Venice greeted him as if with water. Moisture stuck to his suit now stored in a trunk with a hidden compartment. The quiet green canal beyond his window appeared a replica a mere ornamental pool beside the overwhelming fog of the Faroes. The mood from that valley had trailed him to his residence. It existed now as a barely perceptible hum, within his inner ear, a spiritual ringing. Beneath the hum of his regulator he sensed it—a deeper more authentic vibration.
His efforts were futile. Shuffling documents, about nostalgic engagement" while his thoughts traced the shades of grey on a Faroese cliffside. He existed like a specter drifting through a postcard.
The Cognitive Security Directorate (CSD) had taken over from the Ministrys gently named departments. Its symbol was a watchful eye relentlessly fixed. Their scope was wider their authority unquestioned: safeguarding the cognitive ecosystem, against every danger, both internal and metaphysical. Pamela Pauline had advanced into its ranks. Devon guessed it was her method of suppressing the heresy she had uncovered.
He was called to a briefing. Not at the CSD headquarters but at a secure nondescript location. Pamela's avatar materialized her traits more defined her demeanor heavier, with command.
"Duncan. An advance. We've captured a piece of encrypted communication. Not originating from the Aesthetes." She. A sequence of symbols materialized in the space, between them. It wasn't the Lethargic Calculus. It felt archival. Sequential, yet cyclical.
"It alludes to a mythology. Not Belphegor. Its opposite. 'The Curator.' A non-entity purported to oversee the 'Museum of Unlived Lives.' The code snippet addresses… acquisition. Cataloguing."
Devon's heartbeat, with the regulator thudded strongly. "Acquisition of what?"
"Not things. Not merely thoughts. Conditions. Conditions of inaction. Experienced instants. Overlooked decisions. The code refers to 'maintaining the sheen of choices' and 'curating the grace of forsaken possibilities.'" Pamela's avatar inched forward. "This no longer concerns fostering laziness, Devon. It's about documenting it. Creating a classification of yielding. A museum you never enter—a museum that accumulates you."
The chill of the Faroes appeared to pass through the screen. He observed Fronie Felicity, not sculpting, but tidying. Getting a receptor ready. Not, for an occasion. For a condition. The Final Piece wasn't a show; it was a display.. They were getting ready to become its initial acquisitions.
"Where did the traffic come from?" His tone was monotone, to his own ears.
"Reflected off deteriorating satellites. Yet the final trace… it's Venetian."
Naturally it was. The metropolis of deterioration. The ideal concealment.
"Your task " Pamela stated, her eyes meeting his "is to locate the origin. Utilize your expertise. Your… connection. This 'Curator' legend introduces a narrative dimension. More perilous since it isn't opposing. It's bureaucratic. It doesn't seek to challenge the Consensus. It aims to tuck it in a folder called 'Intriguing, Yet Ultimately Too Noisy.' Discover it. Prior, to the commencement of the collection."
The briefing concluded. Devon remained alone in the quiet of his apartment the CSD's fresh emblem seared into his mind. The conflict had changed more. The Aesthetes were no longer merely looking for refuge. They were creating an archive with themselves showcased as the displays.. They had selected Venice, the city renowned for mastering the craft of exquisite drowning as their headquarters.
He strolled the calles, not in the role of a mediator. As a seeker of voids. He glanced beyond the augmented reality spectacle beyond the visitors clutching their wonder scores." He searched for the gaps. A palazzo with windows forever closed, its upkeep costs covered silently through a trust. A gondola repair site that hadn't recorded a job for two years yet remained untouched, by deterioration. A small, nameless archive near the Frari, its door requiring a physical key in a world of biometrics.
He discovered it in the depths of night trailing a murmur of that barely audible sound, down a lane emitting the scent of stale seawater. A solid oak door, grayed and worn by the years. No scanner present. Only a lock. And above it engraved subtly it might have been erosion was an emblem: a keyhole, yet the opening resembled the curve of swallowing.
He employed a pickset from his field kit. The lock rotated with a whisper of a timeworn device.
Inside it wasn't a room. An antechamber of absolute quiet. The atmosphere was cool and free of dust. Of shelves the walls featured recessed compartments. Within each compartment rested a transparent crystal vial. Every vial held something resembling smoke or shadow each, with a distinct tone of grey. Beneath each a small card was written with handwriting.
He moved nearer to the one.
*Sample A-117: The Missed Afternoon Siesta (Berlin 2048). Observations: Participant opted to finish financial documents. Faint aroma of vanished sunlight, on the skin. Chance of remorse unfulfilled.*
The next:
*Specimen B-009: The Unopened Love Letter Consumed, by Flames (Marseille, 2052). Notes: Strong emotional charge, condensed. Holds traces of a kiss that was never shared. Treat gently; triggers bittersweet melancholy.*
It was a library. An assortment of minuscule contained resignations. The fragments of the unlived. This represented the creation of the Aesthetes—no longer crafting art centered on stillness but engaging in a harsh exquisite classification of silence. They weren't the artists; they were the custodians of their shrunken existences presenting their most exquisite intimate refusals, for exhibition.
At the end of the room was a desk. On it sat a ledger, open. The last entry, the ink still dark:
Proposed Acquisition: Prime Specimen. Designation: "The Analyst's Final Report." Subject: D.D. Location: Venice. State: Chronic, sublimated cessation masked as function. Potential: Extraordinary. A masterpiece of withheld intent. Awaiting donor consent.
A gentle footfall came from, behind. He stayed facing. He recognized who was there. The concentrated silence. The aroma of linen.
"It's not about erasure, Devon," Fronie Felicity's voice arrived, gentle like dust settling. "Erasure is blunt. This concerns… preservation. Shaping what lacks shape. A gallery for the spirits of what we refused to become. More sincere, than a gallery of what we feigned to be."
At last he spun around. She was positioned in the doorway not as an adversary. As a guide.
"You intend to trap me " he stated.
"We aim to respect the quiet you bear " she amended. "The Consensus would treat it with medication. We would assign it a label, a location, a setting. It wouldn't remain a flaw. It would become a display. An object of honored elegance." She indicated the ledger. "Your approval is the gesture of the aesthetic. The deliberate offering of oneself, to the collection of the undone."
The sound in his ear grew louder blending with the stillness of the chamber. The regulator implanted in his arm emitted a chemical hum. This was the option presented by the valley: not disappearance, but preservation. To have his fatigue his disenchantment, his internal emptiness not removed but acknowledged, documented and carefully set aside where it might, at last genuinely find peace.
He glanced at the vial marked with his name. It stood vacant. Anticipating.
The war was over. The filing had begun.