Chapter 25: Infinitics

A task that demanded the strength of a titan and the cunning of a sphinx.

Wau disconnected the heavy, powerful cables from the Dark Unit, cables capable of managing the monstrous energy flow from antimatter. With a cloned AI from the Sanctum’s’ LE, she was working on the interface: connecting directly to the After. Not to communicate via a 2D screen as some experts from Earth did to test new systems, but to immerse herself completely.

Wau recalled her Infinitics classes—an advanced science dedicated to modeling consciousness, and, though rarely said aloud due to spiritual connotations, essentially the study of eternal life. Once the heavy work was done, she removed her Armor and instructed a drone to emulate the voice and personality of Aloysius.

“Alright, professor, brief me on the After while I work on the Dark Unit.”

The drone responded instantly.

“Ah, theoretical Infinitics,” said the drone, illuminating Cass’s workspace. “My dear Cass, I see where you’re headed—because the After, according to the Transients, is the gateway to transcendence.”

“But let’s begin at the beginning. Eternal life is the ultimate aspiration of every sentient creature in the universe that has survived long enough to build a civilization. Humans are no exception. It makes sense: we are programmed to survive, whatever the cost. Death from ‘old age’ is a myth. All deaths, without exception, are violent: heart attacks, pulmonary embolisms, metastases ... they rival the savagery of the wolves in our forests of old. May I digress briefly on power and stupidity?”

“Go ahead,” Cass answered, carefully opening the heart of the Dark Unit.

“You’ve probably noticed our society is filled with people who aren’t wise, who aren’t particularly intelligent, who are rather brutal, hungry for power itself—and who obtain it. A wise person doesn’t desire power. Here’s a theory you’ll find amusing: this unfortunate situation might actually be evolutionarily optimal. When financial and political power lies in the hands of a fool, he will use it to pursue eternal life. If it rested with a wise person, that wise person wouldn’t seek eternal life. Throughout centuries of human history, these powerful fools have built pyramids, launched crusades, collected virgin blood, or who knows what else—all in vain. Until the explosion of public data in the early 21st century, which enabled neural-network-based AI development. Then, powerful technocrats thought: why not upload ourselves into servers? An inherently foolish idea, pursued by fools who couldn’t suppress their fear of death. But it unintentionally advanced society one step closer to transcendence.”

“At least, that’s what the Transients claim.”

“You mistrust those Xeno Gods, I understand. But the Transients have given us much, and nothing has proven false or deceptive, even if your inner devil’s advocate would argue they’re talented enough to deceive without raising suspicion. Moving on—isn’t it fascinating to think that by 2020 it was theoretically possible to emulate a human mind? Essentially, all you had to do was copy a brain’s neural structure into a virtual environment. But before we delve deeper, may I digress once more? About Antiquity.”

“Go ahead, old man. I’ll be busy for a while.”

Cass tested the firewall of the Dark Unit. Would transmitting a consciousness trigger suspicious digital behaviors detectable and thus blocked?

“Gilgamesh. Heard of him?”

“A Sumerian king? You’re probably not referring to the Endymion by that name.”

“An epic. The oldest piece of fiction in human history, dating back to 1800 BC. It’s about eternal life. Gilgamesh is a king who, after many adventures, is terrified by the prospect of his own death. He journeys to the world’s edge, across the waters of death, to meet Uta-napisht, a hero who puts him to the test—ordering him not to sleep for six days and seven nights. Gilgamesh falls asleep, and Uta-napisht tells him, ‘Gilgamesh, how can you resist death when you can’t resist sleep?’ An untrained literary mind might see sleep as symbolic of death. But this trial holds a profound truth, closely linked to our now well-understood brain functions. I like to believe the Ancients intuited this. See, Cass, you’re always changing. So if you attain immortality, which Cass do you take along? Yesterday’s, the young student not yet enrolled at Earth’s Psi University? Today’s invincible Wau?”

“LE, never mentions I’m a Wau or anything related to the Order during our conversations.”

“Noted, I won’t mention your affiliation with the Wau Order again,” said the LE in its default voice before switching back to Aloysius. “Yesterday’s young student? Today’s Cass, immersed in clandestine missions? Or tomorrow’s wise, experienced Cass? Each is different. Day by day, the changes are subtle, imperceptible. But people change. That’s why people were imprisoned in the past: to force change, hoping it’d be positive. We arrive at a chilling first observation: the immortality religions promise is conceptually impossible, because we are always changing. And when do we change profoundly? During sleep—when daily information is sorted into long-term memory by a mental process whose conscious emanation is dreams. Thus, Uta-napisht’s test makes perfect sense: immortality is accessible only if you resist sleep—the moment of profound personality change. Fascinating, isn’t it? Let’s continue with theoretical Infinitics. Imagine we’re those technocrats of the 21st century: we more or less know how to virtualize a brain, but concretely, how do we do it? Tell me, does Star Trek ring a bell?

“Another epic story, isn’t it?” “Yes. It’s Captain Wau’s crew of that era. In Star Trek, the heroes possess technology capable of teleporting humans. They’re aboard their ship, someone pushes a button, and voilà—they’re on a planet.” “Teleportation like what the Transients do?” “Haha, you really do have only one thing on your mind!”

Cass had put her Armor back on and was reconnecting giant cables. The drone continued:

“Star Trek graciously explains how teleportation works: bodies are copied, information and energy are sent, and they’re reassembled at the destination. But then you ask: it’s just a copy, Sam, so what happens to the original—the person who was copied, who’s still on the ship? The answer is horrifying: they disintegrate them during the process. For a brief moment, Cass, two identical, sentient people exist, both entitled to life, feelings, adventures—but one of them is killed, because otherwise we’d have duplicates everywhere. And not just any copy: it’s the original individual who’s killed. When you’re teleported, you’re killed. The copy believes everything worked fine. I don’t know about you, but to me this thought is intolerable. The process is fundamentally flawed. If teleportation really worked that way, no one would ever use it—absolutely guaranteed! But to return to the technocrats: they faced the same issue. They analyze your brain, create a perfect digital replica in a server—great—but the original brain is still there, alive, confident in its continuity of consciousness! Utterly useless for the original human: they’re condemned to die with their biological body. No eternal life. Just smoke and mirrors. Pure fiction.”

Cass, removing her armor, thought about how the EV made relevant, unprecedented connections simply because it had emulated Aloysius. An objective presentation would have yielded none of this. Humans become better with EVs, but EVs also become better with humans.

“That’s where the paradox of Theseus’s Ship comes in, which led to Theseism. Theseus returns from Crete victorious over the Minotaur—another epic, see?—and his ship is put into dry dock. It becomes a kind of relic, okay? Over time, the ship deteriorates. When a plank rots away, it’s replaced with a new one. But what happens once all the planks have been replaced? Is it still Theseus’s ship, or something entirely different?”