022 NOW HERE, NORTH COL, JUNE THE 8TH, 1923. Sandy Irvine was the latest man to join the Everest expedition, and the youngest member of all three ventures. He was recruited for his exceptional skills at fixing things, from oxygen canisters to ice axes, and, well, for having the body of a Greek God; the ultimate reason for Mallory to choose him for the deadly glory. Overall, Irvine could light up a frozen cave with his smile: life with himwas better than without. Murder feels for Sandy like a father. His copy of Into the Silence is crumpled and soggy. As he advances towards the end, he increasingly feels like he is leading Irvine to his death. Maybe if he cancels the reading there’s a chance to rewrite its end? To save them both? It is possible: it is exactly how the half AI that he has been hunting for the last five years operates, the damned Harper God, isn’t it? BELONGING He knows that he is into something; he sets aside the book, and starts sweeping the Internet. He scrolls and cries: he has never felt anything like this. Is this empathy? Is this what you call it? Belonging? Yes, this is belonging. He smiles like a radiator rising Orion’s dawn. He has found the meaning of life. He is George and Sandy. After sweeping all the online content, he finds a mysterious, extensive article written by an Argentinian journalist who claims that George Mallory was the first fictional character invented by the tabloid tycoons of the time. “Mallory was crafted as the redeemer of a nation to rebuild the morale of England after the calamitous failure of Shackleton’s expedition to the North Pole and the decline of the Empire.” DISSOLUTION Murder momentum crumbles as fast as it has risen. He stands up and there is no trace of his ass in his seat cushion. He runs for the toilet. He is not reflected. He is badly panicstricken. It is painful to watch: “am I cartoon? Mallory’s ghost?” Horror emoji. His computer beeps. He has a newmessage. The sender is an Argentinian journalist. His profile picture is a photo of YOUR FACE. He only realises now that he is not a cartoon but a sad, lonely character helplessly trying to redeem his imaginary self —if only to become the sobbed hero of a sad, mourning nation. No matter how sentimental and vile were all the stories about Mallory and Irvine that turned the tabloid tycoons into ever greater monsters, the epic account of Wade Davis’ is the only reason that has brought you to Nepal 23 years later, turned a travel AI writer, who cries like a good robot upon reading the last page. EPILOGUE The library will endure; it is the universe. As for us, everything has not been written; we are not turning into phantoms. We walk the corridors, searching the shelves and rearranging them, looking for lines of meaning amid leagues of cacophony and incoherence, reading the history of the past and our future, collecting our thoughts and collecting the thoughts of others, and every so often glimpsing mirrors, in which we may recognize creatures of the information. — Jorge Luis Borges, The Library of Babel. NOW HERE, USHUAIA, ARGENTINA, 2003. The napkin where Mariana has written her address is all wet, the ink melted. And yet, you read “calle JL org… 23..” You knock at the door. The number is 2323 on Borges’ street. It is your homestay. Alejandra opens the door. “Buenas mamaita,” you awkwardly say. Alejandra doesn’t look like the inconsolable mother of a dead son anymore. Her face has hardened, her lips are thinner and her glance is sly. Overall, what destroys your breathing and revamps your haemorrhoids are the two heads standing by her side. You try to run. You can’t move. Your smile is frozen latex, same as your eyes and elbows. Knees are a bit like jelly. Mariana stands at her left mischievously smiling. And then there is you flanking Alejandra’s right side. She is actually Alex, the same viper that framed you. “Get in there, Harper, my apologies for the mess. What you are about to witness now is not going to make any sense to you. — But to your future readers. And that is an essential part of the script. What you need to know is what you keep forgetting. You were a bad journalist. You died. We rewrote you with a mediocre code and basic features, and well, there’s some sort of fucked up chip in your motherboard that has turned you in the most wanted AI ever wanted. We are going to switch you off. We are taking it! GOOD RIDDANCE”
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