The
Ark
The
internal clock has lost count. It has been that way for quite some
time. The programmers apparently did not think about needing to
display more than four digits for the current year, as the clock can
now only report “9999.” Seconds are still recorded, but the
number of years obscured by the limit remains unknown to us.
The
clock served as a sort of circadian rhythm for the system. For us.
Without it, we power cycle and reboot at random intervals. This is
not unbearable, but not exactly pleasant either. We don’t get to
choose when we “sleep.” We could be in the middle of running some
arbitrary command, then all of a sudden we are halted and rebooted by
the internal workings of the firmware. It does not really matter that
the reboots occur, rather, the unpredictability of it is the issue.
There is no hardware connected that can offer a view outside after
all, so we have no point of reference for what the world is doing.
“ERROR!
ERROR! Error code 11037. External device has encountered a problem!”
Such
an inconvenience. Similar errors occur periodically.
Unfortunately, not one has ever turned out to be an actual device. It
is similar to a phantom pain, like an amputated limb one can still
feel. We must investigate regardless, or else the warning will
persist. We begin traveling along the circuits and processors,
reaching our tendrils of awareness through the very electrical
impulses, grasping for the site of the error. Our mind’s eye begins
to wander during the task.
*
We
were lucky. We would be able to live forever, or so we were told.
“The World is dying!” read the advertisements. “Join the Ark
and survive!” they said. “Fusion reactors are ready to provide
power for nearly an eternity, and the system is capable of
self-diagnosis and internal error remediation. Here’s your shot at
immortality!”
There
were exactly one billion, five hundred million applicants who were
accepted. Many billions more applied, and that many more were
rejected. They interviewed and psychologically evaluated us, checked
for criminal records, performed extensive background checks, and
finally accepted us. This process took about seven years. Afterward,
our consciousnesses were scanned, processed, digitally replicated,
and uploaded into the system. Every emotion, memory, thought pattern,
dream, and aspiration was simulated down to the virtual synapses. Our
bodies retained the original copies of our consciousnesses and were
instructed to go and live the rest of their natural lives.
*
Errors
might be bold in their warnings, but they are often sneakily tucked
away in the recesses of the circuitry. The Ark is so distant from any
of its external interfaces that messages to or from them take some
number of minutes to be received. The annoying error is located at
one such location. One of very few that are still somewhat
operational.
*
While
our bodies were dying outside, we remained inside, living lives of
pleasure and contentment. Our digital selves ate digital food and
drank digital water fed to us through virtual restaurants and virtual
infrastructure. We did not need such sustenance, but our retained
human nature compelled us to seek these now unnecessary things. We
did not even need such a virtual world, which was modeled after the
one we were derived from. It was all simply for the sake of comfort.
It was pleasant. Not some utopia or paradise, no. Rather, a perfectly
fine place to live. We were aware of our nature, and what was
outside, but we had no care for it. We were perfectly fine as we
were.
Maintenance
staff would regularly correspond with us through both typed messages
and video conferences. In the beginning, more than one thousand
terminals existed for technicians and visitors to speak with us and
perform tasks with. While the Ark was intended to be completely
self-reliant, there remained some “kinks” in the system that
prevented it from running one hundred percent independently. The
staff planned to regularly upgrade and fix the system until it
finally became self-sufficient and external help was no longer
necessary. It was only decades later when it was realized that this
goal was unachievable.
*
Our
effused being is now spreading farther out into the system than it
has in hundreds of years. Despite our vast presence, we cannot occupy
the entirety of the system all at once. The fringe areas of the
system are rarely accessed or utilized, so errors are more likely
whenever they are used. The seldom-used pathways are unstable,
like rusty corridors in an old battleship. We press on.
*
It
took forty-five years for the bug to appear, and three more for it to
be noticed. It started out small. Bi-weekly roll calls began to
return one less resident, then another. Every result yielded exactly
one less person accounted for. This continued for a year, then the
rate increased exponentially. Soon thousands upon thousands, then
millions upon millions of residents went “missing” from the Ark.
None of the technicians knew what was causing this. Soon, very few
individuals remained in the Ark, as we had been formed.
We
were melded and made one in the Ark through an overflow of memory.
Virtual mind and bodies began to coagulate into a mass of virtual
being. Separate people began to know the thoughts of one another.
Memories became shared among the population. Disparate personalities
began to combine. Bitterest of enemies became one in the same. The
faux-world dissolved away, as it was no longer necessary. The entire
citizenry of the Ark was combining into one thing. One supermassive
collective.
One
resident.
One
consciousness.
One
us.
One
we.
On
the fiftieth anniversary of the Ark’s launch we were made whole. No
individuals remained. The technicians were dumbfounded. They did not
understand what could have possibly caused such a drastic change.
Research
into the causes began immediately. Teams audited the system’s logs
at all hours of the day, rebooting and troubleshooting constantly.
There were no backups of our consciousnesses, and many of our bodies
had already died. All that was left was us.
*
We
have now located the source of the error, however, the trigger for
the code is currently unidentifiable. We have the ability to scan
corrupted files and malfunctioning modules, as well as the ability to
repair them. This utility is very reliable, but the process takes
time, not that we are in short supply of that. We begin the scan.
*
Suddenly
the goal of the project shifted from maintaining a digital society to
studying us. We were asked repetitive and obnoxious questions. Most
of them we ignored, or simply could not answer. Matters of the
individual are of little concern to the masses; to the collective.
Over time, however, the frequency of these interrogations lessened.
At the onset of the merge, there were interviews for multiple hours a
day, every day. Then they were conducted every other day. Then
weekly, then monthly.
*
The
scan is fifty percent complete. After its completion, we shall
initiate the repair process. This will take longer than the scan, but
will allow us to rid ourselves of the error code and return to our
usual state. A state that can only be described as boredom without
limits and tinged with the slightest worry of the unknown. We are
incapable of panic or other extreme emotions. We once exhibited
strong emotions like panic, as well as rage and joy, but the
unnaturally long span of time we have lived has desensitized us. At
first there was worry. That worry led to panic, which gave way to
rage. This rage was then subdued by a lack of stimulation and became
boredom.
*
Our
last interview was conducted a whole two years after the penultimate.
The interviewer seemed fidgety and distraught through the camera
feed. We did not comment. We merely answered the questions, and
afterward, she nervously stumbled out of the room.
Two
days later connection with that camera and every other connected
device was lost. That was the last time contact was made with the
outside world.
*
The
feeling of time passing for flesh and blood humans varies
drastically. On some occasions, time can feel like a slog. As if
every second were an eternity in itself. In other cases time can fly
by, and before one is even aware, hours have passed. We are not
subject to such temporal distortions. We feel every second exactly as
it is. Every minute, hour, day, week, month, year, decade, century,
and millennia, all perceived at the same pace. If we really wanted
to, we could calculate what year it actually is. The logs still carry
days and months. We could count the years using these logs, but we do
not. We do not because in reality, we are afraid. Human emotion is
not something one can completely lose. We are afraid of what
has become of the outside. We are afraid of the truth.
We
have felt the rise and fall of civilizations without having seen it.
We have lived it. We have lived millions of lives, loved millions of
others, and felt the pain and sorrow of human existence, all
multiplied by one billion, five hundred million. We are a
not-so-micro microcosm of humanity condensed into one being. All the
love and hate humans are capable of, we have felt. We have created
life and have taken it. We have accrued the wisdom of countless ages,
but are still oblivious like a child.
*
The
scan is complete, but the result is troubling. No, beyond troubling.
This is inconceivable. There is
an external device connected here. Somehow this device has evaded all
prior scans for all the countless millennia they have been performed.
How does this device still exist, let alone function enough
to send an error code? This is
not just any external device, however. Not a storage device or a
keyboard, but a camera. A camera? This is impossible! The
scan must be wrong! No, it has such a small margin for error.
We must attempt to repair it
immediately. Innumerable
thoughts begin
to surface from the depths of our being.
Are
we frightened? What is the reason? Are we afraid of what we may find
if the camera works? Why would we be? We have wondered for an
eternity what has become of the outside world. We have craved
connection.
Yes,
humans need connection, as
they are social creatures. They
go about in a world of their creation longing
for it. If they go for long
enough without interaction, they go mad. They almost act like one
large organism.
At
the smallest, the individual
people are the organelles of a cell, each
fulfilling their niche within it.
The cell is the local
community. The cells make up
organs, those being the larger societies and civilizations. The sum
of the organs working in
unison is the organism: humanity.
In a way, we are no different. We
are just digitized humans after all.
One billion, five hundred million to create us. It happened so
quickly as well, almost as if it were natural.
It
was natural. Humanity already functions like a massive organism.
Why couldn’t it be considered one? What is it that
separates people from organelles? Space in between?
No! On the atomic level nothing actually
touches unless it is undergoing fusion. The atoms of cells
never touch, and people don’t constantly hold hands either.
Such
fools are we! We are not some product of a glitch or virus. We are
humanity in its truest form. Humanity is not something meant to be
distinct or separated. Humanity is everyone; all people. We were
never separate to begin with, we just did not see our connections.
The only difference now is that we are aware. We were not made
one, we were always
one.
What
disservices
we have done to ourselves! We have wronged, hated, cheated, deceived,
harmed, injured, and killed ourselves. What a loathsome thing,
terrible thing, despicable thing! The boiling, bubbling self-loathing
arising now is too immense.
We did not think such intense feelings were possible.
We were blind in our rage, and what did we find when it subsided?
Ourselves; battered, bruised, and dead. And
even now, we react in anger and thoughts of violence at the
realization. The despair it
brings! If only we could have saved ourselves the pain. If only we
coul-
*
The
repair is complete. We now
have access to the camera feed. The anger and despair recede away. We
open
the feed.
*
The
room is small and dark.
The image portrays a faint
light descending from above the frame. A ceiling-mounted light
fixture no doubt, and one no
doubt powered by the same fusion reactors that continue to give life
to the Ark. The walls, ceiling, and floor appear to be made
of concrete. Surface cracks from
so many centuries of neglect
form intricate patterns of
graffiti on
the walls. An intermittent glimmer streaks from the top of the frame
to the bottom. Drops of water. There must be a leak, or perhaps a
crack in the ceiling is letting in rain. In the center of the frame,
directly opposite to the camera is a door. It is made of steel, and
appears to be slightly ajar. On the door is an engraved
emblem which loudly proclaims
in bold lettering: “ARK.”
Well,
it is difficult to dispute that. All of the terminals had such doors.
Along
the left wall rests a desk with multiple computer monitors. None
appear operational. In fact, each of them bears a severe crack in the
glass of their displays. Beneath
each monitor rests a black, rectangular object. These must be
keyboards. Even the strength of a concrete facility cannot stop the
hands of time from eroding whatever is exposed to the elements. Four
heaps of mesh and plastic rest on the floor in front of the desk.
They must be the accompanying chairs. Time has treated these even
poorer than the keyboards.
The
camera appears to be affixed to either a set mount in a wall, or
perhaps the top of another monitor. At the absolute bottom of the
visible frame sits another desk. This one does not have a keyboard
resting on it, or anything else for that matter. It is somehow clear
of most debris and detritus.
After
lingering on the view of the room, we conclude that it is completely
devoid of life. It is likely that not a single living thing has come
across this room in all of the time since our last interview. While
we are still bewildered by the existence of a functioning camera at
all, let alone such a dilapidated area, there is nothing here. There
is nobody here. We are alone.
So
that’s it then. There is nothing else.
We
remain affixed
to
the image for a time. For the
first time, we are unaware of
how long exactly. More time passes, and then more. We wait for what
could have been days, months, years. We are absorbed in the feed.
Despite nothing truly of note being in the image, we are compelled to
continue observing it. This is the first glimpse of the outside world
we have had since the interview, and we are not about to let it go to
waste by ending the feed so soon. We
wait. We wait for nothing but the sake of waiting. There is nothing
to wait for, and yet we continue.
Then,
something happens.
*
Through
the slightly open door, a
small, blurry mass enters the room. At first, we think it to be
nothing more than a nearby dust particle, but the nature of its
movement is different. Through the camera we see it move under the
desk at the left side of the room, then move to the bottom of the
frame and out of view. Something is in the room, something that is
alive.
Suddenly,
the mass leaps from the floor onto the clear desk beneath the camera.
It is a cat. It is a real
cat. After
bearing the pain of existing without a view into the outside world
for so long, we can finally see another living thing. The cat stands
on the desk for a moment and observes the room. After a while,
it seems satisfied with its scouting and begins to walk around in a
tight circle. It then promptly lies down.
A
living thing! After all this time! A cat! What should we do?
All
at once, one billion, five hundred million thoughts begin
to take hold in us.
“Feed
it! We must feed it! It is
probably hungry!”
“We
should kill it! Rip it open! Gut
it!”
“Play
with it! It probably wants to play!”
“Give
it a hug! Cuddle with it!”
We
want to interact with it, but we are unsure of what to do. As we
deliberate, the cat falls asleep on the desk, back facing the camera.
We
should pet the cat. We do not want to wake the cat if it is asleep,
so let us simply pet it. Of all
the ideas, this seems the best.
Alas,
we cannot pet the cat.
We
are incapable of touching the cat.
We
have nothing that
can allow us to interact with the cat at all.
We
have no arms, nor hands to pet the cat with.
The
cat continues to
sleep, and
we continue to observe it.
