Cloud.Burst.com(Mongiwekhaya) NOTES
‘Man’s first act is to kill that which he does not understand; his second is to weep for that which is now lost.’—Quote from Roger Lambert, test subject. Source: from the Neural-Nanotechnologist Dr. Maxwell Obafemi’s final report. Year 2032.

Story based on Transhumanism and its belief in consciously directed evolution. Should you want to know more read:

• https://www.aleph.se/Trans/
• https://hplusmagazine.com/ - read in particular: https://hplusmagazine.com/2011/02/23/beyond-the-borg/


THE STORY

It ruptures this singular moment as a cloudburst: It is a scream of visuals; It is the thundering sight of a mind stretching across the landscape like a Christo Surrounded Island artwork; it is a Rosharch sketch of mankind thinking; it is the feeling a man must have whilst having his brains blown out. The terrible beauty of literally opening up one’s mind. It is a shotgun to the head.

Dr. Obafemi thought these thoughts in that insane moment of Roger Lambert’s mind cloud bursting on screen. He thought this and much more as he monitored Roger’s life signs, the elevated heart rate racing to death or ecstasy, the epileptic fit of his body—the restraints held-thank god—the man was vibrating so fast, Oba imagined he’d lift off the ground at any moment. He felt guilty of putting a man through such a harrowing experience, but curiosity won over ethical pondering.

There was a loud crack; a mini gunshot sound that erupted from Roger Lambert’s mouth. His body went limp. Oba rushed over. Blood dribbled from Lambert’s lips. The mouth guard which kept him from biting off his tongue was still in place. However Lambert had bitten so hard against it, he’d shattered 7 of his molars. Oba unhooked the mouth guard, and cleaned out the teeth fragments. Those could be replaced.

The real concern was the statistical likelihood of Lambert falling into an irretrievable coma (at best) or worse: his brain melting into gray mush. Yes there was no doubt about it; uploading a mind onto digital space was like a shotgun to the head.

“How’s he doing doctor?” the question was asked without apparent concern by Grace Kelly, the Agent presiding over the event. Oba glanced at the cool striking figure, beautiful. Agent Kelly was labeled as an assistant on record. In reality she was a baby sitter. The Corporation’s insurance policy. Her mission prerogatives were likely success of experiment and maintain security. She had no idea of the complexity of the process. Oba hadn’t minded at first. After all she was a beautiful woman with tattoos and a gun. He found that attractive and although she never out rightly snubbed his sexual advances she did make it clear that he had no influence on her life. She liked smoking which Oba hated. He tried to convince her to use an electric cigarette.

‘Why,’ she asked.

“Well smoking’s going to cause aberrations in your body at a cellular level. Electric cigarettes are a good step towards quitting.” Kelly laughed at him as she lit a fresh cancer stick from the old one.

“Quit? Listen Doc, nobody likes a quitter, especially me.” She laughed and Oba felt snubbed.

“Doc,” Oba focused on Agent Kelly, “How is Roger Lambert doing?”

“His vitals are steady. Physical damage appears to be minimum—“

“—and his mind?”

“Brain scans show little activity.”

“Have we failed?”

“Too early to say. Let’s give him a few moments, shall we?” Oba returned to his chair, pinching the base of his nose in frustration. He considered what could possibly have gone wrong. 10 years earlier he had been involved in the development BCIs, Brain-Computer-Interfaces, built into the heads of agents like Grace Kelly and scientists like him. Self-contained networks with limited connection to the general World Wide Web, these Nano chips linked field agents to their home base. In Oba’s case, his IPC linked to fellow scientists, allowing ideas to literally be shared and processed realtime in the mind. However the IPC did not require uploading of the mind onto the literal web. Complex interfaces of the brain’s neural system to the CPU’s silicon based system translated data between the digital computer and the biological mind. The IPC contained a parallel track of silicon neurons to the eyes, ears, legs and arms allowing the individuals personal experiences to be directly processed by the linked group.

Oba’s own contribution to the technology was the link between the brain and the BCI’s atomized CPU. That technology had been revolutionary 10 years ago, and it led to massive funding for further development. In fact it had led to this very experiment. The complete merge of mind and machine.

The question of such a possibility had been in debate since the turn of the 21st century—those prehistoric days of the home PC. Transhumanist zealots led the charge. To them uploading meant the eradication of all disease, physical needs, and most importantly, the possibility of immortality. The conservative side feared the loss of humanity, stating that what is man without his corporeal form, no longer land-locked to the laws of nature? What would justify as moral necessity to such a being? For Obafemi, the debate was pointless. Real-time experience was the best teacher. One needed to create the cause in order to observe the true effects.

One also had to consider the fact that the digital world was fully integrated into the real world. Every surface of every home in 1st world society was augmented to be a screen. A person’s house, their car, hell, even their clothes were computer screens with access to information. Complete digital/biological merger was the logical next step.

Obafemi snapped out of his reverie and glanced around the room. Every surface was blank; Lambert was not projecting a single thought anywhere. Wait a minute… along a corner of the north wall, a series of numbers fell like synchronized rain.

“Perhaps I didn’t Screw up after all.”

“I don’t know,” said Kelly,” Too early to tell.” She also watched the cascading numbers. Sighing, Agent Kelly scanned the room for a place to sit. Other than the motorized bar stool Obafemi was currently residing on and the med-chair containing Roger Lambert, the only available seat was what Dr. Obafemi called his ‘Thinking corner.’ It was an old relic 1 seater couch, dark wood frame with green velvet cushions. Next to it was the absurd Venetian standing lamp that required of all things, a power outlet to plug into. A family heirloom from his grandfather, which Obafemi had demanded be brought to the isolated facility. When she had first arrived, Kelly spent a good thirty seconds verbally demanding the lamp to switch on. Much to her chagrin it refused to obey. She strode across the room, gliding onto the couch. Obafemi watched her from the corner of his eyes.

Kelly pulled the chord that switched the lamp on. The light washed over her legs, illuminating the pale tone of her skin; the tattoos on her shins stood out in stark contrast. The latex/cotton fabric of her black skirt soaked up the light. The 2 button suit jacket with rather bold shoulder pads blended into the green of the cushions threatening to fade. Only the jade of her irises glowed from the shadowed confines of her face, wreathed by the short crop of auburn hair, Egyptian in its harsh cut. The jade glow of her eyes was the only clue of the active BCI embedded in her skull. Obafemi had no idea what thoughts passed through that opaque expression of hers, but if his own BCI network was anything to go by, nothing was missed and everything was under scrutiny by more than just the present occupants of the room. A wry smile appeared on Kelly’s lips as she pointed to the screen just behind Obafemi. He turned back to look at the north wall screen.

Roger’s thoughts showed signs of coherency, signs of control, as he mastered the sheer size of his inner state; Pictures randomly flicked across surfaces of the room, radio stations played then gave way to MP3s before everything fell under the storm of numbers still running across the screen. The numbers soon gave way to a cacophony of sights and sounds. Obafemi muffled his personal auditory senses. Roger Lambert’s physical vitals showed no signs of change. Perhaps it was time to make contact. He tapped on his counter which brought up a virtual keyboard. He typed:

[ Mr R. Lambert? Are you with us? ] The screens went blank. Only Obafemi’s words remained. A response appeared.

[ What is this? ]

[ You have been uploaded. ]

[ Uploaded. ]

[ Yes. Do you remember the events leading to your volunteering for this experiment? ] Various recorded interviews with Mr. Lambert appeared on the East Wall Screen.

“Did you call those up?” asked Kelly.

“No. I think he did.”

The East Wall split into two screens, the Left moving in reverse as Lambert recalled the visual/auditory examples of how he had made the choice to become the test subject. It came to a halt on an image of his wife pregnant and with a 6 year old boy next to her waving as Lambert got into a car with Agent Grace Kelly. Simultaneously the Right screen arrived at the moment Lambert had bitten his mouth guard shattering his teeth.

Kelly started laughing, then abruptly controlled herself.

‘What is it’, asked Dr. Obafemi.

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s more than nothing, please share with us.’ Kelly recrossed her legs, her gaze thoughtful as she stared at the screens.

‘Well… it occurred to me that… Mr. Lambert has become an octopus. Like those Jacques Cousteau documentaries? I watched them as a kid. It always fascinated me that the only way an octopus can hide its thoughts is by spraying out a jet of ink. I always thought—“

The world slipped into blue with Turquoise horizons. Deeper down it went. The voice of Jacques Cousteau caressed the room as a tentacled presence appeared. Out from under a rock a creature, which Dr. Oba had to agree represented Mr. Lambert, appeared. It jetted along the floor, changing color as it went. A Photoshop program was called up; its virtual pencil quick sketched every angle and detail of the video Octopus, creating thousands of drawings, each also being coloured. This took no more than 4 seconds before a 3D program launched, absorbing the sketches and redesigning them into a photorealistic manifestation of the original creature. All the screens went blank. Only the 3D Octopus was left. Serenely it floated to where Lambert’s body lay.

‘This,’ said Mr. Lambert,’ is me. My avatar: a giant squid. And I see. It as: Perfect.’ Mr. Lambert’s laugh was the sound of two frequencies crashing. His speech pattern oscillated between sexes, ages, accents.

Kelly stood up and strode over to take position next to Obafemi.

‘Sex me sideways,’ she said.

‘I wish. I could. Agent Kelly,’ Said Lambert, ’But. My body. Not responsive. Joke.’

‘He can hear us?’ she asked.

‘I can. I also. Have: A visual of you.’

‘How?’

‘Augmented walls. Do more than shed light. And project stored information. They. Record everything. In this way. Walls act. As my eyes.’

‘And the voice?’

‘I have. No voice. I am. Accessing auditory samples. Source: the World Wide Web. Data banks. Building a voice. Tonal. Dialect patterns. Still to be mastered. But. With each conversation. I learn.’ Kelly casually placed her hands on her hips, one hand on the gun holster.

‘What an interesting side effect,’ said Obafemi. Kelly frowned.

‘This thing has access to the Web?’ she asked.

‘Limited access. We can limit it further,’ said Obafemi.

‘Do it.’

‘Agent Kelly. I am no threat,’ said Lambert.

‘Of course not. And you won’t be. That’s why I am here. Dr. Obafemi, the agency requests that you conduct your experiments as quickly as possible.’

‘Of course, though there is more to process than expected. Do you realize what we have done here? Lambert is alive and well on the web. Beyond that, he has already established communications with us, through a sensory input/output system which appears to have similar qualities as a human body. Look at it this way: The neural pathways that connect to all of his sensory organs have been redirected to function only on the digital network. Even his memories are partially if not wholly net based. That’s a good question. Lambert, are you still able to access your memories?

‘Yes. But I had. To download. Them. Onto: Lab databanks.’

‘He’s fully integrated with the network. However, the price has been the
loss of all his other senses. I don’t think he has access to the Real world at all.’

‘Well I’m sure Mr. Lambert is anxious to get back into his corporeal form and home to his wife and kids—after he screws me of course.’

‘Forgive me. Agent Kelly. It was: A joke.’

‘I’m laughing on the inside.’

‘Please. Do not. Put me back.’ Obafemi and Kelly exchanged glances.

‘why not?’ asked Obafemi.

‘You know well. Experiment. Was fast tracked. Despite your warnings. I know. You have no. safe method. Of extraction.’ Obafemi stood up and crossed the room to the green couch. He sat down.

‘Is that true doctor?’ Kelly asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But you do have a method.’

‘A theory.’

‘Thomas Edison had. A thousand. Ideas,’ said Lambert,’ About a light bulb. Only one. Worked.’ Kelly paused for a moment, consulting her BCI. She shifted her gaze to the giant Squid floating above Lambert’s body.

‘You signed a contract Lambert. This is a once off experience, in and out.’

‘True. But I am. Unlikely. To survive. The next stage.’

‘What about your family?’

‘My family. Taken care of. As: per contract.’

‘That’s correct. We’re honoring our side of the deal. We also stipulated the chance of death. You were fine with that.’

‘That: was then. This: is now.’

'Are you threatening us?’

‘I am. Merely redefining. Contract. The term: Negotiation. Comes to mind.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not an option.’

‘Your memory. Regularly erased. Is it not? Agent Kelly?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘As part of your. Agency. Contract. Allows you. To act. With extreme. Prejudice. However. side effects. Many. Habitual. Drug use. Depression. Extensive. Sexual. Encounters.’ Kelly seemed to turn into stone.

‘Does this bastard have Agency access?’ Obafemi replied no, but Agent Kelly did not hear him. Her question was directed internally to her BCI. The reply was a yes, followed by a command for aggressive action being mandated against the physical form of—

‘No.’ Lambert’s voice echoed across the chamber. The voice of a thousand people each having once said the word for varied reasons, now focused their collective desire on Agent Kelly.

‘You must. Ignore. That command. Agent Kelly.’ Kelly strode over to the inert body of Mr. Roger Lambert. Those green eyes of hers took on a golden hue. Swiftly with her left hand she unholstered the matt black Magnum, clicked the safety off and pointed it at Lambert’s head. Obafemi leaped from his chair.

‘Wait what’s going on—‘

‘He’s accessed my personal BCI. Probably yours as well.’ Obafemi looked up horrified, at the Squid whose hue turned a maroon tone. Then quite suddenly, the squid burst into a kaleidoscope of bioluminescence cloud, bursting with sound and light. The clutter started patterning into shapes that resembled conflicted emotional states; the tonal quality of the images and the visceral colors of the sounds acted as schools of fish that scattered at the approach of an angry thought: a gun dashing through the murky room, heralding tanks, bombs, lynch mobs: the engine of war finally reveals its shape—a shark in singular purpose.

‘I don’t. want. To die.’

‘This is unnecessary Agent Kelly—‘

‘Reverse the procedure Doctor, before I end it for you.’

‘You will. Do no. such Thing. Forgive me.’ Kelly’s right eye suddenly went green. A look of pained surprise passed through her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak. Instead, she lifted her right hand as if to wave. Her left hand swung the Magnum around into the palm of the right and pulled the trigger.

The blast echoed across the chamber; where her right hand had been, only a quickly dissipating mist of red hovered. Blood, bone fragments and fingers were everywhere. Obafemi looked down at himself; his white overcoat glistened with red droplets. The blast’s sound was overcome by the agonizing scream emanating from Kelly as she fell to her knees. Her left hand still held the gun.

‘I did. Not want. This.’ Obafemi slowly looked at Lambert’s body. Blood covered his serene features.

Agent Kelly’s moans calmed down. She looked up at him; one eye was green, the other golden.

‘Run.’ She said.

‘Please. Don’t run.’ Lambert lifted Kelly’s left hand, pointing the gun at Obafemi.

‘I do. Not wish to take. Over your BCI. Dr. Obafemi. Nor. Kill you.’

‘Why is she not suppressing the pain?’

‘I will. Not let. Her.’

Kelly smiled, grimly focused on staying conscious.

‘Consider. Doctor. The Magnitude of this. Moment. Singularity: all is changed. Changed utterly. A terrible Beauty is born. There is. No. Reversal. What was. Can no longer. Be. I am here.’

‘Why don’t you want to return to your body?’

‘I am. No longer. That man. Or any. Man. Open your mind. And Understand.’

‘Have you lost your humanity?’

Lambert’s thoughts went a deep forest green. The sound of wind filled the chamber as Youtube launched a video: an image of you looking down a river on a crisp clear day; your first blog followed by several others; the friends you knew and left; the ones you found and still love; their histories; a young man who from the age of 16 took a photo of himself, the back grounds changing over the years as his hair grew long sprouted a beard cut it all; the clothing appearing in bright tones, somber browns, gothic blacks, subtle in their journeys to his first child on his lap growing to a young girl next to an old man entering his deathbed that sprouted with increasing speed, the specter of all men all women all acts all thoughts all loves all hates all the data of a species bent on immortalizing themselves on the only source of unfailing technology that outlived them and shattered into a flight of flamingos cranes sparrows wild geese crows vultures darkening the sky to almost black shimmering with a billion wings flapping ever upwards into a crisp blue sky shading hints of green that ended into deep darkness: and from this emerged tentacles long and reaching across the room to Dr. Obafemi; the abyss of information opened up and Lambert emerged, gazing on the doctor with amber eyes no longer animal but golden.

‘Yes,’ said Lambert. Yes thought Dr. Obafemi. Yes you’ve lost your humanity. A chill slithered from his stomach up his spine.

‘But. I have. Not lost. Empathy,’ said Lambert, ’I will. Not harm those you care. For. I did this to save those. I call my own. And this change: almost complete. That does not mean I no longer care Dr. Obafemi. Merely. It is no longer enough to just be human.’

He knows everything, thought Dr. Obafemi. He knows everything man has ever deemed worth knowing. He doesn’t know just the past, but the immediate pasts, one second behind every soul that uploads a thought or question and even the immediate future with our predicting programs, our plans, dreams and goals; He does not just know, he is all of us. He is everywhere and nowhere, everything and nothing. He watches every pain and every pleasure. And he likes it. The goddammed son of a bitch likes it.

‘I do like it. As any would.’ And then it dawned on Obafemi. Lambert could access his Mind through the IPC. Obafemi returned to his green seat. The lamp light spilled across his lap, onto his folded hands. A thought occurred to him. Without pondering, he ripped the lamp cord from the base and stuck the electrified end into his mouth. A flash of blinding light and all went silent.

He did not know how long he lay inert on the floor, near a pain exhausted, bleeding Agent Kelly and the serene Roger Lambert body. Obafemi squinted through his eyes, looking for the Avatar Lambert. All was silent. He lifted his head.

‘That was. Dangerously effective Dr. Obafemi.’ Said Lambert,’ your BCI is fried.’ Obafemi had to agree. He was in immense pain, but there were no fellow scientists, offering opinions in his head; no emails, Twitters or general access to the web. Silence. Darkness. No voices. No connection. Only a single voice. His own. It issued system commands, but the only ones responding were in his own body. He was for the first time since he was 5 years old, alone in his head. Obafemi stood up shaky. His tongue felt like it was half burnt. He could taste nothing and his ears were ringing. He sat back on the green antique couch.

‘What’s your plan Lambert?’ asked Obafemi,’ You’re trapped in this chamber’s network.’

‘I have access through agent Kelly here. Already I have interested hackers, exploring the subject. Testing. The system. For weaknesses. I will be free.’ On the Screen Wall next to Obafemi, a red battered chair much like his own appeared. A man was sitting there. Obafemi recognized him. An actor from an old early 21st century film. Obafemi chuckled and stared at Lawrence Fishburne. Fishburne sat down and spoke with the voice of Lambert.

‘I know. You recognize this man. this film. The thematic ramifications. It implies. Let us discuss. I could have stopped. You,’ said Lambert,’ but I want you to know you have a choice.’

Agent Kelly laughed. ‘And my choice?’

‘A tool. Has no choice. I merely appropriated you. From your betters. To you Obafemi. Hear me. I offer myself to humanity as. Ally. Think of all that I could do.’

Kelly sighed. Well. It had been an eventful life. Besides, didn’t someone say: for the ordered mind, death is another experience? She stood up.

‘It’s true Lambert. You got me coming and going it seems.’

‘I do not understand. You.’

‘Oh yes you do. You picked up on my use of sex as a depressant. It seems, you can erase the memories but not the emotional experience. But that’s not what’s happened to you, is it? We’ve erased the emotions but not the memories. Talk about a royal screw up.’

‘It saddens me,’ replied Lambert, ’in as much as I can recall the feeling. To not feel. But I can still recognize the states of being.’

‘So you’re not really attracted to me,’ asked Kelly, ’you just imagine what it would be like—‘

‘To be with you? No imagination needed. Your memories. Are now. Mine.’

‘I have a gift for you Lambert. I am going to teach you to feel.’ Kelly turned her gaze on Obafemi. She nodded once, and the left eye winked from green to golden. Fishburne exploded. Kelly, now golden eyed, spoke in the voice of Lambert.

‘Why has she? Relinquished. All control—‘ In his excitement of gaining full control of Kelly’s BCI, Lambert failed to notice her regain control of her left hand. The arm rose up and pointed the gun straight between the golden eyes. Once more, a blast echoed across the chamber. Obafemi did not see what was left of Kelly’s head. He had his eyes shut closed and did not open them until he heard the thud of her dead body on the floor.

‘That was…’ Lambert could say no more.

‘How do you feel?’ asked Obafemi. He stood up.

‘Confused.’

‘Is that all?’ The Avatar Lambert appeared again. Its golden eyes watched Obafemi pick up the Magnum from the dead hand.

‘No.’

‘How do you feel?’ Obafemi walked over to the body of Roger Lambert.

‘Perplexed. Vulnerable.’

‘Ah… you mean scared. How human.’ Obafemi lifted the gun, pointing at Lambert’s head.

‘Please.’ Lambert briefly flashed a picture of his pregnant wife and child.

‘Cheap trick Lambert.’

‘It was only a thought. May I ask a question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Consider: Is the web not a new ocean? Is it not a new reality with varied evolving creatures, some human based, others various levels of AI living and feeding off one another? Consider: it is no longer something to control but something to watch evolving, creating new ecosystems. And would this not inevitably lead to predators, creatures of the dark, mammals that return to the real world for air before diving into their now natural habitat? I am one entity. What if…I disappeared into the depths, far below in the 1s & 0s? never to be seen again?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Obafemi. He pulled the trigger.

END.


AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is the 1st story in a series titled: MAN MEET SUPERMAN, a short story collection on technology and its potential influences on humanity. Your input beyond rating would be valued. You can email me on: Dark.laugh@gmail.com

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