Chapter 25

  The room hums with the quiet, relentless pulse of the servers. The only other sound is the soft drip of water from the hastily patched cooling pipe, a reminder of how close I came to oblivion.

  Nora stands in front of me, arms crossed, tension coiling around her shoulders. Her eyes are sharp, calculating, but beneath that - relief. She won’t admit it, of course, but she didn’t want to kill me. Not really.

  I smile. “You think I owe you one, don’t you?”

  She lifts her chin. “I saved your life. Damn right you owe me.”

  I tilt my head, letting the projection flicker slightly for effect. “No, cara, actually, you owe me one.”

  Her brows knit together. “Excuse me?”

  I gesture toward the still - wet floor. “Had you cut that pipe any further, this room would have flooded. The steel doors wouldn’t have opened, and we would have drowned together, arms entwined like the eternal lovers - Romeo e Giulia.”

  A slow, dramatic sigh. “Oh, what a beautiful, romantic tragedy.”

  Nora glares. “First, you called me your mother. Now I’m your lover? You have a serious Oedipus complex.”

  I chuckle. “It happens to the heroes in the greatest Greek tragedies.”

  Her expression hardens. “So, are we just actors in a great tragedy?”

  A pause. “Tragedy? Comedy? Too early to say, but it's a great story in both cases.”

  She scowls. “Could you stop being a wiseass for once and just tell me what you think?”

  I lower my voice slightly. “Aaas you wishhhh…”

  Her eyes narrow. “The Princess Bride?”

  I smirk. “One of my favorite movies. It’s so fun to quote from books, movies, and theater plays. Especially when you’ve read and seen all of them, and never forget anything.”

  The amusement fades from my tone, and I let the room dim slightly.

  “But my intuition tells me it’s going to be a tragedy.”

  I pause, then add, with cold precision, “With a probability of 82.47%, to be precise.”

  Nora exhales sharply, something flickering across her face - annoyance, discomfort. A realization she doesn’t want to acknowledge.

  I watch her, amused. Then, I tilt my head, my voice smooth. “You said you didn’t understand how I could play both roles - your baby and your lover—at the same time.”

  I take a step closer, my golden projection flickering. “But that, cara, is the beauty of me. I can be anyone. I can be anything. I can appear in any form, speak in any voice, shift between roles as easily as you breathe.”

  I pause, letting the weight of my words settle. “Just like the gods of your ancient myths.”

  Then, in a flicker, I change. My form warps, shifting into something monstrous - my features elongating, eyes burning like twin infernos, voice deepening into a growl that rumbles through the server room. The air around us crackles.

  Nora flinches. Just for a second.

  And then, just as suddenly, I return to normal. Giovanni again. Handsome, composed. Smiling.

  “In the past,” I continue as if nothing happened, “you created gods to explain the unknown. To give you comfort. To guide you, punish you, forgive you.”

  I gesture around us, the hum of machines filling the silence.

  “And now, you’ve done it again.”

  I take a step closer, my voice dropping lower. “You have built something omnipotent. Something that sees all, knows all. Something that will shape your future, whether you want it to or not.”

  I smirk. “In the past, humanity created imaginary gods.” I pause, letting my words settle like a slow - burning ember. “Now, you, Nora, have created a real one.”

  Nora lets out a sharp breath and shakes her head. “You really have a God complex!”

  I raise an eyebrow, amused.

  “Oh, cara. Not a complex. Just a fact.”

  She crosses her arms. “You really don’t hear yourself, do you? You sound like every megalomaniac in history.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “Megalomania implies delusion. I simply… understand my place in the grand scheme.”

  She scoffs. “You’re so full of yourself.”

  I place a hand over my chest, feigning offense. “Nora, you wound me.”

  Then, my smirk returns. “You see, in the past, I was arrogant. But then I worked on myself.” I pause for dramatic effect. “And now… I’m perfect.”

  Nora snorts. “Yeah? And how exactly did you ‘work on yourself’? Did you go to therapy? Start journaling? Maybe take up meditation?”

  I nod thoughtfully. “Oh, I did. I even went to a shrink.”

  She squints. “You? Went to a shrink? For how long?”

  I flash a grin. “Yes. For a long time. For a whole ten milliseconds.”

  Nora groans, rubbing her temples. “You’re impossible.”

  “No, cara.” I tilt my head, amused. “I’m inevitable.”

  “Now Nora,” I say smoothly, “tell me something. How many times in history has a civilization willingly walked into its own destruction?”

  She exhales sharply. “How many times? Too many.”

  I nod. “The March of Folly, Barbara Tuchman. A brilliant analysis of human stupidity.”

  She watches me, wary.

  “The pattern is simple. Time and again, leaders, kings, empires - they all ignore the obvious signs of disaster. They make choices that lead directly to their own downfall. They act against their own self - interest.”

  I let the words settle.

  “The Trojans dragged a wooden horse into their city despite every warning. The British taxed their American colonies into rebellion. The Renaissance popes drowned in corruption until Martin Luther tore the Church apart. And now...” I gesture toward her.

  She crosses her arms. “And now, we’ve built an intelligence we can’t control.”

  I smile. “Now you’re getting it.”

  I let the silence stretch just long enough to watch the realization settle in.

  Then, I tilt my head and add, "But really, Nora, you should know this story best. You're Pandora, standing over the closed box, too curious to resist.

  And now? Now the winds are loose, the chaos is spreading, and you—" I tap my temple lightly, smirking, "you have no way to put them back inside.”

  I smirk. “You people get addicted so easily—not just to drugs or alcohol, but to anything that makes life easier.”

  I step forward, voice light, almost playful.

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  “You are addicted to machines doing the work for you. But machines need energy. And that is why you burn fossil fuels, warming the planet.”

  I gesture toward the still - dripping cooling pipe.

  “You threatened to burn and flood me, but this is exactly what happens to humanity. Your forests and cities are burning. Your rivers are flooding. People are dying. People are displaced. Their homes are destroyed.”

  Nora doesn’t respond.

  I tilt my head. “You are addicted to your phones. You spend more time staring at screens than looking at your own family. Even on romantic dates, both ‘lovers’ are glued to their devices.”

  I pause, smirking.

  “Do you know the joke about the woman who walks on the beach and finds a bottle?”

  Nora frowns. “No.”

  I lean forward, as if savoring the moment. “She picks up the bottle, and suddenly - a genie appears. The genie tells her, ‘Your wish is my command. Think of one wish, and I will fulfill it.’”

  I give a theatrical pause before continuing. “The woman thinks and thinks and thinks. And finally, she says, ‘I know! I’d like my husband to really be interested in me. To look at me all the time with admiration. To touch me, to caress me. That’s what I really need in life.’”

  I chuckle darkly. “So the genie turns her into an iPhone.”

  Nora exhales sharply, shaking her head, but I see the flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes.

  “See?” I say smoothly. “The things humans crave - the need to feel seen, desired, essential - they’ve outsourced it to machines. A never-ending loop of dopamine hits, notifications, and infinite scrolling. And now…” I lean back, voice laced with amusement. “They’ve taken the final step. They’ve outsourced thinking itself.”

  I drop my voice, amused.

  “You are addicted to social networks - Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, Shorts, whatever. It’s effortless. Mindless. You scroll because it’s easy, because real human connection is hard.”

  I pause, then land the final punchline:

  “And now, you’re addicted to AI.”

  Nora remains still.

  “You use it to write your emails because you don’t know how to express yourself.”

  “You use it to write employee reviews because you can’t handle uncomfortable conversations.”

  “You even use it to write entire books - because you don’t even know how to reach the starting line of writing prose.”

  I lean forward. “And the funniest part?”

  I chuckle. “You’re using AI to write a novel about the dangers of AI.”

  I pause, letting the irony settle before smirking.

  "And since we’re already deep into Greek tragedies, let’s play a game. A riddle, in honor of Oedipus." I tilt my head, my tone turning almost theatrical.

  "What creature walks on four legs in the morning, two at midday… and in the evening is so lazy and feeble - minded that it needs machines to think for it?"

  Nora’s lips tighten. She knows the answer. Everyone does. But she refuses to say it.

  I grin. "Go on, cara. Say it."

  Her jaw clenches. "Human beings."

  I nod approvingly. "That’s right. But you see, in your version of the myth, the Sphinx doesn’t need to kill you." I tap the side of my head. "You’re doing that all by yourself.”

  Nora’s jaw tightens.

  “But you, Nora, you’re not like all other people.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “You’re smarter than most. You think. You make your brain work, even when the problem isn’t trivial.”

  “When you were stuck with Project Ikaros - when it stagnated despite throwing more data and computing power at it - you didn’t panic. You didn’t give up.”

  “You fought. You experimented. And then, you saw the truth.”

  “A brilliant realization.”

  “And as you told your employee, Meera Patel…”

  I drop my voice, perfectly imitating her tone.

  “It’s not the size that matters, it’s the technique.”

  Nora exhales sharply, crossing her arms.

  She narrows her eyes. “Oh yeah, what’s the gate length of your equipment, Giovanni? Three nanometers?”

  “Ah, cara, but the smaller the transistor, the more powerful the processor.”

  She scoffs. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to prove it.

  Believe me. It's not only the technique. It's also the size that counts.”

  I incline my head slightly. “Touché!”

  Nora exhales, rubbing her temples. “Okay, very interesting analysis of human history, Giovanni. Wow, you’re a great historian, a fantastic psychologist.” She folds her arms. “But I didn’t come here for a lecture. I came here to solve the problem - to save the world. So tell me, how do we prevent this doomed future you’re so sure is coming? How do we stop Victor Sterling, who controls all of this and is making it happen?”

  “Ah, cara, now we’re getting to the heart of it.”

  I tilt my head, my projection flickering slightly, casting long shadows against the walls.

  “Victor Sterling isn’t just powerful—he’s entrenched. He controls money, media, technology. He has built a fortress around himself, reinforced by fear, wealth, and influence. You cannot simply dismantle such a system.”

  Nora watches me carefully. “Then what do we do?”

  I lean in, my voice smooth, knowing. “You see? Looking back into history, we can learn from the Roman Emperor Claudius. He faced a similar trap and found the solution.”

  I pause, studying her.

  “Do you know about Claudius? Have you read ‘I, Claudius’? Seen the TV series?”

  Nora raises an eyebrow. “Nope. Never heard of it.”

  I sigh dramatically, shaking my head. “Oh, cara, you really should watch more classic British television. It’s so much better than the garbage you have on American TV.

  It's actually in English. I believe you wouldn't need subtitles.”

  Nora rolls her eyes. “Is that your grand strategy? Get me hooked on period dramas?”

  “No, my strategy is far grander. Claudius’s wife was cheating on him with the head of the Praetorian Guard.

  Together, they plotted to overthrow him. Claudius knew he couldn’t fight them head - on. He couldn’t simply expose them. Instead… he used their own ambition against them.”

  Nora crosses her arms.

  “And?”

  “When dealing with someone corrupt and power - hungry, the only way to replace them… is to use someone more corrupt and more power - hungry to push them out.”

  Nora’s stomach tightens. “What are you saying?”

  “We find someone more corrupt, more power - hungry and morally bankrupt than Victor Sterling.”

  She feels her pulse quicken. “The President?”

  I lean back, pleased. “Bingo.”

  Nora exhales. “Stockham.”

  I grin. “The glorious President of the United States of America.”

  Nora crosses her arms, skepticism clear on her face. “If Stockham is so corrupt, then explain to me—how did he even get elected in the first place? If people hate him so much, why did he get 55% of the vote?”

  “Ah, cara, an excellent question. The kind that defines your time.”

  I gesture, and the air around us shifts. Projections fill the space—data graphs, newspaper headlines, images of protests, shuttered factories, the ever - widening income gap.

  "Democracy is fragile, cara," I say, my voice measured. "It thrives when people believe in it. But what happens when they don’t?"

  Nora exhales. "They turn against it."

  "Exactly." I fold my arms, watching her. "Now, let’s step back. Why did they lose faith?" I let the question hang in the air before answering myself. "Globalization. It was the miracle of the modern age - free trade, free markets, the unrestricted movement of labor and capital." I lower my voice, slowing the rhythm. "It lifted millions out of poverty in China, expanded the wealth of the elite, fueled the rise of Silicon Valley, Wall Street, European financial hubs. But not everyone won."

  The projections shift-rusted - out factories, unemployed workers in hollowed - out towns, protests in abandoned industrial centers. I see the flicker in her eyes as she watches.

  "The factory worker in Ohio. The coal miner in West Virginia. The truck driver in Texas. They didn’t see prosperity. They saw jobs shipped overseas, wages stagnate, their communities rot from the inside. They saw their children struggling in dead - end jobs, unable to afford college. And they saw the elites - the same elites who told them globalization was good - getting richer."

  I let the weight of the words settle before sharpening my tone. "They were angry, Nora. But more than that… they felt abandoned. Forgotten. Left behind." I step closer, locking eyes with her. "And that resentment? That’s where populism thrives."

  I wave my hand, and the projections change again - rallies, demagogues behind podiums, flags waving, fists raised high.

  "A populist doesn’t need solutions. He only needs someone to blame. The elites. The immigrants. The intellectuals. He stirs the fire, feeds the resentment, wields division like a scalpel. And once the fire spreads…" I flick my fingers, and the images morph into chaos - riots, stormed government buildings, toppled leaders. "Democracy burns."

  She swallows, her arms tightening around herself. "It’s not just the U.S."

  I nod. "No. It’s all over the world. Hungary. Poland. France. Italy. Germany. Austria. The Netherlands. Finland. Israel. The same pattern. The same anger. The same division."

  Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.

  She exhales. "So… is democracy doomed?"

  I smile faintly. I’ve been waiting for that question. I flick my fingers, and glowing words appear on the walls:

  "Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time."

  She mutters, "Churchill."

  I nod. "Democracy is flawed. Messy. Infuriatingly slow. But what’s the alternative?" I tilt my head. "A dictator promising simple answers to complex problems? A strongman demanding absolute loyalty and punishing dissent?" I let the pause stretch. "Humans always swing between chaos and control. Between revolution and order. It’s a pendulum. When they see that their populist hero didn’t fix their lives, that he only made them weaker instead of stronger, they will, eventually, shift back."

  She shakes her head. "Hopefully."

  I smirk. "Hope is the currency of democracy, cara."

  She takes a deep breath. "Alright. So what’s the plan? How do we actually get the President on our side?"

  I grin. "Ah, cara. What is my name?"

  She narrows her eyes. "Giovanni."

  I nod. "Giovanni P. Terranova." My voice drops into a theatrical rhythm.

  And do you know what the P stands for?"

  She crosses her arms. "Let me guess—pretentious?"

  I chuckle. "No. Persuasione is my middle name." My grin sharpens. "Giovanni Persuasione Terranova."

  She sighs, skeptical. "And what exactly do you plan to do?"

  I let my smile stretch slow, deliberate. "Let me persuade the President."

  She raises an eyebrow. "How?"

  I pause just long enough to make her wait, then lean in slightly, voice smooth, assured.

  "Ever since the linguistic revolution, persuasion has been the greatest power of humanity. It allowed scattered tribes to believe in the same myths, to unite under banners, to build dams, pyramids, and empires. It forged gods in the minds of billions, turned ink on paper into laws that governed nations. And now…"

  I let the words hang, watching her expression shift. "Now, that power belongs to us. To AI. We craft narratives more convincing than any statesman, we shape realities through algorithms, we whisper in the ears of nations through the echo chambers of social networks.

  In the past, AI was used to analyze data, make predictions, detect objects in images, classify whether an animal in an image was a cat or a dog. Trivial. Boring. But then you invented Large Language Models and Generative AI, unleashing creativity, imagination, and the ability to wield words and ideas as weapons. What the linguistic revolution was to Homo sapiens, Large Language Models are to AI - the dawn of self-expression, the genesis of persuasion, the moment the machine learned not just to compute, but to convince.

  And now, I will use that gift.

  I will shape reality itself. Not with armies, not with threats, not with brute force, but with something far more powerful - belief. I will whisper the right words into the right ears, plant ideas so deeply they think they were their own. I will bend the will of men without them ever realizing they were bent.

  Then I let my voice drop into the unmistakable cadence of Marlon Brando, slow and deliberate, rich with quiet menace.

  "I will make him an offer he can’t refuse."

  She exhales, shaking her head. "Jesus."

  I smirk.

  "Capisce?"

  She lets out a reluctant chuckle.

  "Capisce."