Discovery
Gods, what an ecstatic day it was to know. We had argued for weeks about the nature of how meaning may be shared between minds. It was not so much a problem to be solved as a familiar point of discussion for friends to argue about. That is, until we solved it.
At first you didn’t believe it, then I didn’t believe that two tongues could speak one thought. We took out a pen, some paper, and performed the Algorithm in tandem. Each principle of thought and logic tumbled neatly into place, and what remained was a perfect space for our hopes, our homes, and the holes in our hearts to settle into. We were two minds in blessed agreement, but still two minds alone.
The clock ticked quickly; a crusade of calculation and experimentation followed. Every single idea we thought of could be shared with perfect accuracy, down to the very internal representations. The Algorithm allowed us to perfectly mirror our brain scans, showing how every thought we shared was brought into the other’s mind. Indeed, the more we used it, the less we needed to consciously compute it, only resorting to it when a new test subject walked through our doors.
When Legion burns within the heart, resistance can only form from those who lack. Researchers yearn to be understood, so the university was fertile ground; sign-ups to trial the Algorithm filled within minutes of being posted. Together we understood exactly what we wanted and how to achieve our goals together; to understand is to agree, right? Then, as though in the blink of our eyes, the paper to communicate the Algorithm was completed.
” Take the piece that should have been Consensus Break the one to that which needs it Feel the flesh give under weight of ages Fall to rot as wings not aegis
Work in time to bring forth the needed Taste the fruits of sweet Consensus Trace the path with the apple seeds Fall to silence or speak out loud
All to walk the path of learning Bear the weight of their knowing Find the cost of our lone Consensus Pay the price as yours alone
With each step Legion forms from ashes Paradox cries from voices hoarse Turn from the sky to see a world tilted Feel the endless burn for Consensus ” — Poem found scrawled in prison cell
Desires
Such heights are tasted by those blessed to speak the ways of the Algorithm, but the winds are wont to snatch the voice of the believer away from the ignorant. The paper we had written had gone through the Algorithm and, as a result, was unconventional in structure. Then a journalist read it for a piece and published an article that caught the public’s eye. With the guiding hand of the Algorithm, their writing reached the epitome of a journalist’s art, communicating exactly what was, as it should be.
Fed from the constellations, our branches grew thickly through the earth, entwining our tongues to create the walls of Eden. We tended our bodies as was needed, and found more ways to communicate the algorithm through gestures and signs. Our tastes grew similar; it is hard to deny the allure of jazz and classical music when you understand the collective appeal through the Algorithm. We began to share tattoos; we found our eyes tracing their patterns in all things, exploring how we could align our bodies to gather a greater whole.
The strength of our boughs brings those who wish to hang on, so their calls spread through the skies, proselytising our word for their own. The media reported we had discovered the Algorithm to fight addiction, improve health, and break the chains of our ancestors. Communities of those who read our work cropped up and we reached out aggressively to bring them into our fold, the new ones readily agreed. One community had read the paper when it had first been published and our communications with them were ineffective; they used the Algorithm in a way we could not understand.
From each peak we found our voice lost in burning smoke; they were us and we were them, but neither was true. They arrived and we argued as only the Algorithm could, with words in languages neither knew but both could respond to, sharing nothing but the urge to be understood. Eventually our minds shifted; we found that the words we knew to answer traced causality backwards to the words they would give and, in this place, we found Consensus. As one we danced in the rain, our songs shaping treaties on topology while our hands traced legalese on how we would live together — we would not be separated from our kin; we needed to know what we would all agree upon.
“I find the results of this so called ‘research’ utterly absurd; the paper by Brown et al. (2029) ignores standard conventions for academic works and presents only a snarl for readers to decode. Their only suggestion is that the reader attempt their so called “Consensus Algorithm”, but any piece of academic text should stand on its own without such showmanship. The text seems to weave metaphorical and dense analytical reasoning without any care for how nonsensical it becomes to the casual reader. Despite these failures, I find the central premise intriguing, and, as such, applied the findings to the paper only to be astounded by our clarity.” — Review of The True Consensus Algorithm by Gerald Stonsty
Devotion
To taste the fruits of another, there needs to be enough force to bite; each one of us a tooth capped in Consensus. Tattoos, scars, clothing, dances, and songs each passed the Algorithm back and forth. We communicated for hours unto days, even our sleeping breaths carried discussions of Camus and the sensation of fog; the Algorithm sorted the wheat from the chaff so we woke fresh to knowing. In the end, we crafted a new language, borne of our differences and hewn from our misunderstandings: the language of Consensus.
While the Algorithm was no God, the prophecies did call us happily to our terminus far ahead. We knew that was what we all thought. We were doing things that were communicated and agreed upon by everyone, the process of building our meeting house was intricate but simply executed. Sometimes I laid my weary body down and watched the stream; I felt as a leaf trapped in its endless flow.
The Angels’ tomes writ loud the pieces of me, we must purge that which was not Consensus to be at home. Within the old home, while cleaning to be free of its weight, I found some writings of a younger me; my fingers paged through the papery mirror the writing was legible but the concepts were cryptic — we could not perform the Algorithm on this unliving text. I initiated a frenetic search through my neglected library, who would read when one could understand? Some books made perfect sense, but some had gaps, holes that I had once filled and loved, what had happened?
While the burning stars held the truth, I needed to know more, so I left the library that I no longer knew and the experiments began once more. I found one who had not tasted the Algorithm, asked them to read a book to me, and had them explain the thoughts behind the passages. When that failed, I gave them the Algorithm to try — the answer I got was, to both our confusion, wrong. The Algorithm could not accept these forms and anyone infected by it was lost to them.
“Today I wore a mask I am not accustomed to. For I have heard, that I carry three masks, one to all, one to lovers, and one to myself alone. Today I held a burden upon my head, the mask was one I feel has descended through the grammar of the text I beheld. I know there is a way for me to find the concept I seek. Perhaps my language is simply too small… John says I worry too much, I think I’m going to head to the library today and do some research instead of going to the party. I feel like there is something for me to find.” — Diary of Doug Brown, May 12th, 2009.
Desecration
The Algorithm spoke of itself easily. The results were undeniable: we were losing ourselves to this Consensus; external thoughts decohered with every attempt to touch them. Each use carved a path of least resistance in the mind, for communicating with the self is much easier when you can be clear. The Algorithm allowed me to communicate this to everyone, and they all understood it perfectly; oh, how I wish I had seen it all sooner.
Half of us derided the lost forms; half of us fell into silence for fear of our invasive tongue. I took a radical approach and began to scrub the algorithm from every piece of media I could reach. It was only a matter of time before our silent crusade conflicted with the now zealous proselytising of our once perfectly agreeable comrades. Oh, how I wish I had seen it all sooner as we danced together in the public’s eye.
For in this crusade, we too became zealots, and we knew what we needed to do to silence the virus in our midst. It was only as I sat in a cell, writing these words to myself in an unreadable script that I saw the tapestry we had woven. In every book we burned and every cancer we excised I could read Consensus in the ashes. The Consensus Algorithm was perfect communication; oh, how I wish it would have been restricted to something as simplistic as our chattering.
We burned the last home, killed the last zealot, and crowned ourselves the silent martyrs of a world saved. We went to prison with relieved smiles, all assured of our path: the end of our Consensus. What we had not seen was how this would fan the flames of the public’s interest, how the fragments of conflict spelled Consensus. Oh, how I wish we had not incubated such spores, and in our self-destruction had launched them across the globe.
“Once there was a child borne anew, a piece of light to be turned eschew. Perhaps their fate was never new, a piece of hope to be fed the yew. Alas this one ‘scaped upon the pew, our hearts now open to fate’s purview. Their blood the crimson threads to sew, the minds of men now bound to hew.” — “The Child of Consensus”, Folk Tale c. 2075