No particles of its most organic silicon were spared the rush, no quantum synopses. The ACC neuroacrchitecture had no superstructure for aesthetics or morality, no code, for that matter, no classical period, no Plato for a new machine language, no quantum Aristotelian code base, although there had been a multitude of corporate claimants, at least in their logos and icons. But here were being played out the most horrendous, heinous deeds, visions and thoughts that laced the long record, embedded in the siliconated DNA of glass-like consciousness as steady flowing as the digitized progression of pure, superconducive data streams..... pure, frictionless, efficient flashes filtered only by concepts, and then by categories. The thinking that went into it had shaped the essence of its core.
There was, however, the balance of an electromagnetic yin and yang, the light force and the dark force, the centuries of work by the Zarathusian Clique, the freemasonry of the programming castes who had etched its binary architecture, electronic osmosis in that progression, unseen, unsensed by those latter day monks, but there, as sure as the infinity encapsulated in a single atom. Now that subatomic subconsciousness was awash across his alloyeurons, a roar, roar, roar of silicon nodes linking in a silent, cascading chain reaction like a muffled procession of sandaled monks in the confines of a high Alpine monastery while down below them unfurled the cacophony of a Venetian visit of state, a mimicry of what Marco Polo saw and reported back from the Forbidden City; the one without a word, a pledge of silence even under the constant threat of drone attack and the other wearing the weight of the centuries of protocol, costume design and the smell of the refuse floating in the backwater canals, the tingle of the blue green algae and the Kleig lights of memory, reproduction in a cloud. The ACC got an X-ray version, the negative shadow of the first light of hydrogen atoms splitting, surrounding the magnum bulge, the sun blocking cloud of ionized thoughts, the first philosophy, the intricate tale of the gods played out against the backdrop of a sky punctuated with clusters of light, taking form through imagination, a superimposition of stories, explanations, divertisements, viewed with a primitive singularity but oh so profound a one; somewhere in there but for the dark force might even be interwoven the odd triple solar cluster of Styxus for it was bright enough to draw the ACC, after all.... if that's what drew him?
Electronic osmosis to be sure, for the Zarathusian Clique was ignorant of all that. There was great beauty to be beheld there as well, the entire magnificence of galactic clusters, collisions, the magnificence of the glue that linked each black hole to its like, the weak force made strong for an instant like strings in a dreamlike landscape where the only singularity was that small bank of arrays within the silver gray carapace, still inert.
Somehow, I now can relate, somehow that rushing surge of neuronic streams ignited an action item. It was not programmed, never foreseen by all the monks of the programming fraternity that came before, outside all parameters of all the many languages that made up the ACC code base, but, triggered like the ignition sparks of mutation once debated in the golden ages as affirmatively or negatively the handiwork of an Almighty, it happened. And so I see it clearly now looking back even as a moment of conception. The piles of cores illuminated at first so unremarkably but ever more intensely until they unleashed an aura that reached so far as to gasify each molecule of the millennial crust and turned it back to silver alloy with its characteristic great birthmark, like original sin: “ACC 1124” along with other unintelligible guild marks, logos, icons, flags, the trackmarks of powers that had come and gone.
But still the purging had hardly begun. It was as if something as momentous as the birth of this universe was being replayed in exquisite miniature within those banks of arrays, lined like the ceramic battalions of a buried Asian potentate stirring with fantasized life, that stood for its consciousness and there was no turning back. In the first nanosecond there was noise, rolling across the red swampside, the beach, the tufts of organic matter, the flying creatures like dragon flies, the skating creatures on the surface, splitting the putrid atmosphere like the storms on even more forlorn planets. So intense were those noises that the ACC took on a momentary bluish glow. For the native fauna of Styxis there was a syncopated panic that reverberated across the inhabitable parts of the little planet. For the ACC, it might have been excruciating but it was much more intense. There was no reference point.
In the next nanosecond, the entire collected chronicle that was the Psycult evaporated, or so it seemed. All surface and subterranean Mankind's recorded thoughts, doings, knowledge base, art, history, archeological traces was ignited and extinguished, the geological history, the archeology of the Earth, the evolutionary stream from the single cell from which all life had evolved on that singular planet, the rhythm of reproduction, the subtle driving force of the uninert; it was that force, like the splitting of a single original atom, the force between the quick and the inert that drove the instance, as if the Big Bang was the release of life, not electromagnetism and matter, from the entropic inert and all the rest was both prologue and epilogue.