“The Binary Dreamer”
The man sat alone on the examination table, fidgeting with the bracelet the receptionist had attached to his wrist when she called him to the window. He was middle-aged, short, flabby, balding, nondescript. A few days stubble clung unevenly to his face, suggesting crisis. A blue hospital gown was wound around his soft torso, the split in the back exposing his naked skin. A vent above him filled the small, sterile room with cold, sterile air. A counter littered with medical paraphernalia stood opposite the examination table. Medical charts adorned the wall. An odd, old-fashioned atmosphere reigned in this place, as it did an any medical building. It did little to comfort the man.
He looked up at the sound of the door handle turning. In walked the doctor, a tall, wide-shouldered man, with a hurried gait. The doctor greeted his patient with a firm handshake, which the man returned weakly. The man avoided eye contact with the doctor, a fact that he noted with distaste.
“Alright, let's get started shall we?” the doctor asked with a broad smile, “Do you have any questions about the procedure?”
The man hesitated, shifting his weight on the table. “Well, yeah, a couple...”
“By all means, ask. We realize that this is quite an unusual time and that the sheer idea of the procedure can seem, ah, overwhelming to some.” The doctor wore on his clean-shaven, angular face that practiced look of concern of which only those of a medical profession seem capable. The look suggested a serious depth of understanding and remorse, amplified by the doctor's almost comically thick glasses. The gaze directed at the man seemed to the him more than a little condescending.
“Um,” said the patient from atop the table, his pale legs kicking nervously out from beneath his gown. “Well, for starters, won't the procedure kill me?”
The Doctor was unable to stifle a laugh that sounded inappropriately jolly. “Why, yes and no. Did you not watch the bulletin?”
“Well, yeah, but...” The man scratched absentmindedly at his balding head.
“It is true that the procedure does induce biological death in our patients,” hastened the doctor, “Translating one's brain into a digital format is quite a—let's say exhausting—process for one's body to endure. However, you'll find that you no longer need it. After all, what is a body besides a primitive interface for one's brain? What is life anyway, besides the electrical signals inside of your skull? This procedure simplifies matters, and it is far is more efficient this way. Rather than taking up physical space, and using up our precious resources—oxygen especially—our citizens may now simply exist inside of one of our seven sister supercomputers, and use only a miniscule amount of electricity.”
“But biologically speaking, I'll be dead, right?”
The doctor took on a strained expression, as if it were painful for him to have to explain something so simple to such a dullard. “Well, yes, biologically speaking, you will be dead. Biological death is quite necessary at this point for all members of the lower classes to ensure that survival may continue for our brave leaders, the scientific council, as well as selected members of the upper class to go on living in order to try to solve the great problem: whether or not the human race can go on as biological entities once the Earth can no longer support us.”
At this the man scoffed.
“Come now, surely you're not suggesting that it is unfair that those members of society who have sacrificed so much should not be allowed the privilege of biological life? They bear a great burden for humanity and for science. They are choosing the lesser of the two means of existence in order to try and preserve that very same existence, flawed though it is.”
“Yeah, that or else they just want the Earth to themselves,” the patient mumbled indignantly.
The doctor ignored the comment. “Bear in mind that biological life has become a mere privilege, an unnecessary luxury; if one chooses to stubbornly think of an existence as flawed as a biological one as something favorable. Migration is nothing new,” he lectured, “As you know, the first migration took place over 23 years ago, and since then millions have made the leap. Before the bulletin 41% of our population already existed digitally. Hell, it's better that way, if you ask me. You have complete control over your own space, as well as your interface in Digital Eden. And the council awarded you, a—let's see—” he said, looking up, indicating that he was accessing the Web. “ah yes, a custodial servant, with a cosy 512 terabyte space, all for yourself. Don't forget, you'll also have access to DEden, as well as the Archives. You'll be able to see all of your friends and loved ones who have made the migration already. Now, doesn't that sound nice?”
The man looked unconvinced.
“How long have you been alive, now?” the doctor asked.
“83 years” the patient sighed.
“83 years, and look at your health. You've lead a full life have you not? Now is not the time to be thinking selfishly...”
The doctor noted the man's vacant expression and changed tactics.
“But then again... I can see that you've suffered, have you not?” The patient's blank stare ensued, filled the room like white noise. “You're tired. Tired of an imperfect existence. Life's too unpredictable on the outside, is it not? But inside,” tapping his temple, “you are in charge. You are empowered. And this is not the bronze ages of the Web. The system is utterly flawless. There are no crashes. Nothing unexpected happens. There is no labor. There is no pain. You simply live how you wish to live, with complete control over your surroundings, forever.”
The doctor pronounced the last word slowly, and with great deliberation, as if this final nuance of his argument should enlighten this dull creature to reason at last. The man looked up, furrowing his brow. “Yeah, but doesn't that make the whole thing pointless?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is the point of an endless existence inside of a computer?” the man asked, finally making eye contact with the doctor.
“My friend, I cannot answer such questions. I am a humble servant of medicine. Perhaps you should have spoken to an analyst if you have such questions, however, I fear it is too late for that.”
“Do I have any other options?” the man asked.
The doctor looked annoyed. “Well as I said before, biological death is mandatory for those of your class. For those who do not wish to join the digital migration, we are authorized to provide suicide pills,” he said gravely.
“Then I would like a suicide pill,” said the patient resolvedly.
The doctor became red in the face. “Why? What good will it do? You've been gifted by chance such a great and wonderful blessing. Your existence, your life—”
“—Is utterly meaningless if it does not end.”
“What are you talking about?” The doctor practically screamed, “Do not be a fool! Do you not see the opportunity you are being granted? We are standing upon the pinnacle of science! Do you realize how many in the ages before you would have given their whole lives in order to receive the offer you are being given? A perfect and infinite existence, something they could only dream of...”
“Have you ever heard about heaven?” the patient asked at last.
A sickened expression passed over the doctor's face. “Heaven,” he replied, “was a primitive belief. A byproduct of the religions that reigned before the council. A paradise, I believe. And how do you,” narrowing his magnified eyes, “know about heaven?”
“My father was a historian. He specialized in the times before the Age of Reason. He took his life shortly after the bulletin.”
“I am sorry to hear that, but I'm afraid I do not understand what a primitive belief has to do with the case at hand. Surely, you are not suggesting that there is an afterlife?”
“Of course not, but you see, you've... you've created heaven,” the patient said softly.
“Okay, to put it in primitive terms, perhaps we have created a 'heaven,' in a manner of speaking; so what?”
“Heaven,” explained the man, “The idea of a paradise, plagued humanity for millennia.”
“It is a widely accepted fact that all of religious thought did, but go on, explain yourself.”
“Well, have you heard of nihilism?”
The doctor admitted he had not.
“Nihilism was one of the schools of thought deemed 'obsolete' by the council. It is to deny or refuse life. Religions were considered nihilistic because by investing in an afterlife, people did not actually grasp the gravity of their lives. They were unable to see life for what it is.”
“Which is?”
“Which is meaningless.”
“Absurd!” cried the doctor with disgust.
“It is,” agreed the man solemnly. “It absolutely is, and therein lies the problem. Religions gave people a meaning, but blinded them to the reality of their existence. We do the same thing today with science, and for those who do not believe in science, we distract them endlessly with technology. Everyone is so busy living inside of the Web that they no longer notice the conditions of life in the reality they are actually living in.”
The doctor scoffed. “What outdated rhetoric! Why bother?” he asked, busying himself with cleaning his glasses against his white coat. “Why bother even considering this reality the reality in which you live?”
“A good question. My father argued that the day we implanted microchips into our brains, the day we plugged ourselves into the internet, is the day we became something less than human.”
At this the doctor rolled his eyes. He looked up and replaced his glasses disdainfully. “And let me guess, your father was one of those old radicals who refused the upgrade?”
“True: my father never had a microchip implanted in his brain.”
The doctor laughed bitterly, “That makes perfect sense. I now understand all of this trouble you've given me.” He reached for a white canister and a plastic cup, twisted off the seal of the canister, and tapped one large, blue pill into the cup. “Here you are,” extending the cup to the man, “here's your dose of 'meaning,' or whatever it is you think you're gaining by spitting in the face of science.”
“I wasn't finished,” said the patient quietly.
“Alright, go on,” urged the doctor sarcastically, leaning on the counter.
“I brought up heaven” continued the man patiently, “because, well, I always wished that it did exist.”
“You contradict yourself!” cried the doctor, throwing up his arms and catapulting the suicide pill into the air. He made no attempt to retrieve it, only continued to stare angrily at the vile, illogical man sitting before him on the examination table.
“I do,” said the man. “I realize that I do. But you still haven't heard me out. You see, I was always fascinated by the idea of heaven, I gave it much thought when I was younger. It was such an enticing escape from the harsh nature of reality. But how could we, as humans, go on forever? That was the flaw I detected. Who could have that kind of will, that kind of energy, to just go on existing, endlessly? Even in a perfect world, we would still suffer—”
“—Idiot!” the doctor interrupted, “Why do you waste my time?”
“Doctor, hear me out. I realized that we are only truly at peace when we are asleep. In dreaming, we can grasp the infinite.”
A look of realization slowly crept over the doctor's face. “Do you mean to say—”
The man nodded. “I also have not been upgraded.”
“I...I did not realize that there were any of your generation that did not...You...You do not dream lucidly? You dream outside of the internet?”
“I do.”
The doctor was dumbfounded. “Tell me, what is it like?”
“It is like nothing else,” replied the man.
The doctor's gaze slid to the spotless floor, where he caught sight of the blue capsule. Not knowing what to say, he bent over to pick it up. The man pushed himself off from the table clumsily, and grasped the doctor's arm. “There is no need,” he said.
The doctor looked puzzled.
“Would it be possible to scan my brain and set it to go on working in a passive state inside of a closed system—”
“—So that you'd be in a dreamlike state forever...” the doctor finished.
The man nodded.
“Well, why, I suppose it is possible, although I have never heard such an odd request.”
“Could you ask the technician for me?”
The doctor slowly nodded, something like understanding dawning behind his fishy eyes. He reached for the door handle, and walked briskly out of the room, leaving the man in the blue gown to himself.
