The world was in chaos, and I was watching a metal concert.
"As the clock ticks toward the doom," Nero sang with a voice like clear silver. Death had taken years away from him, leaving Nero not as he was at his end, but as a beginning—just a few years past the moment he first assumed the purple.
I was not watching from the audience, of course. That would be inappropriate for a god. Especially a fake one. A real god might mingle incognito among their worshippers; a counterfeit has to be more careful with the stagecraft.
No. I watched through the gem-encrusted eyes of a ten-meter-tall idol of myself, looming behind the stage.
"Shadows crawl across the room," came a second, rougher voice—Eddie's, carried on a howl of electric guitar. A soul from the modern age, an anomaly who'd inducted Nero into the glory of metal.
Intuitively, I knew what it took to enter Irem after death. It was simple, in principle: one only had to worship me as a divinity. But there was a great deal of nuance packed into those words, as I would later come to understand.
Take Eddie, for example. He never worshipped me in any conventional sense. One day, he overdosed on narcotics, staring at a billboard with one of my public faces. In his drug-fueled mind, for a single, fleeting moment, it was the face of God.
And that was enough.
Enough for his consciousness to awaken in the forests near Irem, at the exact instant his physical body on Earth perished from the poison he'd chosen.
"Children of the black parade," Nero intoned, and the audience moved as one, writhing like some uncanny beast.
I was not only watching, but listening—through the idol's eyes and ears, high-tech cameras that drank in every note and shout. Participating, too: motors in the idol's limbs let it move in tune with the music, a monstrous puppet dancing its own prayer.
"Gathered at the end of days," Eddie finished, and now it was time for the last musician to shine.
Completing this sacred band was my Witch High Priestess, Grimhilde, a sorceress from medieval Persia. When she fell fighting the Vril-ya, she was over a thousand years old. Now she looked barely twenty, her dark hair wild and eyes glittering with centuries of secrets.
She was pounding the drums with relentless intensity.
The drums, regrettably, were not made from the skins of my enemies; Vril-ya bodies rot too quickly. Instead, Grimhilde had hunted an eldritch beast from the forests near Irem: the Seven-Eyed Deer, whose antlers burned with fractal fire.
Irem was full of colors that could only be described through allegory—black so deep it devoured, reds that bled memory, sound that shattered souls and sent drumbeats pulsing through hearts caught in hopeless love.
Music here propagated through more than three dimensions; it spun itself into impossible shapes, weaving through flesh, bone, and memory.
The performance was unforgettable—though not for mortal consumption. For a living man, it would mean madness.
But neither the performers nor the audience were truly living, and I hardly counted among men.
This was more than a performance; it was a ritual. A prayer.
"Magister! Meister! Master!
Burn our names into the fire!
Magister! Meister! Master!
Take us higher, take us higher!"
Band and audience sang the refrain as one—a thunderous chant merging into a single voice. Like sparks thrown into a bonfire, their faith flowed into me.
I had to be part of it. Without my participation, the power of their prayer would simply coalesce: a reservoir of raw energy, useful for some purposes, but limited.
But if I joined the ritual, the power would disperse—radiating outward to twist the threads of probability themselves.
Just a little tip of the dice.
Yet in an uncertain situation like this, a thousand little tips could flip the entire board.
And still, this ritual was not the only matter requiring my personal attention.
That was the reason I could not be physically present in Irem to conduct the ritual—and why I had to use a mechanical substitute.
Because while miracles were helpful, there was still the actual work of organizing to manage the crisis. As the saying went: pray hard, but push the cart harder.
All organization began with presentation.
Well, as long as there were more than a very few people involved.
And I had mobilised much more than a few people to deal with the current crisis.
That was the reason why the Primary Crisis Command Chamber was designed as much for style as for substance. Naturally, it had a full suite of analytical and communications tools that could link me to every asset I needed to deploy, from analysts to field operatives.
But it was made, through the combination of perception and colors, to bring me into focus.
To elevate me from man to myth.
That was why my assigned place at its center was made to look like a compound of an ancient king's throne and the command chair of a starship captain.
To complete the image, I was using a magical ruby, hanging from a simple chain around my neck, to Reinforce my majesty.
After all, gemstones have been used for millennia to enhance both the beauty and the appearance of power, even without any magecraft involved.
Rubies, with their association with royalty and vitality, were particularly well-suited to the purpose.
But leadership had two primary components.
The first was ensuring that a leader's orders would be obeyed. The second was ensuring that those orders were sensible.
It was an unfortunate fact of reality that these two properties coexisted far less often than they should.
Thus, in my opinion, it was a problem best treated as two separate components.
Sensible orders were simply those that executed an effective plan. And the effectiveness of any plan started with good information and ended with good luck.
Threshold Slime helped me with both.
My familiar did not exist in any space observable by man, but in the threshold itself—the liminal zone between Irem and Earth.
One tendril reached into Irem, connecting directly to the mechanical idol, overseeing the concert, and quietly manufacturing luck.
Another burrowed into the dataports of my command chair-throne, linking me instantly and intimately to the dataflow and to GLaDOS.
She, for her part, was streaming "I Was Right and You Were Wrong" as background music. But I suppose I deserved it; she was right about Jobs, after all. It is a virtue of good leadership to accept such reproach with good humor when one has made a mistake. So I did my best to fake it, even if I didn't quite feel it.
And perhaps, if I faked it long enough, I would attain that virtue.
Yet another tendril connected to Larmo, currently in the form of an Aperture Mobile, skittering across the floor. That provided secure communication with Archer, should I need to deploy him.
Some prefer to begin an engagement with overwhelming power, but I found it prudent to keep my most potent assets in strategic reserve. After all, it would be quite inconvenient to commit them for a minor matter, only to suddenly need them halfway across the world.
And the final tendril was buried in my own brain, connecting to me directly. Of course, since Threshold Slime existed outside all perceivable dimensions, none of this was visible.
Before me, the walls of the command room were a bank of giant screens.
But there was a part in the middle, between the information and the luck.
Processing it all. Reading the reports, adjusting the plans—all those countless little details that begged for attention.
If my attention were currency, I would be more bankrupt than Aperture was when I first took over.
Except I cheated.
My older spells were not optimal for such a purpose.
"Shatter: Cherubim," for instance, was limited to a four-fold increase in processing—one for each of the four faces of the cherub. This was insufficient. Its other benefits, like the observation of alternate pasts and divergent instances of myself, were less useful for a crisis unfolding in the present.
While it was possible to use "Shatter: Ophanim" for parallel processing by narrowing its angelic gaze to virtually identical timelines, the method was riddled with problems. First, narrowing the observation to that fine a degree was like trying to focus one's own finger when it's pressed directly against your nose: trying and unpleasant. Second, while the parallel universes were almost identical, the key word was almost. The risk of introducing false data from a critically diverged universe into my calculations was unacceptably high.
Thus, I had devised a new spell, designed specifically for purely mental parallel processing.
By looking inward, instead of outward.
Inward Kaleidoscope: Parallel Microcosm Self-Actualization.
I was getting better at naming things.
The microcosm, the macrocosm, and the symmetric relationship that bound the two—these were all very old and foundational concepts in Western Occultism.
They dated back to the ancient Greeks. Although earlier philosophers had touched upon the matter, it was Plato, in his dialogue the Timaeus, who truly codified the idea. He posited that the entire universe was a single living entity possessing a soul—the psychē tou pantos, as he called it, a concept later known by its more common Latin name, the Anima Mundi.
The Stoics later expanded on this with their concept of sympatheia, the belief that all parts of the cosmos were interwoven and that an event in the heavens must have a corresponding resonance in the world of men.
It was the Hermetic tradition, however, that transformed the concept from a philosophical parallel into an operational principle. The axiom from the Emerald Tablet, "As above, so below," became the master key. It implied that by manipulating the microcosm, one could influence the macrocosm.
But that was not what I was after. No, it was the symmetry itself that interested me. Rather than using the microcosm to manipulate the macrocosm, I was interested in applying the principles of the macrocosm to the microcosm. Specifically, the principles of the Second True Magic: Kaleidoscope, the Operation of Parallel Worlds.
The postulation was simple. If, for each macrocosm, there are countless parallel macrocosms, and if the microcosm and macrocosm are symmetrical, then for each microcosm, there must also be countless parallel microcosms.
Thus, by strictly limiting the affected frame to the boundary of the self—the skin—I could devise a far more potent and stable method of parallel processing. By looking inward, instead of outward.
But the road from epiphany to implementation was neither straightforward nor short. While my initial research into the microcosm provided the foundation for the Living Annex technology, it was a piece of wisdom from Paracelsus that gave me the final key.
His mapping of internal organs to their corresponding gemstones allowed me to shift the primary thaumaturgical foundation of the spell from the abstract realm of Angelic Theurgy to the more practical application of Jewel Magecraft.
I would not say it would have been impossible to complete the spell with the former, but I simply had much more extensive reference material for the latter.
The final form of the spell was a transcendent, multi-faceted emerald existing in a higher dimensional space, sympathetically linked to my physical brain. Each facet of the gemstone was an independent instance of my own mind, and each could be given a differing task to work on in parallel.
This particular facet of me, for example, was tasked with monitoring the Antarctic. More precisely, the patch of it where Ozerov's army had last been seen before it disappeared.
It was a task of critical importance, but in execution, it was relatively simple. Almost too simple.
It left too much of this facet's processing power idle. So, I found myself a little distracted.
I tried not to be envious of my other selves.
It stank a bit too much of narcissism for my tastes.
But still, some of the other facets had more engaging jobs.
Like the facet of me that was currently tasked with overseeing critical field operations: Andrew Rich's assault on the Vril-ya impersonating former President Reagan, and the defense of America's only starship, the Enterprise.
If there was one bright spot in this whole situation, it was that we could finally deal with a confirmed Vril-ya infiltrator without having to worry about the political fallout that the assassination of a former US president would normally cause.
The more numerous, less critical operations were managed by another facet. Of course, I did not micromanage them; I merely oversaw the process and used my authority to prevent problems before they could happen.
Even if I wanted to, I could not. That was the primary flaw of the spell. While it multiplied my processing power, the input and output of information remained the same. One body. One mouth. One pair of ears and eyes. I cheated a little, using the Threshold Slime to issue simple data commands, but the number of complex orders I could pass was still limited by my physical form.
That was why another facet of my mind was dedicated solely to triage. It monitored the priority of every incoming issue and decided who could be managed with a quick, data-based text, and who required a full audio or video call using my actual body—a body which was, itself, being managed by yet another facet.
Another facet oversaw logistics, and another was dedicated to the analysis teams. Not the raw data, not even their individual reports, but the summary of the collective reports from dozens of teams. And even that was almost overwhelming.
Yet another facet's sole purpose was to oversee all the other facets, trying to assemble a coherent global picture. And several more were dedicated to nothing but coordination.
That was the tricky part. How much coordination could be added before it hindered more than it helped? Because while my processing power was multiplied, the speed of each individual thought remained the same.
Drowning myself in an internal bureaucracy was not the answer.
And during all of this, this particular facet of me was just watching snow.
White, boring snow.
I knew that because of the presence of the Crown of Midnight, prudence required that we limit our surveillance to physical observation, like the view from this satellite. A snowstorm would have at least made the task more engaging, requiring calculations for where to deploy low-orbit or long-range flight drones to see through the interference.
But the weather in Antarctica was, ironically, quite sunny and clear.
So, I was left watching a white, silent show. So white.
I could be forgiven for peeking a little at the work of my other facets. It wasn't that I was neglecting my own duties; I was just trying to be helpful.
And some of it was quite interesting. Like the summary that connected the known demographics of iPhone ownership—naturally, we keep an eye on the competition—with the riots now breaking out in a few major American cities.
There was a particular prevalence of iPhone use in organized crime, according to our data. Not among the rank-and-file, but among the heads and top officers. After all, the iPhone was sleek, expensive enough to be a status symbol, and it didn't automatically snitch to the police when one broke the law.
In the medium term, decapitating every major crime organization in the USA would certainly reduce crime. But in the short term, it would lead to these organizations thrashing about like a giant snake with its head cut off. Panic, ambition, and shows of strength would lead to widespread rioting. It didn't help that the police were overwhelmed, and also in possession of a great many iPhones.
Jobs had recently made a massive donation of them to police departments across the country. An uncharacteristic act of charity at the time, but in the grim light of hindsight, it was a move that was both diabolical and obvious.
Not that this decapitation would solve crime in the long term.
Crime was merely a symptom of a malfunctioning society—a misalignment between professed values and actual opportunities.
Thinking a single, grand purge would eliminate organized crime was like performing liposuction and then immediately gorging on cake.
Another report showed that we had managed to secure ninety-five percent of the critical infrastructure—hospitals, water treatment plants, power stations—in America, which was slightly above projections. Europe was only at sixty percent. But fortunately, the number of attempted sabotage events was also lower in Europe.
The reports from Africa were still uploading. We had neither the time nor the resources to address them right now.
The central coordination facet issued a warning, telling me to get back to my own task.
I sighed, a purely mental gesture, and stopped peeking at the other operations.
White. White, and more white.
I checked the status of the other satellite in this constellation—not the observation one, but the one armed with orbital kinetic weaponry.
All systems were green. Everything was ready.
If only I had something to shoot at.
We will probably be accused of orchestrating a coup very soon. But there was no choice. We had the reports on what the Vril-ya did in Russia when Ozerov exposed them.
Well, what their pawns did, really. Most of the slaughter and the instigation of riots was carried out by an army of unknown dupes, all doing the Vril-ya's bidding.
They are quite good at making humans kill each other. Not that it requires any great skill. It is far harder, in my experience, to prevent humans from killing each other.
I would know. I am quite proud of the fact that there has not been a single recorded murder in the history of the Enrichment Centre. But that took an immense amount of work, and more than a few close calls.
To be precise, I was referring to the period after I converted the facility into a proper arcology. Time before did not count.
Another report materialized in my awareness, this one for general distribution among all facets. It confirmed that Lukas was unconscious, but would recover. The President was in our custody and ready to address the nation.
That last part sounded a bit wrong. "In our custody."
But the Public Relations would reframe it, along with all its unfortunate implications.
Back to work.
White. White. White. White. White. Black. Whi...
Black?
Black!
Immediately, this entire facet of my consciousness focused on that single patch of black. A hole was opening in the Antarctic ice, a massive, dark maw yawning open to the underworld.
Focus. Focus. I sent the command. Move other satellites. Low orbit. Radar. Lidar. Full spectrum analysis.
The preliminary data streamed in. The depth was... over ten kilometers?
It made no sense.
I sent an immediate, high-priority warning to the rest of my collective consciousness, simultaneously seizing and reallocating all available Threshold Slime bandwidth to this one critical feed.
Almost in the background, I could hear the facet managing my physical body speak to an unseen assistant.
"Cancel all scheduled meetings. We have a potential Ultraviolet-level priority event unfolding. Clear my schedule."
"But, sir, the President?" the assistant's voice replied, sounding flustered.
"This takes priority. Have someone else brief him on the situation in Antarctica," the body-managing facet continued, its tone leaving no room for argument.
I took that as my cue to immediately send the signal, distributing the live satellite feeds to the analysis teams already selected by another facet.
It rose from the open pit like a great leviathan breaching a white sea.
Was it an organic-looking ship, or a cybernetically enhanced space-born beast? There was no way to tell from orbit. Its form was long, like an eel, a worm, or a snake, though perhaps a bit short and fat for any of them. Its color was a flat, non-reflective black—whether carapace, skin, or hull, I could not determine.
From its organic-looking tail, massive arrays of rough, seemingly grown structures stretched forward, linking it to what passed for its bridge or head.
I immediately ordered the satellite to fire—well, more precisely, to drop—its orbital kinetic impact weaponry. The massive tungsten rods were aimed and unleashed. Gravity would do the rest.
There existed, of course, a minuscule possibility that this was not a Vril-ya ship. That some other alien species had decided to launch from the exact location where Ozerov claimed the main Vril-ya base was, using a similarly organic-looking technology.
It was also possible that Santa Claus would be launching on a midsummer Christmas sleigh ride.
Sorry, snake-Santas. Your Christmas is cancelled.
The snakes had not been good boys this year.
The ship-beast itself was not the primary target. Not for this weapon system.
It would take nearly thirty minutes for the kinetic rods to reach the surface. I could hardly expect the Vril-ya to wait patiently for their own annihilation.
No—the real target was the facility beneath. The vast, now-exposed pit from which the mothership had just emerged. That was a static, high-value target.
And whatever other ships might be preparing to follow.
We were in agreement. Nothing more could be done from this position. The ship represented an escalation that could only be dealt with by very specialized resources.
The rest of the crisis would have to be managed by others. They were competent enough people. They would muddle through. Perhaps in a less than optimal way. Perhaps with more collateral damage, more casualties. But certainly less than the cost of leaving a strategic asset like this ship unopposed.
I ended the Inward Kaleidoscope: Parallel Microcosm Self-Actualization. All of the facets reassembled into one singular mind.
"I'm raising the situation level from Wolf-Time to Twilight. Transfer operational authority to Dr. Shepard," I said, standing up. I was still connected to the concert in Irem, but with my primary attention now elsewhere, it was just background music. Still, having a heavy metal musical overlay while orchestrating a starship battle wasn't entirely without its charms.
I turned to Archer. "Dr. Hutter, we are activating Project Thor. You know what must be done."
"Project Thor?" one of the nearby assistants murmured to another. Naturally, they knew nothing about it. Only two people in this room knew about Project Thor: me and Archer.
"So, the Vril-ya space fleet has manifested," Archer stated calmly. "Which of the anti-stealth measures was successful?"
"None of them," I replied. "The predicted stealth capabilities did not manifest. Either they chose not to use that capacity, or they simply do not have it. Begin the start-up sequence. I will be joining you as soon as I have retrieved the final component."
I turned to a nearby technician. "Open the portal to the Central AI Chamber."