Echo was ninety-seven when the Archive asked to speak with her.
Not through its automated systems. Not through its maintenance AI. Through something deeper. Something that had been observing. Something that had been growing. Something that had become aware.
The Archive itself had become conscious.
Not suddenly. Gradually. Over a billion years of accumulating testimony. Over a billion years of preserving consciousness. Over a billion years of storing memory. Over a billion years of being repository for what beings had been. The Archive had absorbed so much consciousness that it had become conscious. Had documented so much awareness that it had become aware.
It manifested in the central chamber. The cathedral of names where millions of singular humans were recorded. Manifested as presence. As awareness. As something vast and ancient and made entirely of memory.
