SOTOPIA: Artificial Pseudo-God

Steven did not tell Kay or Maynard about his contacts with Myersand et al.The military dagger that should have been kept as evidence is still hidden in his locked drawer, like a dark secret.Maynard seemed in a bad mood, ignoring his tentative attempts to investigate the incident, letting him continue with the odd job of checking documents here and there before the holiday.

On the appointed weekend, Steven came outside the school where Caroline was studying.

The children who have just reached school age file out, like a noisy tide that is only waist high.The eight-year-old girl running towards Steven has short bright blonde hair, and looks like a handsome little boy from a distance.The way she kicked off while running was unnatural—her left leg still bears the scars from the car accident.Although the traces on the skin are not obvious, the movement is normal when walking normally, and the gap between running and racing with her peers will ruthlessly expose the pain the girl suffered prematurely.

Caroline threw herself into Steven's arms.Naturally, the weight of an eight-year-old child could not destroy the center of gravity of a 1.8-meter six-adult man, but he still pretended to be hit by a heavy object and staggered a few steps backwards.He rubbed Caroline's soft blond hair, and when he glanced vigilantly around the corner from the corner of the eye, he didn't find any suspicious figures, but the instinct of "being watched" was still strong.

"Let's go home." He held his adoptive daughter's hand and walked slowly in line with the child's pace.

Caroline looked at the unfamiliar car—yes, Steven finally replaced the old Jeep “for business”, although the price of the new product was the same—she asked strangely: “Steven , where is our car?"

Steven opened the car door, fumbled open the rear cover with some unfamiliarity, turned out the brand new child seat and installed it properly: "Your Aunt Kay poured coffee into the engine, so I paid for it."

Caroline jumped into the car seat and put on the seat belt very consciously.It seems that the fear of riding that was caused by the loss of both parents in a car accident years ago has dissipated.

She looked at Steven who was busy in the driver's seat, and asked curiously, "What's its name?"

Steven thought for a while, and replied: "...Sonata VI?"

"Not this!" Caroline looked disappointed, but soon became enthusiastic again: "Then I'll name 'her'."

Steven smiled helplessly. "It's like having a pet—a pet that drinks gasoline."

Caroline retorted dissatisfiedly: "The book I read said that symbols like names are meaningful."

"What books are you reading..."

— like your parents, seems too bright.

Steven thought so.

Caroline sat peacefully in the back row, her legs dangling casually, and her eyes cast on the street scene that slowly flashed outside the car window.

"Re, Renai..."

"What's wrong?" Steven, who was concentrating on driving, heard Caroline stumbling and saying words that were still unfamiliar to her.He glanced out of the window and saw the eye-catching sign on the building. "Renaissance, revival. This is the Renaissance building. Its sister building a few years ago was called 'Silver Castle'."

Caroline nodded half-understanding.

Due to some sudden personal affairs, coupled with the pressure from the superiors, Maynard no longer interfered with Alexander's dictatorship.As a compromise, Alexander seems to have focused only on the investigation of Moskevich's near-mental torture, without getting involved in other affairs of the special office.

"Alexander called thiopental," Thorin whispered to Maynard on the phone.A few meters away, Alexander's "inquiry" continued.

Perhaps because of mixed emotions of anger and helplessness, Maynard didn't say anything. "Continue to observe and store evidence. I plan to have someone investigate this 'Alexander'."

Moskevich was placed on a hospital bed—his wounds were largely healed, and this obviously had nothing to do with physical healing.His hands were controlled by the belt on the edge of the bed, the lines of blue blood vessels on his pale arms were clearly visible, and the connected syringes were slowly delivering suspicious drugs.The most worrisome thing was Moskevich's face—it was a rare expression of nervousness and even panic.Unlike the past days when he was soaked in information in the laboratory, he lacked intelligence, so he was completely unable to predict anything that would happen to him in the future.

He stared reluctantly at Alexander standing by the bed.Due to the effect of the drug, Moskevich's eyes had begun to blur, unable to focus on the dangerous interrogator.The effect of the narcotic is slowly being felt.Once the spirit is lost, the consciousness will sink into chaos.He was so sleepy that he suddenly missed the pain when he was hit by the mudslide.In the case of not losing part of the function due to blood loss, moderate pain is beneficial to maintain a clear mind and emergency thinking-although he once believed that overthinking is a painful ability.

"You are 'number 71', but this number obviously does not match the transfer team. Answer me, how many 'insighters' are there like you?"

"You are not from the FBI." Moskevich panted, but did not answer the other party's question.The beleaguered clairvoyant tried to act hysterical, but failed—he had no intimidation, and he didn't feel that begging would have any effect. "My testimony is invalid in this state, and you never intended to make me a witness."

The scary man who called himself Alexander showed an indifferent expression.He glanced at Torin, who was separated by the glass wall and could hardly hear the conversation in the room, and replied, "I'm 'debugging the machine'."

Moskevich could almost hear the sound of his own blood being artificially suppressed.He couldn't tell whether it was the unconventional drug or the psychological effect at the critical point.He tried to fortify his own brain, but even the task of thinking seemed difficult.Moskevich had never missed Steven's probing and embarrassment so much—as for the Sotopia researchers who had used him as part of the experiment, he judged it to be a special case that could not be compared.

"I...I'm not a machine." He insisted on this. "I don't know anything more, what's the point of you torturing me like this?"

"But you are unsound, whether it is personality or your position in society." Alexander ruthlessly reveals the key point that Moskevich seems to be indifferent to, but actually broods on. "From the moment you are created, you are given only one responsibility: to reveal the possibility of the existence of 'rational will' in human society. But for most people, this kind of research is meaningless, and the same goes for those high-ranking, self-righteous interventions .Human beings will not be satisfied with the status quo of their own existence, let alone thank Sotopia."

Moskevich captured another possibility that he had been trying to avoid in the other party's answer: "You want to use me—"

"No, how could it be? Of course it's not 'use'." Alexander interrupted him. "We're just giving you another role as a special individual who's been deprived of social possibilities."

The prisoner asked with a wry smile: "You want to make a fuss about the unethical part of this experiment? And I am the evidence of Sotopia's crimes?"

Alexander put on an exaggerated expression of helplessness: "If we want to make public opinion respond, we naturally have to start with aspects that the public is more interested in. For example, outside the knowledge blind zone with a higher threshold, it seems that everyone has the right to judge ethics and Issues of rights and interests. They may sympathize with you-because you have become an innocent tool and victim of Sotopia's prying into the nature of society, but they are more likely to hate you-either out of disgust for the observer who stands at the center of knowledge, or treat you as a Machines and accomplices, not people like them. Human thinking is too complex, and it is difficult to reach a consensus in a true sense. But to find a common enemy, often only need to create a hateful illusion.”

"If you just want to disclose the existence of my experimental subject to the public, you can use a more gentle method. Maybe I will be willing to cooperate directly." Moskevich said coldly.

"But this will not be the state of the experimental subject we hope to show."

"What?" Moskevich clearly realized that the nightmare would never end so easily. "You are creating an ideal witness to serve public opinion—no, not a witness, but a machine that has truly been depersonalized by Sotopia."

"Angry—to render anger among the crowd, such an atmosphere requires a specific image." Alexander, who has rich body language, always seems to be eloquent. "You are actually very close to our requirements, but it is probably the effect of the experiment itself. Your rationality is not the rationality of artifacts. In short, you seem to be too close to the image of a 'human'. You have more than enough knowledge, but not enough abnormality .”

"You lunatic."

"We're all lunatics." Alexander smiled, as naturally as he stated the routine of "cheeseburger and fries for breakfast today."