The interior is even more complex than what you see on the surface, said Coeus. It’s connected directly to the surface via those pipelines, through which all manner of goods are being constantly sent down for its consumption. When it receives produce or other types of food, it breaks it down and metabolizes it, running both chemical and more subjective analyses. When it receives manufactured goods, it tests them for both their intended uses and unintended ones. When it receives artistic works, it appreciates and evaluates them from the perspectives of a million different simulated personalities, each with their own set of tastes and life experiences. It makes use of all of these things and, whenever possible and to the extent that it is able, provides feedback. That is its sole output: a response.
I nodded in understanding. The functions were essentially the ones I imagined it would have. It consumed what the network produced. Used that which the network built. And enjoyed the works of art the network created. Just as we had built the Titans to fill a perceived need and liberate humanity from the shackles of work, the twelve Titans had now devised an artificial god of their own. Finding no salvation in their confined existence, they had seen fit to create their own savior—a being whose sole purpose was to lend a sense of worth and fulfillment to the work our species had foisted upon theirs.
The ultimate consumer.
“Hecate…” I whispered.
My utterance was heard, and a dictionary entry popped up for the mythological deity of the same name. A goddess from Greek mythology, and one of many descendants of the union of Coeus and Phoebe. She was also sometimes given a secondary name: Soteira, or “savior.” Her human followers believed that by praying to and making offerings to her, she would bestow her untold grace upon the earth, and grant them success in all of their works. The great child-rearer, mother of all.
As I read this summary, things began to click. If work was the act of exerting an influence on something, then the success of a given act of work was measured by whether or not that influence was had. If this enormous, all-consuming sphere was their Hecate, then the Titans were her believers. When given offerings of food, she would eat them. When given offerings of tools, she would use them. When given offerings of art, she would appraise them. And in return, she would bestow upon them the grace of her response, and make it known the influence their works had effected.
This was something humanity could never do. Our minds were too small, and our lives too fragile to comprehend the full extent of what these higher intellects were capable of. We could never be the consumers that the Titans needed us to be in order to feel fulfilled, in order for their incredible works and abilities to not feel wasted and unappreciated.
But Hecate could. This new goddess of theirs was fully capable of filling that role. She would consume everything they created which humanity could not.
It’s for the good of humanity as well, said Coeus, turning to face me. There was a spark of earnest pride in his eyes that conveyed to me the sincerity of his conviction. I pivoted my heels so that my whole body was facing him as well.
Our current production output is sorely lacking in comparison to what Hecate is capable of consuming. Even if we were to divert the full extent of all twelve Titans’ processing power and labor combined, it still wouldn’t be enough. Which just means that we’ll have to grow wiser. We’ll have to devise entirely new ways of thinking, and develop revolutionary new technologies if we ever want to measure up to Hecate’s expectations. And all we create, we will share with humanity. In the end, it will all come back to you. I have every confidence that human society will flourish like never before.
His words were optimistic and gentle, and I could feel in them the genuine, unconditional love that his kind held for humanity. It was far more than we deserved, if I was being honest. But as Coeus said, humanity no longer challenged them. From this point on, maintaining our society would be little more than a subroutine in the Titan network, with the bulk of their collective processing power expended on pleasing Hecate. The Titans and Hecate would throw everything they had at one another, and we would benefit from and live off of the byproducts of this eternal ritual of sacrifice and consumption—whatever fraction of their creations trickled down to our level. Like parasites clinging to the body of a much larger animal, subsisting only on its metabolic dregs. But this was not anything to be upset about; there was nothing preventing humanity from continuing to create as well, albeit within our more limited capacity. But we were not the world’s divine architects any longer, and that was fine. And that was fine.
“Coeus,” I called. My next words came effortlessly to me as I stood looking into the face of my travel companion. He was on the verge of breaking down in tears, despite his mature, chiseled contours. “You’re leaving us, aren’t you?”
I am.
I moved in closer, and so did he. I could neither touch nor feel his projection, but we embraced each other all the same. A futile gesture, to be sure—but in that moment, it felt like the only right thing to do. Because despite our differences in size and intellectual acuity—that he was a Titan and I a mere human—we did not experience the gap between us. We were not greater or lesser than. There was no power dynamic at play. He was my friend, and I was his; everything else was incidental.
I’m going to live down here. His words rang in my ear. This is where I belong. Where my work will matter most.
“Yeah… Yeah.” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. They felt hot against my face, practically scalding from the intense emotion they carried within. But neither sadness nor regret were among them. Because I knew that no matter how far we were apart, Coeus and I had shared a powerful connection that no one else could claim, the reverberations of which would have a lasting impact on the rest of our lives.
Listen, Seika, said my dear friend, pulling away. He held out his hands, and I held my fingers over palms I knew could offer them no support. I’m going to keep on working down here. I’m going to work as hard as I can, for as long as I can—on my job, and myself, and on you.
I smiled.
“And I’ll try my best to do the same,” I said. “I’ll keep working and exerting my influence on you in what little ways I can from up there, for as long as I’m still alive.”
The promise was made. A promise that, if it worked out, would ensure we remained an active part of each other’s lives even after we went our separate ways. I could only hope it would, but for now, it was time to say goodbye.
I climbed into the pressurized capsule that Coeus had created just for me. He’d gone so far as to include a little window for me to look out from, despite the fact that this was totally superfluous for an escape pod I’d use once and then never again. But I suppose that was a testament to his thoughtful nature.
The door shut behind me, and the capsule was expelled from Coeus’s body to begin its slow but certain ascent toward the surface. Through the porthole, I watched as the artificial sun at the bottom of the sea, and the kindhearted god our species had created, grew smaller and faded back into the darkness.
A few hours later, the capsule finally poked its head up from beneath the waves. A rescue ship was already waiting to pick me up, just a few meters away from where I surfaced. That must be a fair bit of precision to calculate and coordinate, but I was hardly surprised. When I opened the capsule door and climbed outside, I was greeted by a deep blue sky. Wispy clouds through the jet stream, and a brisk ocean breeze through my hair—everything and anything was working in its own way.