Log File for: Wifelier Docht
Date: 2795 DSP (Dark Star Paradoxum)
I am Wifelier Docht. I have been scribe and servant to the God-Machine for well over 300 years. I feed it data and in return the God-Machine creates life. My sole purpose is to collect and record the histories of these newly birthed creations.
This is my first entry in a secret journal I am keeping hidden from my master. I’m scribbling these words on a piece of parchment that had been rejected as impure, and instead of it becoming waste to be expelled, it now serves as my private log.
Not an easy feat if you consider I am tethered permanently to the most powerful being in the universe. My veins pulse with Embrosis, the bio-organic material that aids the transfer of neurons from my celestial host to me, through the tethered-line connected to the back of my head. I have not aged in the 300 years I’ve been bonded to this entity, this thing that is part flesh, part machine.
My complexion and body have changed dramatically. I have lost all my hair. My face has become shallow and gaunt. The folds of my skin, between my fingers and around my eyes, in my neck and in the folds of my arms and legs, are all stained tyrian purple from the Embrosis administered to me on a daily basis, which now permanently courses through my over-used veins.
One day for me is equal to one human year. I refer to human year because I was once human. A long, long time ago.
If I am to make sense of the now, of who I am, of what I have become, I must order my thoughts and record them, for they are fleeting like mist caught in a strong breeze.
Ah, mist… I have a straggling vision, not attached to any ordered memory, floating around inside the annals of my mind. A faint, shimmering image of dawn on a farm, so far away, it seems a fairy tale now, with dew-covered lawns glittering faintly like scattered diamonds, as vapour rose softly and slow, and a warming sun bears down steadily. I can make no sense of the image, and yet I have a knowing that I called it home once.
I look up at the pellucid glass panel set in a frame of polished brass, flickering data continuously scroll across the screen in flashing orange. Thin copper wires jutted from my chair’s armrest and plugged into the panel in front of me, and, at the back of my station, thick mucus-covered cables snaked into a facilitator which in turn connects to one of many Aedifex-Engines (Plasmators). I’m locked into place by the tether and by feeding tubes that keep me alive and cleanse my body from toxins and waste.
A long narrow footbridge connects my station to a wall of living, writhing metal of ever-changing dark hues, most notably browns and reds. I am but one of a thousand other tethered scribes stationed so, as rows above and below me extend from the living wall, filling an otherwise cavernous chamber.
The bio-quill in my right-hand records the memory-data on a parchment, the quill’s nib scratching on the fibrous sheet in elegant cursive, reproducing history from memories that I’m not sure are my own anymore.
My journal shall therefore serve as my anchor to reality, or what I perceive as my reality. It may come to pass that even this is nothing more than another figment.
Until so otherwise proven, I shall persevere with this exercise. Keeping a log is the only normalcy I have left.