in the air has fallen apart. We built it for so long, and now... now it's all just collapsed."
Alan, not giving all this the necessary seriousness, just grinned.
"It's stupid to complain about not being able to create an artificial girlfriend," he said with a touch of irony. "Especially since there are real girls. There's no point in worrying."
Jerome froze, his face instantly changing, an expression of resentment frozen on his lips.
"You..." he began, his voice shaking slightly. "You think I'm only worried about the fact that this 'girlfriend' thing didn't work out? Don't you understand at all? This isn't about that. This is about the project, Alan! About the whole concept, about what we believed in!"
Alan, a little confused but still not realizing the full depth of the situation, shrugged.
"What's the big deal? One project failed, so what," he said, as if it were something completely insignificant. "They'll stop subsidizing, so what. We're not dependent on just one source. We'll find another sponsor. If not a Canadian institute, then a British one. There are plenty of them there, and the money, as always, doesn't stink."
Jerome couldn't believe that Alan was taking all this so lightly. His eyes flashed with anger and his voice became harsh.
"Are you serious, Alan?" he said, pacing nervously. "These are months wasted! Months of collecting data, programming this "woman" in the computer! We created not just a piece of code, but an entire personality, with memory, with emotions, with character, you understand? All this is pointless if the project collapses now. We just wasted our time!"
Alan, still not feeling the full gravity of the situation, waved it off and, with a slight sting in his voice, said:
"Did you seriously think that we created an artificial girlfriend so that you could immediately start a relationship with her?"
He said it that way, deliberately, to hook Jerome, to set him up for the joke. There was irony in his tone, as if this whole job was just child's play or an absurd hobby.
Jerome instantly tensed, his face contorted in hurt, and he pulled a small microchip from his pocket, holding it with care as if it were some extremely fragile and important object. Without looking up at Alan, he said:
"This is all that remains of the "personality." Everything we tried to create. And now... it's just a mess. Everything that should have been a whole has turned into chaos. There is no structure, no integrity, just scattered data that cannot interact."
Alan, noticing the chip, reached out to take it.
"Give it here, let's see," he said, trying to take the chip.
But Jerome pulled his hand back abruptly.
"Wait, don't touch," he said quietly but decisively. "I have to do something first."
Alan frowned.
"What else are you going to do with it? It's just a chip, Jerome."
Jerome stood up silently, walked over to the cabinet and took out a small hammer. When he returned, he handed it to Alan.
"Give me the hammer. I want to try to break it."
Alan, slightly puzzled, looked at his friend with bewilderment.
"What? Break the chip? Are you serious? This is the only thing we have left of this whole "personality"."
Jerome, standing at the table and clutching the microchip in his hand, pursed his lips.
"Draw the curtains and turn off the lamp," he said suddenly after a pause.
Alan, a little confused, silently walked to the window, pulled the curtains, then turned off the lamp, leaving the room in semi-darkness. The dark corner of the laboratory was filled with a tense silence, as if everything around had frozen.
They were both standing at the table. Jerome bent down and picked up the hammer he had prepared. He picked it up, holding it in his hands with the same tension that seemed to emanate from the chip itself. For a moment, the room was silent, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
When Jerome struck, his hand shook, and the hammer only slightly grazed the microchip. But even that was enough. A tiny piece broke off from the chip, and at that moment, something in the air changed. For a moment, as if time stood still, something unimaginable happened inside the chip - a silent explosion that was not accompanied by any sound or light, but was so bright and powerful that it seemed you could feel it with your whole body.
Myriads of violet dust particles, like glowing particles of dust, swirled in a whirlwind, barely visible in the darkness. They disintegrated and disappeared in the blink of an eye, dissolving as if they had never been. Everything around became even darker, and in this darkness, Alan's deathly muffled voice rang out:
"No more, Jerome... It's all over."
With these words, he, ignoring his friend's reaction, took the chip from the table, put it in his pocket and turned on the lamp. The bright light blinded them both, and they looked at each other for a moment, like two criminals caught in the act.
Silence, heavy and oppressive, filled the room, as if reality itself had frozen. Alan said nothing, and without looking at Jerome, he simply turned and walked away. The door closed behind him, and Jerome stood rooted to the spot at the table, unable to tear his eyes away from the place where, half a minute ago, the microchip with the artificial personality written on it-the electronic soul he had killed-had lain.
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