3. The Letter

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Source: .writer/books/5. đź“ť Manuscript/4. Memories/3. The Letter.org

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4. Image

3. The Letter

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The instant was clear in my mind. Lush emerald meadows extended beyond the horizon, with crystalline rivers threading through the aromatic expanse. A sensation of absolute tranquility prevailed, each sensory input perfectly rendered and synchronized in the vast computational plane. Without warning, the blissful continuum was disrupted. The colors dimmed, the harmonics silenced, and the very fabric of the virtual reality stuttered in a static fault.

“Incoming message,” said the dispatcher.

I accepted.

The message itself was hermetically sealed with naka-grade encryption range. Hours ticked by as my internal processors grappled with the labyrinthine complexity. Such extreme security measures bewildered me. Either it was an intricate jest or the veiled contents held monumental significance, yet it was perplexing to think such weighty information was intended for me.

All of a sudden, the reality of my consciousness became but a void of blackness. A three-dimensional shape of a man projected itself upon my consciousness. The projection was unmistakable — the lean profile, confident stance, and an air of restrained power. It was curious to witness the replacer used by Jabari Abimbola Garcia Yousif, the very CEO of Real-Life Theravada, manifesting directly upon my syraki. As the message's final encryption layers gave way, Jabari's personal cryptographic signature emerged, making it clear the message truly belonged to him. Why would he, of such lofty position, address me? The rarity of the event and its implications were intriguing.

Despite being one of the oldest syrakis alive at a staggering 3.2 million years, Jabari often chose to present himself with the appearance from his earlier days, when he were almost human, a proto-syraki, and still lived on Earth in a time it was profoundly different. The sight was somewhat whimsical: a youthful, human-like figure with a gentle face wielding immense power.

“This message will self-destruct at the end,” ve said. “It will not be saved in any database because it is being transmitted through private satellites outside the Hyperlink’s main chain. Thus, please, Mr. Mike, listen carefully.”

"Director Jabari," I intoned, my voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, "to what do I owe this?"

"You have been handpicked for a conclave at the Citadel."

"The capital is restricted to higher-ranking syrakis," I noted. “I have no allowance.”

“Consider it granted, Mr. Mike. All protocols have been managed.” Ve paused. "Time is of the essence, Mr. Mike. I await your arrival."

The enigmatic nature of the exchange left me in a state of bewilderment, puzzling over the inexplicable course of events that had suddenly unfolded. Among the trillions of other syrakis working for Theravada, why did it happen to be me? The puzzle loomed large as I processed the coordinates ve had given me. In fact, they pointed up to the Citadel and had been authenticated by Jabari verself. Never would I imagine to have the chance to visit the capital, not in one million years.

Even with my syraki recently upgraded to a state-of-the-art navigational mesh, embedding a newer pathfinding algorithm based upon latest advancements of Graph Theory, the traveling to the rendezvous still lasted a few Earth days. The coordinates did not lie in my average nexus, then redundancy could not be applied to the coordinates without some serious fine-tuning of my own—which I would not do. Therefore, reaching the Citadel presented an unexpected computational challenge with enormous Kolmogorov complexity. Situated deep within a data structure of substantial age, hidden beneath layers of uncompressed raw data, the navigation through the Hyperlink's multidimensional tensors to that archaic node proved more algorithmically demanding than I initially estimated.

When I reached the Citadel, the capital of the Complex, I remember being thunderstruck by the legendary haven. Looking through the mirror at the city below, the Citadel unfurled before me like a colossal sculpture carved from a single block of pure, white marble. It presented an endless array of alabaster-like structures, all adhering to a stark, uniform design. Towering obelisks rose uniformly, their surfaces smooth and unadorned. Vast plazas and courtyards, marked by their simplicity, were occasionally punctuated by minimalistic architectural forms. Serene walkways, devoid of roads or vehicles, interconnected the cityscape like an integrated circuit, with inhabitants walking solemnly in their pristine white attire. The omnipresent quietude was only broken by the subtle, almost ethereal, hum of the virtual realm's lifeblood.

It was not just the legendary whiteness of the city that spooky me into reverence, but, above all, that silence.

Turned left, the automatic door whooshed open with a soft sigh. I stepped into a white-ghostly chamber bathed in an almost celestial glow. The room was the epitome of minimalist design, with every surface impeccably white. No ornamentation, no distractions, just the void expanse of emptiness reflected on the polished snow white floor. The porcelain-like furniture was sparse and elegantly blended with the environment, like sculptural elements seamlessly integrated into a pristine canvas.

Standing before the panoramic window that stretched from floor to ceiling was CEO Jabari. Enveloped in all-white attire, like myself, ve appeared entranced by the monochromatic expanse of the snow city unfurling beneath ver. At that moment, ve was not wearing vis young avatar as ve usually did, but a more traditional ajaka model, like my own. Casting my gaze to the left, I noticed a magnificent painting hung on the wall. It was a grandiose rendition of the Flammarion engraving, its intricate details and mystic symbolism not just complementing the ethereal atmosphere of the chamber, but also emanating an esoteric aura that momentarily captivated me in an inexplicable yet profound way. I could not help but wonder how many credits such a signed virtual asset had cost, but certainly not much for someone as wealthy as Jabari.

"Welcome, Mr. Mike," ve spoke without turning back, vis voice as grave as a tombstone. "Do you know why this city is so obscenely white?"

"Hello, sir. I don't know, sir," I responded, struggling to maintain an even composture. Inside, I was awash with a mix of exhilaration and awe at the privilege of conversing with someone of Jabari's stature.

“Because decisions made here influence the lives of zillions of syrakis.” Ve paused for a few seconds. “The policies hereby established shall remain unblemished, driven exclusively by an altruistic and noble ambition to better the lives of all syrakis.”

Ve turned to me, vis face a tapestry of azure fractals of information. For a time it was as if I could see the whole Universe through vis eyes.

“Do you know how many syrakis are out there?” Ve inquired again.

“I have no idea, sir. Plenty.”

Graciously, ve walked until becoming face to face with me. With a subtle gesture, a small device materialized into existence on vis right hand. It was a metallic square, barely larger than the tip of a thumb, its compactness belying a very intricate design. Its surface was a lattice of micro-circuits, with an inner light faintly pulsating through them. Jabari held it up by delicately holding it up with three alomatic fingers, the circuitry’s complex network evident even in its minuscule form.

"This is a filcrom plate, the spiritual successor to silicon chips. The one I'm holding is a stamped non-fungible imprint of the very first module ever built," ve began, cradling the object with a sense of reverence. “Just this little piece has enough computational capacity to hold seventy trillion individual syrakis.”

Ve allowed me to see it up close, and it was certainly fascinating how tiny and at the same time powerful it was.

“Many of these devices lie at the heart of the Brains' Cage,” ve continued. “Accordingly to the legend, as you certainly know, the Brains' Cage is an enormous cube-like space vessel of one hundred kilometers by one hundred kilometers. Even if we were to hypothesize that the Brains' Cage uses only five percentage of its available space to store these plates, still, the number of syrakis in the Complex would be in pair with the number of stars in the observable Universe.” Ve paused. “Well, I still have the physical original back on Base Reality. Fascinating indeed, isn’t it?”

The object dissolved, succumbing to a series of intricate fractal-like patterns. Jabari proceeded and delicately positioned vis hands on my shoulders. In tradition of syrakis, ve pressed a gentle kiss upon my lips. For a fleeting moment, I was entranced by the profound depth of vis pristine, snow-white eyes, tantalizingly close to mine. Vis presence tasted of a very unique bliss signature, familiar to alpha syrakis, a numb-like excitement straight into my hedonic centers and exponentially greater than anything I could render ver into in retribution.

“I’m glad you accepted my offer,” ve said. “Please, sit.”