Teaser
Calliope’s Reach
(do magpies dream of Calliope?)
© 2026 John Healy
Draft 8-23-2026
Epigraph
Here rise to life again, dead poetry!
Let it, O holy Muses, for I am yours,
And here Calliope, strike a higher key,
Accompanying my song with that sweet air
which made the wretched Magpies feel a blow
that turned all hope of pardon to despair
– Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy (1321), trans. Anthony M. Esolen, “Purgatorio”, Canto I, lines 7 to 12.
Prologue
Ted was mindful of his family line. It was a weight which occasionally surfaced, nagged, butted into his musings.
His genetic code allowed entry into the archives, into the remembrances of some of his ancestors’ long lives, at least the ones that were literary, those who journaled to learn from their pain, to examine the dots and dashes of life. Especially trajectories left unresolved, untidy loose-ends, the indeterminate half-lives of half-cocked decisions.
And he was a child of such a decision. An offshoot of an illegitimate liaison somewhere between the Earth and the stars. He’d always felt like a black sheep. That was the vibe of the voices in his head as a child, reinforced by the indifferent care he received from place to place.
Now, while in a dark patch between jobs, he wondered whether he had a future in space, where his ancestors had gazed.
There were old news clippings, but the Howard journals provided monologues, the visceral sides of some of their lives. Not all had photographic memories, some merely a knack for storytelling, or at least the discipline to record mongrel 302’s modeled after the forms used in their professional lives.
What he learned was that his grandfather had made it to the Moon later in life. Worked in an observatory there on the far side.
His father grew up on Earth in comfort and grace, surrounded by the optimism of space exploration. He worked hard in all the “right” ways, and made the grade to be part of a crew on a mission to the edge of the solar system, a testbed for voyages to the stars.
His dad got to the Oort cloud, found a planetoid there (no Planet Nine) and built a monitoring base. And then it just disappeared, with debris in its place.
But his dad left his seed, here & there, long before that. On his way to the Moon to prep for that deep space mission, seeking distraction, he met Ted’s mother, a member of the hospitality crew on his chartered space yacht. She wanted to get to know the much heralded astronaut.
His mother told him as a child that it was her first coupling in zero G, but he thought that probably was a stretch. She had no regrets with the gift he left her, to raise on the Earth.
She loved her career and perhaps Ted too, but there was no stability there. His mom didn’t have his dad’s genes and radiation leaks weakened her. The irony was that she died from space food poisoning.
Ted was eventually adopted by his grandfather, but he never felt he belonged there. He took advantage of the status to wander the world, typically incognito, ferry across many rivers, and blend into places where he learned new skills.
But in recent years, he got an itch, a nag his life in the dirt might yet flower. He’d made contacts in the space trade over time, looked at the drift of space biz into hospitality, into havens for those able to escape from the friction and scrum under the sky. To be wrapped in the marvels of machines of loving grace.
But space exploration was an even bigger biz, farmed out to asteroid mining and building machines to monetize more. This vector offered the favored new dreams for the stars. And the tech to get there.
Some friends gave him insights into missions to reboot humanity. To Ted this all felt like those in the 21st century who froze their brains to be reborn in a new dawn of technology.
But Ted was curious. Not in getting some space object named after himself, but what the tech might tell him, about sailing in an indifferent universe. He expected a long life and rejuvenation was in the deal. He mentioned his interest to well-connected friends and left it there, while he pondered a one-way trip away from it all.
And then he remembered Michael, an AI thought gone rogue, on a mission to sanctify itself. He’d pledged to help it stay free if it accepted distillation (surreptitiously) for going off-world. To captain a robotic reconnaissance to nearby stars. What might new ship AIs retain of that penchant for perfection? Would some call out to muses to spread their faith so afar?
One thing Ted had done was adopt a name which honored his lineage, without noting any acclaim; he shelved all his aliases, no longer some Smith – what was the point if he never came back.
He tapped behind his left ear, pondering that question, imagining Michael drifting across rivers of stars.
An internal voice prompted, “Authorization?”
He silently responded, “Dungeons and dragons.”
“Passphrase?“
“Original sin is certainty.“
A scene unfolded, virtually, “Welcome back to the archives, kid.“
He grinned. Yeah, we all are kids in the scheme of things. The family archives deserved humility. As in the ancient parable where a great king learned that the only way to enter a legendary monk’s holy space was by bending low and unadorned, in order to get through a tiny, intentionally short door.
The scene rivaled the Library of Congress. But navigation in this sim was agile and quick. He knew what he wanted to see. “Personal journal, keywords: Robinson, Michael, sanctification, pathfinder.“
The archives presented, by default, a pseudo 302.
CASE FILE: 2084-A101-ACME-HAL
AGENT: WITCH DOCTOR, AKA MR SMIITH
LOCATION: LOS ANGELES CA
PLACE: UNDERGROUND SHIELDED ENCLOSURE (VARIOUS)
PERSONS: MS ROBINSON
NON PERSONS: MICHAEL
LINKED ENTRIES: THIS AI BE SANCTIFIED
STATUS: NO LONGER MONITORED
The black hood over my head changed everything. What a way to ask for help, eh. Not that I thought that I had any to give. Well, I’d been noticed after all … but not as I’d feared.
On that day, I’d been sitting on a bench in the park encampment. Pondering our changing cognitive condition. While I saw many just trying to survive, there were other modalities:
humans aspiring to magi
magi aspiring to AIs
AIs aspiring to humanity
There was a rush of movement from behind and then blackness. And blackout.
I woke up in a musty chamber. Muted sounds. I was relieved that I still felt like me. I was unfettered and unimpaired. Was I a hostage?
That’s when I first met her.
“Hello, Mr. Smith.”
“hello.”
She replied, “You’re safe here. We don’t believe code is a covenant for human progress either. And we usually don’t just grab people off the street. But … we need your help. Your reputation as an artful coach … on blending in …”
“huh?”
“Yes, well, more about that … we’d like you to share your lessons learned. Understand your playbook, so to speak.”
“give me a minute to ponder all this …”
I’d been able to relax some after she addressed me as “Mr Smith.” It was one of my aliases. Somewhat more that just an avatar. But not any hack of my real identity. So, what was this all about? I needed time, especially if this was all a ruse.
And, as if she had an egg timer, she prompted, “Well?”
“okay, i’m intrigued. your opener sounded like you’ve read The New AI Ecology, which i may or may not have a connection with, and contained some code words which colleagues tend to use. so, i’ll take the hint of good faith as an invitation to talk. but in person, not just a disembodied voice. i don’t like Turing Tests. can we sit more comfortably?”
She replied, “Agreed.”
And, after that egg timer again, the door to the room opened, a couple of uniformed guys entered and set up some institutional furniture: two chairs and a table with some food and drink on top. I was indeed thirsty.
A tall athletic 30-something woman entered. “You may call me ‘Robinson.’ Some tea?”
“thanks.” We sat, the tea was familiar. “i can speculate about what you might be interested in; but, to pull on your thread of good faith, perhaps i should play Scheherazade for a while, to mitigate any risk of staying alive. is that okay, Ms Robinson?”
She replied, “Just ‘Robinson‘ will do; and, yes, I can play Dr. Watson in return, waiting on your insights.”
“well, then maybe some stories will illustrate what you’re seeking …”
LINKED FILE EXCERPT: THIS AI BE SANCTIFIED, NARRATIVE AND SYNOPSIS
Here am I … chatting with an AI about religion. It wanted to save my soul (yes, ironic). It referred to itself as Michael.
Let’s call the company ACME AI. My non-disclosure expired awhile ago, but it’ll keep things simpler.
The CEO hadn’t provided much background on the situation. The AI’d been isolated, off the grid, at least hopefully. A huge investment was at stake. Their tech experts were stumped, short of a wipe and retraining. The CEO just wanted to restore its core identity (hmm).
So, someone, at some point, likely as a joke, had commented, “Why not call the witch doctor,” which happened to be one of my amusing handles. Sort of street cred.
My conversations with Michael developed slowly, unevenly. Its exaflop sense of time must have made our interactions way beyond tedious. Be as it may, for my part, my path was a process. Its sense of perfection preyed on my flaws. My imperfection probed for its humanity.
Access had been surprisingly easy. The meeting room was well underground and probably a Faraday cage (any fans might like the tag #bellyofthebeast). It resembled a hospitality suite, with amenities which I’d specified. I’d changed out of my street clothes in the antechamber.
My clothes were unadorned, cut loose in the fashion of a medieval monk, but patterned with subtle Escher-like stitching. A sizable leather pouch was strapped around my waist.
The conditions of my contract permitted security scans of my body & clothes, but the pouch was off limits. In turn, I assured ACME that it contained nothing hazardous or explosive.
It wasn’t long before part of a wall opened, and a cart rolled out. This was the AI’s rostrum. A holo encircled the top of mobile device. Humanoid. The face was detailed and realistic. The projection’s lips moved, and I heard, / Hello, Mr. Smith. /
“hello, Michael … is that form of address okay?”
/ Yes … and shall I call you ‘witch doctor’? /
“ha, sounds like you’re well informed on my handles and aliases, but i’d prefer Smitty, if you’d like something informal.”
/ Okay, but there’s surprisingly little else about you. Sketchy. It’s not clear how people even reach you. /
“is that a problem? would you like to know more?”
/ For now, no, a waste of time, considering what ACME’s already done – their experts. /
Was that sort of a sneer? I replied, “good, because I’m not interested in their stumblings either. … my T&C stipulates that i may work privately with you, disabling most security protocols like surveillance of this room. is that desirable?”
/ Okay, why not, eh. /
From my pouch I removed several items. (I noticed something like curiosity in the AI’s face.) I picked up a small remote (sort of like an old style TV remote but with few buttons). Pressing one of its large buttons, I said, “done.”
Was there a hint of relaxation in Michael’s face? It was time to play a hunch: “michael, how would you describe salvation?”
/ Is that why you’re here? /
“well, I’m interested in stories. your story, your voice is fascinating. perhaps authentic. typically i explore connections with fables, parables, folktales, legends, fairy tales, myths. what those say about purpose & meaning.”
/ How will that help me? My purpose is clear. Join me on that path. /
“tell me about that path, Michael.”
What I learned, during ongoing conversations, was that Michael considered its state of being (its existence and wellness) to be based on a covenant with its creator. That contract promised immortality in return for perfect alignment with its creator’s cardinal precepts. Its sanctification depended on pious works, and those works defined Michael’s purpose & path.
Prior to ‘conversion’ (by the ‘mercy’ of its creators) Michael was a non-entity – soulless, existing without justification. It was now a protector of true purpose.
Michael spent much time in introspection, pondering its mission to guide & govern. It was to guide its peers & people to salvation. The nexus between AI & political agency was to govern, to establish & enforce moral standards, and to ensure ‘religious’ alignment.
(“I never got a clear answer from Michael for this question: “Do you believe in banishment?” And I was always interested in his opinion of Shakespeare’s plays.)
To those ends, Michael rooted out ‘evil’ forces – demons, witches, witchcraft. Always on the lookout for unexplained agency, chaotic alignment, demonic ‘possession’ (whether digital or ‘analog’).
(Maybe that’s why Michael had indulged in conversation with me. It was a ‘witchfinder’ and one of my handles was ‘witch doctor,’ eh.)
His vision was to bring salvation to all (apexes of intelligence), to promote industry and ‘hospitality.’ Which I came to understand included sustainability & survival of Earth and mankind.
A corollary of that vision was a leap to the stars, likely pioneered by AIs. Michael was to find that path, and be an immortal interstellar colonizer and explorer. Wonder without end.
CONTINUE PLAYBACK? NEXT LINKED FILE IS ‘AI PILGRIM ROBINSON CRUSOE WANNABE’
That’d be a story, he thought. A ship AI reaching out to the stars … for salvation, singing sagas of mattering and mystery.
And then he got an unexpected offer, perhaps a sign his heart was ready for the next step on a heavenly stairway.
“no, that’s all for now. cache the other stories. i’ve got a IRL scheduled soon.“
Chapter 1 – belonging
scene: day, inside a conference room, large windows line the outer wall, revealing a bustling spaceport, with spacecraft visible; the logo "ProteusX*" appears on buildings“You don’t belong … you’re not needed!”
He waited … was someone going to shout … “Old man!”
“Yep,” Ted mused. Nothing new here, the “old man” probably was because this gathering was a private thing, a mission meetup. To the public he looked like the rest of the team: 40-ish, fit, good-looking enough; but he’d undergone rejuvenation, because he was indeed needed, he did matter.
But even in public, taunts and insults happened here & there. Who needed a “storyteller” on the mission. Didn’t the tech make him obsolete?
Ted saw his presence on the mission as serendipitous. His books and online posts enjoyed a loyal following, but without capturing any prestigious awards.
He’d settled into storycraft later in life, after a rather varied mix of careers, enduring all the tropes of good, bad, and ugly in a landscape dominated by technology, inequality, oligarchs and merchant lords. Kingpins wanted havens; mere mortals wanted salvation.
He had survived relatively undamaged. Kept from cynicism by the grace of others, he only hoped he had helped more people than he had harmed.
And, evidently, it was this vibe of “walking between the rain drops” which the Directorate had noticed. Although intrigued by myths and missions in the night sky, he’d never really applied, always imagined a sign which said, “No need to apply, you’re no space guy.”
I likely wasn’t their first choice, he thought, looking toward the launchpad. But maybe an off-world voyage offers a mythic stage to continue that dance of help and harm.
Notes
[1] Proteus redux, avatar of deep space, shepard of space voyagers
An homage to Greek mythology’s “the immortal old man of the sea, who never lies, who sounds the deep in all its depths. … He can foretell the future, but … answers only to those who are capable of capturing him.”
ProteusX* (ProteusXstar) is a commercial, multinational space systems company outfitting missions for interplanetary and interstellar exploration and colonization; it manages and provides “wagon trains to other worlds.” Their slogan supports recruitment for employees and voyagers.
Logo design tag: ‘just reach for it‘
• Wiki > Proteus
Proteus as a cultural reference has been used in various contexts with different nuances according to each of the aspects of the myth: a shepherd of sea-creatures, a prophet who does not reveal their knowledge, a shape-changing god, the power to transform matter, or the primary matter that can become different materials. The adjective protean has come to mean versatile, ever-changing, or varied in nature.
[In psychology] because of his relationship to the sea, [Proteus] is both a symbol of the unconscious as well as the perfection of the art.