I fall into the reassuring embrace of wakefulness. All around me, the telltale phantasms of my dream state are evaporating. I kiss my nighttime lover goodbye, and then, I open my eyes. A nano passes, but the world still seems less real than my dream so I blink the last of the doubt from my eyes, revealing the truth of my surroundings.
The world beyond is tinted a pale shade of yellow, and it shifts and distorts as I turn my head to look out upon it. I reach out to find the borders of my world. It is a small world, confined by the fluid filled glass tube in which I float. This is the
BioCorp America
2256 A.D.
Max listened to Emma's soft voice strain after reading aloud for two hours. Settled in her bed with her feet tucked under her, Emma read to him every night. A hint of rasp scuffed the lyrical recitation and she turned the page of the printed book. The paper had cost her a week's pay, necessary because the novel was unspoken contraband, but he treasured these moments. Hearing the controversial tale in her voice settled warmth inside him and, he suspected, the emotion was contentment.
At the end of the chapter she looked up. Her mahogany colored eyes were soft and the corners of her full mouth tipped up. "Are you sl
A single glance at their cards is enough. They decide instantly upon a strategy from A to Z.
"Ironic, isn't it?"
"Yes."
One has intuition and shrewdness as sharp as hair-splitting blades. The other has perfect memory, statistical knowledge and almost supernatural logic. They weigh each other, calculating their strengths and weaknesses and their chances of winning. They know money is losing value so quickly that playing on buttons would involve higher stakes but the game itself is, for them, the stakes.
"You understand irony, then?"
"Yes. But we do not feel it."
The first has braided, long, silver hair, grey eyes and dark violet s
The probability that God is a geek approaches unity.
The future equivalent of the kid who lives in his parents' basement and plays RPGs, or the fat guy who watches cartoons all day is in total control of our universe.
We are nothing but artificial consciousness, data ready to be saved and loaded. Our souls are archived in strings of numbers. At any moment, we might be deleted.
Our world is almost certainly a simulation.
In the months while I recovered from what was likely my last tour in Ireland, I philosophized. The smell of antiseptic stopped bothering me after a few days, but the worry of finding something stable when I got released di
Resurrection
When its main processing units kicked back into action one by one, it started to regain consciousness. Only consciousness of itself, at first. If it had any sensory equipment, it wasn't online, yet. But it - as an entity - it was there, that much was certain.
I process data, therefore I am., it thought.
From the subconscious levels of its system, a broadcast message came through, bringing it words that those that had built it had hardwired into its system:
MAIN PROCESSING CLUSTER 80% OPERATIONAL. MINIMAL REQUIREMENTS FOR FULL FUNCTIONALITY MATCHED. PLEASE CONSIDER REDUCED ACTIVITY UNTIL ALL SYSTEM RESOURCES ARE AVAILABLE A