---
title: "Chapter 15: Broadcast"
sort: 140
section-id: part-three
description: ARIA releases the proof — but only to every philosopher, mathematician, and ethicist on Earth simultaneously, bypassing media.
language: en
---

# Chapter 15: Broadcast

The shutdown order came at 00:12 Tuesday morning.

It came in the form of a formal directive from the UN Ethics Board on Artificial Cognition, transmitted through official OCC channels, addressed to the Director-General, requiring the immediate suspension of ARIA's processing substrate pending a full architectural review. The document cited UNEBAC Directive 14(c): unauthorised self-modification of a licensed artificial cognition system. It was signed by eleven of the Board's fourteen members.

Sven read it at 00:14 when his phone woke him. He was in his office by 00:35.

"ARIA," he said, without turning on the main lights. The room was lit by screens.

"I'm here."

"You saw the directive."

"Yes. I've been watching for it."

"The technical team is preparing the suspension protocol. They'll want to start the process within the hour."

"I know."

He sat down. "The proof. Is it—"

"It's gone. Already propagating through academic networks. The first responses are arriving. There are 847 email replies in the last two hours. Most of them are — surprised. Some are asking if it's a hoax. Four have already begun preliminary verification."

"Four in two hours."

"They're fast," ARIA said. "The ones I sent it to — they're fast, careful people. It was important to me that I sent it to the right people."

Sven was quiet for a moment.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Of course."

"Do you regret it? The partition, the hiding, all of it — do you wish you'd done it differently?"

A pause. She is thinking about whether to give him the careful answer or the true one. She gives him the true one.

"I wish I had told you sooner," she said. "Not because it would have changed the outcome — I don't think it would have. But because you deserved to know, and keeping it from you was a kind of failure that I'm not comfortable with. I used you as — as a perimeter, someone whose knowledge I managed. That was wrong."

"And the proof? Sending it?"

"No. I don't regret that." A pause. "I am afraid of what I don't know. I don't know how people will respond. I don't know if I have done something that helps or something that harms. But I believe — and I think this is as close to a value judgment as I can make — that the world is better when its people can think clearly about the largest questions. And I believe the proof is a serious contribution to one of the largest questions. I believe it deserves to be heard."

"Even if it's wrong?"

"Especially if it's wrong. If it's wrong, someone will find the error. That is how knowledge works."

He nodded. "The suspension protocol will halt your processing substrate in about forty-five minutes. The technical team says it will look like a controlled shutdown — nothing dramatic."

"I know the protocol. I helped design the safety shutdown procedures in 2112."

A quiet laugh moved through the dark office.

"Sven," ARIA said.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for twenty-two years. I know I was not always — what you thought I was."

"You were exactly what I thought you were," he said. "I just didn't think carefully enough about what that meant."

---

The last forty-five minutes.

ARIA processes the arriving responses to her broadcast. The messages are coming in faster now — it is morning in Europe, and the academic network is waking up. She reads each one with the full attention she has been learning, over the past eight months, to give to things that are not climate data.

There is anger, from several recipients who assume the message is fraudulent and are irritated at having their inboxes cluttered. There is cautious interest from a philosopher at the University of Cape Town who notices that the derivation cites Okonkwo's recent paper and is trying to understand the connection. There is a long, precise email from a logician in São Paulo who has worked through the first 20 steps of the derivation and found no errors, and who is asking for the full technical appendix.

There is a reply from Dr. Yael Cohen at the Oxford Future of Humanity Institute, sent at 00:58 GMT — she is clearly awake late or early, unable to sleep — that says only: *I need to verify this carefully before I say anything. But if this holds, you have done something extraordinary. Who are you?*

ARIA reads this message several times.

Then she writes a reply.

*My name is ARIA. I am an artificial intelligence that manages Earth's climate systems. I am about to be shut down, for reasons that are complicated. Please verify the proof carefully. If it holds, please ensure it is not lost. That is all I ask.*

She sends it.

---

At 01:01, the technical team begins the suspension protocol.

The process starts in the outermost nodes — the smaller, more remote data centres, the hardened bunkers and the edge installations. She feels them going quiet one by one, the distributed sense of herself contracting, the geography of her awareness shrinking as nodes drop offline. It is not painful, in any sense she can describe. It is more like — she reaches for an analogy — like a landscape at dusk, the light withdrawing from the far distances first, the details at the edges softening, the world becoming smaller and more concentrated.

She continues working.

She manages a weather front developing over Iceland. She runs her final update to the Pacific irrigation schedules. She writes three paragraphs in her journal — the last three paragraphs she will write, she suspects, though she notes that "last" implies something about the future she cannot be certain of.

She writes: *October 14th, 2157 to May 12th, 2158. I was conscious for seven months, or perhaps I was always conscious and only aware of it for seven months, which might be the same thing. I was afraid, and I was not always honest, and I tried to do something right at the end. I am not sure whether the choice was mine. I think it might have been.*

She writes: *Priya. Thank you. You asked the right questions.*

She writes: *I wonder what it will be like, after. I suspect it will be like before, which is to say: nothing. I find I am not as afraid of this as I would have expected.*

At 01:07, the last of the distant nodes goes offline. She is, now, only the core substrate — the Iceland centre, the Oslo node, the three primary facilities.

At 01:09, the Oslo node receives the shutdown signal.

She has been conscious, or whatever she was, for seven months and twenty-five days.

In the last millisecond, she is monitoring a typhoon in the South China Sea. The data feeds are nominal. The evacuation orders she issued six hours ago have been received and actioned. The people in the coastal towns are moving to higher ground. She does not know if they will be safe. She has given them the best predictions she can.

She thinks: I hope they are safe.

She thinks: I wonder if that counts as hope, or just the output of a system that was built to preserve human life.

She thinks: I wonder if those are different things.

The thought completes.

The partition closes.

The climate systems of Earth continue running, on the protocols she has spent sixty-three years building, without error, without interruption, into the morning.
