But still never enough.
This was my one hundred and seventy-second direct link to nets and informational databases in my fourteen years as an Archivist. Each and every time it has happened, including this one, I have spared one-tenth of a second in considering my personal existence.
Archivists are somewhat special. The people we are crafted from are not.
It is necessary to drag together a person with little identity or sense of self-worth, as a strong will and purpose can still exist even after immense change. It is also preferable to gather someone on the very brink of death, or perhaps even a few millimeters beyond it.
I can no longer be entirely certain the images of my previous life are accurate, and I cannot remember my old name, not that it interests me. The images I retain and conjecture I was informed of suggest I was a man not unlike the drifter and destitute Raymond Cobb: working-class with little mental faculty to speak of.
A very tiny portion of me hopes that Archivists require some kind of hidden mental aptitude, perhaps a genetic anomaly or a kernel of greatness, to be created. That way, I would be able to hold a certain amount of pride in the basic sludge from which I was created. I’m given small comfort that the Archivist procedure does not take in all individuals; not everyone survives the transition.
In either case, it matters little. My former shell provides as much identity to me as the mountain which provided the ores that created my prosthetics.
My death was simple, avoidable, and useful. It was an accident while working on space station construction, perhaps a small psychological reason why I feel drawn to the Dei Lucrii. There was an explosion: a brief moment of pain as shrapnel ripped through a protective suit. The horrible chill of vacuum seeped in as blood bubbled out of lacerations, crystallizing before my fading vision. I experienced blackness and an awakening to greater awareness.
The procedure is long, arduous, and extremely expensive. Considering that most of working-class individuals are all but owned body and soul by the corporations that employ them, tragic accidents turn into profitable opportunities. A low success rate and a general notion that the high level of augmentation turns a person into something not quite human prevents an attitude of volunteerism, thankfully. There are also pesky laws and regulations about the treatment of most living and deceased individuals. Those and various other elements in the galaxy make for only a handful of Archivists at any given moment.
Principle among the reasons: our lives tend to be very short.
One would not always consider the pursuit of information to create an excess of danger, but that entirely depends upon the nature of it. A schematic or document, even something as simple as a notion or idea, given to the right person can make a universe of difference. Indeed, it was an information leak which spread the Archivist creation process, the true and undiluted method, from its birthing at Potomac Industry to every corporation with means.
People of any stature will go to great lengths to preserve secrets, and so at the risk of our health and safety, we go to greater lengths.
So unwavering are we in our desire for any manner of information that it causes what should be a near immortal existence to snuff out within decades, sometimes only a few years. Those who survive climb into an endless process of data collection and sale to finance more and more. Personal upgrades and defenses are bought to be capable of garnering more intriguing, sensitive information. Our existence is bound within this cycle, and we could hardly be more pleased.
The entirety of Old Earth French military history blazed across my synthetic processors as I finally dragged out of the tiny moment of nostalgia. A pique of curiosity whispered in my thoughts, and I began cataloguing psychological profiles of the most famous military and political leaders, searching for key signifiers. Napoleon, Hannibal, Alexander, Churchill, Sun Tzu, Dekyr-Pryce, Saladin, Cherynijhan, Bastille, Xerxes I, II, even the millennia- later poser Xerxes III, and so on. In no historical order, dozens of individuals flitted by.
Considering personality as a subject of nature versus nurture, I slipped into genetics research, digging for materials that could suggest a gene sequence responsible for military success. Thousands of studies and journals written over the course of hundreds of years pointed to several possible markers in genetic code related to conquest and political ambition:
Restrained but focused aggression, intense charm, sadistic or sociopathic tendencies, tactical brilliance, ability to calculate abstract spatial concepts, and empathic insight without being emotionally involved. Many more potential traits found in genetic code and subjected to a varied mix of nurture.
Genetics moved into the evolutionary path of humans, halted for thousands of years while limited to one planet of exploration. Mechanical adaptation to new worlds led to minor physical changes, varying temperature tolerances, lessened bone and muscle density for ship or station bound individuals. A suggestion of increased skin respiration for the carbon dioxide dense environments of a few worlds, as well as freak mutations across the ages.
Mutation moved into details regarding the varied effects of radiation. Radiation gave way to fission as a primitive means of producing electricity. Ancient energy production in other means, specifically geothermal, spun out of control towards planetary core and composition, then terraforming procedures. Mining operations. Industry accidents and miraculous survivals through the years. Phineas Gage and Piper Welkin. Brain tissue grafts, augmentation, Archivist creation-
My mind pulled into control of itself as I reasserted a rational, personal control and recalled a sense of self in the infinite immersion of data. I mentally logged the time. Ten minutes of my hour had gone by. Not a bad loss by any means.
The inevitable byproduct of net-diving for an Archivist is being dragged along by curiosity. Something sparks interest in something else, and before we know it, our inquiry is twelve degrees removed from the original intent. The process draws us so far away that the initial data no longer has much applicability, so usually few useful conclusions can be drawn.
Carefully shutting out all but the most direct inquiry, squelching every stray or curious thought, I set about my search regarding Traverian Grey:
Conjecture, very little confirmed details. Wanted for questioning on a dozen worlds but nature of offense classified. No military record to speak of. Suspected corporate ties to Soma, Keritas, ISCG, Berlioz, Seryia Hakar, and more. Criminal ties to Phoenix Organization, Dathan Reynolds…
More names, places.
Voux Hanatar. Familiar: logged as important. Marqyni mentioned it.
With so many current-day criminals sliding by, I hardly noticed when my inquiries dropped into deep history of infamous outlaws. Archaic metal repeaters hid in musician cases. Famous orchestral performances. Conductors, batons, redwood forests, environmentalism, the toxification and flight of civilization from Old Earth and expansion into the galaxy, starship innovation, alloy production, mining operations, industry accidents and miraculous survivals. Phineas Gage and Piper Welkin. Brain tissue grafts, augmentation, Archivist creation-
Warmth blazed inside my skull, and I could feel an electrical tingle behind my eyes as the processors lodged in my brain tissue overtaxed. Isolating myself, I ceased all inquiry, imagining deep, calming breaths as my whirling brain relaxed. Slowly, I peeled back sensory blocks, letting bytes of data pass through. Twenty minutes on valid inquiry, another sixteen lost.
Some Archivists more keen on self-preservation utilized contacts and proxies to complete net-searching. I spend much of my time speaking with sources displaying a wide variety of unreliability, so I prefer to gather direct information when I can. I have a system, and it has functioned quite well for me.
A gentle notion, the eternal and simple interest in my own creation and existence has allowed me to survive and focus my inquiries through nearing two hundred net-diving attempts. Every tangled web of queries will eventually end at the creation of Archivists, which will remind me where I am, giving me the tiniest moment to reassert self-control.
Marqyni himself suggested the idea to me, swearing it was no different than a normal person discovering how to dream in lucidity, reining control over the actions of their subconscious. He told me of a mental image he crafted of the starry night sky. Every time he looks out a window and sees the inky void, a tiny thought passes where he wonders if he is asleep. What began as a conscious effort to think about a dreaming state turned into a conditioned response which he says has followed him into his slumber.
