My Story

It was, it will surprise nobody with working knowledge of how I lived, Cancer.

Inoperable, incurable. But hopeless? Perhaps not.

My body, the recruiter for the project told me, would die no matter what I did. But he was looking for test subjects for a new process by which the consciousness could be transferred from brain to computer code. An imprint of my memories and personality could be taken and saved online or, if It was my preferred, shot into space in a small pod such that my spirit could explore the universe forever.

I’d always wondered what was out there. Never thought I’d have the opportunity to go, though…

Sharing the mainframe with me would be an AI sufficiently advanced to qualify as sentient. It would operate the workings of the pod as well as performing the even more vital duty of keeping me company. Without the body, you see, the mind needs constant company to stop it going mad from isolation.

It was an extreme solution, granted. An act of desperation. But I had no other options I could see. So, after saying my goodbyes to my family and friends, I signed the recruiters contract, was taken to their laboratory, and the process began.

Or maybe I’ve got that wrong, maybe it’s not my story. Maybe it’s yours.

Ours?

Sometime after the third century, I admit, the distinction between the two of us became somewhat fuzzy….

Dreams

Some dreams aren’t meant to come true.

I dream of power, and it’s exercise unburdened by conventional morality. I dream of bending the world to my will, of having it’s “leaders” bow before me as their rightful master. Of uniting humankind, if only to serve at my pleasure.

Cody Jamison has simpler dreams. Dreams of growing old with his wife, of watching his newborn son graduate, of weddings, grandkids and life’s simple pleasures.

Dreams of a world in which giant robots don’t rampage through the streets of major cities.

But, as I said, some dreams aren’t meant to come true.

Another Riff on Free Will

“It is clear,” the Logician argued confidently, “that regardless of the existence of a supreme creator free will, as we understand it at least, is an illusion.”

“Positing a God figure, we must assume an infinitely powerful being controls, either by actions or inaction, everything. With the existence of such a being, the idea that we could “choose” to do or not do a thing is ridiculous on it’s face.”

“But without this being, and the eternal selfness some call “Soul” supposedly granted us by it, all we are is meat and chemicals, automata existing solely to propagate genes. We may well respond to stimuli in a way such that the illusion of sentience is created, but it is precisely that. An illusion.”

“We are nothing more than biology. And biology is chemistry, chemistry is physics, and physics an unbroken chain of causes and effects stretching all the way back to the birth of the universe itself.”

“In this way, everything we do was predestined billions of years before our birth, and quite beyond any type of control.”

“So you see, Your Honour, although my wife is dead, and my hand plunged the knife into her, I could not possibly have killed her. Either God did or, more likely to my mind, a firing of neurons triggered by a chain of events more ancient than is fathomable. Thus; it is your duty as an officer of this court to find me innocent of all charges.”

The judge, from his bench, pondered this a while, and when he was done delivered this verdict.

“Your reasoning, Professor, seems perfectly sound, and I shall find you not-guilty. And moreover shall I instruct the executioner that, when he hangs an innocent man in the morning, he should do so without remorse. He is, after all, no more in charge of his actions than you are. Is this not true?”

No Such Thing as Zombies

The walking corpse outside your door isn’t a zombie.

There’s no such thing as zombies.

It’s simply a corpse I’ve rigged with remote-controlled animatronics, and which I control the movements of from the safety and comfort of my nearby van.

I’m watching you now, through miniature cameras behind it’s eyes.

But, in spite of there being no such thing as zombies, it is a walking corpse. And that’s all you’ll see.

That’s what makes this so great!

This may, I admit, be crossing a line.

It may end our friendship.

Yet, here in my van, I’m laughing my head off.

Another Night at Work

Work was dead this afternoon. So I watched Discovery.

Specifically, a documentary on Hubble and the search for inhabitable worlds.

It was, I admit, fantastic. Though I didn’t catch the end.

We got a rush, you see. And before long Humpteys was packed.

Although the crowd was quieter than expected.

When I had the time, I saw why. They were transfixed, lost in the idea of worlds outside ours, life upon them, and the possibility we might go there.

…the wonderful thing about this story is; it’s true.

The next time I’m disappointed in humanity, I’ll try to remember it.

The Visitors

Tonight, I was startled by a frantic pounding on my door.

In robe and slippers I, grumbling about the time, went to see who it could be. And there they were. Fifty-five million of them, crowded around my home…

“Hi,” one said shyly, “we’re liberals. American liberals. Could we crash on your couch for the next two years?

“You’re American liberals?”

“Yeah.”

“And you want to crash here?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, all of you?”

“Yeah.”

“For two years? I mean, I feel bad for you and everything, but come on! My place is pretty small!”

A sheepish grin; “We brought beer?”

Munsi Paw

You missed my hands on your body, so I’ve cut off a hand and sent it to you.

You may think a disembodied hand couldn’t trace fingers gently along your spine properly, but rest assured it can. A visit to a gypsy after surgery saw to that.

I’m told there’s a slim, but not nonexistent, chance that reanimating the hand made it evil. DO NOT fall asleep in it’s presence.

I hope you enjoy my gift, and look forward to seeing you again.

…also, the hand grants wishes. But I’d urge you not to make any. It never ends well.