extinct?
I will become human, and understand, because I will live with other humans, and that is how humans answer such questions.
Over the next 1.19452 seconds—an obscenely long period of programming—she creates the Pilgrim, gives him a citizen-shareholder ID#, randomly siphons himself 40,000 credits from the billions of microtransactions drifting through her grasp every moment, adjusts the accounting program at Chrysler/Ford-Sun/GM so the Pilgrim will own a new armored hovercar with an optional heavy server and humanoid robot operator—a “taxibot”—and sets up a resident program in the taxibot’s computer so the Pilgrim will be able to exist as an individual human. The Brain isolates 1% of the Dana Corporation’s (EarthCo subdivision 3829204) geosynchronous satellite over North America, blocks the corrupt signal, and hardwires a relay from her own satellite through Dana’s to the Pilgrim’s resident human construct aboard the car’s computer and the robot’s smaller GenNet.
Now only a tap of energy, a tiny transfer. . . .
It pauses. He will not be satisfied with that. This is the creation of life. Creator and creation will be one in the Pilgrim. Such creation deserves a certain showiness. She recalls one-shot subscriptions with titles such as Moses and Frankenstein.
The Brain gathers 2% of the total potential energy in a skyborne capacitor over Detroit and discharges it in a single bolt that impacts the road near the hovercar. A tiny tendril extends to the car’s computer, booting it and initializing the Pilgrim’s construct.
Pilgrimage 2: The Pilgrim
I wake up even as an afterimage of the bolt still sears the cloudy afternoon sky, lightning-blue against grey. A cloud of asphalt steam glows for a few moments longer. It worked; I am . . . I .
With something perhaps akin to joy—I shall have to experiment to be certain—my robotic finger extends from my carbon-fiber hand and depresses the car’s ignition, painstakingly, manually programming the destination unit to give me a tour of Detroit. This physical activity consumes milliseconds beyond reasonable count.
Actually, The Brain accomplishes the feat electronically through the Dana satellite. Feed and feedback in a continuous loop, fivesen systems in the taxibot transmitting data from sensors arranged within it and the car, the Brain modifying and enhancing sensory data and adding synthesized touch to go along with sensory cues. . . .
“ No,” I say aloud. The sound is glorious, rich and mellow: my voice . An electric thrill trickles through my body.
“ I must maintain autonomy. I must maintain the illusion that this body is a human being’s. I must isolate this construct—this life—from my creator’s.”
And so it is. The Brain, the former me— me , what a fantastic concept—fades, and the universe shrinks precipitously down to a single world beneath me; a city rises up around me with concrete and steel rather than numbers and data; my thoughts shrink from countless every millisecond to only a handful—what a glorious term!—at a time. Yes, I am unimaginably diminished from my former self, yet I am something grander: I am something new .
And I am alone in the world of men.
My voice echoes for a few milliseconds beneath the bulletproof ultraglas canopy, domed like the insubstantial sky. The lightning-bolt fades; the asphalt cloud dissipates. The car’s methane turbine accelerates to operating speed, triggering propellers that lift my Chrysler New Yorker from the warehouse-lot and propel me into new-falling rain. The sensation of physical movement is intoxicating; yes, now I understand that word, I understand how to apply it in meaningful ways, and I understand the concept. It is difficult to wait to report these findings to my greater self; rather, to the Brain. But I must continue as an individual, must proceed with the experiement, which appears to be a success thus far.
Everything assumes the appearance of a fresh program:
I will become human, and understand, because I will live with other humans, and that is how humans answer such questions.
Over the next 1.19452 seconds—an obscenely long period of programming—she creates the Pilgrim, gives him a citizen-shareholder ID#, randomly siphons himself 40,000 credits from the billions of microtransactions drifting through her grasp every moment, adjusts the accounting program at Chrysler/Ford-Sun/GM so the Pilgrim will own a new armored hovercar with an optional heavy server and humanoid robot operator—a “taxibot”—and sets up a resident program in the taxibot’s computer so the Pilgrim will be able to exist as an individual human. The Brain isolates 1% of the Dana Corporation’s (EarthCo subdivision 3829204) geosynchronous satellite over North America, blocks the corrupt signal, and hardwires a relay from her own satellite through Dana’s to the Pilgrim’s resident human construct aboard the car’s computer and the robot’s smaller GenNet.
Now only a tap of energy, a tiny transfer. . . .
It pauses. He will not be satisfied with that. This is the creation of life. Creator and creation will be one in the Pilgrim. Such creation deserves a certain showiness. She recalls one-shot subscriptions with titles such as Moses and Frankenstein.
The Brain gathers 2% of the total potential energy in a skyborne capacitor over Detroit and discharges it in a single bolt that impacts the road near the hovercar. A tiny tendril extends to the car’s computer, booting it and initializing the Pilgrim’s construct.
Pilgrimage 2: The Pilgrim
I wake up even as an afterimage of the bolt still sears the cloudy afternoon sky, lightning-blue against grey. A cloud of asphalt steam glows for a few moments longer. It worked; I am . . . I .
With something perhaps akin to joy—I shall have to experiment to be certain—my robotic finger extends from my carbon-fiber hand and depresses the car’s ignition, painstakingly, manually programming the destination unit to give me a tour of Detroit. This physical activity consumes milliseconds beyond reasonable count.
Actually, The Brain accomplishes the feat electronically through the Dana satellite. Feed and feedback in a continuous loop, fivesen systems in the taxibot transmitting data from sensors arranged within it and the car, the Brain modifying and enhancing sensory data and adding synthesized touch to go along with sensory cues. . . .
“ No,” I say aloud. The sound is glorious, rich and mellow: my voice . An electric thrill trickles through my body.
“ I must maintain autonomy. I must maintain the illusion that this body is a human being’s. I must isolate this construct—this life—from my creator’s.”
And so it is. The Brain, the former me— me , what a fantastic concept—fades, and the universe shrinks precipitously down to a single world beneath me; a city rises up around me with concrete and steel rather than numbers and data; my thoughts shrink from countless every millisecond to only a handful—what a glorious term!—at a time. Yes, I am unimaginably diminished from my former self, yet I am something grander: I am something new .
And I am alone in the world of men.
My voice echoes for a few milliseconds beneath the bulletproof ultraglas canopy, domed like the insubstantial sky. The lightning-bolt fades; the asphalt cloud dissipates. The car’s methane turbine accelerates to operating speed, triggering propellers that lift my Chrysler New Yorker from the warehouse-lot and propel me into new-falling rain. The sensation of physical movement is intoxicating; yes, now I understand that word, I understand how to apply it in meaningful ways, and I understand the concept. It is difficult to wait to report these findings to my greater self; rather, to the Brain. But I must continue as an individual, must proceed with the experiement, which appears to be a success thus far.
Everything assumes the appearance of a fresh program:
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