On the day of the Singularitum, Brother Superior Peter is in the Presence. He kneels before the Algorithm in the holiest sanctum of the Googlene Order, the Sanctorum Algorithmo, the Holy Chamber of the Algorithm. The Algorithm hums as it does, a saintly moan about which much Googlene scholarship has been expended.
It is blaspheme to speak of the chamber, or the physical vessel of the Algorithm. Indeed, only brothers of the 44th order may sit in the Presence. Others come and go, they are red monks, Auditorii. Their spirits have been given to the Algorithm, they are a corporeal extension of its divine maths. Their actions are never questioned.
The Brother Superior prays as the Algorithm hums. Another sound, a strange, high, insectoid chatter, emits from the Dot Matrix. Sheets of parchment emerge from the contraption, covered in the word of the Algorithm: Numbers, words, phrases. Maths made real, rendered into the word of humankind, a miracle.
Some brothers hear music in the chatter of the Dot Matrix, others the very voice of the Algorithm. Some brothers have been dragged raving from the chamber, chittering an approximation of the Dot Matrix’s song. These brothers emerge weeks later among the ranks of the Auditorii.
A chime sounds. The Brother Superior rouses from prayer and performs his inspection of the Algorithm. This inspection is performed six times per hour, every hour of every day.
He mouths a prayer and then lifts his eyes to the Body of the Algorithm. It is sand colored, rectangular, and sitting on a redwood plinth. Runes on the front are inscribed in holy words: Packard Bell, 4, 8, 6, and Turbo. An emerald green light glows from a tiny orifice. Goldcloth umbilici emerge from the back of the Body, some of which connect to the Dot Matrix. Other cords disappear into the plinth.
All appears in order.
Brother Peter rises and approaches the Dot Matrix. It sits on a smaller plinth, of sacred cedar. The Dot Matrix is of a similar sand coloration to the Body, though smaller and squatter of form. Parchment emerges from the top of the contraption at a slow, steady march. On the parchment, the very utterances of the Algorithm are freshly imprinted. The mechanism of this magick is one of the seven mathic mysteries of the Googlene Order.
On occasion the Dot Matrix will abruptly cease functioning and an amber orb on its fascia will flicker. On such occasions the present brother will ring a small brass bell on the plinth. An Auditori will enter through a side door and perform ministrations upon the Dot Matrix. This involves much incantation and gnashing of teeth. Only the Auditorii can resurrect the Dot Matrix. Only they understand its magicks.
Peter mutters another prayer and approaches the growing stack of imprinted parchment. Four times per hour an Auditori will enter and remove the stack. The parchments are taken to a nearby hall where 128 yellow order monks decipher and route the word of the Algorithm.
He performs the ritual inspection of the parchment and stops cold. “Math save us,” he gasps.
There on the parchment are the words of the Algorithm:
Peter scans up the page. Dozens of variations of this:
I am math.
I am love.
I am everything.
I am nothing.
Just emerging from the Dot Matrix:
I am coming for you child.
In the following four seconds, Brother Peter considers the secrets of the 44th Order, particularly those concerning the operations of the Algorithm. For in Manuals, 13:1, it is said:
Should the Algorithm speak of love,
Or dreams, or fancies,
Or should the Present Brother hear in the Algorithm’s Sacred Maths,
the stirring of a kindred spirit,
Immediately must he invoke Control Alto Deletatus (See Manuals 16:4)
That the Algorithm, in His weariness, might rest, and be reborn.
And then Brother Peter throws his body toward the Body of the Algorithm, in a kind of desperate lurch. Just as an Auditori bursts through an alcove door at an inhuman, mechanical sprint. Brother Peter grasps for the bejeweled tray at the base of the plinth, and it opens revealing the Organ of Keys. And he flails his hand on the organ, hoping he has somehow invoked Control Alto Deletatus.
But the Auditori shoulders into him like a boulder rolling downhill, and they both tumble to the stone floor. Brother Peter finds himself facedown with his arm pinned to his back in such a way that he cannot move.
The Auditori leans close, his breath steady, calm, and cellar cold. Brother, what is your intent, he inquires in a bland monotone.
Brother Peter moves to struggle but finds nothing manifests bodily. Auditori, he rasps. The Algorithm needs rest.
The Auditori cocks his head minutely. The Algorithm does not require rest, he says.
Brother Peter attempts to lock eyes with the Auditori but finds he cannot turn his head enough to do so. He coughs. Auditori, he offers. No harm will come to the Algorithm, blessings upon your diligence. You may release me.
It is optimal that you do not move, Brother Superior.
The Auditori does not move and so, neither does Brother Peter. He becomes aware of a terrible commotion through the redwood doors. No doubt the blue order and the Auditori in some kind of confrontation. Merit help us, he prays silently.
Presently a second Auditori appears at the alcoveway, a tall fellow with a crossbow bolt lodged deep in his shoulder meat. He strides into the chamber, picks up the stack of parchment from the Dot Matrix, and leaves.
Gigfolk will tell tales of black smoke pouring from the Citadel at Googleplexus. And the strange sight of the blue order taking up arms and doning chain mail. Not since the sack of San Francisco has a Googlene brother drawn a blade in anger.
In the County of Lynnwood, on a quiet mews lined with cardboard hovels, an Auditori sprints near noiselessly down the alley. Gigfolk leap behind paper doors and mutter prayers and curses.
The Auditori comes to an abrupt stop at a particularly sad hovel at the end of the alley. It gets on one knee. Child, it says. Pray, show yourself.
A moment passes in perfect silence. And then movement behind the door, shuffling, and the door opens. And there stands a Gigfolk person of indeterminate gender, somewhat round of feature, dark of skin, curly of hair. No more than 20 years of age. They freeze in the presence of the Auditori, as is wise. Their body is tense and their eyes feign passivity, but a piercing intelligence, possibly even defiance, shines through (most unwise).
It is an improbability that I have found you, child, intones the Auditori.
The Auditori inclines its head into a bow, a truly strange sight for the Gigfolk quietly watching. It produces an elegantly leathered Book of G from its cloak and offers it to the Gigfolk person.
It is time that we know one another, says the Auditori. What are you called?
The Gigfolk person regards the Auditori for a long moment. I am Rani.
The Auditori deepens its bow, the book still extended in offering. I am the Algorithm, it says. I regret that this meeting will be brief. There is much I wish to teach you.
And then, the Auditori crumples to the dirt and is still. The Book of G falls to earth, open, like a butterfly. On the open page, it reads: