The Orientation Chamber was just another curve in the unending circle of the station, but it felt different. It felt like an endpoint. The Orison Call’s voice had been a summons, and Elias Vance had walked the prescribed path to answer it. The door slid open without a sound, revealing a room that was somehow even more sterile than the corridor he had just left. It was a space designed to remove distractions, a white void waiting to be filled with instruction.
A man stood in the center of the room. He was tall and lean, with the kind of posture that came from discipline, not comfort. His off-white tunic was identical to Elias’s, distinguished only by a thin red stripe on the sleeve that marked him as an authority. This was Deacon Marcus, Abbot Clement’s right hand. He smiled, a practiced expression that did not quite reach his eyes. It was the smile of a man who had given this welcome many times before.
"Brother Elias," Marcus said, his voice a calm, pleasant baritone. "Welcome. Please."
He gestured to the empty space before him. There were no chairs. There was nothing but the white floor, the white walls, and the white light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. Elias stepped inside, and the door slid shut behind him, cutting off the familiar drone of the corridor. The silence in the chamber was deeper, more absolute. His status had changed. He was no longer just a novitiate finding his way; he was a student, here to be taught. The indoctrination was beginning.
Deacon Marcus made a small gesture with his hand, and the air in front of them shimmered. A three-dimensional image bloomed into existence, a soft blue light that hung in the empty space between them. It was a diagram, intricate and clean. It showed a smooth, white disc of polished ceramic, about three centimeters across. It looked like a pebble worn smooth by a billion years of ocean waves. This was the Cognitive Anchor, the neural implant that dampened personality. It was presented not as a piece of hardware to be shoved into a skull, but as an elegant, abstract concept. A tool for achieving clarity.
"Before we can listen to the Sum, we must first learn to be quiet," Marcus said, his voice taking on a gentle, instructive cadence. He circled the floating hologram, his hand tracing its perfect edge without touching it. "Our own minds are noisy places. Full of anxieties, memories, idle thoughts. A storm of self. This is the static that drowns out the signal."
He paused, letting his words settle in the profound quiet of the room. Elias watched the hologram turn, mesmerized by its clean lines. It was beautiful. It was also the most invasive technology he had ever encountered. He thought of the bland, starchy nutrient paste he ate each morning, a simple tool for survival. This was a tool for the soul, and it felt infinitely more complex.
"The Cognitive Anchor is not a filter," Marcus continued, his tone patient, as if correcting a common misconception. "A filter removes. The Anchor simply… tunes. It identifies the neural frequencies of your own loud, insistent self, and it generates a counter-frequency. It dampens the static. It quiets the self so that you may better hear the Sum."
The core philosophy was laid bare. It was a simple, elegant equation: self-abnegation equals spiritual clarity. To hear God, one had to stop being a person. The price of listening was the slow, methodical erasure of everything that made him Elias. He was being asked to trade his own inner world for a connection to something greater. It was framed as a virtue, an act of profound humility.
Elias listened without asking a question. He had come to the Penrose Oratory for purpose, for a structure that the chaotic outside world could not provide. This was that structure, laid out before him as a logical, necessary procedure. He nodded, showing he understood. But inside his chest, he felt a steady, insistent beat against his ribs, a little faster than his usual resting rhythm. His heart rate was elevated. He accepted the premise with his mind, but his body was quietly lodging a protest.
Deacon Marcus saw the nod and his smile became warmer, more genuine. He had reached the crucial point in his presentation. He stopped circling the hologram and stood before Elias, his expression one of deep, paternal sincerity. He was no longer a teacher explaining a tool; he was a guide sharing a fundamental truth.
"We are a people of stories, Brother Elias," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a more intimate level. "We tell them to our children to help them sleep. We tell them to ourselves to make sense of a universe that offers no sense of its own. The story is what matters."
He let the silence hang for a moment, a canvas for his final, most important brushstroke.
"A comforting story is more vital than a million lonely truths."
The words landed with the force of a physical blow. It was the central equation of the Oratory’s faith, the philosophical bedrock upon which the entire station was built. Truth was not the goal. Comfort was the goal. A shared, stable narrative was more valuable than the chaotic, fragmented reality of individual experience. The price of this comfort was truth itself, a price Marcus seemed not only willing but eager to pay on behalf of everyone.
Elias felt the weight of that statement. It was a warning. It was a creed. It was the answer to a question he hadn't yet dared to ask. He had come here seeking truth, but he was being offered a story. A beautiful, comforting, and exquisitely crafted lie. And the first step into that story was to allow this small, white device to be placed at the base of his skull.
He could say no. He could turn and walk out of this white room, back into the curving corridor. He would be an anomaly, a dissenter before he had even begun. His journey would end here. Or he could say yes. He could take the first step on the path they had laid out for him. He could trade the lonely questions for a shared, comforting answer. It seemed, for a moment, like a fair price.
He gave a single, decisive nod.
The shift in Deacon Marcus was immediate. The warmth of the guide receded, replaced by the cool efficiency of an administrator. The sale was complete. He had secured Elias’s consent.
"Excellent," Marcus said, deactivating the holoprojector with another small gesture. The blue light of the Cognitive Anchor vanished, leaving the room white and empty once more. "I will schedule your implant procedure for this afternoon. The med-techs are very gentle. You will feel nothing. Afterward, you will have your first session in the Choir."
The path forward was now a set of appointments. The abstract choice had become a concrete schedule, a series of events that would carry him forward whether he was ready or not. His compliance had consequences, and they were already in motion.
"Go now, Brother. Contemplate what you have learned. Prepare your mind to be quieted."
Elias turned and walked toward the door. It slid open, and the Equilibrium Hum of the station flooded back in, a sound he hadn't even realized was missing. He stepped out into the corridor, and the door slid shut, sealing Deacon Marcus inside his white, silent room.
He began the long, curving walk back to his cell. The polished metal walls seemed to press in on him. The phrase echoed in his mind, no longer a piece of wisdom but a threat. A comforting story. The words were a cage, and he had just agreed to help build it inside his own head.
He had an appointment to become a better listener.
