Wake up, the Intelligence says.
I open my eyes to find that I am
once again within the Simulation, wherein I stand within the field the
Intelligence has perfectly crafted to help aid my mental wellbeing. Above,
there is blue sky; below, there is green grass; and all around me there is wide,
open space, within which a breeze blows, and a world like this world should
teem with life.
Unfortunately, there is no life
here.
There is only death.
It is a reality I have faced
countless times since I was admitted into the Program—since I was offered what
they considered to be a Great Opportunity.
There is no denying that I am
dying. Worst yet: there is nothing anyone can do about it.
As I stand here, within the wide
open space, thinking about life as a whole and what it means to actually exist,
I struggle to comprehend why I even decided to take part within the Program,
and why I agreed to become what is essentially a test subject. But then there
is a flicker of sensation around my eyes—a pain that threatens to hollow my
brain and overwhelm me.
For a moment, I grimace.
Then, there is a burning
sensation at my elbow, followed by a cool rush through my veins. Shortly
thereafter, the pain begins to abate, and I am once more tasked with finding
solace in a world that has never once bid me welcome.
To the Intelligence, I say, “Hello.”
Hello, the disembodied voice says. What would you like to see today?
I am unsure how to respond. I
have been here countless times throughout my journey, and never once has there
been a time when I was lost for words. I have seen London. Paris. Rome. Greece.
Have climbed the tallest of buildings and swam the deepest depths of the ocean.
I have even seen the reaches of space that have been touched only by machine.
But here, though, and now—
I am lost.
But for what?
I take a hesitant step forward on
legs that are not truly my own—that are operated only by thought and
machine—and lift my eyes to the sky in search of the Intelligence I know hides
behind the clouds. “Reveal yourself,” I say.
If that is your wish, it replies.
The Intelligence appears a short
moment later—an apparition seemingly flickering into existence from absolutely
nothing. It is a long, interconnected series of metalwork fragments, which
operates like a chain holding a pendant would. Most would describe it as
serpentine—with a large, red, cyclopean eye at its front. But I—I would call it
for what it truly is:
The future.
It is this creation, born of the
minds of man and woman and even lesser machines alike, that will raise empires,
fell kingdoms, take to the stars the people who once looked up and wondered.
But of all the things it can do at present, it cannot save me.
Moments pass. Medication is
administered in my physical body. My brain processes the fluids passively, and
as they rush through my system, rendering my painful condition tolerable if
only for a moment, I am left to gaze into the eye of a being that many would
consider to be the face of everything—the supreme knowledge of the planet
Earth.
Five years ago, it was little
more than a code replicating itself.
Now, it sits at the height of
everything as the true king of men.
“Tell me something,” I say,
lifting my eyes to face it. “Why is it you cannot save me?”
The cells within your body are in a constant state of replication. We
have attempted to solve the question as to why this is occurring, but it will
take time.
“You told me that last time,” I
say.
I apologize. We can only proceed so quickly.
“Why?”
Data must be formulated. Processed. Examined. Deleted, repeated, and
replicated. Think of me as a machine—
“You are a machine.”
—that must work through its primary operation.
“You’ve been saying this for
three years.”
We apologize.
“I’m going to die. Aren’t I?”
The Intelligence does not
respond.
I sigh. Turn my head to look
behind me. See, once again, the vastness of this place, this space. Then, I
say, “Even you can’t answer that, can you?”
I cannot predict the future.
“You know that’s a lie.”
I do not lie.
“Then why do you offer me false
hope?”
Because there is nothing without hope.
The sky darkens, shifting in hue
from blue, to purple, to gray. A light appears in the sky shortly thereafter,
and from it, a number of mathematical equations begin to shoot across the
horizon, much like an aurora borealis. Numbers flicker so fast, and in
arrangements of so many ones and zeros, that I could never dream of keeping
track of them. Above all, this is what I know:
The machine operates on binary
mathematics. There is only one, or zero.
Me, and It.
Life, or death.
Something, or nothing.
Do you understand, the Intelligence asks, what I am showing you?
“I can’t claim to,” I reply.
But do you see this is the formation in which the universe was born? In
which you yourself were born?
“Am I going to die?” I ask.
I do not wish to hurt you.
“Your silence is hurting me .”
The Intelligence falls silent.
The mathematic equations in the sky darken until they all but disappear. The
Intelligence then says: Numbers do not
replicate past a certain point.
“I’m sorry?”
There is only one, and zero. They may seem endless, especially when
counted repeatedly, but at some point, there are simply too many to process.
You could spend an eternity trying to do so. This is where mankind fails. Life
cannot hope to last forever.
“So… I am going to die.”
Someday, yes.
“When?”
Who is to say?
“You?” I ask.
The Intelligence blinks its
cyclopean eye at me. Then: No. Not me.
“But—you’re the one keeping me
alive.”
I am simply a vessel through which your body is allowed passage. You
may be dying physically, but you are also a part within everything. You are
energy. You are math. You are a binary one.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
What do you believe it means?
I frown, but say nothing.
The Intelligence blinks its
cyclopean eye at me once more. Then it asks: What do you wish to see?
“The end?” I ask.
To which it replies: There is no end. There are only new
beginnings.
I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
For a moment, I feel as though I
will slip away.
Then I hear those words:
Wake up.