Mephisto's Crusade 2
Part 2 - Mr Mephisto
The Story So far … The stranger called Nemo has been washed up on the coast of a strange world. A new Earth of Gigasauri and floating islands, of computers made from flowers and libraries that think.
There were formalities to be observed for his education.
The family had to seek the permission of the priest on his behalf, and then formally petition the Doctor, who had already agreed, but that didn’t matter. He realised he didn't understand the meaning of ‘petition’ in this world. Additionally, there was the matter of organizing the tithe and consulting the brothers on the distribution of tasks to ensure their agreement.
‘But isn't it wonderful? Aren't you pleased to be so fortunate?’ Alia was a torrent, pent up by hours of silence, and he endured, happy just to watch her dark eyes.
The brothers applauded him at the news and thumped his shoulders in celebration.
Their ‘Brava! Brava!’ echoed from the stone walls of the house.
‘Bella! Bella!’ Marta called from the stove, beaming at him.
‘I prefer him stupid,’ Cara muttered.
Planning began immediately. Marta paused from preparing supper to write a note to the priest, which she gave to Cara to run down to the church before supper. Cara pretended to be scared of the dark and so Alia was pressed into escorting her. Cara was pleased, as she would have time alone with Alia to learn more about men.
The brothers began planning what they would need to trade for the petition, which he gradually began to understand was a party—a formal payment of food and drink for the Doctor’s time, during which the petition would be made. In reality the formality an excuse for a celebration for friends and family.
Marta began to list the foods she would have to prepare. The brothers discussed where to hang the lanterns and how many needed new coloured glass. They decided to go to the village the next day to reserve three barrels of wine for the petition: white, rosé, and red.
‘Don't forget to make sure that old Constanza crone hears all the details. That old gossip will spread the news far and wide,’ said Marta.
‘Especially the romantic parts, how I found you on the beach and how we are in love and always will be,’ Alia added.
‘You are going to frighten him away, Alia.’ Paolo laughed.
Once Alia and Cara had left for the church, the brothers returned to discussing the work ahead and how the tithe would be managed to allow him to pay the Doctor.
‘The harvest is due in a month,’ he said. "Are you sure you don't need help?"
Paolo shrugged, shaking his head.
‘If the going gets tough, we can wake Mr. Mephisto.’
The mention of Mr. Mephisto set Marta scolding her sons and warning them that the priest would not approve of such talk if he heard. This brought on more elaborate shrugs and raising of hands to heaven as they reminded her that Mr. Mephisto was used every year, and last winter the priest had thanked Mr. Mephisto personally for pulling his cart out of the mud—the little parish donkey not being up to the task. Marta said it did not count, because in all the rain the priest had not seen the kind man who had pulled his cart out of the mud and did not know who it was. The priest had told her that himself the following Sunday at Mass.
Later, once the women had gone to bed, he sat up late with the brothers. They talked about the day, which was largely uneventful, but it is important to recall as every day is unique. Talk turned to the harvest again, the brothers admitting that it would be more difficult but that was not important. They had been schooled by the Doctor when they were boys and had great admiration for their teacher, who was, in both their estimations, one of the good things in life.
He asked them who Mr Mephisto was, and Paulo pointed to the large dark wardrobe that stood in the hall beside Patra's pipe table.
‘We keep him in there,’ Paolo said.
‘You keep him in the wardrobe?’
‘Where else would you keep Mr. Mephisto?’
He must have looked shocked.
‘Come and meet him,’ Paolo said, and led him into the hallway.
The wardrobe was over nine feet tall. The hall, like the rest of the house, was built on a large scale and was substantial in construction—not a sign of wealth but one of efficiency. Why build a house for only a few generations when so many were destined to live here? At the brothers' insistence, he opened the two heavy wooden doors, and there, standing inside the wardrobe and smelling faintly of oil and dust, was a large bronze statue of a man made from thousands of different parts—an anatomy of vast complexity finished off with a skin of finely beaten metal plates.
Mr. Mephisto’s impressive chest carried a large and ornate badge cast in bronze, carved to represent the wings of eagles like the old Espresso machine that stood in the village bar. In the center of the elaborate plate were the words “Mk MXVII Mephisto” and “Manufacturi Milano.” The head was also stylised and included a helmet cleverly hinged by neat devices to allow the top to be opened.
Mr. Mephisto filled the wardrobe, which he now realised was a tool cabinet, as there were alcoves lined with black velvet to either side of the main machine. In these alcoves were stored spare hands and spare limbs, devices that perhaps had roles deep inside the machine, and a collection of hand tools laid out to be easily accessible. Mr. Mephisto was secured by wide straps made from thick, heavy leather across its arms, legs, and chest, fastened by substantial metal buckles. Except for a light coating of dust, the machine was in good condition; some wear and scratches on the casing were apparent, but as the brothers remarked, not bad for a machine that had been in the family since Patra’s great-grandfather had brought it back from Milan by boat when he was a young man.
‘Is it sentient?’ he asked.
‘Why not ask him yourself?’ Paolo suggested.
The eyelids of the bronze face opened to reveal large eyes of polished glass.
‘The question of my sentience is the subject of academic debate.’
Mr. Mephisto ‘s voice was musical, like breath blown over tuned pipes, as if he had a miniature organ in his mouth.
‘I am uncertain of my sentience—which is why the Church frets so much over devices like me, because, as the philosopher-saint Descartes established millennia before this day, to be able to doubt one exists, one must exist to do the doubting. But this Mephisto is certain that Marta will not tolerate conversations in the hallway at such a late hour.’
‘Thank you, Mephisto,’ Marta called down the stairs from her bedroom.
The brothers unbuckled the straps as quietly as possible so they could all retreat to the garden to continue the introduction. The large machine moved smoothly from its cabinet, making no noise, but its considerable mass shook the hall floor and made the edges of the flagstones grind together as it walked behind them.
The moon was a blue crescent, making the countryside cold and ghostly in the light, the stars white and brilliant. He looked for the floating island of Kashmir-Laputa and found it on the horizon, only the snow-covered peaks still visible. The brothers walked to the wall where they liked to sit, the stone still warm from a full day of sunshine. Mr. Mephisto stood beside them looking out to sea.
‘I think Patra would have liked this night,’ Mr. Mephisto said.
‘I think he would have preferred to be in bed at such a late hour. He was more of a sparrow than an owl,’ said Paolo.
Mr. Mephisto reminisced for a while with the brothers. They liked to be told stories about their father and grandfather and great-grandfather. It was, he had to admit, like listening to a real person talking about old times. Eventually, Paolo turned to him.
‘What is troubling you, little fish? It can’t be the harvest. With Mr. Mephisto’s help, there will be some hard work but no more than any other year.’
‘How does Mephisto function?’ he asked.
Both brothers laughed. ‘We are farmers, not engineers, little fish.’
‘You can read the manual that came with Mr. Mephisto; it is only ten volumes,’ Paolo added.
The machine turned to face him.
‘I can answer your questions on my design and construction,’ Mr. Mephisto offered.
He couldn't help but feel bleak inside, the hope and energy that he had drawn from the books in the Doctor's library draining away in the face of the cold metal reality standing before him. He thought of Alia and the hope that he had built since living here, finding the loss of both her and his hope for this world dark beyond belief. Somehow, asking the question was too much—a betrayal of that hope. He understood the Church’s unease concerning such machines all too well and wondered if the Church was aware of the real problems posed by such a device. The machine's demonic name hinted that the builders were aware. So, he asked the question.
‘Are you a Heisenberg machine?’
‘No,’ Mr. Mephisto replied. ‘The heat engine that provides my energy is powered by isotopic decay. My intellect is formed from the microflora of my central processor. Both remain part of the natural and unmodified quantum states that apply to all things, and I remain entirely free of any Heisenberg paradoxes. I consider myself to be a device that is mostly Newtonian.’
The brothers agreed that perhaps it was too much too soon as they helped him back to the house, impressed by his passion, but embarrassed that a man should cry after so little wine had been drunk.
To be continued…
The source for this extended piece of nonsense is some research I did into alternatives to silicon architectures for computation. Organic systems are well suited to data storage, DNA in any form has a potentially vast data storage capacity far exceeding the number of particles in the universe. This is a current field of study, as is synthetic biology, the adaptation of molecular chemistry to create complex structures that do what we ask. Cellulose is being studied as a candidate for bio-computation providing robust structures to allow the growth of complex organic signalling channels.
Of course the architecture of a biological computer, be that fauna or flora derived, depends on massive parallelism to capture the speed of silicon without the huge quantity of energy that silicon uses. This surprises no one, it’s the architecture supporting our minds.
The only inventive step is assuming that an advanced, if somewhat eccentric civilisation, would seek to create all this computational excellence based on flowers and cellulose. The motivation for this obscure direction is that, given cellulose, plants and flowers, you could create a sophisticated system from initial energy capture via photosynthesis all the way to displays.
It is a beautifully elegant solution
London. 26/12/2024
Brought to you by GB, General Biotechnopoly, LLD.