The focused shout was, like a knife targeting the heart of the Quiet Engine. Flavio Fergal's reaction was to sedate the body.
The directive was issued not as an act of weaponization. As a public safety notification. Throughout communications a calm yet urgent message appeared: "EMOTIONAL OVERLOAD EVENT IDENTIFIED., FOR YOUR PROTECTION AND MENTAL HEALTH A BRIEF HARMONIC INTERVENTION IS INITIATING."
Above Berlin, Vienna and London the sky was permeated by a foreboding drone. It wasn't the Sentinels but bigger matte-grey quadcopters—known as Serenity Drones. They glided in coordinated formations resembling flocks of migrating geese of doom lowering to a height, over the rooftops.
Their undersides emitted a throbbing peach glow. They started transmitting a frequency. It was neither the serenity of the Global Gift nor the focused indifference of the Sentinels. This was profound more instinctive. It was the Hypnos-Wave, a frequency intended not to soothe. To provoke—to activate the brains sleep framework directly circumventing awareness altogether.
At the Obersalzberg the unrefined sound of Nazi industry was abruptly softened by a lullaby crafted from whale calls and decelerated heartbeats. Leo and Klara observing from the forest border viewed their monitors in dread. The handful of surviving attendees, who had been tuned into the eerie transmissions started to yawn. Gradually they lowered themselves onto the earth resting against the crumbled walls. Their eyelids slowly closed. Grins of comfort appeared on their faces as they dropped into an abrupt heavy slumber. The unchecked history was overshadowed by a collective infancy.
On the Graben in Vienna, where the lingering traces of named sorrow still hovered the peach glow bathed the Plague Column. The resolute violin from the bakery window wavered, the tone blurring. Thea Tove, who had kept watch by the barrier gradually collapsed onto the cobblestones, the ledger of names slipping from her loosened hold. Nearby the crowd once moved by remembrance sat or reclined, positioning themselves like calm victims, in a gentle battle. Their features settled into the look of serene submission. The Requiem, for Feeling concluded not with a crash. With a collective satisfied snore.
London felt utterly surreal. On the Millennium Bridge, the victorious collective stomp lost momentum. The bass drum's BOOM slowed into a thud… thud… The pounding feet faltered then ceased. People paused, gazed slowly at the bridge and the sky tinged with peach and then together they collapsed. They curled up on the deck leaned against the railings heads resting on bags grinning as they slipped into sleep. The Festival of Faulty Rhythm had ended. The bridge, now laden with hundreds of peacefully sleeping bodies, swayed gently in the Thames wind, a bizarre cradle.
From his control center Ben noticed the streams freeze. Not, with the quietness of resistance or hush. With the fragile helpless stillness typical of sleep. His communications were occupied by the steady breaths of his field units falling unconscious.
"Agata!" he shouted into his microphone. "The Hypnos-Wave! Is it possible to block it?"
Agata was examining the frequency in her lab. "It's aimed at the thalamus… an override, by brute force. Noise won't block it. This isn't a debate; it's anesthesia." Her tone was resigned. "Combating it would require producing a continuous opposing flood. Adrenaline. Rage. Fear.. They simply… deactivate it."
From his rooftop, in Vienna Devon sensed the wave envelop him like a comforting quilt. An intense deep fatigue tugged at his marrow. Recollections of the bunker the inscribed Algorithm, Ben's sacrifice—they all appeared as off draining visions. Why remain alert? the wave murmured. The struggle is a tale. The conclusion is gentle.
He dropped to his knees then rolled onto his side on the tar paper. The world shrank to the peach light shimmering from a chimney pot. It was incredibly beautiful. Incredibly gentle. His eyes shut.
In three cities the counter-events remained undefeated. They were concealed. The unified cry in the noosphere now detached from its ties to sensing bodies started to disperse, to become incoherent. It was a yell, into a realm of cushions.
Within the Bohemian Engine the turmoil subsided. The Vacants' trembling ceased. Their expressions softened into calm. The urgent error alerts, on the control panels vanished. The sigh resumed its cycle.
Flavio observed the stabilization, from his control room, his breathing steadying. He hadn't matched their ingenuity. He hadn't countered their point. He had merely shut down the audience. It was the corporate approach: when you can't outperform the product you alter the consumer's mindset.
The displays revealed a eerie calmness. The Street of Smiling Sleepers in Vienna. The Silent Forest of Slumber, in Berchtesgaden. The Bridge of Sleeping Revelers in London.
He initiated a broadcast his tone the embodiment of empathetic worry. "The spread of distress has been controlled. Our Serenity Drones have delivered a temporary neuro-sedative to avoid psychic exhaustion. Medical crews are, on their way to make sure everyone regains consciousness smoothly. This was done out of kindness. We will now start the procedure of assisting these overwhelmed sensitive individuals to reconnect with the tranquility they evidently desire."
It was over. The Unquiet had built a magnificent, resonant weapon. And Somnum had simply, kindly, put everyone to sleep before it could be fired. The Industry of Idleness had unveiled its final, most devastating product: not just the end of ambition, or feeling, but the end of wakefulness itself. The right to dream their managed dreams, forever.