It was 2037 and smog filled the streets along with the stench from the death pits that ringed every major city, filled with those who succumbed to that complex of comorbidities called poverty. State media proclaimed the glories of the age on crisp, clear screens mounted on the sides of shoddy, crumbling buildings – often over windows. Now they were talking about the next big thing: Triumph over death. Hard to believe since they had long ago triumphed over truth.
“First, we built the most sophisticated sensors on the planet and used them to fully map human consciousness. Our next challenge was to record this consciousness.” The man in the lab coat was not a scientist. Werner Ott was the richest man in the world and owner of the infamous Thor EV company and the PlaneteX rocket corporation. He bought this new company, like his others, as a start-up from a brilliant neurophysicist, but didn’t understand the first thing about the groundbreaking technology. Yet, he persevered. “Now we have it stored as datapoints and that data can be stored indefinitely. Your essence, unlimited by the deterioration of a body, can live forever.”
“How big is a consciousness?” the reporter asked. It was supposed to be a softball, but he wanted to sound smart, so he ad-libbed. “How much data?” Ott’s face flinched.
“That’s proprietary information. I’ve said too much already.” The interview ended with a report on how news of the emergent tech had caused OttCon stock to soar, making Ott richer than himself once more. All of the screens turned mosaic, then blue, then every single one was filled with a huge skull and crossbones logo. A man in pirate attire materialized and introduced himself.
“Ahoy!” he barked loud enough to garner the attention of the nation. “I’m Captain Cronkite and I’m beholden to nobody but the truth, and let me tell ye… Y’ain’t heerd none o’that yet.”
He fixed his eyes on the camera, causing every desperate face turned towards him to think that he was speaking directly to them. “Ye been lied to. Werner Ott,” the name was spat out like a curse, “knows exactly how much data it takes. It takes four petaflops of processing speed and four or more petabytes of memory storage to hold one consciousness! Think of ell the rech folks who wanna lev forever. How many data centers izzat? OttCon jest built a new’n. Only twenty-five percent operational enna folks by it kenna sleep, and they dogs barking and cats crying and all the wee beasties leavin’… There’s one thing we have the power to do, and it’s this simple. If we all…” and he leaned forward into the camera one last time with a new red eye open in the middle of his forehead. Then the regular programming resumed.
Literature in Small Doses 