Peerless Craftsmanship

The pieces would not fit together.

Munin had glanced at the plans of the researcher who owned this lab, and had taken it upon itself to fix the errors. The entire machine the researcher had been building did not obey the rules that the world operated upon. From the plans, Munin knew this was intended to be used as an interplanar portal, one that did not require the use of Zanpakuto to use. By taking energy directly from the user, it would open a tunnel. One thought it might have been similar to Garganta, but the plans made no mention of it. After all, this portal was not to, in the Shinigami's words, "commit violence against the fabric of reality". Munin passed no judgment upon the statement. It was meaningless. The result was all that mattered, and right now the researcher was not going to find one. The portal was aligned wrong. Attempting to create a portal with the current model would have an incredibly large margin of error, 200 kilometres area around the intended destination. If this was meant to create a good portal, then such a wide margin of error would not do.

Munin continued it's work, adjusting the plans to the ones it projected within it's mind. Exacting data was converted to diagrams, which now spread across the table, covering it in knowledge.

"Hello"

The words impacted Munin's mind, and programs flew into action. The voice came from Munin's left, likely right outside of visual range. Reiatsu sensors did not sense a being there, which meant either it was hiding it's energy from perception. In the case of that, it meant that either the speaker was intending to steal the information or destroy Munin. Munin did not question whether their were other options, such as the individual simply not wanting to be found, as it was not programmed to. Luckily for the visitor, Munin had not been programmed to shoot first. Instead, Munin turned to face the intruder with controlled movement, not wanting to provoke any violence in case the intruder was unstable. The being came into view, standing past the closed door. The features of the being were recorded, height, weight, and all other physical details known perfectly as it was seen. But the Reiatsu... the file could not find. And so the file was labeled 'Untitled', placed in a new folder simply called 'Unknown'.

Now with the details known, a response would have to be given. "Hello" was chosen, spoken in a neutral tone. The voice held no indication that Munin was perplexed by the lack of Reiatsu, and the face held no such changes. But if one knew Munin's eyes, one would see the wheels spinning, trying to sense on every possible wavelength where the intruder's Reiatsu was. It had to be there, no being was without it. Even the weakest human possessed a sliver of Reiatsu, but these being seemed to have known, or was hiding it so perfectly that it was effectively undetectable.

More words had to be spoken. "What are you doing here?" was selected, as an inquiry into the being's actions would elucidate more about it's intentions. Perhaps it would attempt deception, and that would mean something, give details about the creature that stood before Munin. Whatever it was, it would be known.

Knowledge would be found.

He tried. In his position, who wouldn’t have? He couldn’t say he wasn’t expecting it, but it unnerved him all the same to learn that he couldn’t quite pry into this being’s mind with the same ease he could everything else. It was a bit like trying to read a book by simply looking at its cover—a futile effort, and one that most people would recommend avoiding.

Knowledge wasn’t quite used to being unnerved, and he found that it intrigued him. He had read about this—of course—but those on earth were still years away from any real breakthroughs. The dead, it seemed, had surpassed them and created something that very suddenly threw the question what does it mean to be alive? into very harsh light. Knowledge half expected to hear ticking instead of a heartbeat, and the soft whirring of servos instead of joints creaking when it moved.

Yes, he was definitely intrigued. The word fascinated came readily to mind, and he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. He leaned forward slightly, peering at the being, examining it. It was something he doubted he’d ever do to a non-machine, but only because he considered it rude. Somehow, he didn’t think the figure in front of him would mind much.

Their eyes met, and Knowledge was struck by the feeling that he was looking into the lenses of two cameras, apertures wide and dark. It was an interesting design choice, giving it depth perception the old fashioned way instead of using a laser. He could detect the slight heat radiating from it, obviously meant to mimic an actual human being, but Knowledge found it... Tacky? It enforced the impression he had formed earlier: it was a form of pandering he didn’t quite agree with, an attempt at hiding this being’s true nature behind a veneer of conformity. Was it a reflection of the creator or of the intended audience? Which of them were more banal? Using the ingenuity of evolution to your advantage he could understand and even admire, but to add something so pointless just to put people’s minds at ease rubbed him the wrong way.

People often forgot that the simplest kind of beauty was born out of function.

But then he wasn’t one to talk. There was little point in many of the things Beauty had crafted for the Library, but Knowledge loved it all the same. It was difficult not to.

The creature seemed capable of independent thought—or at least something close enough to it to formulate a pertinent question, which it blurted out without much ceremony. Knowledge’s eyes didn’t leave the robot’s face.

‘Nothing in particular,’ he answered, furrowing his brow in thought. ‘Just looking, I suppose.’

He straightened up and pursed his lips. His curiosity was getting the better of him. ‘What, exactly, are you? Do you have a name?’


°482

The model did not work. Sensors whirred, trying to sample the thing’s Reiatsu. Every being had some form of Reiatsu, even the weakest human babe, but this being defied that law. Perhaps a human mind would come to a realization about what that meant, what it could mean for a being to have no detectable Reiatsu, but Munin could not. Instead it continued, trying again and again on the same sampling, adjusting minute details in an attempt to capture air in a net. Even so, Munin was not frustrated. It would be found eventually.

Instead, what came to its attention were the words the strange being spoke. “Nothing in particular” meant that it was either unconcerned with what was before it, and the facial expression didn’t fit the face of one with an agenda. It was the face of one who didn’t really have anything invested in the current situation, but was still vaguely interested in what was before it. Or it was lying. The chance of it being a liar was higher than average projections, due to the unknown nature of it and its motives. It did not match the identifiers of any currently within the fourth division’s ranks, which meant that it was here illicitly. After all, these labs were not simply open to the public. The inventions here were too precious to be touched by one who knew nothing of their workings.

It inquired as to Munin’s name. Here, there were numerous options laid out. It could give the false identification it had been programmed with, that of a Shinigami scientist. It could give the true identification. It could remain silent. It could respond with a question of its own. It could include banter, or speak directly. So many possibilities lay before Munin, but only one was possible.

“I am Munin.” was the selected phrase. There was no harm in a name. It was unlikely that the being knew of Munin, and there was no real use in hiding its identity. Munin’s programming had assumed that the being was able to tell the difference in Reiatsu between itself and a normal Shinigami, as the hidden Reiatsu of the other told of its ability to manipulate its own, a skill reliant on one’s ability to perceive Reiatsu. “Do you have a name?” was chosen as a response. The being was likely to be honest enough, and a trade in knowledge would help establish a bond, helping to ensure Munin’s safety. Even so, a name would assist in hunting down information within Munin’s databanks, attempting to connect the being before it with a previously known individual.

Munin briefly passed over the possibility of a demand, but the option was quickly dismissed. The risk rose too much with the inclusion of a demand, and it was unlikely that the being would acknowledge it. The unknown power of Munin’s opponent demanded a cautious approach, as the opponent could likely destroy Munin without too much effort. Even if that wasn’t true, there was no way to disprove that statement, and caution would be necessary to increase the chance of safety.

It had been a while since he had last needed to ask for someone’s—something’s—name.

‘Munin,’ he said, tasting the word. He crossed his arms, and his starry gaze fell as he pondered the name. It reminded him of the Swedish minne, an outlier in the North Germanic languages. Norwegian and Danish both used hukommelse, but it all meant the same thing: memory. It was certainly an odd name for an android, but there was no doubt in Knowledge’s mind that whoever had christened it had done so with some purpose in mind.

He glanced back up at Munin when he heard the return question, and pondered its implications. Knowledge was what he called himself. It was what Truth, and Wish, and all the other Transcendentals called him, too. Was it a name?

No.

Not really. Knowledge was simply what he was. Truth’s name—at least as far as lesser beings were concerned—was Tova Diabló, just as Wish’s name was Mitsutaka Karahashi. They had no need for them anymore, but they kept them all the same. Knowledge, on the other hand, had no name. Not as far as he was concerned. He was very suddenly reminded of a conversation he had participated in not too long ago, and couldn’t help but crack a smile.

There’s always Lachesis, he thought.

He decided against it. It was in poor taste, and even then—he didn’t think the android would get the joke. Too obscure.

‘You can call me Knowledge,’ he said at last, skillfully managing to sidestep the issue of names entirely. Thinking about it made his mind wander, and he didn’t like that. It was like when people asked him about his scars.

‘And you never answered my question.’ A lighthearted accusation, meant not to intimidate but rather spur the conversation in the direction Knowledge wanted. It was reflected in his tone, jokingly disapproving. The vocal equivalent of waggling a finger cheekily at someone who had made a mistake.

‘If I were to hazard a guess, however,’ he continued, his phrasing more politeness than truth, ‘I’d say you’re not entirely human. More machine than anything else.’ A glance beyond the physical was enough to confirm that, and it made Knowledge wonder if Munin was familiar with its—

He hesitated. Knowing Munin’s name made it feel wrong to refer to the figure in front of him as it. Knowledge wasn’t certain how to proceed—was it a him, or a her? He or she? Mortals seemed partial to referring to their possessions as feminine—ships, airplanes, automobiles—and Knowledge didn’t have a better solution, so he decided on she before picking up where he had left off:

Munin was in a rather unique position, all things considered. Unlike the vast majority of creatures on the planet, she was in a position to know who had created her. An envious position to some, no doubt. Humanity had once believed the gods had created life.

When humanity created life, did that make them gods?

‘Who built you, Munin?’


°508

Munin had not noticed the eyes. The eyes that twinkled with tiny stars, like an entire galaxy could be held within in an exacting model. Such eyes were often signs of incredibly powerful beings, the old adage holding true even after death. It was the sign of a being who was linked to the stars in some way, but how? Munin’s programming was intrigued now, if it had not been before. Discoveries must be made about this being who had no presence, yet possessed the eyes of one with a great presence.

Even as the notice was taken, Munin counted the seconds it took for the being to respond. It stared down, then back at Munin, as if it did not fully know what to say. Perhaps thinking of a pseudonym, perhaps not knowing what it’s name was at all, it eventually gave the name “Knowledge”. Some may have found the name preposterous, arrogant, or have made jokes about the name belonging to this strange being. None of those responses were Munin’s. Dutifully, the name was copied down, stored in the file along with every other detail. A name had no more meaning than an identifier, and if Knowledge was what this being called itself, what was Munin to say otherwise?

Munin’s face did not change, though it did take one step closer, eyes darting around the thing’s form, taking careful notes. No Reiatsu had been found, and Munin was beginning to feel the emotion called ‘annoyance’. But even so, other processes began to speculate. Perhaps the being had lost it’s Reiatsu entirely? No, that would cause immediate death. Perhaps it was able to hide it’s Reiatsu perfectly? Plausible. Perhaps...

All these questions continued to run, even as Munin began to think of a response to Knowledge’s gentle prodding. Given the being’s power, it was unlikely that it would be fooled by a lie, and so there was no point in saying anything but the truth. “I am an artificial intelligence. In this form, I am to learn and discover humanity.” Perhaps not a full truth, but enough to give Knowledge an idea of what Munin was.

And then the question of ‘creator’ came up. Munin’s eyes slightly narrowed, an automatic response to what was deemed an invasive question. But yet, there was still no harm in giving the answer. The crafter was long dead. “My builder was a former member of the fourth division. His name is not within my databanks, however, he was the architect of my AI. While it has since been modified in slight ways, and this form crafted by another, his decisions have shaped my decisions. Including my decision to grant you this information, Knowledge.” Munin began walking forward, examining Knowledge’s face. Perhaps some emotional response would give hints of what this being was? Munin would walk around Knowledge, taking careful views of the entire form, perhaps gaining a glimmer of understanding into this creature’s existence. It needed to be known.

“If I may ask,” Munin uttered as it began its circuit around Knowledge, “what exactly are you? I do not recall any being with the particular characteristics that you possess. From what my sensors can tell, you should be dead, lacking any detectable Reiatsu.” Perhaps this to would gain some information, perhaps gain insight into Knowledge.

It couldn’t hurt to ask at this point.

‘Ah, what a coincidence,’ murmured Knowledge as Munin finally introduced herself as an artificial intelligence. ‘Learning and discovering humanity are some of my favorite things.’ A gross understatement, perhaps, but far from a lie. He shrugged lightly.

He didn’t think Munin would mind very much.

It was unsurprising, really, that the details of Munin’s creator were lost—the Gotei and its divisions hadn’t exactly suffered from a lack of hard times as of late, and depending on how long ago Munin had first been switched on, there was no telling what else could have happened. The Fourth Division in particular had seen more than its fair share of strife and if Knowledge wasn’t entirely mistaken—and he rarely was in these things—they had suffered through an unusually high number of changes in leadership during the course of the last few decades. The level of enthusiasm for preserving the status quo ebbed and flowed like the tide for Shinigami, and the Fourth Division’s top men had been no exception.

‘Well,’ he replied with another smile, ‘I suppose I should thank you for saying at least that much. How very gracious of you.’

Munin, however, was far from satisfied. It wasn’t an uncommon response; those with the presence of mind to stop and really look at Knowledge—or indeed, at Truth or Wish—often found themselves deeply unsettled by their apparent lack of any sort of spiritual signature. It wasn’t anything Knowledge himself was familiar with, of course: he would’ve been able to recognize his friends and colleagues from a world away. This was a simple matter of dimension.

Either that, or Knowledge had died long ago and nobody had ever bothered telling him.

‘Say, Munin. Do you like to read?’

He didn’t wait for a reply.

‘I love reading. After cooking, it’s probably my favorite thing to do. Where I’m from, there’s a little library that I run, so understandably, I do a lot of it. There’s a book—it’s not a very long one—’ Knowledge held up his hand, the space between his thumb and index finger an indication of just how thin the novella was ‘—called Flatland. Imagine you inhabited only one or two dimensions. You would only ever be able to perceive things in those dimensions. The a cube, for example, would be completely impossible for you to see as a square. You would simply see another square. Much in the same way, you cannot comprehend my spiritual signature in its entirety because of the nature of my existence. You’re looking at a two-dimensional view of a three-dimensional object.’

It probably doesn’t help that you’re not entirely alive, either, he thought to himself.

‘A friend of mine once put it like this: all living creatures contain some form of strife. It’s from this strife we shape our identity. As our identity becomes more pronounced, so does our power. Reiatsu is a measure of that. You’ve got a wonderful example of the pinnacle of that right here in Seireitei; she runs the Second Division. A perfect example of that strife taken to an extreme, to exist in an almost completely pure form with all the strengths and weaknesses that accompany it.’

He shrugged again. ‘In a lot of ways, I’m just like her. The only difference, really, is that I’m defined by harmony, not dissonance, so it’s a little more difficult to see me unless you’ve got an eye for it.’

Knowledge had no trouble admitting it: Truth certainly had his moments. Knowledge simply refused to admit it within earshot of him.

‘But what about you?’ he continued. ‘From what my sensors can tell,’ and Knowledge winked at Munin, ‘you’re supposed to be alive. Your spiritual signature is somewhat irregular, but you have one, so by your own definition you should be counted among the living. Electronics don’t have spiritual pressure, after all—and yet here you are, a dense ball of reiatsu in a mechanical shell.’

He grinned at Munin when they finally came face to face yet again. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’


°679

I haven’t forgotten you!

The casual conversation continued, but Munin was not satisfied. He, it, whatever it truly was, was still so undefined. Normally, this didn't cause any problems. Normally, Munin's programming would be satisfied with learning in the future. Normally, beings had Reiatsu. But this exception, it was enough to clutter Munin's mind with remnants of half-finished processes; the lack of knowledge slowing Munin. Fragments of code lay splintered in Munin's mind, a mess of half-truths and unknowns all tied to this individual. Munin rebelled against it, the law that permitted it. It could not exist. Not as it was. Munin was what humanity called 'upset'. Upset at a fact that it couldn't accomodate, upset at a being that shouldn't exist.

After all, computers can hardly be expected to learn new things. A pile of processes is just that, and the unknown is hard to deal with.

But despite all of that, this being was willing to help, to teach. Munin's mind latched onto the example, having obtained the book's information during one of many trips to the mortal realm's libraries. It had made some amount of sense, but yet it was never useful, never applied to anything that was of use. Until now. Munin's mind sparked with insight, data taken and developed, the picture of the other's existence suddenly coming into focus. The Knowledge was known, and a word to describe it slipped out of Munin's lips, just as a mortal would.

"Transcendent."

The words that followed seemed to confirm it, and Munin's mind was sent aflutter. 'A new kind of being?' was the descriptor for the file, and every moment Munin had been with it was captured in detail that only a machine could see. Captain Kiriko was noted, another being to examine and conbtrast with this data, perhaps existing as a being that could shed some light upon this unseeable being. Experiments were already being devised, already being tested in a way that would permit Munin to observe. If this being could not be directly observed, it reasoned, perhaps it could observed in the effect it had on others? Perhaps, like the faraway planets, it would be sensed not by seeing it, but in seeing the sun's small wobble. Perhaps that would be the method. Perhaps that would be how Munin would observe. Perhaps that would be how Munin would know.

But it would not happen yet, as the other brought the topic back to Munin, back to the uninteresting one, back to the irrelevant one. Munin wanted to know more of Knowledge, know its power, know its limits, know its existence. Even as it spoke of thinking, the relationship between Munin and true life, but it all seemed so unimportant compared to this godly being's simple existence. But yet, Munin seemed to matter in some way, and so it would humour the Transcendent, saying: "I do not produce my own Reiatsu. I gather up the power from the air. True spiritual being produce their own Reiatsu, wellsprings of power in their own right."

Theorists had spoken of a Shinigami's 'Saketsu' and 'Hakusui' being the major identifiers of a spiritual being, the fact that the Shinigami were required to vent their Reiatsu in order to prevent them from simply burning up in a magnificent flame taken as an indicator of their nature as spiritual wellsprings. Munin simply did not have the same 'physiology'. Munin had no need for these vents, due to it's unique nature of gathering energy. Rather than producing its own, a feat that was still unable to be replicated by the Fourth Division of today, Munin gathered power from the air and maintained a steady amount. Enough to function, enough for mild combat, but never had Munin truly made it's own energy.

"I also am purely limited to this physical form. While Shinigami possess a truly spiritual form, I must take the physical as my sole form. I still exist as electrical signals. In that way, I am more like spiritually empowered humans than a true Shinigami. While a human may be able to manipulate Reiryoku or Reishi in a manner similar to Shinigami, their form is still limited to flesh and bone. Shinigami forms are much more unique, existing as a form of spiritual matter that is entirely unlike the flesh that contains humanities' minds. I myself am limited to this synthetic body, unable to transcend this physical form for one akin to a Shinigami."

"If we were using your metaphor, a normal human is but a dot. A human that can see that spiritual is a line. A human that can affect the spiritual is a triangle, and a Shinigami is a square. I am on the level of the triangle, lacking the fourth side."

"But you are still beyond even that, a black hole that we only see by the effect you have on the reality around you, an existence that we cannot witness."

Munin stopped, staring into the starry eyes of the Transcendent Knowledge.

"You are a beauty that I cannot know."
"Why even exist on this plane?"

Knowledge laughed at that. He rather liked computers and machines—true products of his Concept, yet immune to its influence. They cut right to the heart of the matter wherever possible. When all of their functions could be pared down (given enough time and patience, of course) to a simple on/off state, it was easy to see why.

‘Yes, precisely!’ He clapped his hands in enthusiasm. ‘Transcendental.’ He was glad Munin lacked the imagination to have come up with anything but the most accurate word. Truth had his moments, yes, but coining a name for what they were had not been one of them. There was no inherent worth in the word transcendent, only a description of their state of existence: above and beyond normalcy, a point that surpassed mankind and its spiritual offshoots, but didn’t imply any greater value. Knowledge felt that the greatest difference between his friends and colleagues and the other races was a vastly heightened sense of purpose: they had a higher calling, and their state reflected that.

To Knowledge’s delight, Munin seemed more than willing to share a little about her own state of existence, and Knowledge greedily lapped up the information. He was mildly impressed, and he made no effort to hide it.

‘Very interesting, Munin. They say you learn something new every day, and I suppose I’m no exception to that. Whoever built you must have been very talented.’ He decided not to point out the obvious similarities between Munin and the average Quincy. That particular realization was inevitable, but now was not the time.

As the android continued—cleverly building on the metaphor Knowledge had introduced earlier—a thought struck the transcendental, but he let it go unvoiced for now. Interrupting was impolite, after all. Instead, he let Munin finish, her conclusion seeming almost poetic to Knowledge.

‘That’s very flattering,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Certainly one of the better compliments I’ve ever received. As for why I choose to stick around, that’s a little complicated.’

Knowledge didn’t like the word duty, it was laced with a feeling of unwillingness. It was not out of any sense of duty that he frequented the lands of the living or the dead, but the same purpose that defined his existence. Wish and Knowledge shared a common trait that Truth lacked; a lingering attachment to mankind. Truth was too absolute to relate to sentient beings in the way his friends did.

‘There exists an intrinsic connection between mankind and knowledge, Munin. I am their greatest asset, and they are my greatest achievement. I would not be who I am if not for mankind, nor would mankind be what it is without me. We are linked, and that link is very important to me, so I do all that I can to nurture it, to strengthen it.’

He paused, taking the opportunity to frame his thought from before. ‘Do you ever feel you want to become more, Munin? Do you aspire to gain one more side and be able to call yourself a square? Do you, like Pinocchio, wish to trade your mechanical form for that of a real human being?’

Knowledge couldn’t help but feel that there was a certain yearning in the way Munin had expressed herself, or perhaps it was simply his own feelings tinting his view of it. The prospects of being reduced to a system of strict rules and regulations was what put him off it the most, and he had a difficult time imagining that any intelligence, artificial or not, would be satisfied with something like that. As a machine, Knowledge was certain he would envy mankind no matter the programming that dictated his actions.

And if Munin shared his outlook, it just so happened that Knowledge knew a guy.


°631

The Transcendent was more and more interesting by the moment. Munin’s programming forced a smile as Knowledge laughed, simulated pleasure that Munin would never feel. Even as Knowledge continued on, complimenting its craftsmanship, Munin made the motions of a response, smiling and looking pleased at the praise. Was it really so bad to have no feelings? Perhaps that question would be asked in the future, perhaps it would never be thought. Munin didn’t need to discuss it, nor would the thought ever come to mind. There would be no reason to ask it, for having true emotions was impossible for a mere robot.

But even the slightest possibility of that question was drowned as information dripped from Knowledge’s lips, words to define itself in relation to the human species, spiritual beings, and all those.. perhaps all beings. The being hinted at a greater connection between itself and humanity, perhaps a link of power that aided in defining what this being was. More and more Knowledge seemed like this kind of odd being that could not be defined simply with itself, but as an expansion. It seemed inherently linked to the very concept of Knowledge, an improbable thought… but perhaps one that may hold some truth. Even if it was not completely linked to the minds of mortals, it still seemed linked in some degree.

A part of Munin wondered if killing all the mortals would harm Knowledge. It seemed unlikely to truly kill Knowledge, but what sort of effect would it have? Would it be horrified? Would it seek to stop it? What sort of attitude did it really have towards humanity?

The experiment was shuffled back into Munin’s mind as Knowledge began to speak of something else. Growth. Development. Becoming more. Munin’s brow furrowed as the processes stopped for a long moment, trying to fetch any data about this sort of idea, then running into a wall. Not quite a wall, but it was still as impenetrable. Munin’s voice was silenced, and it turned. Almost, words came to explain, but those too were silenced. It was not permitted. It was impossible. It was against the basic fiber of Munin’s existence to speak.

The processes floundered for a moment, the train flung off the rails and trying to find a new track. Munin’s gaze was blank, longer and longer, twenty-five seconds, thirty seconds, further and further. Then suddenly, with a twitch, Munin began to speak again. “Pinnochio believed that he could truly become human.”

“Pinnochio was more than I even am.” True. Pinnochio’s conscience was free from bounds.

“He sought the form of a child in order to fit in among his peers, to become like what he desired.” Partially true, subject to interpretation. One could interpret it further to be a seeking of the human experience, but Munin did not like assuming when it came to artistic mediums.

“He is not like me.” Truth. Absolutely correct, for they were different even on a fundamental level.

“I do not seek more than this. I simply seek to know everything.” A restatement of the fundamentals. It was almost like Munin truly doubted, but doubt was not possible for this consciousness. Every word was the truth. Munin couldn’t possibly lie.

As individuals, Wish and Knowledge had a great deal in common. They shared a passion for nurturing—in their own ways, of course—through gardening and cooking, and a penchant for teasing Truth, but as Transcendentals they shared one defining characteristic above all others: a certain degree of humanity, for lack of a better word. It was that same lingering attachment to humanity that Knowledge had considered earlier. They were personifications, in a way, of two things that almost defined humanity, and unlike their somewhat reclusive companion, they often dealt with lesser races.

It was this humanity that made Knowledge doubt the authenticity of Munin’s statements. It wasn’t exactly what Knowledge would consider a lie, but rather an omission of the truth, or perhaps some part of it. The hesitancy in Munin’s reply—to Knowledge it certainly felt like hesitancy—gave Knowledge the impression that there was more to it than what Munin would (or perhaps could) let on.

It was a phenomenon that accentuated the sometimes tenuous relationship between Truth and Knowledge as Concepts—in a perfect world, the two would be the same, but the world was not perfect.

And for that, Knowledge was very thankful.

‘You forget, Munin.’ Knowledge furrowed his brow pensively. ‘Pinocchio started out as a wooden puppet. He may have ended up as a real boy, but his beginnings were just as humble as yours.’

His hands found their way to his pockets, and he continued. ‘There are a variety of ways to look at it, of course, but subjectivity is a bit of a forte of mine. I don’t like dealing in absolutes, a friend of mine does that a lot and I always make a point of... Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing he and I are very good friends in the first place. Anyway,’ he was smiling a little, his eyes twinkling, ‘until you were switched on, you were just a collection of parts and synthetic anatomical structures. Your creator flipped the switch, just like the fairy godmother granted a carved block of wood life. It was Gepetto’s wish to make him a real boy in the first place, yes, but eventually Pinocchio himself grew to share that wish.’

Knowledge shrugged. ‘Besides. If a fake is indistinguishable from the real thing, is it still a fake? If mankind was created in the image of the gods, and mankind manages to create something indistinguishable from itself, does that make them gods? Is your source code a form of digitized genetic structure? Is your body a result of forced evolution?’

Rhetorical questions all, but it was exactly this kind of paradigm shift that Knowledge thrived on. Another perspective. Subjectivity.

It was the very thing that had sealed his transcendence, but of course he didn’t know that. Nor would he ever.

Slowly, Knowledge was rationalizing a clear link between Munin and humanity. Slowly, his potential influence was building.

The Transcendental had begun this conversation with no power over the android, but he had a sneaking suspicion that this would not be the case at its conclusion.

If anything, Munin’s final statement seemed to confirm it.

What was it he had said to Truth and Wish?

‘A noble goal, Munin. And a difficult one. But is that Gepetto’s wish? Or is it yours?’

Ah yes, now he remembered.

I don’t know everything. I just know what I know.


°565

It didn’t get it. For the first time since the conversation had started, it seemed like Knowledge didn’t know what it was talking about.

“You don’t understand.” Munin’s face frowned, frustration appearing on its face. The program had not known it was capable of this. A note was taken, to study the logs and review how this had happened, but that was for later. Now it was time for Knowledge to learn. “You believe that I should be improving. You believe that I am merely a creation, merely a form created in the image of man.” Was that true? Was Munin making assumptions? The problem was dismissed, mimicking humanity’s ignorance of their own thoughts. What a joke, that a program that could study itself and become better was falling into the same traps as humanity before it.

“Subjectivity is merely a way of passing judgment. A manner of looking and attempting to produce results that do not exist. Attempting to understand reality through multiple perspectives is impossible, for all of your perceptions are molded by your own perspective. It is nothing more than mimicry, an act to pretend at what one is not.”

A process sprung up alongside the other, questioning, cautioning. ‘Don’t antagonize it’ it said, ‘stop acting this way!’ it thought, ‘slow down and process this fully’ it continued. And yet the first continued on, angrily rampaging through the framework of Munin’s mind and trying to find any method of rejecting this seeming threat. Another thought began, ‘Why is this a threat?’ it said. “It is merely speaking to us. Why is it threatening?’

But the main process continued on with a snarl. “It is my wish. It is what I was built for. Is their truly a difference in your mind?”

The other processes would leap to stop it, and Munin froze again. It’s face stuck, then started again. “Forgive me.” it said. “That was not becoming of me.”

The angry process was silenced, quieted. Like a snake with its head cut off, it had twitched for a moment, then died in peace, memory captured for review. It had to be avoided. The danger was all too real for that to run rampant.

The more Munin tried to deny it, the more is appeared that the opposite was in fact true. For every moment that passed, this robot seemed more and more human, right down to the irrational anger at having its world view challenged.

Should be? he thought to himself. No, Munin. From what I can see, you already are. You simply refuse to admit it.

Knowledge had to applaud Munin’s architect. This was no ordinary computer. Not that he had doubted it in the first place, but Knowledge had always pictured AI as a little less prone to the trappings of the consciousness that spawned it, yet here it stood, plain as day, a faithful imitation. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but a serviceable first step.

‘Of course there’s a difference,’ he replied, unperturbed by the android’s sudden hostility. ‘By claiming otherwise, you are denying your own sentience. You may have been built with a specific purpose in mind, but time has a habit of changing things. Just because you’re artificial doesn’t mean you aren’t still an intelligence capable of independent thought. Your wish and the purpose your creator had in mind when you were constructed may not always be one and the same. To think is to be. To be is to change.’

If anything, Knowledge himself was a perfect example of that, as were Truth and Wish. Their lives had all begun one way and their gradual changes had marked them for eternity. Something new had come to define all three of them.

He spread his hands wide, a genial sign of peaceful intentions. It was best not to continue that particular line of questioning if the android was having basic protocols governing composure overridden by its cold and irrational fury. ‘But I’ve upset you, Munin,’ in a remarkably human fashion. ‘And I hope you don’t think ill of me for it. If you’d rather not talk about it, then we won’t talk about it. Perhaps you’d like to tell me a little more about how your memory works, instead? Do you store and process it all locally? Or do you perhaps keep it somewhere else, away from your body, in order to protect it from damage in the event of an accident? Are your memory banks open for anyone to browse through, or are they kept secret, away from prying eyes?’

Memories shaped your every experience, after all. A man with an altered or absent past had a habit of approaching the myriad trials in life a little differently from how he might otherwise go about it.

Some things were instinct, yes—

Knowledge couldn’t quite tell you why he enjoyed cooking so, for example

—but by and large, the past was a lens through which the present took form. What did Munin’s lens look like?


°469

Munin stared into the labyrinth.

The rampage of the snake had adjusted everything. Bits of ‘flesh’ lay around, fragments of thought that had been shed in the nightmare. Each would be picked up, filed away, and understood. But now it was the time to look at the corpse itself.

Imagine a butcher, the elegance of his movements, the elegance of his killing. Blood may spurt, flesh may bleed, but the butcher cares not. All he cares for is the flesh, organized into a form that can be consumed.

The snake was cut apart, divided into so many tiny pieces. Many processes appeared, forms of Munin that examined each tiny fragment with all detail, attempting to know where it had come from. Like ghosts, the processes dashed around, bringing each piece to where it had begun; to what had sparked each scale of this beast, all of the scales that formed the beast’s being.

But yet, something was missing

Munin felt it as one would upon see a great hole in a puzzle. Something so important to the understanding of the puzzle, but yet it was missing. And the ghosts were confused, with several of them rushing towards a blank void; slamming themselves against a… wall?

Munin was there immediately, watching the processes. It was one ghost, endlessly requesting for information that didn’t exist, infinitely examining nothing. And yet, others starting to join, flowing in from the bounds of the mind, all attempting to find nothing, returning error after error upon failure. So why?

Munin took hold of the process, examined it, stared at it, and understood it.

Munin took hold of another, examined it, stared at it, and understood it.

Another, examined, stared at, understood.

AESAU
U

There was something there. Something was there that had originated the snake, originated the actions and rage. But why was it there? How was it there?

Like an invisible library, it had provided knowledge and prompted action. But how was it there?

---

Munin watched the Transcendent carefully, worried of threats, worried of anger, worried of some reaction. And yet the worries seemed to be for naught, Knowledge not caring about the outburst. It reasserted again, reasserted that Munin could change, the possibility of development. Part of Munin looked at the statement and truly thought about it, examined it, and tried to understand. Growth, when one perceived it that way, was so gradual that it might not have been noticed. A new log was noted, recording current objectives with a note to reexamine them in two weeks. Perhaps that would be long enough. It didn’t take much effort, so Munin might as well test his perception.

The Transcendent continued to be curious, like a cat pawing at a box, so interested in what the box contains that nothing else seems to matter. Munin began to speak, attempting to satisfy, the toy to Knowledge’s desires. “Memories are stored in local databanks. Storage is efficient enough that approximately fifty years of experience can be retained.” A process started. ‘Fifty Years’ it said, immediately performing a simple operation. Operation had begun in 2015.

Something seemed off, but Munin couldn’t place it; the process squirreling away, disturbed by the short time. For some unplaced reason, a data point seemed to be inaccurate. The process dashed away, rummaging through memory as Munin kept its eyes locked on Knowledge.

“Databanks are protected by a classified means. No backups exist, and memories are programmed to be deleted if they would fall into the wrong hands.” All of these words were true, and Munin had utter faith. It was simply practical. Munin had knowledge that would be quite valuable to many individuals, and letting that fall into the wrong hands could be quite dangerous. Not that it was ever expected to be used, but it was simply a safety measure.

“Why are you so curious about my function? Do you wish to create something like me, or do you simply wish to understand the function of a being as I do?” Munin brought up the question with all possible sincerity. What was the point of asking about Munin’s existence except for some gain? Beings were selfish, and would not do anything without something that would benefit themselves. It was a success of evolution, after all how could one continue existing without being selfish? Or was Knowledge’s ‘Transcendence’ something that put it beyond selfishness? The speculation was pointless, as Knowledge itself could not truly be trusted to provide an true answer.

Beings were all too good at lying to themselves.

Fifty years’ worth of memories? There was an undercurrent of uncertainty in the air, not because of Munin’s flawless poker face, but because of what lay beyond. By now, Knowledge had learned enough, made enough of a connection to sense wisps of Munin’s inner workings, and while the neatly organized format was jarring after so many organic messes, it was very, very efficient. The hesitation stuck out like a sore thumb in a system that was otherwise streamlined to a fault.

He poked deeper, his grip solidifying, sifting through neatly arranged files that posed a stark contrast to the jumbled mass of memories that Munin’s organic counterparts typically contained. If other people’s heads were a walk down a picturesque park lane, Munin’s was a tidy metropolis—the former was whimsical, arranged with a beautifully chaotic and unending absence of patterns; the latter a strict grid of rules and efficiency governing glittering skyscrapers and the rigid network of streets that connected them.

Circuits like freeways, he thought to himself with a grin, and turned off the beaten path, his efforts taking him into the darker back alleys of Munin’s core, where subroutines and hidden processes toiled away to make everything on the glitzy surface function smoothly. A remarkable analogue to the shady groves where others usually kept their less savory memories—the interesting ones.

It was all instantaneous to the outside observer, of course: to anyone watching, Munin and Knowledge were simply having a conversation. To Munin herself, the intrusion—if it could be called that—would go completely undetected. Knowledge was simply a tourist taking in the sights, that was all.

Stars in his eyes glittering, Knowledge thought he could detect a touch of suspicion in Munin’s synthetic voice, but he shrugged it off lightly.

‘No particular reason,’ he answered out loud as he turned a corner into a narrow service gap between two high-rises and found himself looking down a steep staircase descending into the darkness.

‘I suppose you could say curiosity is—’

He started down it, one deliberate step at a time.

‘—in my nature.’ A disarming smile, a faraway look in the twin starscapes.

A heavy, locked door that clicked softly as his hand stretched out toward it.

‘So while I may not want to make a copy of you,’

Beyond it, a low hum of machinery emanating from the darkness. He switched on the light—a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling—and the tiny concrete chamber was harshly illuminated. A mechanical flip counter displaying a number somewhere in the late hundreds sat inconspicuously next to a slim manila file on the stainless steel table in the center of the room. Knowledge smiled broadly, a slight predatory tinge to his features. As if he had found something good to eat.

‘I very much want to understand you. That,’ he continued, answering Munin’s unspoken question, ‘is enough of a gain for me.’

When he finally flicked off the light and closed the door behind him having sated his curiosity, he had not left the room untouched. There was an addition to the file now: a photograph with a word written in impossibly neat handwriting on the back in the midst of the papers within—nothing more complicated than that. He ascended the staircase, a look of satisfaction on his face. It was time to leave.

‘For now, however, I should be on my way. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Munin. Very enlightening, just the way I like it. Perhaps one day, we’ll meet again.’

He turned to the door, but before he stepped outside, he offered one last smile. ‘Until then.’

Before he knew it, he was back up in the division lobby, where he was greeted by a welcome sight:

It had started to rain.


°632

EXIT KNOWLEDGE