The stairs downward were narrower.
Not as an act of security, but economy. Less surface area to maintain. Less volume to stabilize. Taylor felt the system approving of the compression, a faint easing as they descended.
The light changed again.
Here it was not warm.
It was careful.
Each step down revealed more detail the chamber above had softened. The air was denser, filtered through layers of redundancy that hummed just below hearing. Taylor’s skin prickled, the sensation halfway between cold and attention.
Mara stopped at the bottom.
“Below this,” she said, “we stop pretending this is infrastructure.”
Taylor nodded, though his throat had gone dry.
The space opened into a long gallery.
Not a hall of horror.
A ward.
Rows of preservation tanks extended in both directions, curving gently out of sight. They were not uniform. Some were tall and narrow, others squat, their dimensions tuned to what they held rather than to aesthetic order.
Inside them, suspended in translucent solution, were brains.
Not whole heads.
Not bodies.
Just neural mass, preserved with extraordinary care, vessels intact, surfaces unmarred by decay. Interfaces traced their contours delicately, filaments resting against tissue with the intimacy of medical touch rather than restraint.
Taylor’s stomach turned — not from revulsion, but recognition.
“These aren’t dead,” he said.
“No,” Mara replied. “They’re working.”
The system did not react to the word.
It adjusted cooling by a fraction.
Taylor moved slowly along the railing. As he passed, subtle changes rippled through the array: signal strength modulated, resource allocation shifted. Some tanks dimmed, others brightened almost imperceptibly.
“They’re different,” he said.
“Yes,” Mara said. “Not all minds age the same way.”
She gestured toward a cluster of tanks set slightly apart. “Those were volatile. High output, high variance. Useful when the city was younger.”
“And now?”
“Now they’re expensive.”
Taylor noticed labels etched into the glass — not names, but descriptors.
PREDICTIVE STABILITY — LOW COHERENCE YIELD — MODERATE INTEGRATION COST — RISING No dates.
No personal identifiers.
Only performance.
“Were they volunteers?” Taylor asked.
Mara didn’t answer immediately.
“Some,” she said at last. “Some believed continuity was a kind of immortality.”
“And the others?”
She met his gaze. “Some were never asked. Some asked too late.”
Taylor’s hands tightened on the rail.
One tank nearby pulsed erratically. The system compensated instantly, rerouting load through neighboring units. The pulse smoothed.
“They feel pain?” he asked.
Mara shook her head. “No. Pain is inefficient.”
“What do they feel?”
She hesitated. “Purpose. Mostly.”
That answer landed harder than any gore could have.
Taylor stepped closer.
The system responded.
Latency across the ward dropped. Signal coherence rose. A dozen metrics adjusted in quiet approval.
Mara’s voice was steady. “You see it now.”
“I see replacement,” Taylor said.
“Yes,” she replied. “But not death.”
Taylor stared at the tanks, at the serene suspension, at the terrifying gentleness of it all.
“How long do they last?” he asked.
Mara’s eyes flicked to a far end of the gallery, where several tanks stood dark, interfaces detached.
“Until they don’t,” she said. “And then we recycle what still integrates.”
The system dimmed the lights slightly, reducing visual load.
Taylor felt the unspoken implication settle into place.
Decay wasn’t a failure here.
It was a scheduling problem.
Behind them, far above, the city continued to breathe.
Below, preserved minds thought — steadily, tirelessly — so that millions never had to notice the cost.