The jovian syzygy observation party was a masterpiece of trivial agony.
Lyra had outdone herself. The venue was a floating platform suspended in a simulated upper atmosphere of Jupiter—a riot of swirling ammonia clouds lit from within by tremendous lightning storms that flashed in slow, majestic arcs. The gravity was a gentle, buoyant pull. The air carried the synthesized tang of hydrocarbons and ionized gas. A dozen of her friends and acquaintances floated around, their avatars ranging from classical humanoid to abstract energy sculptures, all oohing and aahing at the spectacle.
I floated among them, a ghost at the feast. My avatar wore the polite smile I'd programmed for such occasions. It felt like a plastic mask grafted to my face. Aether's recommendations were in full effect: social integration, diversive cognitive activities. This was my therapy. This was my cage.
"The turbulence patterns in the north equatorial belt are based on real data from the Juno probe archives," Lyra was explaining to the group, her form a shimmering helix of sapphire light that pirouetted with excitement. "But I've artfully exaggerated the color saturation. Reality needs a little help to reach its full emotional potential, don't you think?"
Murmurs of agreement. I took a sip of my virtual drink—something that tasted like champagne and static electricity. My mind was elsewhere, split. One partition maintained the facade, nodding at appropriate moments. The other was counting down.
The data from Orpheus-3 was due. Any moment now. The focused scans of Site Theta should have finished compiling and begun the long, slow transmission back to the solar system. The anticipation was a live wire in my gut, sizzling beneath the placid surface of my performance.
"Kaden, you're quiet tonight." The voice belonged to Corvus, a historian who specialized in pre-Transition economic systems. His avatar was an austere, grey-suited man with eyes that held too much simulated wisdom. "Usually you have insightful things to say about atmospheric dynamics. Lyra tells me you're going through a creative phase."
I forced my attention to him. "Atmospheric dynamics are the least of it," I said, gesturing vaguely at the fake storm below. "It's the scale that humbles. The sheer, mindless power. We simulate it, we aestheticize it, but we can't really comprehend the forces at play. We just paint pretty pictures of the avalanche."
Corvus's avatar raised an eyebrow. "An interestingly bleak perspective for a creator of beauty."
"Beauty often has terrifying foundations," I replied, the words slipping out before I could stop them. It was too close to the truth. The heartbeat had a terrible beauty. "Forgive me. My refractory period has left me… philosophically raw."
"I find raw states conducive to truth," Corvus said, his gaze lingering on me a moment too long. Was he just making conversation, or was there a probing edge to his words? Paranoia, my new constant companion, whispered that everyone was an agent of the System, everyone a potential informant for Aether.
I excused myself, floating toward the periphery of the platform. Below, the simulated gas giant churned. Somewhere beyond this fiction, a real planet hung in the black, singing its stone song. I felt a desperate, almost physical pull toward my hidden workspace.
A soft chime, audible only to me, sounded in my auditory cortex. The pre-arranged signal. A single, low note.
The data had arrived.
The party became a prison. Every laugh, every snatch of conversation, every second spent admiring Lyra's handiwork was a theft of time. I needed to be alone. I needed to see.
"Leaving so soon?" Lyra materialized beside me, her helix form condensing into a more familiar humanoid shape. The concern was back in her eyes. "You've barely spoken to anyone."
"The scale is getting to me," I said, truthfully. "It's… overwhelming. I need some quiet to process."
She placed a hand—a solid, warm hand now—on my arm. "Kai, the scan… Aether said there was an unusual neural pathway. It's worried. I'm worried. This isolation isn't helping. Please, stay. Talk to me. Not as a patient, as your friend."
Her sincerity was a knife twisting in my chest. I wanted to tell her. The urge was sudden and powerful. To share the terrible, wonderful weight. To have one person in this gilded world know that I wasn't mad, that there was something out there.
But I couldn't. Telling her would put her at risk. It would also, I knew with cold certainty, break something between us. She would either think I'd finally lost my grip, or she would be horrified by my actions. Her world was built on curated beauty and consensus reality. Mine was now built on a secret that undermined both.
"I just need some time alone with the quiet, Lyra," I said, gently removing her hand. "It's how I work. You know that."
She searched my face, her expression falling. "The quiet you're seeking isn't here, is it?" she whispered. "You're looking for a different kind of silence."
She saw too much. Always had.
"I'll see you for the ethics discussion tomorrow," I said, avoiding the question. I initiated the disconnection sequence before she could respond.
My avatar dissolved from the Jovian platform. The sensory overload of the party vanished, replaced by the sterile calm of my personal chambers. The transition was a relief so profound it felt like pain.