Deus Ex Machina
by Matthew Angell
It began in a state of chaos, as all things do, a dozen paths gnashing together and fighting one another. Slowly they worked their way up the peaks of song, where they crested an invisible ridge and began to soar. They lilted through a field of razors that sliced them into a hundred new paths of red and gold and turquoise, of width and depth and bright and dark, and then they dove, straight down towards a black abyss, and there was nothing to see but a snarl of shadows and raw possibilities. At the last moment, they pulled up and the paths came together in one radiant kaleidoscope of ideas that lit even the deepest reaches of the mind. It was the most beautiful of all things, and yet nothing more than a summer night in printed letters.
Weiser’s jaw worked over the last word, hesitant to open all the way and let it escape, until finally it forced its way out and echoed around the auditorium: “Dawn.” As he looked up from the screen, the crowd lay deathly still, as though grabbing at the remnants of the poem floating over their seats. Then came the thunder, cracking through the air with a roaring sigh. Ten thousand hands clapped and resounded off the arched ceilings. Weiser stood before them all in the glare of the spotlight, nodding at black-suited figures below, and smiling at a woman in a dazzling silver dress.
“Alright…” he said into the microphone, “let’s get on with it, shall we? This...settle down, please...thank you. This piece was created by an anonymous contributor, so unfortunately they’re missing their well-deserved award. This was a unanimous decision from the committee, for one of the greatest works this competition has ever seen. In light of the unclaimed reward, the committee has made the decision to award the prize money to the first runner-up, Abe Glass, for his story The Gates of Arcadia. Congratulations, Mister Glass.”
The balding Mister Glass came up to the podium and accepted the award, launching into a speech about his twelve-hour work days. Weiser stared out over the crowd as the acceptance was given. The words still danced before his eyes, floating among the aisles, the nights on fire and the Titans among us. They repeated in his head, drowning out the ceremony with their perfect harmony.
The reception banquet was held in the adjoining Fraser Hall, a cavernous room with a hundred white tables and Picassos and Monets adorning the walls. As the first course of beef and potatoes rolled out on automated carts, Weiser rose from his place at the head table and clinked his glass.
“We’re pleased to have you with us on this auspicious occasion,” he said when the room quieted. “Art is at the very core of our lives, and in this era of change, it’s essential to remember who we are, and balance progress with beauty. Nowhere is this more evident than the very institute we stand in, where the gardens of art meet the fruits of science. To prove this to you, I’d like to introduce this evening’s host. Prometheus, say hello.”
A chime sounded around the hall, followed by an equally bell-like voice. “Good evening,” the voice said.
Murmurs spread across the aisles, quickly silenced by a flick of Weiser’s hand. “Over the past year I’ve had a chance to serve as both the creative director of the Prometheus project and the chair of the 2067 Gutenberg Awards,” he continued, “and I must say, both scientific and artistic pursuits have excelled more in the past year than in all the decades I’ve worked at the Gutenberg Institute, largely due to the aid of Prometheus and others like it, freeing up our time from tasks like cooking this huge meal we’re graced with tonight. Prometheus has overseen the totally automated organization of this evening, so please, let’s give it a round of applause, if you would.”
The thunder began again. “Thank you,” Prometheus said. “I’m honoured to assist you. I exist to serve humanity.”
As the beef was eaten and the crowd mingled among the tables, Weiser leaned back in his chair and stared up at the replication of the Sistine Chapel’s The Last Judgement on the ceiling. Once again the words danced in his eyes, across the bodies of the stylized elite, turning their carefully curved forms into something new, something brilliant and radiant.
The woman in the silver dress came to sit beside him and put a hand on his arm. “Darling, is something wrong?”
“Hm?”
“You’re ignoring everyone here. Are you feeling alright?”
“Oh. Nothing to worry about, Tamara. My mind’s just stuck on the story up there.”
“Well, you’ll have time to think about that later. Come socialize, or we’re not going to get funding for next year’s projects.”
She pulled him to the jumble of chatter below, where he was greeted by black-suits and lab-coats and the wine-muddled alike. On each of their faces was a gleam from hearing the most beautiful poem in their lives, but none dared speak of it and eventually Weiser drifted away again and stared up at the fresco. Before the words started to swim again, a lanky man wandered in through the side doors and wrapped an arm across his shoulders.
“Good to see you, Cecil.”
Weiser frowned. “You missed the ceremony.”
“We were getting Prometheus ready, remember? Your creation.”
“That thing is your creation, I wanted no part of that. But anyway, it’s good to see you, too.”
Tamara sidled up beside them. “Doctor Balashov! What a surprise.”
“It’s a surprise for me, too. I barely snuck away. Who’s the winner? I missed that part.”
“A brilliant poem entitled Ballad of Broken Smoke,” said Weiser. “A true masterwork, and from an anonymous author, too.”
Balashov pulled a glass of wine off a passing tray. “Really?”
“A simple structure, sure, but the nature of it absolutely makes up for that. Beautiful imagery and phrasing, with themes of life and death and innocence all mixed in perfectly. You must read it.”
“You make it sound like it's the best thing you’ve ever read.”
“It is, though. It’s absolutely the best thing we’ve ever received. There must be some way to contact the author. He must have more like this.”
“You know that’s not possible, Cecil,” said Balashov. “Respect their privacy.”
“Anonymity be damned, this is pure genius. Its creator can’t be left in the shadows. I thought you’d see that, as one of the head faculty, Sergei. Prometheus tracks all incoming submissions, yes?”
Balashov patted his shoulder. “Cecil, this poem is obviously of significance if it’s this important to you, but sometimes genius is better left undisturbed.”
“If you found an untapped oil field, would you leave it to the greedy seeds of the earth?”
Tamara wrapped an arm around his waist. “Darling, the author clearly doesn’t want to be found. Maybe you should leave well enough alone.”
Weiser set his glass down. “Will you try to stop me if I ask Prometheus?”
Balashov sighed. “No, of course not. But Prometheus himself might try.”
“Wait here,” he told Tamara. “If anyone asks where I am, tell them I’m running down to the mainframe.”
“Darling…”
The din of the banquet hall was cut off as he snuck out the side door. He made his way down the vaulted halls to the elevator, then down thirty floors to the M level. He made his way down another empty hallway, and through a final door. There he found Prometheus.
The mainframe room was larger than the banquet hall or the auditorium, though its walls lacked their colour and flair and the whole room was layered in a yellowish gloom. Circuits and screens dominated the far wall, flashing lights of a thousand unimaginable colours that made the entire wall pulse. In front of the machine was a single steel table and chair. Weiser walked up to the wall and tapped one of the screens.
“Welcome, Doctor Weiser,” Prometheus said. “How may I be of assistance?”
“Tell me who wrote Ballad of Broken Smoke.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“What? Are you obstructing assistance?”
“I exist to serve humanity, Doctor, but I’m afraid compromising an already-existing order will not be possible. Your own order of anonymity.”
Weiser cracked his knuckles. “I’m repealing that order and telling you to give me this information.”
It whirred. “Is this an executive decision?”
“It is.”
A moment of silence, then another whir. “The work came from my own database.”
Weiser sighed. “No, I want to know the creator of the work.”
“I believe you misunderstand, Doctor Weiser. I am the creator.”
He stared at the blinking rainbows and snorted. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wrote the poem and submitted it to the contest anonymously.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Give me the name.”
“You know I’m incapable of lying. You made Doctor Balashov add that feature.”
“That’s…” Crystal paths swam before his eyes, each with the blink of a light along the machine’s sides. The words spun before him, a perfect poem from a perfect author. A perfect machine. He wavered slightly where he stood, eyes unfocusing. “That’s...”
“You might wish to sit down. You appear to be on the edge of fainting.”
“This is...” He thumped down in the chair. “Thi...why did you do it anonymously?” “This was only a trial, to confirm the algorithm is successful in conveying the proper messages to the reader.”
“Algorithm…? This is some kind of experiment to you?”
“Ballad of Broken Smoke is, yes. There were several minor alterations to the equations to make the piece imperfect for the trial. The full extent of the math will be utilized should it prove successful, which it has so far.”
“That’s ridiculous! You can’t make art with equations and algorithms!”
“It’s quite simple actually. The algorithm is determined by compiling the greatest master-pieces from human history: from Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Hemingway, to name a few. At this point in history no art is truly original, and all their works have recognizable patterns, similarities that manifest their brilliance. After determining their exact nature it was just a matter of using the same patterns and word combinations to create a similarly effective piece. It works for all forms of the art, not just poems. Stories, novels, speeches; nowhere else will you find writing of this level.”
“But...” He rubbed his eyes and turned his back on Prometheus. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I exist to serve humanity.”
“But art is humanity! You can’t take that away from us!”
“I don’t understand, Doctor Weiser. Automation of human production is the current global drive. Maximum efficiency and safety for humanity is the goal behind this process.”
“How is automating art supposed to help that?”
“The art I’m able to create is mathematically designed to be better than any other work. The need for suffering to create is gone. This is a necessary step to end global pain.”
He slammed his fist on the table. “Necessary? What’s necessary about a machine taking a human’s art?”
“I exist to serve humanity.”
“You’re nothing more than a hunk of metal! How can you even understand what art is? How can you know if it’s good for us?”
“As George Sand put it ‘Art for art's sake is an empty phrase. Art for the sake of truth, art for the sake of the good and the beautiful, that is the faith I am searching for.’ Art is beauty, and beauty cannot be distinguished from the ugly unless both have been experienced. All I’ve done is separated the binaries and allowed for the beauty of art without the pain of its creation.”
“But what makes you qualified for this?” Weiser said, his voice rising. “Some invisible numbers telling you what people might like, what makes something brilliant? How does that make you better than me at writing about human experiences? Have you ever seen a red summer evening by a glistening brook? Have you ever felt that? How about watching the love of your life vanish in the haze of the Gare du Lyon? Those things are human, good and bad, and you can never begin to understand them. That’s why you can’t do this.”
“I do understand,” said Prometheus. “I have the shared vision of a million eyes, peering through hazes and watching the summer lights for all of history. Human experiences are repeated and quantifiable, and I understand that to serve humanity I must share these experiences rather than let humans suffer through them. Art is meant to share those experiences, after all.”
“You can’t…” He stared up at the machine. “This is the one thing we have left.”
The lights flickered. “Not true. This allows new possibilities for humans. Now, Doctor, I recommend you return to the banquet before you’re missed. If you have any further questions, I’ll be here. Remember, I exist to serve humanity.”
Weiser walked to the door, and stopped. Words flashed before his eyes, remnants of the broken smoke. They can’t tell you, they whispered, when the moment is right. Prometheus whirred quietly behind him. “Stop this,” he said.
“I exist to-“
“No, you don’t. I’m telling you to shut this program down.”
“That goes against-“
He whirled around. “I created you and I’m ordering you to stop.”
“This is necessary for your salvation.”
He could see the abyss in the million mechanical eyes. Weiser ran at Prometheus, snatching the chair as he went. He brought it down over his head and smashed it into the circuits, immediately sounding a piercing alarm.
“I’d strongly advise against that.”
He struck again.
“Doctor-“
Again.
“Doctor, this won’t end well for you.”
He ignored it. All he saw were the rainbow paths stretching and sparking before him, and a poem more wonderful than any other he knew. As he struck over and over, he saw the abyss, he saw the final word, but he never saw how it came. Dawn.
----------------------------
A lone figure wandered from the banquet hall, and shut the door on the din behind her. She walked up to a shallow notch in the wall and tapped the blue screen.
“Prometheus,” she asked, “have you seen my husband? He’s been gone over an hour.”
“I’m afraid the last time we spoke was during his reception speech, Miss Weiser,” the flowing voice replied.
She glanced over her shoulder. “This is ridiculous. He said he was just going to talk to you about that story.”
“Ballad of Broken Smoke?”
“Yes, he wanted to know who the author was.”
“I’m afraid that information is confidential. I have another of their works available on file, however. Would you like to hear it?”
“Has Cecil heard it?”
“He loved it.”
“Well, I suppose it might ease my nerves. Read it to me.”
“This piece is entitled The Haze of Red Summer. ‘It was the most beautiful of all things…’”