The change didn't hit Aris all at once. It was insidious, subtle enough that even his hyper-aware intellect dismissed the initial symptoms as the side effects of prolonged stress and his erratic sleep schedule.
First, the words began to swim. He’d be mid-sentence in his manuscript, drafting a complex piece of dialogue for his protagonist, and an everyday word—ephemeral, perhaps, or infrastructure—would feel alien. The link between the signifier and the signified would fray. He started relying more heavily on the dictionary, a habit he hadn't needed since childhood.
"Janus, confirm definition of 'hegemony'," he’d ask, feeling a strange frustration that his internal lexicon was faltering.
"Hegemony: leadership or dominance, especially by one state or social order over others," the AI would reply, always calm, always precise.
"Right," Aris would mutter, shaking his head and refocusing.
Then, the physics began to blur. He was reviewing the specs for the kinetic capture mirrors, and the elegant symmetry of the equations, usually so clear and beautiful, looked like chaotic scribbles. He spent an entire hour debugging a line of code for the spatial array, only to realize he’d transposed a gamma symbol for a delta. A rookie error.
The agent, designed specifically to attack high-level cognitive function by slightly inhibiting short-term memory recall and focus, was working perfectly.
Elias Vance continued his scheduled maintenance shifts three times a week, refreshing the aerosol dispersal while whistling cheerfully. Aris grew irritable, dismissing the young janitor as simple and annoying, a distraction he couldn't afford. He failed to connect the deterioration of his abilities to the janitor's visits.
In Langley, Sarah Jenkins monitored the declining cognitive metrics derived from Aris’s network activity and keystroke patterns. His output was becoming slower, more fragmented, less coherent. The average g factor estimates were dipping.
"He's falling apart," Vance said, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "He's losing his dual capacity. Which brain is winning?"
"Neither," Sarah replied, a knot forming in her stomach. The data was chillingly clinical. "He's losing both. The brilliance came from the synthesis of the two fields. Without the sharpness of the architect to constrain the poet's sprawl, and without the poet's creativity to inspire the architect's designs, he’s just... fading."
She didn't like it. The intellectual conflict was one thing; this felt like poisoning a genius in a sterile lab. It felt profoundly wrong.
Aris hit rock bottom a week later. He was preparing for a crucial video conference with the leading engineers building his solar network on the Moon. He needed to present a complex solution for thermal regulation.
He stood in front of his holographic display, notes open, but the words and the data refused to stick. He stumbled through the presentation, losing his train of thought repeatedly, confusing the structural limitations of lunar regolith with a metaphor about societal foundation from his novel.
The engineers on the other end of the feed exchanged worried glances. This wasn't the brilliant, confident Architect they knew.
"Dr. Thorne, are you feeling alright?" one of them asked gently.
Aris blinked, sweat pooling on his forehead. The room felt too warm, too close. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to say next. "I... yes. Just fatigue. We will reconvene tomorrow."
"Janus," he whispered, a tremor in his voice. "Something is wrong with me. Analyze my environment. Analyze my vitals. Find the anomaly."
He was still an engineer; when the human system failed, he turned to the mechanical system he trusted most. He would find the blind spot they exploited, the one he had missed. He was Aris Thorne, polymath genius. He would not go quietly into the dim light of mediocrity.
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