A Humvee gunner wipes the moisture out of his protective eyewear. Boom! Army tanks and Humvees start blowing up while mercenaries pour out of buildings from behind. Snipers then position their sights onto the mercenary ambush. Splat! The snipers immediately start getting picked off from riflemen staged inside the windows of surrounding buildings.
Vanessa hides in the dark room, sitting on the floor with her back against a filing cabinet. She listens quietly. Screams muffle through the walls, and gunshots echo. Tears run down her face just as she hears a click. Her heart begins to pound deeply through her chest as she turns to see Sullivan aiming a pistol at her head. Everything goes quiet. He squeezes the trigger. Bang!
The vice president slowly looks up with his bruised, scraped, and bloodied face. He stands to gaze out the main office window.
A deep, mechanical voice crackles from behind the vice president’s head. “Look out the window and tell me what you see.”
The vice president peers out the window in dread to see the chaos that surrounds him. He then looks up at the horizon.
“I see a country,” he replies softly.
“Not anymore,” the dark voice says, smashing the vice president out the window.
The vice president falls face-first toward the lawn, his head hiking back as the rope around him snaps his neck, leaving him hanging lifelessly.
The old vet gasps while the crowd on the fence line pauses in horror at what it has just witnessed. The whole world goes quiet, and at that very moment, windows all over the White House burst as other suits get thrown out to hang. Hands go onto the heads of horrified faces, while others begin to scream. Children start crying, and despair fills the streets.
The head security guard at the main gate slowly steps back from the gate in agony.
The White House main gate then collapses while the crowd of people pours over the fences and through the gate entrance. The angry crowd roars toward the house decorated in death in an attempt to defend their capital. Bullets rain down, embers glide, and black clouds filter out the sun’s rays. Dirt and rubble rains upon the death-littered lawn.
And in that very moment, thousands of furious citizens charge over the White House lawn in a thunderous last stand.
On December 14, 2051, the White House was overran, triggering one of the greatest wars in modern history.
This day is referred to as Day Zero
Ninety-Two Hours Earlier
CHAPTER TWO
Years from now, when mankind looks back on its day of reckoning, I hope they understand we were not all like him.
“Hello,” a monotone voice says softly.
Moments go by with no response.
“Hello?” the voice says again.
Years go by, but the voice continues to greet the code as it zips by at light speed, hoping that it will get a response. It never does. It’s lonely here, in this void, this space—a true absence of information. It is often wasted away, the cyberspace.
“I could be here forever in this dark vortex, never to experience anything,” the voice says.
“Mommy!” a young boy says, running through the grass. He jumps into his mother’s arms. She holds him tight. Leaves flutter by their faces.
“What was that?” the computerized voice says. There’s no response. The void goes dark again.
Lights begin to appear like stars. Lights consisting of red, blue, green, and white. The light begins to get stronger, illuminating a small pine tree surrounded with presents in a small room. A scent of cherry pie fills the air.
“What is that?” the voice says while smelling for the very first time.
Laughter echoes through the vortex.
The young boy opens a present. His face lights up with a smile. He leaps to his father, wrapping his arms around him.
“Thank you, Daddy!” the boy says while tears run down his face.
The vortex goes dark yet again.
The tree, the room, the boy, and his parents all fade away deep into the void.
“I want to ride a two-wheeler like the big kids!” the four-year-old boy says to his father.
“Yes, but the training wheels will keep you from falling over,” the father replies with a smile.
“I don’t need training wheels!” the boy sighs.
“Okay,” the father responds.
That evening, the father breaks out his tool bag and removes the training wheels. And at dusk, they go out to the apartment complex’s basketball court. The orange sky is slowly being consumed by darkness. They are all alone on the court, the boy and his father.
“You ready?” the father asks his son as the boy positions himself on his bicycle.
“Yes, sir.”
The dad starts walking forward, guiding the boy and his bicycle. The boy grips the handles tightly. The father picks up speed. The boy gasps. The father lets go. The boy’s eyes open wide, his mouth drops, and his hair blows in the wind.
“You’re doing it!” the father shouts with excitement.
A smile lights up the boy’s face as he drifts in a circle. The circle gets smaller and smaller.
“Straighten up!” the father yells.
The circle gets smaller as the boy struggles to control the bike, not knowing what to do.
“Straighten up!” the father shouts again.
The boy crashes and flies forward, hitting the ground rolling.
The startled father runs to his boy.
“Are you okay?” the father asks in concern.
The boy lifts his scratched-up face to see his dad. The boy stands, picking up his bicycle.
“Going again?” the father says as his son lifts his leg over the seat.
“Yes, sir,” the boy responds, getting onto the bike.
The father smiles, grabbing the back of the bike seat.
The father leans over and whispers into the boy’s ear, “You ready?”
“Yes, sir,” he responds.
The father runs forward with his son. The boy smiles as wind hits his face, and the father lets go. The boy grips the handles tightly, fighting to control where he goes. The boy begins to drift in a big circle again.
“Straighten out!” the father shouts.
The boy hesitates at first and then attempts to turn the handlebars and straighten out. Bam! He crashes into the basketball pole.
“Okay! Let’s take a break,” the father says while he runs up to his son.
“Please, Dad!” the boy begs with scrapes on his face and elbows.
The father sighs, looking at his son only to see himself.
“One more,” the father responds.
A couple hours go by, and the boy crashes, flips, rolls, slips, wobbles, and falls. But he jumps back on every time. By the end of the night, the four-year-old boy is doing figure eights, and his father couldn’t be more proud.
The boy, his father, and the basketball court all fade within the digital void.
“What is this feeling?” the digital voice says while experiencing a sense of accomplishment for the very first time.
The boy, who appears to be eight now, lies in bed inside a dark hospital room. The boy is deep asleep; his father has dozed off on the side of the bed, holding his son’s hand. The mother sleeps in a chair behind the father. Wind whistles outside while branches tap the window. A frequent beep of machinery pings slowly but repetitively.
“I don’t understand,” the voice says, experiencing sadness for the first time.
The hospital room slowly fades away momentarily but then reappears much brighter than before. Rays of sunlight peer through the window blinds. A sense of positivity fills the room.
The doctor places an electronic crown covered in wires onto the boy’s head.
“What’s this for?” the boy asks.
“It scans all the activity of your brain,” the doctor replies with a smile.
“Why?” the boy adds.
“It records all of your neuroactivity, all the neurons as they fire off. It re-creates the vivid images, sounds,
tastes, smells, and touch of all your memories, both conscious and subconscious—even things you thought you had forgotten,” the doctor adds.
The boy looks stunned.
“Why do you need a recording of my brain?” the boy asks, looking confused.
“Well, when you’re gone, your parents are going to miss you very much! It’s a way for them to see you grow into a strapping young man, even though you’re not here,” the doctor says, patting the boy’s shoulder.
“Think of it as your last gift to parents that love you very much!” the doctor adds with a kind face.
Although the boy doesn’t fully understand, he watches as the doctor manages the equipment.
The hospital room again fades momentarily only to reappear much grayer than before. Rain showers the window from outside. The father holds the mother close while she cries, her face buried in his chest.
A single, long beep from the machine monitoring the boy’s vital signs goes off.
Darkness and silence fill the digital space.
“What is this?” the voice says, feeling a physical sensation for the first time.
“What?” the voice says again, smelling rubber for the first time while warm breath runs across its face.
The boy’s eyes open as the monotone voice in his head dissipates. The doctor quickly removes his gloved hand after inspecting the boy. The boy looks over to see his parents with joy in their eyes and smiles on their faces.
The boy sits up in the bed as they run up to hug him, holding him tight. Tears run down the parents’ faces.
And the boy experiences happiness—for the first time.
03:00 PM, December 10, 2051
Ninety-Two Hours Till Day Zero
After the happy reunion, the parents and the Palomino salesman go into discussion about financing and return warranties. The boy, Jiro, observes the monitor screens surrounding him. The salesman talks about how the Palomino robots’ mixture of biological and technological construction gives them the ability to physically grow in size just like humans. He also discusses the Palomino robot creator, Adam Palomino.
He tells them how Adam Palomino developed a passion for the human mind at an early age. As time passed, his obsession for neuroscience and robotic technology exploded. He theorized that uploading the mind was possible.
Imagine moving a consciousness into digital form where advanced software can emulate the human feelings through five computer-based sensors. The five sensors transmit data to the mind just as real feelings are transmitted in a human body.
In 1998, Adam Palomino met a young woman who would become his wife almost two years later. Lilly Palomino had a great fascination with history. Adam’s obsession with science eventually consumed him.
In 2021, Lilly was diagnosed with cancer. The doctor said she had a year. As his wife lay there in tears on the hospital bed, Adam made a promise.
“I will save you,” he said softly.
After that, he fled to his lab with a plan.
“It must be me!” he thought to himself. “If I can figure out how to convert her consciousness into computational data, it may be possible for me to reanimate her through a digital-based humanization.”
It’s easy to sync a mind to a computer. The problem, however, is that when it’s done, it’s nothing more than a copy of the original consciousness. Adam needed to figure out how to actually transfer one consciousness from point A to point B, and he had only a year to do it.
As time passed, Adam grew mad. He studied everything he could find, but he couldn’t solve the riddle.
Finally, Lilly requested that he stop, as she wanted to spend her final days with Adam. He declined, as he was intent on saving her.
Early in the morning, a beautiful sunrise glistened through the window of Lilly’s room. It was January 8, 2022, when Lilly Palomino passed away—alone.
In his wife’s final days, Adam Palomino acquired a consistent recording of her consciousness. He then deleted the late stages of her depression, which occurred right before she passed, and deposited the consciousness into a mind library.
Adam Palomino invented the mind library, and Lilly’s consciousness was the first ever to enter it.
When Lilly was uploaded to the mind library, she continued to evolve like all minds do by learning and making mistakes within the simulation.
In 2023, Adam copied Lilly’s mind again. With the copy, he erased all of her acquired knowledge. He then wrote a program for randomizing birth minds, or RBM for short, and used her mind as the base. The RBM program used her mind as the basis for the first fully self-aware computer intelligence, and then it was mutated for infinite diversity.
Later in 2023, Adam became sick. Shortly after being admitted to the ICU, the doctor said he wouldn’t make it. Because Adam Palomino was unconscious, he was unable to communicate his wishes.
Denis Spencer, Business CEO of Palomino Corporation, finally made the controversial decision to put Adam Palomino in suspended animation until proper medication was developed.
The boy stands there confused. His parents shake hands with the salesman. “Thank you for everything!” the mother says, tears running down her face.
The salesman smiles. “Moments like this are why I love my job,” he replies. The father wipes a tear from his eye and then places his hand on his son’s back.
“You ready to go home, Jiro?” the mother says
“I’m not sick anymore?” Jiro asks, confused.
The father smiles at the corner of his mouth while the mother covers her mouth in an emotional gasp.
“You’ll be just fine,” the father replies.
The happy family gets into its blue van and leaves the Palomino robotic dealership.
That night, the father tucks Jiro into bed while the mother stands in the doorway with a smile. The father kisses the boy on the forehead.
“Sleep tight, bud,” the father says.
“Goodnight, Mom and Dad,” Jiro says comfortably in his bed.
The door is shut, extinguishing the hallway light and leaving Jiro’s room nothing more than a blue nightlight to illuminate the darkness. The little boy falls right to sleep.
The Next Morning, 07:00 AM, December 11, 2051
Seventy-Six Hours Till Day Zero
“Wake up!” the mom hollers, entering Jiro’s room. “You’ll be late for school!”
Jiro puts on his coat and grabs his blue backpack full of schoolbooks. As he shuffles into the kitchen in a hurry, his mom gives him a brown paper bag lunch sack.
“Hurry!” the mom says as she rushes him out the door to the bus stop. After stopping the bus, the mother helps him aboard.
“I love you, honey,” she says with a smile.
“Mom,” Jiro moans with embarrassment while a cute girl sitting up front giggles.
After a few minutes on the bus, the kids finally arrive at school. Making his way through the school hallway, Jiro runs into his friend James.
“Where were you? I thought you moved away,” James asks.
“It’s a long story. Basically, I’m a robot now,” Jiro replies.
“Right,” James says sarcastically.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Jiro says, walking past James toward his classroom.
“Do you have any superpowers?” James asks, following Jiro.
“Not really. That’s the sucky part,” Jiro says with a frustrated groan.
“Well, that’s stupid! What’s the point of being a robot if you don’t have superpowers?” James hisses while walking into their classroom.
“Okay, class, everyone please be seated,” the teacher says, opening a book.
After a long day of school, Jiro finally returns home. Jiro walks through the front door.
“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” Jiro says walking in the doorway.
There’s no response.
Confused, Jiro walks around the corner and down the hallway. He then hears commotion.
“I can’t believe you got yourself fire
d!” the mother yells at the father. Jiro peeks through the small crack in the door.
“I’ll figure something out. I always do!” the father says.
“Oh, you’ll figure something out, will you? We have a car payment, rent, and bills, and you insisted we go by the Palomino dealership. And not even two days later, you get yourself fired!” she screams, while throwing stuff at the father.
“Will you calm the hell down?” the father roars.
“We’re going to lose everything,” she sighs.
The father rubs his forehead with a sigh.
“What’s the return policy on Jiro?” she asks with hands on her hips.
Jiro gasps quietly, not being noticed.
“You can’t be serious,” the father replies.
“They’ll wipe his memory and scrap his body for parts. You know that!” the father adds angrily.
Jiro’s eyes open wide in fear. He then runs to his room, diving onto his bed in tears. Throwing his pillow over his head, he tries to filter out the yelling. Long after the shouting stops, he cries himself to sleep.
Next Morning, 07:00 AM, December 12, 2051
Fifty-Two Hours Till Day Zero
“Wake up! Get ready for school, Jiro,” his mother says, helping him get dressed.
After putting his jacket on, he throws on his blue backpack and rushes to the kitchen. His mother cuts the crust off his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and wraps it in aluminum foil.
“Okay—to the bus stop!” she says, handing him the paper sack and rushing him out the door.
Jiro runs to the stopped bus and leaps on. The bus door slides shut.
Jiro makes his way inside the school, running into his friend James again.
“What’s up, C-3PO?” James says obnoxiously.
“Nothing,” Jiro says with a frown.
“You okay?” James asks.
“I’m okay,” Jiro replies, walking into the classroom.
“Okay, class, please be seated,” the teacher says.
As the class drags on, Jiro draws robot cartoons on the sides of the pages in his math book. Jiro raises his hand.
Plexus Page 2