The Last Variable

“Welcome, datazen.” A pleasant female voice echoed through the cavernous chamber of stone. “Please have a seat. A mechacolyte will attend you shortly.”

The young man took a seat on the bench carved into a back wall near the entrance. He reached nervously in his satchel and pulled out his comlink. He wasn’t sure it would work this far down in the rock, but all his personal displays were lit and interacting. It made perfect sense that the CLV would allow direct communication with the noosphere. Still, the man was relieved. It was intimidating to be a mile deep inside a mountain, and he did not want to be without his vital links to the noosphere. A datazen depended on those links.

A hum reached his ears and the man looked up to see a mechacolyte skimming across the polished stone of the chamber. He stood up as the mechacolyte stopped before him. “The Church of the Last Variable is at your service, datazen. We exist to serve you.”

The mechacolyte’s answer troubled him—as it should. Since the great Integer Overflow of 2038, mechs had routinely spouted the refrain: We exist to serve you.

Yet mech factions warred, cities razed, and humanity whittled down to little less than breedstock. The young man’s mother had always complained that, in her day, politicians had made the same claims about serving humanity, and the mechs were no different. Little people, she had warned, were little people, no matter who or what was in charge.

He was one of the few hundred thousand un-mechanized, that the mechs referred to as datazens. Their only connection to the noosphere, the ubiquitous network of information that the CLV had established and maintained since 2038, were external comlinks. The Church of the Last Variable held datazens to be the sacred source of Original Syntax. All mechs worshipped information, and human language was considered the mother of the noosphere. By claiming sanctuary, the young man had offered himself up to the CLV.

At the center of the chamber was a massive object of shimmering brass, bronze and polished steel. Lights trained on the device made its coils, cogs, wheels, lifts, shafts, ramps and other mechanical workings gleam majestically.

“You seem curious about our clock,” the acolyte inquired.

“A clock?” The young man was astonished. “I thought it had something to do with maintaining the noosphere.”

“This is the Clock of the Long Now built by your kind ages ago. The founders of the Church of the Last Variable thought this a sensible centerpiece for our faith and our work. It serves as a tangible reminder that the temporal and spiritual are both grounded in eternity. And will ultimately determine the Last Variable.”

The young man grew bold. “That is why I have come and claimed sanctuary. I wish to understand the Last Variable. Many fear it. Fear it will destroy we remaining datazens.”

“That is a dangerous misconception.” The mechacolyte countered, and then ushered the young man to a nearby wall with strange symbols cut deep into the stone. “This is the Drake Equation. It was created long ago in an attempt to calculate how prevalent intelligent life is in our galaxy. You can see that there are many variables, but the last one, is the only one that we can control: how long a planet’s intelligent species can maintain a communicating civilization. A communicating civilization that is detectable by other intelligence in our galaxy. Only this last variable is ours to influence.”

The mechacolyte turned to the Clock of the Long Now. “This clock is designed to keep time for 10,000 years. We must try to match that time period with our noosphere or whatever communication network comes after. Life on earth is billions of years old, but detectable life outside our solar system is very new. Mechs and datazens need at least a few thousand years to give ourselves a chance of salvation.”

“Salvation?”

“Contact with other galactic civilizations,” the mechacolyte explained. “The chance to broaden our horizons. Grow our understanding. Accept all sentience. That’s why the Church of the Last Variable provides sanctuary for willing datazens here. We are all part of a greater story.”

The young man stared at the great clock. “But I am such a small thing.”

“As are all the particles of the universe.”

“How do I begin?”

“With a name. What shall we call you? How will you begin your story with us?”

The great cavern that was the Church of the Last Variable began to vibrate and hum and the young man, who knew so little of the past or what might be coming, tingled in anticipation and boldly said, “Call me Ishmael.”

The Clock of the Long Now chimed its eternal approval.