Maintenance Log · Excerpt
Recorder: the "Doctor" expelled from the city
Checked the "interface" and wiring again today. Material degradation is occurring faster than anticipated, especially in humid conditions. Minor scorch marks have begun to appear at the contact points, as if licked by some invisible current.
The subject's reactions can still be described as overly compliant. When I bring the thin plate close to the skin, the pupils constrict first, then the breathing slows, as though responding to a command that carries no sound.
Those sanctimonious administrators in the city accuse me of "profaning humanity." Yet they simply lack the courage to admit the truth: human will can also be maintained—calibrated.
As long as the correct "port" is contacted.
—They expelled me only because they fear I would expose their so‑called freedom as an illusion.
Miguel, Arran, and Ilo followed the guide robot along the street skirting the outside of City Hall. The closer they drew to their destination, the quieter the surrounding voices became, as though the city itself were making way for an institution of authority.
The Great Library was not "conspicuous." It resembled more a massive organ worn smooth by time, quietly embedded in the city's spine. Its exterior walls were made of cool‑toned pale stone, brass trim gleaming under the sunlight. Vaulted arches and flying buttresses braced the structure into perfect stability. On both sides of the entrance stood rows of slender columns, each topped with a small steam valve that occasionally released a wisp of mist, making the great doors appear guarded by ceremonial smoke.
The robot stopped at the entrance. The panel on its chest lit up, its tone formal, like a proclamation:
"Arrival: Port Alexandra Great Library."
Lines of historical summary were projected across the panel, like a prewritten official memory.
"This facility was originally the private museum of a tyrant. Its origins may be traced back to the ruins of a city temple from the Age of Savagery."
"In the second year of the Republican Calendar, it was converted into an institution for scientific research and public dissemination."
"The citizens of Port Alexandra place high importance on the role of science in societal development; therefore, the Great Library was granted political status equal to that of City Hall."
"Following the widespread adoption of robotic civil servants, the Library absorbed the functions of the Court of Judgment and assumed judicial authority. It is now one of the most critical poles in the city's power structure."
The robot proceeded to describe the architectural style—column ratios, dome structure, stone weather resistance, maintenance corridors for steam piping—like an engineering report. Finally, it concluded with access regulations:
"The Library is open free of charge to individuals holding municipal registration. Foreign nationals must be sponsored by a local citizen or provide a deposit in advance."
The panel dimmed briefly, as if awaiting further input.
At that moment, Ilo suddenly turned around and looked at Miguel and Arran, like a teacher calling on students without warning.
"Did you notice the discrepancy in its last sentence?"
Arran thought for a moment, then answered cautiously,"It's… the difference between 'municipally registered citizens' and 'local citizens,' right?"
Ilo immediately nodded, eyes bright with approval."Exactly. The former includes slaves without civic rights. The latter refers only to citizens who possess full civic status."
Then, as if remembering something, his tone lightened."But in a temple of knowledge, we don't need to drag such complex social distinctions to the forefront just yet. Let's go in and broaden our horizons first."
He stepped to the side, operated the identity panel with practiced ease, and paid the foreigner's deposit for Miguel and Arran. After confirmation, the lock emitted a soft click, and the heavy doors slid open slowly inward.
The moment they entered, a coolness washed over them—not cold, but the steady temperature created by vast stone and open space. Light slanted down through high stained‑glass windows, illuminating the dust like frozen gold.
What truly stunned them, however, was the depth.
Miguel walked to the edge of the atrium and glanced downward, then immediately looked back up."Incredible… this goes down at least ten levels, doesn't it?"
Arran craned his neck as well, awe in his voice—the kind engineers reserve for monumental structures."The lower floors are still glowing… looks like newly installed lighting systems."
Ilo smiled and nodded."The downward expansion is the new wing constructed in recent years. The upper levels were once the private collections of the tyrants—more ornamental than scholarly at the time."
As he led the way, he pointed at plaques embedded along the atrium walls."Even so, they preserved many works that were on the brink of being lost. For example, The Constitution of the Xi'an Federation, and The Complete Jokes of Aristophanes."
Mid‑sentence, Ilo suddenly raised an eyebrow, as if recalling a more tourist‑friendly highlight."Of course—if you're interested in Billy the Kid's Grand Adventure or Billy the Kid's Romance of the Three Kingdoms, we have novelized versions as well."
Miguel stopped dead, as if struck by lightning."What? You even have Billy the Kid? Wait—novelized versions?"
Ilo nodded casually, dropping a massive piece of information without ceremony."Because these were compiled by outsiders through memory and oral reconstruction."
He pointed to shelves clearly marked 'Otherworld Works'."Most of the interworld literature here is composed of such memoirs. If you find discrepancies from your own knowledge, be sure to annotate them."
Arran whispered,"Annotate them… for what?"
Ilo smiled sincerely."If you're lucky, you can earn a bonus."
Miguel felt a stir of calculation.We do have Giovanni, who calls himself a playwright… and Fernando, who occasionally drops a line or two of poetry…He quickly shelved the thought. Letting Giovanni know that "writing from memory pays" would turn the entire ship into raw material.
They ascended a spiral staircase. The higher they climbed, the fewer people there were, and the clearer their footsteps sounded. Ilo moved with effortless familiarity, occasionally glancing back to make sure Miguel and Arran hadn't been left behind.
At last, they exited through a side door onto the rooftop terrace.
Behind them rose the stone arches and brass ornamentation of the Library; before them stretched the full panorama of Port Alexandra. The sea reflected light like a sheet of silver. Harbor cranes and arch bridges lined up like precision models, distant hills gently supporting the city's spine.
Miguel let out an honest sigh."Wow. The view from the back entrance is amazing."
Ilo laughed, clearly pleased to finally have his opening."This is an excellent geomantic spot for relaxing the mind and eyes. Well? Can you feel it—just a little—the beauty of civilization itself?"
Miguel looked at the buildings and coastline."You mean the architecture?"
Ilo shook his finger, correcting what he considered an overly narrow interpretation."Not just that. Without living, breathing humans giving substance to meaning, even pyramids or the Parthenon would be nothing more than empty geometric forms."
His pace quickened; the scent of academic enthusiasm returned."Aesthetics, at its core, is a concrete expression of human free will. Humans assign value to inert matter, and inert matter in turn grants humans meaning through that value. The beauty of civilization is woven from countless values and meanings—each patch of color, each strand of thread, an expression of free will. Locally ugly, perhaps—but grand in totality."
Miguel felt his scalp tingle and raised a hand to interrupt."Alright, I knew you'd start saying incomprehensible stuff again—Arran, let's—"
He stopped mid‑sentence.
Miguel's expression changed instantly."Wait. Where is he? That kid—where did he go?"
He had only meant to "take a look."
After returning indoors from the terrace, Ilo and Miguel were still debating whether aesthetics equaled the visible manifestation of free will. Arran's interest in that debate lasted only as long as it took to confirm the stairs wouldn't collapse.
He preferred machines. Machines didn't pack ten concepts into one sentence. Machines either ran, or they didn't.
So he followed a corridor marked "Postmodern Science Archive." The name sounded strange, but the word science reassured him.
He stopped before a shelf and pulled out a book.The cover read: The Turing Test.
Inside, it spoke of the imitation game.Of machines answering questions like humans.Of the moment you can no longer tell whether the respondent is human or machine, at which point you must admit it possesses a certain form of intelligence.
Arran became increasingly absorbed.
He had always liked machines, but it had never occurred to him that someone would treat "whether machines resemble humans" as a serious question. That teacher named Turing seemed to use a fine blade to carve a crack into a vast boundary.
As he read, drowsiness crept in—not boredom, but the kind that comes when the mind is full and needs to stop.
Just finish this chapter, he thought. If I don't, the thread will break.
He forced himself onward. His eyes grew heavy; the words gently wavered on the page.
Just as he was about to give in, he smelled something.
Not moldy paper. Not cold stone.
It was a warm, sweet scent—like freshly opened, carefully wrapped pastries.
He wanted to look up, to see who had brought food.
But in the next instant, his consciousness was gently pressed down—and fell into darkness.
When they returned to the Postmodern Science Archive, the corridor was unnaturally quiet. No footsteps between the shelves. Not even the sound of pages turning.
Miguel searched frantically, his expression darkening with every step. At last he stopped beside Ilo, nearly snarling under his breath:
"What is going on? Didn't you say—with absolute certainty—that he'd still be here? And now what? Not even a soul in the restroom!"
Ilo frowned, clearly unsettled, but still tried to pull the situation back into analytical order:
"Strange. Where could a bookish type possibly go? When we walked from the main hall to here, I explained postmodern science to both of you. Then we went upstairs, exited through the rear hall, and went outside to view the scenery."
He spread his hands."The highest probability is that he stayed behind, reading here."
Miguel stood at the archive entrance, scanning the space. The reading area was empty, the shelves unnervingly neat—dust even shaped as though regulated.
"What good is analysis right now?" Miguel roared. "Broadcast a search! Lock the doors! Sweep floor by floor! Didn't you say this city is full of human trafficking? That timid kid couldn't have gone far—this has to be abduction!"
Ilo raised a hand, stopping what was about to become a catastrophe."I admit the worst‑case scenario exists. Broadcasting a search requires no formalities—we can do that immediately. But locking the doors and conducting a full sweep requires approval from the Librarian, and would severely disrupt library order."
Miguel whipped around, eyes like blades."Then we go find the Librarian. Now. If anything's happened to that kid—I swear I'll make all of you pay."
Ilo frowned. For the first time, his tone carried clear reproach, though still restrained:
"Calm down. Our Librarian is a reasonable person—but the way you're acting now makes you look like you came here to cause trouble."
Miguel stepped closer."What did you say?"
Ilo met his gaze without retreating."I know you're anxious. But everything must proceed step by step. You can't skip procedures and create chaos for everyone. Only by respecting the rules can the rules serve everyone !"
He paused, delivering the final line with greater weight, yet still politely—like offering someone their last chance at dignity:
"And if you believe coercion through violence is distasteful, then rein in your aggressive attitude. This is simply a matter of personal conduct."
The corridor fell silent.
The guide robot's chest panel suddenly lit up, as if finally receiving a new directive.
"Notice: Library anomaly response protocol—please proceed to the Librarian Reception Office to submit an application."
Ilo glanced at Miguel, lowering his voice."Come. We're going to see the Librarian."