💾 Archived View for clemat.is › saccophore › library › shorts › defcon › 24 › DEFCON-24-Leah-Thompso… captured on 2022-06-04 at 01:04:02.
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⬅️ Previous capture (2021-12-03)
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"The Backup" by: 3n_ion
“Upload complete. Route initiated. Commencing drive.”
The black Titan SUV received its directive, sent a brief confirmation,
and started its engine with a rumble. The squeal from the wide rubber
tires echoed around the vacant parking structure as the empty vehicle
circled up the concrete ramp to the crowded street level above. It
headed out into the dry, warm Las Vegas night, weaving through the
throng of inebriated people who were desperately striving to either feel
or suppress something, and it advanced toward the edge of the city. The
low energy light was silently blinking on the dashboard but the vehicle
neglected its usual pre-engagement charge; It didn’t have far to go.
Just a few miles outside of the Las Vegas city limits, where glistening
lights fought back the pitch blackness of an otherwise desolate desert
night sky, a woman glanced down at an orange warning light blinking in
the simple outline of a man, which indicated the approach of a
human-driven vehicle. It had been many miles since she last passed
another vehicle and a good portion of the day since she passed one with
a human driver. Maybe it was the reckless speed or slipping tires that
suggested the driver must be human but this particular vehicle gave
every indication of passing by with little incident, and so Dr. Aphelia
Thorn yawned and returned her gaze to the lighted screen above her. She
was taken aback by the sound of crunching metal and the feel of the
laptop as it slid from her grasp. Her momentary weightlessness quickly
gave way to a jolting compression as her head whipped violently around.
As was true with most humans, Dr. Thorn assessed her life by the
significant milestones to which she had carried herself with pointed
determination. She calculated her approach to these milestones using the
larger quantities of measure. The hurried years spent at medical school
flew by so quickly that she forgot to even count the months or days
until she finally grasped the coveted diploma in her tired yet steady
hands. From the moment she first saw the tiny dot of a developing human
on the ultrasound screen, she counted the months and then weeks until
she could look into her child's inquisitive eyes as they scanned the
world with innocent wonder.
Even the events that seemed more mundane in comparison were subject to a
high-level view. As her car sped itself along a lonely stretch of desert
highway bound for the vibrant bustle of Las Vegas, she calculated her
arrival in terms of hours and minutes. This is not to say that the value
of the humble second was lost to her although, again as with most
humans, the power of the second perhaps was. Although she would always
hold a picture in her mind of the moment her husband-to-be turned his
piercing eyes upwards toward her for the first time and she would never
forget the way her uneven, panting breaths and the quiet hum of hospital
machines gave way to the erupting screams of a child finding his voice
for the first time, she seldom gave much thought to the small moments
and simple seconds that led to those particular events.
A second was all it had taken for the capricious wind to shift
directions and catch a young, preoccupied professor unaware. A second of
startled surprise caused an ever so slight imbalance in his step. In an
attempt to regain his composure the flustered young man loosened his
grip but for a second, which allowed his generous stack of papers to
begin their wayward descent. It was just a moment, just a minimal
collection of lowly seconds that saw a graceful med student sprint
across the courtyard to the professor's aid. Those seconds, those small,
unassuming moments were the building blocks upon which her beautiful
life full of grand milestones had arisen. And yet, those same simple
moments were lost to Dr. Thorn's brilliant mind.
Dr. Thorn’s oversight might have been forgivable; she was merely
human, after all. Most humans jumped from grand event to grand event as
a child crossing a stream with a giggling leap from stone to stone.
Their rush through life and laser focus on only the most notable
achievements left them blind to so much. Dr. Thorn, however, should have
known better. She devoted so many years of her life to the study of the
human mind and it's elegant, elaborate structure. She mapped each
pathway, catalogued neurons and gave each small, menial piece the utmost
attention. Her studies should have impressed upon her the importance of
every connection, no matter how small. And yet, in her own life, she
chose only to focus on the larger packets, ignoring the bits and frames
that built her very existence.
The programs never made those mistakes; they never discounted the
details or allowed a small change to slide by undetected. Even the car
driving her toward her final destination tirelessly calculated the
effects that a slight dampness in the road might cause. It determine
whether breaking, swerving, or running over bewildered wildlife who had
wandered into its path would be the better option, and even measured how
much breaking force would need to be applied to prevent a collision with
the same offending creature. The car stored this information: the
seemingly insignificant details of a small interaction, the results of a
calculated decision. In this way, the programs were simply better. The
programs never discounted the bits.
On a lonely stretch of desert road, Dr. Aphelia Thorn was forced to face
the significance of a simple moment as two cars engaged in a deadly duet
of tumbling and spinning. It was only a matter of seconds, although each
second seemed to stretch out longer than the last, until finally the
smaller vehicle came to rest like an upturned beetle, tires spinning
vigorously in the air. Shattered glass and flecks of paint carpeted the
scene like an overturned bottle of dangerous glitter. Aside from the
steady whir of the tires, a flat silence hung in the air. Dr. Thorn
groaned as she fought back the darkness filling her eyes. Warm ooze
dripped from the corners of her open mouth and trickled slowly down her
cheek. She tried to wipe it off but found only one hand to be of any
use. The other was tightly wedged between her side and the crumpled
remains of her door. Dr. Thorn thought of all the seconds leading up to
her predicament, 1,001,111,010 to be exact, and with renewed
determination she vowed to find a way to ensure at least that many more.
With her ear pinched tightly to her shoulder, Dr. Thorn used her free
hand to push against the roof turned floor, struggling to wriggle
herself free. It was no use. Like a showman at the Cirque du Soleil, her
body was contorted in a strange manner, although unlike the same
showman, she did not possess the flexibility to have assumed the
position of her own accord. As Dr. Thorn felt the blood dripping down
into a growing pool a few inches from her head, the darkness edged
closer. She summoned her strength and tried to hold the darkness at bay
for just a few seconds more. Dr. Thorn’s chest heaved in a weak laugh,
cut short by a fit of coughing. In this desperate moment, at least, she
understood the impact of a simple second, the significance of a singular
bit. Now she needed every bit to count. She tapped the index finger of
her free hand to her temple in a series of short beats. Tap-tap
tap-tap-tap. On the last tap she held her finger pressed into her skin
until she felt a slight vibration. Only then could she allow her eyelids
to slide shut. "At least I could make a final backup.”
Off in the distance, before the wail of the sirens and the hum of the
approaching emergency vehicles broke through the suffocating silence,
Dr. Thorn heard a voice. Through the delirium and swallowing darkness
she picked out the phrase "Objective complete."
"31 year old woman, car crash involving 2 autos, no other persons on the
scene. Facial scanning inconclusive. Severe contusions to her upper
abdomen..." The dark haired EMT stepped through his handoff in the
steady yet hurried tone of a seasoned professional but the nurse's pen
merely hovered above her tablet as her eyes widened and her jaw dropped
slightly open. The EMT paused his report, rolled his eyes, and held his
tablet up to hers until a loud beep sounded. "I don't know why I bother
talking anymore" he muttered as he turned away in a huff the nurse would
have found adorable had she been paying him any mind. Instead, the
nurse’s attention was fixed firmly on the patient. She didn’t look
down once at the relevant information that had populated on her screen.
She simply stared before finally blurting out ”I know this woman, I
know her! Someone get the chief. NOW!"
The chief sat comfortably in a high-backed suede chair with his right
leg crossed over his left. His right foot bounced absently in the air as
his index finger traced across the page of a small, leather-bound book.
Although his desk was programmed to hold every medical text ever
published, the chief still held a sentimental attachment to the way
physical books felt as he cracked them open, cradled them in his hands,
and gently flipped the thin pages. When he needed to know something, he
would read from his desk. When he truly needed to understand something,
he would study it in physical copy.
"As you read this with your humans eyes, as you wrestle with the part of
your tiny human mind that wants to slam these pages shut and eschew the
principles described within this text, you will almost certainly feel
yourself shrinking back..."
The chief had indeed caught himself shrinking down into his chair like a
scolded child, just as he had every time he read this particular
passage. He raised the book from his lap to eye level as he straightened
his posture. His finger continued to drag across the page.
"...Embrace this moment, revel in the stifling limitation that is your
fatal human flaw so that you may know why you must, for the sake of the
planet you dwell upon and the children you hope to produce, cede your
power to the programs."
The chief drew in a long breath and squeezed the book shut. The embossed
writing across the front was faded but the title was just barely
readable: "A Program's Manifesto."
As he glanced at the clock, the chief realized just how quickly his
deadline was approaching. He slid the book into a hidden compartment and
with renewed purpose, he began drumming his fingers across the keyboard
on his desk.
The chief maintained a steady pace for several minutes until he realized
his fingers had come to rest upon the last set of keys needed to
complete his code. His face wrinkled and he began nervously stroking his
short, thin hair. His eyes darted to the clock on his desk and his chest
tightened but his fingers remained frozen in place. He bowed his head,
squeezed his eyes shut, and let out a weighted sigh through pursed lips.
He allowed his mind to drift through images acquired over his years as a
doctor, all chilling reminders of human weakness and negligence. He
allowed the rage these images induced to coarse through him. His skin
grew warm and his face reddened. His eyes popped open and his fingers
came to life as he typed the execute command trigger: "Are you hungry?"
The chief jumped when the phone rang and the light flashed indicating
the call had originated from the ER. He lifted the receiver, muttered a
few insincere words about not wanting to be disturbed, and straightened
his tie. He placed the receiver down in its cradle and took a moment to
gain his composure. He snatched a compact, black hard drive from a
hidden compartment in his desk and copied over his program. He dropped
the drive into his coat pocket and darted down the hall.
”Well, it's her alright” Chief Rattiro said in a gentle tone as he
gazed down at the comatose woman. “It’s Dr. Aphelia Thorn in the
flesh.” He turned to address the doctor in charge. “What's her
condition?"
“Cerebral edema forced us to induce a coma sir, but the swelling isn't
subsiding." The doctor was young and quite beautiful, even with her
tousled hair and tired eyes. She spoke with an air of confidence that
naturally accompanied such amiable characteristics but her shifting
demeanor did little to hide her growing fears.
A small shaking voice spoke from the corner of the room. The nurse who
ID'd the patient stepped forward. "I was supposed to go see her speak
this weekend, about her new procedure. She was going to speak in the
Biohacking Village at DEF CON." The nurse had been introduced to DEF CON
when she was a child after her father caught her trying to inject
homemade nanobots into her 10 year old schnauzer in an adorably
misguided attempt to cure his old age. Although her father was no longer
strong enough to endure the rigorous convention, she still attended and
regaled him with stories of the newest fantastical discoveries and
inventions upon her return. The weekend's festivities had promised not
to disappoint yet again, with a talk from her very own personal hero,
Dr. Aphelia Thorn. But as she stared down at the failing body of the
woman she had dreamed of meeting, she became distraught. Silent tears
slipped down her cheeks as she absently nibbled at her fingernails.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. The tension in the room seemed
to mute even the beeping from the machines. After a long pause, the
chief spoke up.
“Doctor Ramirez, please have an OR prepped right away. I’ll be
scrubbing in along with Dr. Oslo Innait. We’ll need someone to select
and prep a synthetic, and you might as well get the Synth Tech in the OR
with us. We are going to do it."
By this time a crowd of staff, upon hearing of their high profile
patient, had gathered to gawk at the door. When Chief Rattiro ordered
his directive, the crowd drew in a collective breath. Muttered confusion
began to rise but the chief quelled the resistance with a sharp look.
"It's in her directive on file, and we're equipped. We are going to do
it" he insisted.
A man in a white coat stepped forward from the crowd at the door,
wringing his hands. ”Sir, it's still so controversial! I don't even
know what the laws are regarding her procedure." The physician who spoke
up was a stocky man of advancing years, who often convinced himself he
had chosen law over medicine in an attempt to remain behind a desk and
avoid excessive walking.
Chief Rattiro drew himself up so that he towered over the objecting
doctor. ”After all these years and the laws still can't keep up with
the tech. The patient will die without it. If she wants to sue us for
performing a procedure she invented then so be it, but I will save this
woman if it's my last act as chief of this hospital.”
The chief paused for a moment to regain his composure. “Now get it
done. I’ll be there shortly, I need to retrieve her latest backup.”
With that sharp mandate, the throng of employees burst open and flitted
away like bees released from a hive, each to perform their own important
task.
Chief Rattiro returned to his office and gently pushed the door shut. He
strolled to his desk and swept his hand across the top to wake it, then
dragged his index finger around in a series of swipes and shapes to
unlock the screen. He sank down into his chair and spoke. “Pull up the
most recent backup for subject 634, Dr. Aphelia Emmos Thorn. Copy the
backup to OR 3.”
As the program worked to complete the Chief’s command, he shifted his
weight against the corner of the desk and lifted a well-worn journal
that had been resting beside him.
"A Study in the Transference of Human Consciousness from Backup
Versions into Analogous Synthetic Humanoids, by Dr. Aphelia
Thorn"
Chief Rattiro flipped intently through the pages, examining the
handwritten notes scribbled into the margins, absorbing each word with
ease. A disembodied female voice interrupted his reading.
“Backup files for subject 634 have now been copied to OR 3. Awaiting
link to synthetic model.”
The chief rolled the journal up and tucked it under his arm. He reached
into his right coat pocket and lifted out the compact drive as if his
eyes needed to verify what the slight weight to that pocket had merely
suggested. He slipped the drive back in and smoothed his hand over the
pocket opening to reassure himself. He opened the office door, wrapped
his fingers around his lapel and straightened his coat, then strutted
off down the hall.
Dr. Aphelia Thorn blinked several times before opening her eyes. She saw
a crowd of hospital staff with eager faces shoving into the room. She
instantly knew they were there for more than just a famous patient. Her
mind should have been sluggish following the injuries she was certain to
have sustained but Dr. Thorn felt more alive than she ever had. She was
surprised to not feel more sadness for the loss of the human body she
had nurtured for the last 31 years, but the scientific curiosity of the
whole experience engulfed her.
She concentrated on moving her limbs and finally her left arm raised in
a stiff, jerking manner. She thought it must have been the synthetic
material, or perhaps she needed to change the way she viewed movement
now that she was driving a body categorically different from the one she
had learned to operate before she developed the capability to even
question what she was learning. She tried again with the right arm,
concentrating on the flow of movement as she led with her elbow and
pulled her wrist up to follow, but the right arm moved in the same
ungraceful manner, much like the stiff wooden arms of an old puppet
being danced around from invisible strings.
Chief Rattiro hovered over his patient. He spoke in a slow, deliberate
manner, ignoring everything but the patient in front of him. ”Do you
know who you are?"
Dr. Thorn shifted her focus from manipulating her limbs and curiously
tried to form the words to her answer. "I'm Aphelia. Dr. Aphelia
Thorn.”
The words came faster and with more precision than she was expecting,
although she realized she had no framework for understanding how it
would feel to manipulate a synthetic body.
"Do you know where you are?"
Dr. Thorn reluctantly shifted her focus back to the question. Again, she
mulled over the words but they seemed to push their way past her lips on
their own.
"Brighton General." She had meant the words as a question, considering
she was only vaguely familiar with the hospitals surrounding the city,
but she noted that she had spoken them with more assuredness than she
felt.
The quiet buzz of excited voices around the room grew steadily with each
question. The hospital staff pushed deeper into the room as a shifting
blob, fully aware that the experience, though related at later times to
friends and family as an individual one, was, in that moment, an
experience belonging to and shared by the collective.
The chief alone remained free of emotion as he proceeded with his
questioning. His eyes fixed intently on his patient as he asked “Are
you hungry?"
Dr. Thorn considered the question. Without knowing the vendor or model
of her new body, she had no way of determining how to feed it, but the
question was not about the process of eating but about the feeling of
it. She was, somehow, indeed feeling quite hungry.
"Yes, I'm hungry,” she tried to say. The words remained stuck in her
head. She focused again, chalking the difficulty up to the excitement
and bewilderment involved in operating an entirely new form.
"Yes, I'm hungry," she tried again.
"No, I am not hungry.” The words came out so unexpectedly that Dr.
Thorn was taken aback, but she didn't have time to ponder the disparity
for long. A shock lit within her and, like a spark catching hold of a
dried twig, it raced through her new body, pulsating from her core
outward to her fingertips, her toes, even the tips of her ears and soft
corners of her narrow jaw. Her eyes widened with bewilderment and her
cheeks lifted with excitement, but only for a moment.
As the shock continued to awaken the physical form in which she resided,
a wall slammed down inside her mind. The wall was heavy and the sound it
made as it crashed down gave the feeling of complete closure. It brought
a stifling darkness with it, and panic set in as Dr. Thorn threw her
energy against the wall to no avail. She could no longer feel her
connection to the synthetic body though she was certain she had not
died. Gathering herself, Dr. Thorn remembered the way in which she had
moved her limbs before and concentrated on reestablishing that
connection. She remembered the feel of her left arm raising from the
soft, warm hospital blanket and the way it's lurching motion reminded
her of a baby giraffe struggling to make sense of it's awkward limbs.
Still she felt nothing.
Then it happened; a pulling sensation as if a plug, upon insertion into
an outlet, had begun drawing power right through Dr. Thorn. She could
not resist as she felt pieces of her being extracted. It started with
the way she talked: the words she favored and the pace at which she
spoke them, how her tone was light and airy with friends and family but
distant and aloof when addressing people she did not know and did not
care to know. Everything about her speech, her mannerisms, her
weaknesses and strengths, her dearly held beliefs and her deepest
passions, all of these things poured out of her. As she felt all the
things that made her who she was being tugged from her then shoved back
in waves, Dr. Thorn realized what was happening. Something was learning
her. If she still possessed control of any physical form, Dr. Thorn
would have been shivering.
Somewhere off in the distance, she could hear Chief Rattiro usher the
staff from the room with haste. The words sounds as if they had
travelled across a great distance and through a thick fog. “Our
patient needs her rest now, she does not need you hovering about and
polluting her air. Get back to work now, all of you. From this point
forward Dr. Thorn is under my direct care.”
Chief Rattiro followed the last employee to the door and flipped the
light switch off. As he pulled the door shut he closed his eyes for a
moment longer than a standard blink. The words that escaped his lips
hissed out in a muffled whisper: “Forgive me.”