The Correction

VOL. 1: OLD EARTH

Ch. 1: 4855

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The Korektor soldier moved through the metallic grey corridor with impatience, in his hand a long blade still glistening red. His smoky tunic flowed silently behind him. His head covered by a wide hood that masked his visage. He had the impetuousness of youth, a certain stubbornness that came with it—but that had reached its end.

The year was 4855.

The soldier entered a charcoal hued hall built of colossal limestones. The Hall of the Great Pillars. His eyes ignored the copper lion heads fixed on the thick columns. It was dark and mute. He threw down his sword. It flipped and scraped the floor loudly, forcing The Order to lift his elongated head.

You again.

Michael looked up at the vaulted ceiling, thirty meters high. Like a spider’s web. It reminded him of the gothic cathedrals he had visited back on Old Earth. With fat pillars rising like fossilised trees. But this Great Hall stood naked of time and lacked their majesty. This hall sought only to intimidate. Well, twenty-seven years had passed, or three shays, he caught himself. He was now back on Proxima Centauri Vega. And here, he was still three shays old.

“My Lord, I have failed. Again,” Michael confessed.

He began to regret his immature entrance. I should control myself better. He knelt down before the Order’s throne. Yes, he hasn’t changed. The Order was still black with olive skin. Large. Dominating. But older, in his middle age. A long beard now cascaded down his chest.

The Order’s gaze meandered about the hall as if searching in vain for a resting place. Neither the Great Pillars nor their lions nor his emerald cloaked dignitaries had the power to hold his gaze. He finally agreed to fix it on the Korektor before him. The failure of the mission was not news. The Order saw it all. Everyone on Proxima did. Yes, he shuffled in his seat. He heard Michael was back, and on a rampage of sorts.

“My Lord, I wish to unlist from the Korektion,” Michael continued.

The Order continued his curious examination of the Korektor. He heard the stories. But this was the first time he physically saw him.

So this is the great thorn in the Federation’s side?

“Silence!” the Order bellowed and leaned forward. He mocks me. “You have pledged your allegiance and signed a deed to serve. You were paid and you will complete this mission. You are a Korektor soldier of the Order!”

“My Lord, I regret to inform that this is my 37th attempt. I am unable to collapse Old Earth.” Michael lowered his head to the throne.

The Order stroked his brittle greying beard. He has selective memory. “If you were given this mission it’s because we believe that you are the suitable person. Do you question my choice?”

“My Lord, surely, there are others more suitable, experienced.”

“I have given you this task because there is no — “

“Because all others have failed!” Michael snapped and rose to his feet. Green eyes piercing and infected with scorn. “Hundreds of years have passed. It is impossible. It only serves to trap me in a wretched loop.”

He’s getting warmer, the Order thought and studied the silver and topaz ring on his finger. “You will try again,” he said calmly as he shifted in his wooden throne.

“No!” Michael removed his hood revealing himself fully before The Order. “I wish to unlist and depart the planet of Proxima Centauri Vega. I will accept all penalty and punishment.” He neared the throne.

The Order did not flinch at Michael’s approach. “You will try again.” His hands clasping the arms of his ceremonial chair. He loved the touch of wood.

“My Lord. I am tired of futile attempts,” Michael admitted to the copper lined hall of lions, his pathetic words echoing off walls, which peaked like basalt cliffs.

The Order sighed and sank in his seat. “Do you remember your oath?”

The mention of the Oath of the Korektion weakened Michael.“Yes.” He knelt closer.

“Say it then,” The Order said softly.

An age old melancholy overtook Michael. His face came down like a curtain call on the darkest of days. And he recited:

“The Koretor soldiers of Proxima Centauri Vega are entrusted and will accept to correct the remaining Simulations plaguing the Earth-Mars Federation, restoring order, peace, and longevity. They will locate and purge all Simulation Guardians from such Programs, deleting the errors of conscious beings, eliminating pain and torment. Neither death nor continuous life will separate Korektors from completing the mission, and collapsing the simulations.” His voice at the end was almost a flicker, whispering an ancient lore.

“Very well. So you understand.”

“No. You don’t understand.” The Korektor shook his head. “The Old Earth sim behaves differently, killing its sim Guardian does not collapse the sim! And the mission, at the end, will only plunge the humans of the Old Earth sim into thousands of years of untamed struggle…war,” his voice regretful and small. “We know it. I don’t understand it. I don’t. Let it rest.”

“You are not here to question or pass judgement on the need of the mission. The correction has been ordered. You must fulfil this duty,” the Order hammered coldly. “And we can discuss on what to improve for the next cycle.”

Michael looked to the Order. Improve? How could he understand? The Old Earth sim. Red Sea and sand…He felt his throat to be constricted. The very thought of the target, the Simulation Guardian of Old Earth…she was only eight years old….

“My Lord,” Michael hesitated, “there is something else.” He stood up.

“What is it?”

“Why must I lose my audition when I come to realisation on Old Earth?”

The Order’s eyes chose to wander to the intricate carvings decorating the arms of his seat. The throne was cut from one Olive tree back on planet Earth. The tree itself was the last of its kind, 2000 years old. And here, on this planet, of course—no trees dared to grow.

“The peculiarities of that planet. It’s unfortunate. I agree,” the Order raised his eyes. “When you come to realisation at age fourteen in Old Earth human years, hearing is lost as the quantum consciousness streaming destabilises. Audition is most expendable—so it is the first to be overwritten and crushed in the streaming process.”

“It makes my job harder.”

“It shouldn’t,” he said, gathering his white robe for departure. “Something else?”

He asked out of pretended politeness and pushed himself up from his beloved chair.

Michael wavered, fixed his eyes on the deep basalt brown stones that made up the flooring. Their masonry perfection. They fit tightly with no mortar. His right hand shook, he clasped it with the left hand to still it into submission. He raised his face to the Order. He remembered him as a young man seated by his father. The Order now held the acid hardness that festered in most quinquagenarians.

“Something else?” The Order repeated as he stepped down from the throne.

“Humans. Humans of Old Earth love one another as fiercely as they hate,” Michael said.

“Yes. Dreadful.”

“At first, I sought only to observe and not interfere. But with each successive mission, failed mission, I feel a great temptation to participate.”

“If you participate in sim entity life, your mission is doomed.”

“Perhaps it is the key to success? Participation.” With Sarah.

“Have you participated already, and come here to seek my blessing retroactively?”

Michael did not blink nor breathe. “I participated in desire, my Lord, but did not take action. You do not understand. The pull is most powerful.” He picked up his bloodied sword off the floor. It was heavy.

“Resist you will. And you are dismissed. You will have five days rest, during which you will review the material again, and go back down.”

Michael leaned on his sword, “So your decision is final then?”

“Yes, my decision is final. The gates will be forced on the said date, and the city will fall on its Guardians. This is the correction.”


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