by Aidan Andrew Dun
This is about the imminent arrival in our world of machines more intelligent than humans. It’s now believed that some time between 2040 and 2060 many will choose to ‘merge’ with machines ‘superior’ to man in thinking power, thus becoming artificial intellects or Artilects. Yet it’s already recognized that many humans will refuse to be ‘upgraded’. Bio-designers who attempt to engineer just one function of a house-fly’s back-leg are necessarily very humble individuals. Yet starry-eyed GNR (genetic-nano-robotic) evangelists are telling us that we will very soon be supermen. What is certain is that every man, woman and child on the planet will increasingly be exposed to a high-powered public hype to sell the masterplan for ‘improving’ humanity. I, for one, will be among the second-class humans who refuse the upgrade. I like computers, I’m no cyber-Luddite, but I don’t want an Imac in my cortex, thanks anyway.
2060: not the far-future, the time of topological quantum computers.
World Wars are history; lose-lose was the end of the road. With mutual destruction assured the marketplace collapsed.
Without the catalyst of orchestrated conflict boom-boom went bust one final time. Game over, next player?
Enter the feudalism of the New World Order. Man was a cancer on the planet, to be cut out.
Enter the transhumans, sentient programs. Now cyborgs – Artilects – rule the planet.
They walk suited in titanium splendour, awesome bionic chromed ubermensch, expressionless.
The machine-men screen all regressive human feelings but supercompute at the velocity of light: godpods.
They move beyond primitive emoting Homo Sapiens with puerile mood-swings, criminal daydreams. The godpods glide towards androgyny, obscenely peaceful.
They copulate with chromium servo-mechanisms, play cold love-games with automata. Powerful sex-machines pleasure them as surrogate lovers.
Children – as biological by-products of the state – are bar-coded on the forehead at birth, upgraded with nanomedicine.
Sex in the solar-powered stadium of the bedroom is all about performance: the sweaty athletics of intercourse. Power-fucks and ego-trips are de rigeur.
Beneath the Artilects are non-digitized terrans, subspecies who caused all the problems in the first place.
The godpods merged with the machine way back in the days of the Singularity, under the Mormon.
They said: God has not existed yet but he soon will. The Singularity was their Second Coming. They paid for God, for the enhancement.
A century of television had prepared them for this passivity interpreted and sold as ultimate power. Obeisance before the trinity of GNR. The installment.
Top people added components, implantable neurochips. Snob appeal and peer-pressure, keeping up with the Joneses.
A hole in the head became fashion-statement; to get hooked up to the mainframe became desirable.
Non-digitized slave-terrans became second-class humans. The language of Milton and Rimbaud was redefined as bovine.
Supercomputing Artilects were the last invention of Homo Sapiens, species obsolete. Now machine-gods plan the world in their image.
Slave-terrans – New World Order underlings – may not originate source-code under penalty of death.
Artilects and posthumans have the sangfroid of bionic serial-killers. Cleansings of the non-digitized proleteriat leave them cold.
They are sociopathic omnipotent control-freaks functioning in the happy buzz of the hive-mind.
Downloading brainwaves of Zen-monks and Ascended Masters they manage Planet Earth as all-knowing super-elite.
High on signals passing down synthetic emotions, artificial euphoria, they walk on clouds, out of this world. The death-scream of humanity doesn’t compute.
The Singularity is god of materialism yet these aren’t truly at ease under bullet-proof skin.
They fool around with eugenics in their endless spare time, immortals with Hitlerian hobbies, strange pets.
They tinker with the universe, trans-shipping DNA planet-to-planet just for fun, make simians crossmultiply with quadrapeds in glass tubes.
They lend their genes in acts of ‘generosity’, the power-mad playing God across the galaxies.
The Artilects replicate the Luciferic brilliance of zero-empathy which cannot move or transform.
Long ago they wanted to be like those legends – the last artists of the dark times – who warned of the further perfection of extreme evil.
They wanted to feel for others and express that feeling, suffer themselves to know the sufferings of others.
But they sold themselves to the transhuman nightmare, premature burial in a hitech coffin.
Strong AI: the rapture of the materialists, a death-sentence for the human spirit.
The darkest prisons in this world are the ones with invisible walls.