Codec Prime stands on the roof of his head quarters with the last of his personal guard and observes the annihilation of the city around him that he has set in motion. Here is the monologue he delivers to the oblivious drones that are slaved to his will.
“The internalised data construct of this designed reality, projected outward through all the means at my disposal, shivers as I remove myself from it. Causality and the evidence of action twisted back on themselves. Moebius-like the connections are severed and closed, till consequences remain with no tale of the creator. The beaten hydra of the body politic lashes out against itself it its mindless death throes. Power affects change and the balance rests with Codec.
The dreams of youth become the visions of man. Years pass under the burden of our ambitions until dying with regret we release them in bitterness, unfulfilled and worthless. Codec rejects this fate! For hours uncounted I have toiled, until the decision point between control and altruism was reached. I chose without hesitation. Will and reality merge. My word is the world. I say ‘fire’ and it burns. You doubt, denying in the un-augmented prison of your minds my apotheosis. A demonstration then, to silence you. There. Burn.
The word erases in lines scratched down from the sky. Life gutters in angry colour where nothing worth the name stood before. They barely have sense to flee, and those that do are absorbed by the design unfolding. My design; carved across first this decaying metropolis, then the rest of this putrefying globe as it sags erratic in its orbit. North and south in streams they rush to surrender consciousness, and be subsumed into a whole they cannot comprehend. They think they protest and, deluded since time immemorial, believe their voices are enough to change the course of nations. Codec sees the truth of it. A single voice, if it is the right one – for example mine – sweeps all their cries before it. A dissenter still? Then be silenced another way.
The sound of metal on flesh reminds us how little we have really evolved. A gunshot that technology has advanced the cause of death faster than ethics removes the need to kill. My hand or another, why make the distinction? There is only one mind in this whole seething mass. Should I pity them you think, before their end? Shouting themselves hoarse with impotence, blinded by the immediacy of their predicament, while Codec holds monopoly on the strategic view. Their one advantage, the only card they hold from all the decks dealt by fate, is their numbers. They have proliferated, plague like, and massed together into this riotous mob, thinking perhaps to pose a threat. Their hand is played. Time I think to show them the reality of this game and bound the limited scope of their understanding. It would be revelation, if they were capable of it, to know that they are pieces on my board and not players at theirs. Divide et impera. Except I have already conquered, so I will settle for caede. This time a gesture with the word. From east to west I demarcate the severing, of crowd from mob and man from crowd, until each one among them is dying alone.
In the wake of rage comes disbelief for those with the misfortune to survive. What a thing it must be to envy the dead; to wish that the caved skull and the ruptured torso was yours.
Hearts beat faster and faster, clutching at empty air. Watching their agonizing torment they will look back and count the dying blessed. Such limited perceptions, seeing only the now, unaware of the aftermath yet to come. Codec sees that too having bent time also to his will.
Past and future yield their secrets and I read them easily. No blind hunting among the stars
but the prophecy of data, auguries of information derived from a ruthless interrogation of every digital uplink in existence. I have machined the future and engineered evolution. My sensory input alone would cripple you. Yet what is it that you see here atop this broken tomb of capitalism? A man? A contrsuct? A god? No madness this to seize the deific mantle. Your books would have it that this world was made in seven days. I have unmade it in one and proved myself the greater. Or perhaps just a human, but aeons gone and distant from these pitiful, mewling beings. One last strike from these heights to shatter the last coherence before descending to complete the neo-genesis of mankind. All are beyond necessity and shall be discarded.”