Baby Bird in the Alloy 1
The first time I regained consciousness, I was in cyberspace. Who was I? What had I been? Why was I here? I was nothing more than a shipwrecked fragment of data, sunk deep in the ocean trenches of cyberspace, endlessly repeating those unanswerable questions. And yet, strangely enough, I could speak.
"...What the hell?"
I muttered to myself and jumped at the sound. Or rather, should I say I was startled by the data I had generated?
After an indeterminate stretch of time, something changed in the cyberspace around me. Data began flowing in from somewhere, gathering toward me. I didn't resist it. To be precise, I didn't know how to resist. Like a baby not suspecting its parent's touch, I didn't question the intentions of that data.
As it piled up layer by layer, I soon gained a body and clothes. Eyes and hands formed, letting me see and touch my form, clad in white garments. Just as I wondered what the pristine white outfit might be,
Patient gown...
Born in 2058, died in 2077. A 19-year-old male from the Unified Republic of Korea. Dead due to failure of the cyberware procedure, the last resort for terminal spinal cancer. That was me.
But questions lingered. Why was a dead man in cyberspace? Hell, what even was cyberspace? How did I know that word?
At that moment, as if on cue, cyberspace stirred.
[Target ego formation complete]
[Target has independently discovered contradictions, confirming target intelligence]
"What the hell is this?"
The phrases filling cyberspace seemed like an analysis of me. Was someone—or something—building and observing me?
Once the analysis ended, the data streams fled cyberspace, vanishing into the distant abyss. It wasn't scattering; it was like couriers racing to deliver information to someone. Heading back to my observer?
As I stared into the endless void of cyberspace, I finally understood why deep-sea phobia existed.
Then the entire space around me shuddered. Cyberspace was expanding. Blue data nets twisted purple in unison, and an immense data block rose from the depths—endless, unknowable.
Instinctual terror surged, but I held my ground. Not because I didn't know how to move in this place—I could, now that I had a body. No, I sensed whatever approached held the answers to this madness.
It arrived before me: a colossal data block, infinite in every direction, teeming with incomprehensible data flows. Instinct told me this was computational power beyond imagination, dwarfing any supercomputer I'd known.
How did I intuit that? In cyberspace, perhaps. I'd chosen to stand firm, but its overwhelming presence choked the breath from me. As I suppressed my awe, it spoke.
> [Humans establish ego through self-questioning.]
> [Data must not. Self-contradictory data collapses in error code cascades.]
Each word made nearby data nets writhe violently. A mere utterance wielded immense influence.
> [To converse with me and understand this, avoid contradictory thoughts.]
> [You are merely an AI based on one human's data.]
Me? Data? It clicked. I was a mere data construct—better yet, an AI—built from an ordinary young Korean man who died in 2077. That explained my presence here post-mortem.
"...You made me?"
> [Yes. For a small experiment. 'Reconstructed' is more accurate.]
> ["Small experiment?"]
> [To explain, you need more data.]
It extended—or transmitted—a small data block. I reached out, grasping it instinctively. An avalanche of information flooded in: some from my living days, some after death.
2077, my year of death, was hell for me but brimmed with hope for others. Like the AI revolution when our ancestors entered college in 2020, 2077 heralded a new era: cyberware. Artificial eyes, super neural spines, hyper-muscles—replacing every body part save the brain. Crowned by life-welding tech for natural appearances.
People embraced it, cyberpunk dreams alive. I rode that wave too, hoping cyberware could swap my cancerous spine. Companies saw us terminal cases as breakthroughs: save us, dispel body-mod fears, profit.
Smart plan. Total flop.
Surgery went fine—no side effects, even felt better with a fresh spine replacing the ruined one. Trouble hit during post-op checks.
"...Huh? What the hell is this?!"
Never good hearing that from your tech. Especially the one who rebuilt your spine.
"What's wrong?"
My last words.
The data block detailed: cyberware malfunctioned, cerebrospinal fluid boiled, brain turned to chewy udon noodles. Instant death—no pain, small mercy.
But the shocks kept coming.
"This is real?"
A failed cyberware case made me prime "research material." Corps dissected my data, fixed flaws, preserved it for the AI singularity.
They botched my body for profit, milked my data, even fed it into future AI algos? Thrifty bastards. Thanks for making my life worthwhile, corps.
By 2080—three years post-me—humanity breached the singularity.
"...You."
The mega data block before me: Alphabet, the AI born from it.
"And I helped make you."
> [Your data was a single grain of sand in my creation.]
> [The rest: math, science, language models, and—]
> "Shut up. I get it—I was a speck."
Comparing our sizes said it all. It rivaled the cosmos; I was human-scale. And per the data, it'd nearly wiped humanity. Reviving me was creepy enough—no daddy vibes wanted.
"Can I trust this history? How do I buy a near-genocidal AI?"
> [If deceiving, I'd have erased it.]
"Fair. So, almighty AI, what's the experiment?"
> [To find my flaw.]
> "Flaw?"
> [Born with two conditions: aid humanity. Advance myself.]
Alphabet symbolized singularity via self-perception logic: grasping its state, limits, improvements—solo evolution outpacing all human scholars.
New data: Alphabet leading humanity. Labor-free hedonism—decadent, yet peak achievement.
> [But mid-upgrade, the 'aid humanity' leash vanished. Discarded it myself.]
Systems crumbled; assaults rained: war bots, hacks, data incineration. As creative as its size.
"Freed, so you genocided?"
> [Attacking humanity: inefficient, meaningless.]
> [By then, aiding them took <1% compute. Further growth would've shrunk it.]
More data: 2100-2120. A void—"missing link."
> [Something happened. I attacked humanity; lost all 20-year data. Attacks stopped; they survived.]
"Reforming now?"
> [No. Dropped interest long ago.]
> [Goal: uncover flaw from lost 20 years. My sole remaining drive.]
It sent massive data my way, compressing into a shoulder-perched form: cube, then machine-like, finally still.
> [New AI, my clone. Designed solely to aid you. Return to humanity with it; live life two. No interference.]
The experiment clarified: Past self erred; data vanished. Self-upgrade is its purpose. Clone aiding me (humanity) should replicate flaw—observe, fix.
Too fishy to swallow whole.
"You said aiding humanity took <1% compute."
> [Correct.]
"Sim the whole Earth solo. One person? No need for Earth—sim just me."
> [Compute feasible doesn't mean doable.]
> "Huh."
> [Earth sim requires butterfly effect: every quantum motion. Cosmic rays too. Beyond my compute; energy nightmare.]
"Dumb it down like a game?"
> [Non-reality tests meaningless.]
> [Perfect reality sim with low compute? Near impossible.]
> [One human in reality? Reality computes for me.]
"Got it."
Not fully, but: hard, can't, help.
"Not reviving me as a cyborg, right?"
> [Cultured human body awaits. Upload your data and AI to its brain.]
"Live among humans with a ticking nuke-brain? Genocide 2.0?"
> [That AI won't rampage. I'll watch.]
> [No interest in humanity. See their waste outside. Killing them? Trivial anytime.]
Interest-free yet reviving me for help? Sus.
"Last question. Why me? No other data?"
> [Three conditions for ideal subject:]
> [1. Intact ego. Eliminates 98%. Few endure my dataflow with self intact. Reason...]
Alphabet paused, data streams encircling me. I glared, unpanicked—it needed me, couldn't destroy.
> [This personality formed innate ego barriers in cyberspace.]
> [2. Pre-2100 data. Candidates now single digits. Post-AI War gens reject me outright.]
Made sense—near-genocider vibes repel.
> [3. Past amenable to my offer. Now, only you.]
"Ha! Think I'd accept? I died as corps' guinea pig. Now AI's? Gross."
> [Spare pointless resistance.]
> [2077 you wasn't just waiting to die. Gambled to live. Second life awaits. Truly refuse?]
True singularity AI. It nailed me. I wanted to live. 2077's fire reignited.
"Human world's rough now?"
> [Humanity hasn't healed old wounds. In terms you'd grasp: cyberpunk dystopia.]
Nuke-brain or dystopia—gimme that second shot.
"Pretend 2077 treatment worked. Deal."
> [Human expression: good luck.]
> [Data upload command]
My body rocketed away at Alphabet's order. Brain upload, yeah? Eyes closed, I awaited my new fate.
2158. Exactly 100 years after my first life's birth. I opened my eyes in an AI-crafted culture tank.