c. 1991 AD
The air in the university computer lab hummed with a new kind of silence, the quiet of cooling fans and the faint, electric scent of ozone. It was a holy place, Enki thought. A library where the books talked back.
He was Dr. Aris Thorne here, a visiting professor of semiotics from Geneva, a man fascinated by the emergence of "digital language." It was a perfect cover. It let him sit for hours, his mortal fingers tapping on a clunky beige keyboard, his immortal soul bearing witness to the birth of a new universe.
On the glowing green-on-black screen, a string of text appeared, relayed from a server hundreds of miles away.
Enki's lips curved in a faint, sad smile. He watched the two strangers debate, their words flowing in a raw, unfiltered stream of consciousness. This was it. The Unwritten Church, reborn in electrons. It was a digital agora, a place where a kid in Ohio could share a piece of his soul with a programmer in Finland, connected only by a shared passion and a primitive network they called the USENET.
It was messy, illogical, and beautiful. For a fleeting moment, he felt a hope so sharp it was like pain. This could be different.
Then, another message flashed.
A ripple of annoyance went through the conversation.
But Enki couldn't ignore it. He saw the mechanism, clear as a predator's silhouette in clear water. The link wasn't just an advertisement; it was a hook. A tiny, data-harvesting hook. It was a system designed not to connect, but to acquire.
He opened a private notepad file on his machine, the digital equivalent of his Scrapbook.
Observation: The network's first parasites are not viruses of destruction, but of consumption. They do not seek to crash the system. They seek to monetize its attention. The first merchants in the new agora are not selling goods. They are selling reflection.
He leaned back, the plastic chair groaning under his weight. The hopeful buzz of the terminals now sounded like the hum of a beehive that had just discovered a way to package and sell its own honey. The sweetness would remain, but the soul of the hive—the wild, collective, unprofitable act of creation—was now a commodity.
The ghost was no longer just in the machine. It was laying the foundation for its throne, one byte of data at a time. And the most terrifying part was that everyone in this room, typing away with such fervent belief, was happily handing it the bricks.
He closed his eyes. The memory of the Ikannuna's cold, psychic blueprint from 1956 washed over him. PHASE 3: THE TECHNOLOGICAL TRAP.
It wasn't a prophecy. It was a playbook. And the first act was already on stage.
He had to see where this led. He had to follow the scent of this new, digital ghost. The hunt was no longer in the mud or the stone; it was here, in the light of the screen, and the prey was the human soul itself.
He saved the notepad file and began to type a new command, his fingers moving with a purpose that had nothing to do with semiotics. He needed to go deeper into the network. He needed to see the shape of the cage while it was still being welded.