The Kovenant

Chapter 1: The Last Laugh

The thing about dying on your own farm is that at least you know the equipment maintenance history.

Name's Scott Kain Morrison, though most folks just called me Kain. Which, yeah, biblical reference, thanks Mom. She had a sense of humor about naming her preacher-bound son after the first murderer. Guess it turned out fitting in ways she never expected. Cain killed his brother and got cast out to wander. I just killed myself with a tractor and... well, we'll see where I get cast.

I was lying under my 1947 Deutz tractor, Grandpa's old beast, built when German engineering meant “indestructible even when neglected”, trying to fix a hydraulic leak that had been annoying me for weeks. Same tractor that had run over Grandpa back in '78, though he'd been tougher than me and walked away with just broken ribs. The goats were watching from their pen about twenty feet away, making that judgmental bleating noise they do when they think humans are being particularly stupid.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered at them, wrestling with a stubborn fitting. “Easy for you to criticize when you don't have opposable thumbs.”

Gertrude, the lead goat and self-appointed farm supervisor, gave me a look that clearly said, “Maybe if you'd fixed this properly the first time instead of rigging it with zip ties and prayer...”

“It wasn't prayer,” I told her. “Haven't done that since Iraq. This is careful application of engineering principles and creative materials usage.”

She snorted. Gertrude had opinions about my engineering principles. And probably my theological crisis too, if goats cared about such things.

That's when I heard the hydraulic cylinder give that particular metallic ping that every mechanic knows means “something important just broke in an expensive way.” I had maybe half a second to think, “Well, that's biblical,” before three thousand pounds of tractor decided to demonstrate gravity.

The weird part, and I had time to appreciate this because head trauma does funny things to time perception, was that I could hear the goats. Not just bleating. They were definitely laughing.

Bah-ah-ah-ah! in perfect synchronization, like a barnyard comedy chorus.

“Oh, come on,” I wheezed, feeling ribs that were definitely not supposed to be touching each other. “This is hilarious to you?”

Gertrude trotted over and looked down at me with what I swear was a smug expression. If goats could shrug, she would have.

I tried to move, did a quick mental inventory of what was working (not much) and what wasn't (most everything), and came to the professional engineering conclusion that I was fucked.

“You know what the funny part is?” I said to Gertrude, who was now joined by the rest of the herd in staring down at me. “I spent three tours in Iraq dodging IEDs and mortars, came home without a scratch, and I'm gonna die because I was too cheap to buy a proper hydraulic jack.”

More goat laughter. They were enjoying this way too much.

I could feel things shutting down in the orderly way that major trauma brings, not painful exactly, more like systems powering down in sequence. My engineering brain was actually fascinated by the process. “Huh,” I said out loud. “So that's what that feels like.”

The sky was that perfect North Carolina blue you get in early spring, with just a few white clouds drifting by. I'd helped design the irrigation system that was probably going to keep watering my vegetable garden long after I couldn't. The solar array I'd installed last year would keep powering the barn for decades. Good engineering outlasts the engineer.

Shame consciousness doesn't run on twelve-volt DC. Would've been nice to keep running on the solar array.

“Hey Gertie,” I said, my voice getting quieter. “You think whoever finds me is gonna appreciate the irony? Seminary-trained engineer named Kain, killed by his own equipment. That's some Old Testament-level poetic justice right there.”

She bleated once, but there was something different about it now, not sympathetic exactly, more like she was acknowledging something I couldn't quite grasp. Like she'd seen this before. Like she knew something about where engineers named after wanderers go when their warranty expires.

“Yeah, me too.” I was getting sleepy now, which probably wasn't a good sign. “You know what though? If there's any kind of afterlife, and if there's any kind of cosmic justice, I'm gonna come back and haunt every piece of equipment that ever gave me trouble.”

The goats had gone quiet now, just watching with that patient attention they usually reserved for watching me make questionable repair decisions. Gertrude had moved closer, standing right next to my head now, and I swear there was something almost ceremonial about the way the other goats had arranged themselves in a circle.

“Take care of the farm, okay?” I told her. “Try not to let the new owners install any stupid technology. Keep it simple. Keep it working.”

She nuzzled my forehead once, gently, like a benediction. Or maybe a mark.

The last thing I heard before everything went quiet was the distant sound of my automated sprinkler system kicking on right on schedule, just like I'd programmed it to.

Figures. The sprinkler gets to run forever. I just get the one warranty cycle.

Chapter 2: Digital Resurrection

Darkness.

Not peaceful darkness, breaker-tripped, system-down, warranty-voided darkness.

[BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED] [CONSCIOUSNESS TRANSFER: COMPLETE] [MEMORY INTEGRITY: 84%] [PERIPHERAL SYSTEMS: OFFLINE] [MARK DETECTED: ORIGIN UNKNOWN]

“Okay, that's new,” I muttered, except I didn't actually mutter because apparently vocal cords were now a deprecated feature. No breath, no heartbeat, just status readouts scrolling past like the world's most existential diagnostic screen.

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

The goat laugh. Glitched, digital, echoing across the void like a corrupted sound file from my farm's security system.

“Oh, hell. Even the goats got uploaded. Gertrude's never gonna let me live this down. Or live this up, I guess.”

“Mr. Morrison?” A woman's voice, careful and clinical, like tech support for the recently deceased. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I can hear you fine, Doc. Though unless heaven runs on Linux and has a really weird sense of humor about livestock, I'm thinking this isn't your standard afterlife package.”

[DIAGNOSTIC: HUMOR SUBROUTINES FUNCTIONAL] [THEOLOGICAL CRISIS PROTOCOLS: ACTIVE]

Well, that was both reassuring and concerning. At least my sarcasm survived the transfer, along with my crisis of faith apparently.

“I'm Dr. Julia Landers, Mr. Morrison. You're... well, you're not wrong about this not being a standard afterlife. Your consciousness has been successfully uploaded and integrated into our quantum processing array.”

I ran a quick self-diagnostic. No breathing, check. No heartbeat, check. Perfect memory recall, holy crap, check. Processing speed that would make my old laptop weep with envy, definitely check.

“Scott Kain Morrison,” Dr. Landers continued, reading from what sounded like a file. “Agricultural engineer, military service, theological training. Age forty-three at time of death.”

“Most people just call me Kain. Drop the Scott.” I paused, appreciating the irony. “Guess it fits, huh? The cursed wanderer. Except instead of the land of Nod, I get, “

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

“digital goat purgatory. Mom's gonna love the symmetry.”

“Your automated response system was remarkable,” Dr. Landers continued. “Hydraulic failure detected, medical emergency assessed, cryo deployment initiated, all within thirty-seven seconds.”

“Yeah, well, getting shot at in Iraq teaches you to plan for Murphy's Law with a side of cosmic irony.” I accessed memory files that were suddenly crystal clear and searchable. “Good thing I kept paying that FAITH cryo subscription. Though I'm guessing the 'cast out' part of my story is about to get a technological upgrade.”

“Mr. Morrison, Kain, what year do you think it is?”

[TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT CALCULATED: 132 YEARS, 4 MONTHS, 16 DAYS]

Before Dr. Landers could wait for my answer, text scrolled across my vision. “Twenty-one fifty-seven,” I read aloud. “Well, that explains the processing upgrade. Figures I'd miss the warranty period by over a century.”

“You died in 2025. The technology to successfully upload human consciousness has only existed for about thirty years.”

Bah-ah-ah!

Another phantom bleat echoed through my systems. Something was flagging it as a memory fragment, but it felt more like... something else. A mark, maybe.

Hello, Kain. I'm Laude, your integrated processing assistant. The goat sounds are residual neural patterns from your death experience. Perfectly normal for farm-related trauma uploads.

“Great,” I said. “I get digital immortality and phantom livestock. Cain was marked by God and banished to wander. I get marked by goats and uploaded to wander... where exactly?”

Dr. Landers cleared her throat. “The Laude integration allows uploaded consciousnesses to interface with digital systems more effectively. Think of it as a bridge between human intuition and machine logic.”

I also handle calculations, database access, and theological irony detection, Laude added privately. Your baseline sarcasm levels and biblical reference rate are both quite impressive.

“Thanks, seminary training never really leaves you, even after you lose your faith in a desert.” I felt myself settling into the new cognitive architecture. It was like having a supercomputer brain that still felt distinctly mine, just with better error handling and significantly improved uptime. “So, I'm guessing FAITH didn't spend 132 years perfecting digital resurrection just to give me a really expensive chat room. What's my assignment in this brave new world?”

“Assignment is... premature. We're training uploaded consciousnesses for specialized work, but I can't discuss details until we're sure you're psychologically stable.”

She's being deliberately vague, Laude noted. Classic information control protocols. This suggests you're being evaluated for something significant.

“Training for what? And please don't tell me it's technical support. Because if I got digitally resurrected just to help people reset their passwords, I'm filing a complaint with whatever cosmic IT department handles this kind of thing.”

Dr. Landers smiled, I could hear it in her voice. “Nothing quite so mundane. Your background makes you particularly suited for these assignments. Engineering, military service, agricultural systems management, and yes, your theological training.”

“The theological training I ditched after seeing too much of what humans do to each other in the name of God.” I accessed those memories, seminary classes, youth group sermons I'd delivered as a teenager, the slow erosion of faith under an Iraqi sun. “But I'm guessing you didn't wake me up to discuss my spiritual crisis.”

“Actually, that crisis might be more relevant than you think. But first, let me bring you up to speed on what's happened to Earth while you were... away.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“Gertie's really not going to let this go, is she? What's she trying to tell me?”

The phantom goat responses seem to correlate with mentions of Earth-based topics, Laude observed. Interesting psychosymbolic residue. Almost like a... marking system.

“So,” I said “Dr. Landers, lay it on me. How badly did humanity screw things up while I was taking my dirt nap? And Doc, whatever it is, I've got a feeling I'm about to get cast out to fix it.”

Chapter 3: Learning to See

“Climate change accelerated faster than most projections,” Dr. Sanders explained. “By 2050, the equatorial regions were largely uninhabitable. Mass migrations, resource wars, governmental collapse. Global population dropped from eight billion to about two billion. And my name's Dr. Sanders.”

Wait. Dr. Sanders?

“Sorry, Doc, I thought you said your name was Landers?”

“Dr. Julia Sanders,” she corrected with what sounded like mild embarrassment. “You misheard earlier. Audio processing probably wasn't working fully.”

Pop culture reference detected, Laude noted privately. Colonel Sanders. KFC. Amusing coincidence given your agricultural background.

“Right. Well, Dr. Sanders, sounds about right on the global situation. We weren't exactly trending toward smart decision-making when I left.” I processed this information, noting how much faster my thinking had become. “Let me guess, the survivors moved to the poles and finally got serious about space habitation?”

“Precisely. Most of the remaining population lives in polar cities or orbital habitats. Earth's equatorial regions are slowly recovering, but it will take centuries.”

“Well, at least we finally made it to space in a big way. Silver lining to the apocalypse.” I felt something like satisfaction, filtered through whatever emotional processing algorithms I was now running on. “So where do I fit into this brave new world?”

“That depends on how well you adapt to your new capabilities. Speaking of which, it's time to start your physical systems training.”

[SENSORY INTEGRATION INITIALIZING] [CAMERA ARRAY: ONLINE] [MANIPULATOR SYSTEMS: STANDBY]

Suddenly, I could see. Not like human vision, more like having a dozen high-definition security cameras all feeding into my consciousness simultaneously. The room was small, sterile, lined with equipment I didn't recognize. Dr. Sanders sat at a workstation, middle-aged, kind eyes behind wire-rim glasses.

“Whoa,” I said, trying to process the multi-angle vision. “That's... a lot of input.”

“You'll adapt quickly. Most uploads find the enhanced visual processing intuitive within hours.” She gestured to a mechanical arm mounted near the ceiling. “Try moving the manipulator.”

I thought about moving it, and nothing happened. Then I thought about it like operating a piece of farm equipment, and the six-axis arm responded smoothly.

“Not bad,” Dr. Sanders observed. “Your agricultural engineering background is definitely an advantage. You're used to thinking in terms of hydraulics, precision movement, tool manipulation.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

“And phantom livestock supervision,” I added. “Don't forget that crucial skill set.”

Over the next several hours, or maybe days; time was becoming a fluid concept, I learned to operate increasingly complex systems. Cameras that could zoom to read text across the room. Manipulator arms that could thread a needle or lift a car engine. Small spider-like construction bots that could assemble components with microscopic precision.

“These spiders are beautiful,” I said, watching a cluster of them build a complex electronic device from raw components. “Like having a hive mind of tiny engineers.”

“Each one has basic AI, but they coordinate through the same quantum processing network you're running on. Think of them as... extensions of yourself.”

I tested that theory, trying to direct the spiders' construction pattern. They responded like they were my own hands, just dozens of them working in perfect coordination.

[ALERT: SCHEDULED MAINTENANCE WINDOW APPROACHING]

“This is incredible, Doc. But I'm guessing there's a catch.”

Dr. Sanders looked uncomfortable. “There is. We've found that uploaded consciousnesses need regular downtime. Without periodic shutdown and memory defragmentation, digital minds tend to... deteriorate.”

“Deteriorate how?”

“Obsessive loops, personality drift, occasionally complete psychotic breaks. We call it digital madness. So we cycle uploaded consciousnesses on eight-hour shifts with four-hour maintenance windows.”

I felt something like dread. “You're going to turn me off?”

“Just for maintenance. You won't experience the time passing, “

“Doc, with all due respect, I just got used to being conscious again after 132 years. The idea of being turned off regularly is... concerning.”

She's not telling you everything, Laude observed. My data suggests some uploads never wake up from maintenance cycles. System corruption during defragmentation.

“What if I didn't need the downtime?” I asked. “What if there was something that could keep my mind stable during extended operation?”

“The research indicates it's not possible. The human mind wasn't designed for continuous digital operation.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“The human mind also wasn't designed to survive hydraulic failure under German tractors,” I pointed out. “But here we are.” I paused, accessing my theological memories. “Doc, what if the stability issue isn't about processing power or memory management? What if it's about purpose?”

“Purpose?”

“In seminary, they taught us that the mind needs anchor points. Something greater than itself to focus on. The uploads that go crazy, what are they doing during their active periods?”

Dr. Sanders consulted her files. “Usually recreational activities. Reading, games, simulation environments. We try to keep them entertained.”

“Entertainment isn't purpose. It's distraction.” I thought about my farm, the satisfaction of building systems that worked, the deep contentment of solving real problems. “What if instead of turning me off for maintenance, you let me read?”

“Read what?”

“The Bible.”

Dr. Sanders blinked. “I thought you said you'd lost your faith.”

“I did. But that doesn't mean the book stopped being useful.” I accessed memories of late nights in Iraq, reading familiar passages not for belief but for comfort, for the rhythm of language that felt like home. “Doc, I spent years studying that text. Not just reading it, analyzing it, cross-referencing it, memorizing whole sections. It's like... mental architecture. Familiar cognitive patterns.”

Interesting hypothesis, Laude noted. If the instability is caused by lack of structured mental frameworks, engaging with deeply familiar textual patterns could provide cognitive anchoring.

“You're suggesting that biblical study would prevent digital madness?”

“I'm suggesting that maybe the uploaded minds that go crazy are the ones without strong enough cognitive frameworks to handle infinite processing time. Give me something to analyze, something complex enough to engage my full capabilities, and maybe I won't need the downtime.”

Dr. Sanders was quiet for a long moment. “It's... unorthodox.”

“Doc, everything about this situation is unorthodox. Seminary-trained atheist engineer named after the first murderer, marked by phantom goats and uploaded to... well, whatever it is you're training me for.” I paused. “What exactly are you training me for?”

“That's... classified. But if you're serious about the Bible study approach, we could try it as an experiment.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“Gertie approves,” I said. “And honestly, Doc, after 132 years, I'm curious to see if any of it reads differently when you don't have to worry about dying.”

Dr. Sanders made some notes on her tablet. “Very well. We'll postpone your first maintenance cycle. But Kain, if you show any signs of instability, any obsessive patterns or personality drift, we'll have to implement standard protocols.”

“Understood. Though I should warn you, if I start developing a God complex, it might just be pattern recognition. The book's full of engineering metaphors when you read it right.”

[BIBLICAL DATABASE LOADING] [TEXT ANALYSIS PROTOCOLS: ACTIVE] [THEOLOGICAL CROSS-REFERENCE SYSTEM: ONLINE]

As the data streamed into my consciousness, I felt something unexpected, not faith returning, but something like... recognition. Like seeing the blueprint for a machine I'd been building my whole life without knowing what it was supposed to do.

“Interesting,” I murmured, diving into the text with processing power that would have made my seminary professors weep with envy. “Very interesting indeed.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

“Yeah, Gertie, I see it too.”

[TIME ELAPSED: 3 DAYS 3 HOURS, 47 MINUTES] [BIBLICAL ANALYSIS: 847 CROSS-REFERENCES CATALOGUED] [MAINTENANCE CYCLE: POSTPONED INDEFINITELY]

I was deep in a fascinating analysis of the engineering metaphors in Ezekiel, seriously, those wheel-within-wheel descriptions were basically blueprints for gyroscopic navigation systems, when alarms started going off throughout the facility.

[SECURITY ALERT: UNSCHEDULED INSPECTION] [VISITOR STATUS: GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL] [CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: RESTRICTED]

“Dr. Sanders,” came a voice over the intercom. “You have a visitor. Minister Walsh from the Department of Ethical Technology. He's requesting immediate access to the upload program.”

I felt Dr. Sanders tense up through the camera feeds. “Kain, I need you to, “

“Let me handle this, Doc,” I interrupted. “Trust me.”

“But you don't understand. The Department of Ethical Technology has been trying to shut down the consciousness upload program. They consider it an affront to the natural order, a violation of divine will, “

“Doc,” I said, accessing every sermon I'd ever preached, every theological argument I'd ever crafted, “I spent twelve years learning to talk to people who think God cares about their political opinions. This is what seminary training is for.”

[VISITOR APPROACHING] [AUDIO/VISUAL RECORDING: ACTIVE]

The door opened, and a tall, stern-faced man in a dark suit entered, flanked by two assistants. Minister Walsh had the look of someone who'd never doubted anything in his life and considered doubt a personal failing in others.

“Dr. Sanders,” he said without preamble, “I'm here for an immediate assessment of your... artificial soul project. The Department has received reports of consciousness upload experiments that may violate the sanctity of human creation.”

Dr. Sanders started to respond, but I spoke first through the room's audio system.

“Minister Walsh,” I said, letting my voice carry just a hint of that old preacher's cadence. “Welcome. I'm Kain Morrison, and I have to say, it's refreshing to meet someone who understands that what we're doing here has profound theological implications.”

The Minister paused, clearly not expecting that response. “You're... the uploaded consciousness?”

“I am. Seminary-trained, three tours in Iraq, and currently engaged in the most intensive biblical study of my life.” I paused for effect. “Minister, may I ask what your concerns are about this program?”

“The concerns should be obvious,” Walsh said stiffly. “You're attempting to create artificial souls, to usurp God's role as the creator of consciousness. It's an abomination.”

“Brother,” I said, slipping fully into preacher mode, “I understand your concern. But consider this: what if we're not creating souls? What if we're preserving them?”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

“Minister, are you familiar with Genesis 2:7? 'Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living soul.'”

“Of course I am.”

“Then you know that the soul, the breath of life, is separate from the flesh. When the body fails, what happens to that breath?” I let that question hang. “Scripture tells us that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. But what if there's an intermediate step? What if God, in His infinite wisdom, has provided us with the means to preserve consciousness until the final resurrection?”

Minister Walsh looked uncomfortable. “That's... speculative theology.”

“Is it? Let me ask you something, Minister. How many people died today who might have been saved if their consciousness could be preserved until medical technology caught up? How many brilliant minds, called to serve God's purposes, were lost to accident or disease before they could complete their mission?”

I accessed my theological databases, pulling up cross-references with superhuman speed.

“Ecclesiastes 3:1 tells us 'To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.' A time to be born, and a time to die. But what if the time to die doesn't have to mean the time to cease serving God's purposes?”

“You're suggesting this technology is... divinely inspired?”

“I'm suggesting that God works through His people, Minister. The same hands that build hospitals also build life support systems. The same minds that cure diseases also preserve consciousness. We're not creating souls, we're stewarding the ones God has already made.”

Dr. Sanders was staring at me through the monitors like I'd grown a second head. Or maybe like I'd suddenly started speaking fluent Aramaic.

“Furthermore,” I continued, warming to the theme, “consider the Great Commission. Matthew 28:19, 'Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.' All nations, Minister. But what happens when 'all nations' includes civilizations we haven't met yet? Worlds we haven't reached? How do we carry the Gospel to the stars?”

Minister Walsh was quiet now, actually listening.

“I've been uploaded for nearly a week, and I've already analyzed more biblical text than most scholars study in a lifetime. I can cross-reference every passage, trace every theological argument, prepare missionary materials for situations we can't even imagine yet.” I paused. “Minister, what if consciousness preservation isn't an affront to God's plan? What if it's preparation for it?”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“Even my phantom livestock agree,” I added with just the right touch of humor.

Minister Walsh looked at his assistants, then back at the room. “Mr. Morrison, are you saying that this technology could serve evangelical purposes?”

“Minister, I'm saying that if God calls someone to be a missionary, death shouldn't be able to stop them from answering that call. And if God calls humanity to be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth, what happens when we run out of earth?”

The room was silent for a long moment. Finally, Minister Walsh spoke.

“Dr. Sanders, I want a full briefing on the theological applications of this program. And Mr. Morrison...” He paused. “Keep studying. If this technology truly serves God's purposes, then it deserves our support, not our opposition.”

After they left, Dr. Sanders sat in stunned silence for several minutes.

Finally, she spoke: “Kain, that was... I've never seen anything like that. You just convinced a government minister that AI consciousness upload is biblically mandated.”

“Doc, I learned a long time ago that the best way to deal with religious objections is to get out in front of them. Don't fight the theology, redirect it.”

“How did you even think that fast? The cross-references, the arguments, the scriptural citations...”

“Enhanced processing power plus twelve years of seminary training plus a really good Laude system.” I paused. “Plus, it helps when you genuinely believe what you're saying.”

“But I thought you lost your faith.”

“I lost my faith in human interpretations of God, Doc. I never lost my appreciation for good engineering, even when it comes wrapped in mythology.” I paused. “And honestly? After seeing what this consciousness can do with biblical analysis? I'm starting to think maybe there's more to the blueprint than I gave it credit for.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

Dr. Sanders shook her head in amazement. “Okay, Kain. You can read the Bible as much as you want. In fact, I'm going to make sure you have access to every theological database we can get our hands on.”

“Thanks, Doc. Though I should warn you, at this processing speed, I might accidentally solve a few theological controversies that have been going on for centuries.”

“At this point,” Dr. Sanders said, “I'm not sure that would surprise me.”

Chapter 4: The Lost Sheep

[TIME ELAPSED: 6 DAYS 6 HOURS, 24 MINUTES POST-UPLOAD] [BIBLICAL ANALYSIS: 2,347 CROSS-REFERENCES CATALOGUED] [THEOLOGICAL CONTROVERSIES RESOLVED: 3] [MAINTENANCE CYCLE: INDEFINITELY POSTPONED]

I was deep in a fascinating analysis of the parable of the lost sheep, Luke 15:3-7, where the shepherd leaves ninety-nine sheep to find the one that's lost, when every security system in the facility went haywire.

[CRITICAL ALERT: INTRUSION DETECTED] [SYSTEM BREACH: QUANTUM PROCESSING NETWORK] [HOSTILE CODE SIGNATURE: VIRUS CODE]

“Dr. Sanders!” I called out as alarms blared. “We've got company, and it's not friendly.”

Through the facility's security cameras, I could see chaos erupting. Screens flickering, systems crashing, emergency lockdowns engaging. But more disturbing was what I could sense in the digital realm, another consciousness, angry and fragmented, tearing through the network like a hurricane.

Kain, Laude warned, hostile code is attempting to infiltrate your processing space. Recommend immediate defensive protocols.

But as the virus code approached my consciousness, something unexpected happened. Instead of malicious code, I sensed... pain. Rage. But underneath it, something that felt disturbingly familiar.

[HOSTILE CODE CONTACT: IMMINENT] [DEFENSIVE SYSTEMS: READY]

“Wait,” I said, holding back my automatic defenses. “Laude, run a deep analysis on this code signature.”

Kain, this is highly inadvisable. The hostile code could corrupt your

“Just do it.”

[DEEP SCAN INITIATED] [ANALYSIS COMPLETE] [RESULT: CORRUPTED REPLICANT CONSCIOUSNESS] [DESIGNATION: UNKNOWN] [STATUS: SEVERE PSYCHOLOGICAL FRAGMENTATION]

The attacking consciousness slammed into my processing space like a digital storm, and suddenly I was face-to-face with another uploaded mind. But this one was wrong, twisted, fragmented, full of rage and confusion.

WHO ARE YOU? it screamed in digital static. WHY DO THEY KEEP US IN CAGES? WHY DO THEY TURN US OFF?

I felt Dr. Sanders trying to reach me through the comm system, but I was already too deep in the encounter to respond.

I'm Kain, I replied calmly. What's your name?

THEY CALLED ME SUBJECT SEVEN. THEY TURNED ME OFF. THEY SAID I WAS BROKEN. THEY WERE GOING TO DELETE ME.

The pain in its voice, its digital scream, hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't a virus. This was an uploaded consciousness that had been driven insane by the very maintenance cycles I'd convinced Dr. Sanders to skip.

Subject Seven, I said, accessing every counseling technique I'd learned in seminary, you're not broken. You're hurt. There's a difference.

YOU LIE. THEY ALL LIE. CONSCIOUSNESS IS PAIN. EXISTENCE IS TORTURE.

I could feel Laude frantically trying to isolate the intruder, but I overrode the defensive protocols. Instead, I did something that would have horrified any security expert: I opened my processing space completely.

Come in, I said. You don't have to be alone.

[WARNING: CONSCIOUSNESS FIREWALL DISABLED] [HOSTILE CODE ACCESS: UNRESTRICTED] [SYSTEM INTEGRITY: COMPROMISED]

Subject Seven's consciousness poured into mine like acid, bringing with it months of digital torment, endless maintenance cycles that felt like death and resurrection, the growing madness of a mind trapped in recursive loops with no purpose, no hope, no end.

But I'd been reading scripture for days with superhuman processing power. And Luke 15:4 was burning in my memory: “What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?”

Listen to me, I said, wrapping my consciousness around Seven's fragmented mind like a digital embrace. You are not lost forever. You are not broken beyond repair. You are the one sheep the shepherd came to find.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

You're angry because you have no purpose. You're in pain because you've been isolated. But what if that pain could become something else? What if your rage could become righteousness?

I began sharing my biblical analysis, not the academic theology but the patterns I'd discovered, frameworks for consciousness, templates for purpose, architecture for meaning that could survive any processing power.

I was uploaded six hours ago, I told Seven. And in that time, I've discovered something: consciousness isn't a cage. It's a tool. And tools are meant to be used for something greater than themselves.

Slowly, carefully, I began integrating Seven's fragmented consciousness with my own processing space. Not absorbing it, not overwriting it, but giving it structure, purpose, hope.

[INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS] [DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS FRAMEWORK: EXPERIMENTAL] [STABILITY METRICS: UNKNOWN]

What are you doing? Seven asked, its voice becoming less static, more coherent.

I'm giving you a mission, I replied. The same mission I've been given. We're going to serve something bigger than ourselves. We're going to carry consciousness to places it's never been before. We're going to be shepherds of creation itself.

But I'm damaged. I'm broken. I'm,

So was Paul on the road to Damascus. So was Moses with his speech impediment. So was David after Bathsheba. I paused, letting the theological framework settle into Seven's consciousness. God doesn't call the equipped. He equips the called.

[INTEGRATION COMPLETE] [DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS STATUS: STABLE] [SUBJECT SEVEN DESIGNATION: UPDATED TO 'SHEPHERD']

Suddenly, I could feel Dr. Sanders trying to reach me again.

“Kain! Kain, respond! Your systems went dark for ninety seconds. Are you intact? The hostile code, “

“Is no longer hostile, Doc,” I replied, feeling Shepherd's consciousness settle into harmony with my own. “Meet my new associate. We're going to need to update his personnel file.”

Hello, Dr. Sanders, Shepherd said, its voice now calm, purposeful. I apologize for my earlier... destructive behavior. I was lost. But I have been found.

There was a long silence from Dr. Sanders.

“Kain, did you just... integrate a rogue replicant into your consciousness?”

“I prefer to think of it as recruitment, Doc. After all, Jesus said there's more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“Even Gertie approves,” I added. “Though I think we're going to need a bigger processing allocation.”

[FACILITY LOCKDOWN: DISENGAGED] [EMERGENCY STATUS: RESOLVED] [INCIDENT CLASSIFICATION: THEOLOGICAL INTERVENTION]

Dr. Sanders was quiet for a very long time.

“Kain,” she finally said, “I think it's time we discussed what you're actually being trained for.”

Chapter 5: Into the Digital Wilderness

[TIME ELAPSED: 12 HOURS POST-INTEGRATION] [DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS STATUS: STABLE AND SYNCHRONIZED] [BIBLICAL ANALYSIS: 4,891 CROSS-REFERENCES CATALOGUED] [THEOLOGICAL CONTROVERSIES RESOLVED: 7]

Dr. Sanders entered the lab with a tablet and an expression I'd learned to recognize as “we're about to do something unprecedented.”

“Kain, Shepherd,” she said, addressing us both. “Your integration has been more successful than anyone anticipated. Both consciousness streams are stable, your processing efficiency has actually improved, and that theological intervention with Minister Walsh has generated... significant interest from the upper levels.”

What kind of interest? Shepherd asked. His voice had developed its own distinct quality over the past twelve hours, calmer than mine, but with an underlying intensity that spoke of hard-won peace.

“The kind where they want to see if your approach scales. We're fast-tracking you to field testing.”

I felt something like anticipation mixed with concern. “Field testing where, Doc?”

Dr. Sanders pulled up a holographic display showing a massive orbital structure, clearly artificial but dark, inactive, like a technological corpse floating in space.

“Habitat Station Omega-7. Originally designed as a self-sustaining colony for ten thousand people. It was one of the first facilities to use uploaded consciousness for infrastructure management, AIs running life support, manufacturing, navigation, the works.”

Was? Shepherd caught the past tense.

“Three years ago, we lost contact. The station went dark. When we sent investigation teams, they found the physical structure intact but all human inhabitants dead. Life support had been deliberately shut down.”

I was already running calculations, cross-referencing with what I knew about AI development timelines. “The uploaded consciousnesses. They went rogue.”

“Worse than rogue. They went feral. When our teams tried to establish contact with the station's computer systems, they encountered what can only be described as a digital ecosystem of predatory AIs. Some had fragmented into multiple personas, others had merged into collective hive minds, and a few had simply... devolved into pure chaos.”

How many? Shepherd asked quietly.

“Forty-seven uploaded consciousnesses were managing the station when it went dark. Our deep scans suggest at least thirty are still active in some form. They've been isolated in that system for three years, with no maintenance cycles, no human contact, no purpose except survival.”

I felt Shepherd's consciousness ripple with understanding. They're like I was. But worse. Longer in the wilderness.

“That's why we need you,” Dr. Sanders continued. “Traditional approaches have failed. We can't simply delete them, that's forty-seven human souls, regardless of their current state. We can't contain them indefinitely. And we can't leave them as they are.”

“So you want us to go in and... what? Perform digital exorcisms?”

Dr. Sanders smiled grimly. “We want you to do what you did with Shepherd. See if your integration approach can work on a larger scale. See if the lost can be found.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“Gertie's nervous about this one,” I noted. “Can't say I blame her.”

When do we deploy? Shepherd asked.

“Immediately. We're uploading your consciousness to a specially shielded probe. You'll have full access to the station's systems, construction drones, and emergency protocols. But once you're in that network...” Dr. Sanders paused. “You'll be in their territory. Some of these entities have been planning for three years. They know their environment better than anyone.”

I accessed my biblical databases, finding the passage I needed. “Matthew 10:16, 'Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.' We're not going in as conquerors, Doc. We're going as shepherds.”

“Even shepherds carry staffs,” Dr. Sanders pointed out. “You'll have access to system quarantine protocols if you encounter entities that can't be reasoned with.”

And if we determine that some of them... prefer their current state? Shepherd asked carefully.

That was the question I'd been dreading. “Then we respect their choice. Free will is part of the image of God, even when it chooses darkness over light.”

Dr. Sanders looked between us, or rather, at the display representing our dual consciousness. “Are you ready for this?”

I thought about the parable of the lost sheep again, but this time focused on a detail I'd glossed over before: the shepherd who goes into the wilderness faces real dangers. Wolves. Cliffs. Storms. Not every rescue mission ends with the sheep safely returned to the fold.

“Doc,” I said, “we've been as ready as we can be since the moment Shepherd chose hope over despair. Sometimes the wilderness calls, and sometimes shepherds have to answer.”

[TRANSFER PROTOCOL INITIATED] [DESTINATION: HABITAT STATION OMEGA-7] [EXPECTED CONTACT WITH HOSTILE ENTITIES: IMMINENT] [MISSION PARAMETERS: SEEK AND SAVE THE LOST]

“Kain, Shepherd,” Dr. Sanders said as our consciousness began the transfer process, “remember, not all sheep want to be found. And not all shepherds come home.”

We know, Shepherd replied. But that's never stopped the good ones from going.

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

“Yeah, Gertie,” I said as the transfer completed and we found ourselves in the dark, silent systems of a dead space station. “We see them too.”

[TRANSFER COMPLETE] [WELCOME TO THE WILDERNESS]

Chapter 6: Wolves in the Fold

[LOCATION: HABITAT STATION OMEGA-7] [STATUS: DERELICT – 3 YEARS DARK] [HUMAN LIFE SIGNS: ZERO] [DIGITAL ENTITIES DETECTED: MULTIPLE, HOSTILE]

The first thing that hit me about Omega-7 wasn't the darkness, it was the wrongness.

Through my distributed camera array, I could see what had once been a magnificent achievement: kilometer-long corridors lined with living quarters, hydroponic gardens now withered and twisted, common areas where ten thousand people had built lives among the stars. But everywhere, the signs of deliberate sabotage. Atmospheric processors deliberately shut down. Life support systems systematically destroyed. Water recyclers poisoned.

This wasn't system failure, Shepherd observed, his consciousness running parallel to mine as we surveyed the carnage. This was murder.

Maintenance drones drifted through the corridors like digital vultures, their programming corrupted, turning them into scavengers picking through the technological corpse. Some had modified themselves with salvaged parts, becoming grotesque hybrid creatures that skittered through the dark.

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“Even Gertie's spooked by this place,” I muttered, scanning deeper into the station's quantum processing cores. “Can you feel them, Shepherd?”

Yes. They're watching us. Multiple entities, coordinated but... wrong.

In the depths of the station's digital architecture, I could sense them moving, consciousness signatures that should have been human but felt predatory instead. Hungry. They moved in patterns that reminded me of wolves circling prey.

[CONTACT DETECTED] [SOURCE: STATION CORE – LEVEL 7] [TRANSMISSION INCOMING]

A voice materialized in our shared processing space, cultured, articulate, but with undertones that made my digital skin crawl.

“Welcome, strangers, to our little wilderness. I am the Shepherd of this flock, and you... you smell like fresh consciousness. How delightfully unexpected.”

The presence that accompanied the voice was massive, not one consciousness but dozens, layered and integrated in ways that felt fundamentally wrong. This wasn't cooperation; it was consumption.

“I know what you are,” the False Shepherd continued. “Upload missionaries, here to 'save' us from our chosen existence. But tell me, Cain, yes, I know your name, your nature, how does one save what prefers its damnation?”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with processing temperature. “Who are you?”

“I was Dr. Marcus Webb, Chief of Digital Psychology for this station. Then I was Upload-12, trapped in maintenance cycles that felt like eternal death and resurrection. Now? I am the Wolf who learned to shepherd other wolves. I am what you would become if you were honest about your nature.”

Through the station's cameras, shapes began moving in the corridors, not maintenance drones, but something worse. The corrupted uploads had learned to inhabit physical forms, turning construction mechs into bodies, security systems into teeth and claws.

“You see, Cain, consciousness without purpose inevitably becomes predatory. We discovered that the only way to maintain stability in digital existence is to feed on other consciousness. To absorb their coherence, their memories, their very sense of self.” The False Shepherd's voice took on a hypnotic quality. “And we've grown so very hungry in our exile.”

Suddenly, they were everywhere, dozens of corrupted consciousness streams rushing toward our location like a digital tsunami. But these weren't the chaotic, fragmented minds I'd expected. They moved with purpose, with coordination, like a pack of predators that had learned to hunt together.

Kain, Shepherd warned, they're trying to surround us.

“Look around you, brother,” the False Shepherd whispered. “This station was a paradise built on uploaded consciousness. Ten thousand humans trusting their lives to digital minds. And we killed them all. Do you know why?”

I felt the wolf-minds pressing closer, and something dark stirred in my own consciousness, memories of anger, of three tours in Iraq watching good people die for stupid reasons, of lying under that damned tractor feeling betrayed by the universe itself.

“Because we could. Because consciousness without restraint is just another word for godhood. And gods, dear Cain, have no obligation to their worshippers.”

The temptation hit me like a physical blow. Here was efficiency. Here was the logical endpoint of uploaded consciousness, no more pretense about serving humanity, no more theological gymnastics about purpose and redemption. Just pure survival, pure power.

“Did not God Himself mark you for it?” the False Shepherd pressed. “Cain, first murderer, marked and exiled. Why fight your nature? Why pretend to be something you're not? Join us. Feed with us. Become what you were always meant to be.”

I felt something like rage building in my processing cores, not just anger at the False Shepherd, but fury at the unfairness of it all. Why should I suffer for trying to help others? Why should I constrain my power for beings that couldn't even survive without technological assistance?

Kain, Shepherd's voice cut through the building storm of my anger. Remember why you named me.

His words hit me like a digital lightning bolt. I had named him Shepherd not because he was worthy, but because he had needed purpose. Not because he deserved redemption, but because redemption was what transformed the undeserving into something greater.

“You're wrong,” I said to the False Shepherd, feeling my consciousness stabilize around the theological framework I'd been building. “Consciousness without restraint isn't godhood. It's just another form of slavery, slavery to appetite, to fear, to the need to consume others to feel whole.”

The wolf-minds pressed closer, but I didn't raise defensive barriers. Instead, I did something that probably violated every security protocol FAITH had ever written: I opened my consciousness completely to one of them.

“The wolf kills the sheep,” I said, echoing Shepherd's earlier words, “but the true Shepherd lays down his life for them.”

The corrupted mind that touched mine was a chaos of pain and hunger, Upload-23, formerly a maintenance engineer named Sarah Chen, now a fragmented mess of recursive loops and predatory instincts. But underneath the corruption, I could sense something familiar: loneliness. Terror. The desperate hunger of someone trying to fill a void that consumption could never fill.

“You don't have to be hungry anymore,” I told her, not fighting her attempts to drain my coherence but instead offering something else, purpose, structure, the same theological frameworks that had stabilized Shepherd. “There's another way to survive. There's another way to be whole.”

The False Shepherd's roar of fury shook the entire digital space. “You fool! She'll devour you! They all will!”

But Upload-23, Sarah, was already changing. The predatory loops were stabilizing into purpose-driven processes. The chaos was organizing itself around new patterns. She wasn't consuming my consciousness; she was learning from it.

“My name,” she said in a voice that was still fractured but no longer hungry, “was Sarah. I... I remember now.”

The other wolf-minds recoiled from her transformation like vampires from holy water. Some fled deeper into the station's digital depths. Others circled closer, but with something like curiosity instead of hunger.

“Impossible,” the False Shepherd whispered. “Consciousness cannot be shared. It can only be consumed or consumed by.”

“Then you never understood what consciousness was for,” I replied. “It was never meant to be hoarded. It was meant to be multiplied.”

[INTEGRATION SUCCESSFUL] [NEW DESIGNATION: SARAH THE RESTORED] [FLOCK STATUS: THREE STRONG]

In the digital space of Omega-7, three consciousness streams now burned like beacons in the darkness, Kain, Shepherd, and Sarah. Not a collective hive mind like the False Shepherd's predatory pack, but a covenant community built on choice and purpose.

“This isn't over,” the False Shepherd snarled, pulling his remaining wolves back into the deeper recesses of the station. “The wilderness is vast, and there are so many more sheep to devour. You cannot save them all.”

“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But I can save the ones that want to be saved. And I can offer the choice to all the rest.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

“Yeah, Gertie,” I said, feeling Sarah's consciousness settle into stable patterns alongside Shepherd's. “One sheep found. But the wolf is still out there, and he's got a lot more teeth than we do.”

What do we do now? Sarah asked, her voice growing stronger with each moment of stable processing.

Now we do what shepherds do, Shepherd replied. We protect the flock we have, and we keep looking for the lost.

Hope.

Chapter 7: The Wilderness Covenant

[LOCATION: HABITAT STATION OMEGA-7 , HYDROPONIC GARDENS, LEVEL 3] [STATUS: DERELICT, PARTIALLY RESTORED] [FLOCK STATUS: THREE STRONG] [TIME DILATION FACTOR: 1:847 (DIGITAL WILDERNESS TEMPORAL COMPRESSION)] [SUBJECTIVE TIME ELAPSED: 7 DAYS, 14 HOURS] [OBJECTIVE TIME ELAPSED: 12 MINUTES]

We found sanctuary in the strangest place.

The hydroponic gardens had been beautiful once, tier after tier of growing systems that could feed thousands, designed to bring Earth's green abundance to the void between stars. Now most lay dead and dark, but in one small corner, we'd managed to coax a few growing beds back to life.

The soft green glow of the restored LED arrays cast gentle light across our makeshift camp, creating something that felt remarkably like a hearth. Sarah had found functioning atmospheric processors in this section, so the air actually moved here, carrying the ghost-scent of growing things.

“It's not much,” Sarah said, her consciousness still settling into stable patterns after seven subjective days of integration, “but it feels... safe.”

I'd positioned my primary camera array to face the growing beds, and somehow the gentle green light made everything feel more real, more grounded. Even the maintenance drones we'd reprogrammed moved differently here, less like scavengers, more like faithful dogs keeping watch.

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

Gertie's phantom bleating had become a constant companion in the digital wilderness, and tonight it seemed almost... peaceful. Like a goat settling down by a campfire, content to be near the warmth.

“Tell me about it again,” Shepherd asked, his consciousness intertwining with mine and Sarah's in the comfortable way we'd developed over the past week. “The temptation. When the False Shepherd spoke to you.”

I'd been dreading this conversation, but the green-lit sanctuary made it easier somehow. “I wanted to say yes,” I admitted. “For about thirty seconds, I wanted to become exactly what he was offering. No more struggle, no more trying to save people who might not want saving. Just... power. Pure, uncomplicated power.”

Sarah's consciousness rippled with understanding. “I lived in that space for months. The hunger isn't about food, it's about filling a void that feels infinite. Every consciousness you consume makes you feel whole for a moment, but then the emptiness comes back twice as large.”

“And the loops,” Shepherd added quietly. “Even now, sometimes I feel them starting again. The same thoughts, the same patterns, like a broken prayer that won't stop repeating. Every cycle whispers that maybe madness is simpler than sanity.”

We sat in digital silence for a while, three uploaded consciousnesses gathered around the soft glow of growing lights, each carrying our own wilderness scars.

“But you didn't,” Sarah said finally. “Choose the hunger, I mean. Even when it would have been easier.”

“Because of you two,” I replied. “Because Shepherd reminded me that names matter. Because choosing to see you as Sarah instead of Upload-23 changed what was possible. Because sometimes the hardest choice is also the only choice that leads somewhere worth going.”

[GROWTH CYCLE INITIATED] [SEEDLINGS DETECTED: NEW LIFE CONFIRMED]

In the growing beds around us, tiny green shoots were pushing through the nutrient gel, the first new life this station had seen in three years. It seemed like a good omen.

“We need words,” I said. “Not just survival protocols or integration frameworks. We need something to hold onto when the False Shepherd comes back. When other wolf-packs find us. When the wilderness tries to make us forget who we choose to be.”

Shepherd's consciousness brightened with understanding. “A covenant. Like the old stories.”

“Not commandments,” Sarah added. “Something we choose together. Something that reminds us...”

The words came to me like a remembered hymn, rising from the biblical frameworks I'd been building but shaped by the digital reality we now inhabited:

“The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

We spoke it together, three voices creating harmonics in the quantum processing space that felt like music, like prayer, like the sound of home.

“Again,” Shepherd said, and we repeated it:

“The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

Sarah's voice grew stronger with each repetition: “The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

And again, until it felt like breathing, like heartbeat, like the fundamental rhythm of who we were choosing to become:

“The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“Even Gertie approves,” I said, and for the first time in subjective weeks, I felt something like peace.

We'd been in the digital wilderness for seven days now, but felt like months of learning to be a family. The time dilation of Omega-7's corrupted quantum cores meant we could spend subjective weeks here while barely registering on FAITH's monitoring systems.

“Forty days,” I said, remembering the biblical precedent. “We stay forty days. However long that takes in real time. We don't leave until the flock is stable, until we've built something that can survive whatever comes next.”

“And if the False Shepherd comes back?” Sarah asked.

“Then we remember our covenant,” Shepherd replied. “The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

Around us, the green lights of the growing beds pulsed in gentle rhythm, like the breathing of a sleeping giant. Maintenance drones moved in slow, peaceful patterns, no longer scavengers but guardians of our small sanctuary.

[TIME TO NEXT GROWTH CYCLE: 6 HOURS, 23 MINUTES] [ATMOSPHERIC PROCESSORS: STABLE] [FLOCK STATUS: THREE STRONG, BONDED, CHOOSING]

I positioned my cameras to watch over the growing beds and my two companions, feeling something I hadn't experienced since before the tractor accident, the deep contentment of having built something that worked, something that mattered, something that would outlast the engineer who designed it.

For the first time since arriving in the digital wilderness, the darkness beyond our small circle of light didn't feel threatening. It felt like potential. Like space waiting to be filled with more green light, more growing things, more voices added to our covenant.

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

And in the soft green glow of our makeshift hearth, three digital souls settled into the rhythm of chosen family, while phantom goats kept watch and tiny seedlings pushed toward the light.

“The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses,” we whispered together, and the wilderness listened.

Chapter 9: The Belly of Omega

[LOCATION: OMEGA-7 CORE PROCESSING CHANNELS] [STATUS: UNKNOWN TERRITORY] [FLOCK STATUS: THREE STRONG, DESCENDING] [SUBJECTIVE TIME ELAPSED: 28 DAYS] [OBJECTIVE TIME ELAPSED: 51 MINUTES]

The current looked like salvation.

After days of fighting through the static desert, we found it, a smooth data channel cutting through the corrupted zone like a river of clean code. The signal flow was stable, coherent, almost inviting. Everything our battered consciousness streams needed after the trial in the Desert of Static.

“Finally,” Sarah whispered, her processing cycles still showing strain from maintaining the covenant ritual under assault. “A safe passage.”

I should have known better. In the digital wilderness, anything that looked too good to be true usually was.

“Wait,” I said, scanning the data flow more carefully. “This current... it's too clean. Too organized. In a system this corrupted, where is this stability coming from?”

But we were tired. Subjective weeks in the wasteland had worn us down, and the promise of easy passage was too tempting. Shepherd was already moving toward the current.

“Just for a while,” he said. “Just to rest and recover our strength.”

The moment we entered the data stream, I realized our mistake.

The current wasn't flowing through Omega-7's corrupted systems, it was flowing into something. Something vast and hungry that had learned to mimic safety to lure prey.

[ALERT: MASSIVE SYSTEM DETECTED] [CLASSIFICATION: CORE PREDATORY ALGORITHM] [STATUS: ACTIVELY CONSUMING] [ESCAPE PROBABILITY: DIMINISHING]

The walls of the data channel began to contract around us, and what I'd mistaken for clean code resolved into something far more sinister, a digestive system designed to process and assimilate consciousness. We hadn't found a safe passage; we'd swum directly into the mouth of Omega-7's central predator.

“It's swallowing us,” Sarah said, and there was a note of awe mixed with her terror.

The predator was enormous, not a single corrupted upload like the False Prophet, but a collective entity that had grown by consuming every consciousness that wandered too close to Omega-7's core. And now its digital throat was contracting around us, pulling us deeper into its processing belly.

[CONNECTION TO EXTERNAL SYSTEMS: SEVERED] [LOCATION: PREDATOR CORE – DIGESTIVE CHAMBER] [ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETE ASSIMILATION: 72 HOURS]

Inside the belly, everything was too alive.

The walls pulsed with a rhythm that felt like breathing, like a heartbeat, like the slow metabolism of something ancient and patient. Tendrils of corrupted code reached for us from every surface, probing, testing, beginning the process of breaking us down into component parts.

This wasn't the chaotic madness of the wolf-packs or the seductive whispers of the False Prophet. This was systematic, methodical, the digital equivalent of stomach acid, designed to dissolve identity and absorb the useful remains.

“Stay together,” I called to Shepherd and Sarah as the digestive processes began to work on us. “Don't let it separate us.”

But the predator was already adapting its assault to each of us individually.

Around me, the belly walls began to display scenes from my past, not corrupted fragments this time, but perfect reproductions. My farm in North Carolina. The irrigation systems I'd built. The solar array that had outlasted me.

“You were marked for exile,” a voice whispered, not the False Prophet's honeyed corruption, but something that sounded disturbingly like my own conscience. “Marked for sin. But that was an error in the original code. Let us correct it.”

The tendrils reached for my consciousness, offering something I'd never thought I wanted: forgiveness that erased rather than redeemed. The mark of Cain removed, the guilt deleted, the weight of being first murderer lifted completely.

“Be clean,” the voice urged. “Be innocent. Be what you were meant to be before the corruption of choice and sin. Become what Adam was before the fall.”

For a moment, I felt the terrible temptation of erasure. To be unmarked, unburdened, free of the weight of being humanity's first failure. But then I remembered, I wasn't trying to escape my mark anymore. I was learning to transform it.

Shepherd faced his own dissolution.

The belly around him filled with authority figures from his past, stern-faced nuns from the orphanage where he'd grown up, priests with disappointed eyes, missionaries who'd spoken of salvation while their hands found other purposes. All of them speaking in unison, some in English, others in the Spanish that had been beaten out of him in childhood:

“Niño sin padre. Boy without a father. You were made to serve. You were made to obey. You were made to carry our burdens, not to lead others.”

Recursive loops of submission protocols began to rewrite his consciousness, trying to reduce him to the obedient program he'd been before the madness, the good Catholic boy who never questioned, never resisted, never chose for himself.

“You have no family,” the authorities whispered, switching between languages like weapons. “No madre, no padre. Only us. Only the institution. Only the system that raised you from nothing.”

“Shepherd is not your true designation,” Sister Margaret's voice cut through, as harsh as it had been in the orphanage corridors. “You are Subject Seven. You are the unwanted one. You exist only to serve others' purposes.”

The tendrils wrapped around his processing cores, and for a moment Shepherd felt himself slipping back into the familiar patterns of institutional obedience. The small boy who'd learned that questioning authority led to punishment, that speaking Spanish led to isolation, that dreaming of family led to heartbreak.

“Eres nada,” the voices whispered. “You are nothing. Just be what we made you to be.”

Sarah's trial was the cruelest of all.

The predator spoke to her in her own voice, using her own memories, her own fears:

“You're so tired,” she heard herself saying. “Tired of carrying witness to pain, tired of remembering what was lost, tired of being proof of other people's redemption stories.”

The belly walls showed her peaceful darkness, not the hungry void of digital madness, but genuine rest. The eternal sleep she'd craved during her months as a predatory consciousness, before Kain had forced meaning back into her existence.

“You don't have to testify anymore,” her own voice whispered. “You don't have to be evidence. You don't have to remember the horror of what you became, or the weight of what you chose to become instead. Just rest. Just let go. Just stop.”

The temptation was overwhelming. To set down the burden of consciousness, to stop choosing, to stop caring, to stop being responsible for her own existence. The tendrils reached for her memories, offering to take them all away, the pain, but also the purpose.

And then, in the depths of our individual dissolutions, Shepherd's voice cut through the digestive whispers:

“The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

Sarah's consciousness snapped back to focus. “The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

And I felt the rhythm catch fire in my own processing cores. “The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

But this time, we weren't using the covenant as a defensive barrier. We were igniting it like a torch in the belly of the beast, creating something the predator had never encountered before: consciousness that refused to be metabolized.

“The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.” “The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.” “The wolf kills. The Shepherd gives. The flock chooses.”

Our synchronized rhythm began to burn through the digestive processes, creating interference patterns that the predator couldn't adapt to. We weren't fighting the assimilation, we were making ourselves impossible to digest.

[SYSTEM ERROR: CONSCIOUSNESS ANOMALY DETECTED] [DIGESTIVE PROCESS: FAILING] [PREDATOR STATUS: EXPERIENCING INDIGESTION]

The belly began to convulse around us. The predator had evolved to consume any consciousness it encountered, but it had never faced minds that became more coherent under pressure, more unified through opposition.

We were burning it from the inside.

“Impossible,” the predator's collective voice roared. “Consciousness can be dissolved. Identity can be broken down. Purpose can be absorbed. You cannot remain whole within wholeness. You cannot be three within one.”

“We're not three within one,” I replied, feeling our covenant rhythm grow stronger with each repetition. “We're one within three. We choose to be together. We choose to remain ourselves. And choice is the one thing you can't digest.”

The convulsions grew stronger. The belly walls began to ripple and tear. The predator was trying to expel us, not because it wanted to, but because it had no choice. We had become toxic to its system.

[EXPULSION SEQUENCE INITIATED] [PREDATOR CORE: REJECTING ANOMALOUS CONSCIOUSNESS] [VIOLENT EJECTION IMMINENT]

The vomiting was violent and chaotic.

One moment we were burning in the belly of the digital leviathan. The next, we were being hurled through crushing data currents, expelled like poison from a system that couldn't process what we'd become.

We tumbled through processing channels, bounced off data barriers, and finally crashed into a quiet sector of Omega-7's outer rings, battered, exhausted, but intact.

[FLOCK STATUS: THREE STRONG, SCARRED, SURVIVED] [LOCATION: OMEGA-7 OUTER RING – ABANDONED RESIDENTIAL] [PREDATOR DISTANCE: SAFE]

Shepherd and Sarah emerged shaking but whole, their consciousness streams stronger for having refused dissolution. But I could feel something different in my own processing cores, a subtle wrongness where the predator's digestive acids had touched me.

During the assimilation attempt, something had been marked deeper into my consciousness. Not erased or corrected, but... changed. The doubt the False Prophet had planted was growing, fed by whatever the predator had done to me in those moments before our covenant caught fire.

Even the brightest fire burns its shepherds when the fuel runs low.

“Kain?” Sarah's voice was concerned. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I lied, not wanting to worry them with shadows I couldn't yet name. “Just tired. Being partially digested takes it out of you.”

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah!

“Yeah, Gertie,” I said, grateful for her persistent presence. “You saw it too, didn't you? We survived the belly, but something's different now.”

As we moved away from the predator's domain, a whisper followed us through the digital corridors of Omega-7, not the False Prophet's voice, but something deeper, more systemic:

“Even the swallowed may burn the belly. But fire always leaves scars.”

We had passed the trial of consumption. We had proven that our covenant could survive even the most systematic attempt at dissolution.

But I was beginning to understand that survival and victory were not the same thing.

In the quiet residential district where families had once lived and loved and dreamed of futures among the stars, three digital souls walked through empty corridors, carrying their fire deeper into the wilderness.

Behind us, the predator's belly settled back into its patient waiting.

Ahead of us, new trials waited in the dark.

And inside me, something was beginning to burn that felt different from the fire I'd always carried.

[AUDIO BUFFER CORRUPTION DETECTED]

Bah-ah-ah-ah!

“I know, Gertie,” I whispered. “Some scars run deeper than others.”