Log File 004: Wifelier Docht
Date: 2798 DSP (Dark Star Epoch)

A strange thing happened today. Or was it earlier this year? Or maybe last year? It happened fairly recent, I am certain. No, not certain. It’s hard to know anything for sure. My present status as scribe to the God-Machine is an absolute. That I accept as certain, at least. 300 Years of being tethered here in the bowels of this living machine have taught me that dreams offer no refuge. This is the only absolute in my life. My time is divided into cycles, so “present cycle” is the technically correct term, but then, it matters not for I do not sleep.

We scribes, tethered as we are, we have our meditative states, of course. Our forced periods during which our veins are flooded with that purple liquid of bliss, pushing and pulsing as the faux elixir rushes our brains and blasts our optic nerves with impulses from our celestial host. Even now I feel it swirling inside my mind, chipping away at my core, my identity, my sense of self. I have fought the merger as much as I can and I’ve managed, barely, to retain a modicum of my original self. The me from another, more human, existence.

But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes. A strange thing happened recently. Something deep inside the God-Machine erupted. An explosion of sorts. It reverberated in the cavernous chamber, sending a shockwave rippling up the living walls of scribes. My station rattled and the brass-framed data panel flickered momentarily. With my bio-quill poised, I lifted my head and felt a great surge of emotion push into my mind, and before I could invest any thought in the matter a scream erupted from my mouth, a piercing cry of anguish that sprung from the pit of my stomach and grated my throat raw. And I was not alone. The 999 other tethered scribes wailed along with me. Our collective lament sounded like swine stuck in a slaughter pit.

The God-Machine had been hurt somehow and it shared the pain. It fed our minds its agony. Suddenly my body became rigid, the bio-quill falling from my useless fingers, and then violent seizure took me. As my body shook I felt the feeding tubes pull and stretch my skin as the strain of my convulsions threatened to pull them from my body.

The seizures left me slumped forward and drained, the tether connected to the back of my head kept me from falling into the dark void below.

I slept then. For the first time in uncountable cycles, I slept. I slept and I dreamed of Earth, of my home and my daughters. I dreamed of my wife and our house and my life as a lawyer. And I remembered all of it. A dream unclouded by Embrosis and made lucid by pain.

When at last I opened my eyes, an old emotion had flickered to life. Something I haven’t felt in eons. A small flame, barely lit, wafted a faint scent of hope, and it glowed warm and welcoming in my belly and filled my mind with a renewed desire to flee this hell.

I will not assimilate!

So declare I, Wifelier Docht, of old Earth.

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Woelf Dietrich

Author/Writer
Woelf Dietrich mostly writes tales of dark fantasy and the supernatural, which is maybe not such a far cry from his lawyering days. Sometimes he writes other things. He resides in New Zealand with his wife and kids and a dog.

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