Immortality Bytes: Digital Minds Don’t Get Hungry

Table of Contents

​Preface

AUTHOR’S NOTE #1 — ARTISTIC INTENT:

Ancient shamans told stories serving as a combination of religion, news, education, predictions, and cathartic entertainment. Splitting them up optimized consumption as humanity advanced.

But writers who only feed people sugary, trivial stories that solely concentrate on emotion-delivery, let critical thinking atrophy. A diet can’t consist of chocolate-covered Prozac and Huxley’s Soma with Molly frosting — not exclusively.

Howard Zinn said, You can’t be neutral on a moving train.

Toni Morrison said, Books are a form of political action.

Wim Wenders said, Every film is political. Most political of all are those that pretend not to be: ‘entertainment’ movies... because they dismiss the possibility of change. In every frame, they tell you everything's fine the way it is.

However, writers needn’t overcorrect with simple, guilt-generating lesson stories so few can stomach. This novel aspires to be a progressive kale-grape-blueberry smoothy counterbalance to Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged (which I regard as a supersized candy corn, dusted with vitamins and drenched in lead paint — considering its libertarian tirades range to 60+ pages long). One notable difference is that in this book, every rant longer than one page is optional bonus material.

AUTHOR’S NOTE #2 — OPTIONAL BONUS MATERIAL & HYPERLINK NAVIGATION

The eBook uses hyperlinks to cater to different audiences while the print edition uses end notes. Some readers may want to explore this world, other characters’ backstories, and their philosophies further (to stop-and-ponder-and-criticize this future and the characters’ opinions). This format is a literary version of a movie’s deleted scenes and featurettes. Those with shorter attention spans can choose to divert and back as they like. For the fastest read, skip the hyperlinks. Saving them for after is recommended for most readers.​

​Prologue

In the years soon known as 20NF, businesses encroached on the sky. Delivery drone traffic was so frequent that, at a distance, they looked like bafflingly efficient murmurations of starlings. Product-transportation robots trudged out of Pie in the Sky Italian restaurants and loaded mega stacks of 20 pizzas into FDDs (Food Delivery Drones) the size of refrigerators.

Sadly, still no jetpacks. Humans were in enough peril moving in two dimensions on roads; the exponential increase in the danger of a third axis didn’t make sense. Vehicles drove more lanes since street parking ended. Sure, that was because most cars were driverless, but also, the number of destinations worth leaving your home for kept decreasing.

Conspicuously low-traffic cityscapes had 90% fewer storefronts; those still in operation had display samples only, no inventory.

In almost every neighborhood, one could find a Distribution Relay Station used by AMACAE delivery services — the Alibaba/Meta/Alphabet/Costco/Amazon/eBay Cooperative. Ever-present, autonomous construction robots built them, with human supervisors functioning as bored babysitters to perfectly behaved children.

Back in the 2030s, the international press marveled at a milk crate-sized MakerBot (3D printer) as it finished producing Augmented Reality glasses. A sign flashed Testing as robot arms measured its specs in seconds and displayed Passed. This MakerBot thus passed its own quality control test, having itself just been manufactured by a gigantic dumpster-sized Mega-MakerBot. Once machines started making machines, the long-term viability of human careers decayed.

People with the most vulnerable immune systems carried belt-mounted pathogen air meters. Due to newfound prudence, all bio-labs had international inspectors, and workers endured four-month, submarine-style deployments bookended by one-month quarantines.

Continued improvement made some boast this was a post-scarcity world. While no one lived on the street or begged for food, no one considered this heaven on earth either. How tragic, given endless leisure, so few kept their ambitious if only I had time promises. The combination of work-free days, limitless food delivery, and unlimited streaming and gaming made comfortable hammocks function as veal pens. The hedonistic treadmill led the idle to expect praise for saying, I work hard to have a good time. Society saw this trajectory as unchangeable, wondering who’d want it changed.

Maybe because nobody could imagine an era realistically much better, most sort of believed we’re living in the future despite humanity’s natural drive to always want more. What started as a facetious meme became a trend — calling the current date twenty-near-future or 20NF for efficient posts and messages. 

The most popular, futile question on social media asked, What job do we even hope our grandchildren could do better than a robot?

The most popular response was, Hey, it’s 20NF. It’s not about jobs. It’s occupations, anything to eat the day. Get a good hobby.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Reference Legend of the Characters:

• Stu – Overconfident, underachieving AI programmer and influencer.

• Chuck – Charismatic, serial fraudster billionaire. He’s sick (both meanings).

• Roxy – Brilliant CEO/Scientist and Stu’s gray ace demisexual ex-girlfriend.

• Maria – Anti-immortality protester, SJW activist, and Stu’s girlfriend.

• Vicki – Jaded Navy vet who owns a dispensary/coffee shop. She pines for Maria.

• Gwendolyn – Old money, devout. Acquiring Roxy’s digitized mind company.

• Pyotr – Russian operative, mobster attempting to steal Roxy’s tech.

______________________________________

Hi Roxy,

As you instructed, for audiences worldwide and posterity, based on the evidentiary record and people’s memories, here’s what happened. I’ve taken liberties in those instances where I wasn’t present.

Sincerely,

Stu

______________________________________

​Chapter 1​

Do Something in 20NF

You’re clever. You’ll find a way, Gwendolyn said in their video call.

Stu dipped his chin out of frame to hide a gulp and said, But you’re my last chance.

Desperation don’t win folks over. It’s about confidence, young man. She fluffed her Neo-Belle dress, which concealed her six-minute plank physique.

Like a Chuck Rosti-level confidence man? How much did he rip you off for?

Despite her dominating business for five decades, investment seekers and rivals underestimated Mrs. Gwendolyn Grantham — at their peril. And don’t bring up negative emotions in a sales pitch or insult the lady. My stars, and ain’t this a dark matter?

He pleaded, My AI innovations just need-

You’re talking about your needs but asking for my money. Only charities can do that. You never read a book on selling? she asked.

Stu’s beefy arms darted to guard his torso. He gripped his jaw. I thought it’s about the best product.

Shoot. Being right ain’t enough. And who’s sayin’ you are, anyway? Now, don’t feel sorry for yourself. I gotta say no five thousand times a year until circumstances demand I say yes. So don’t go thinkin’ you’re stupid. Okay, sugar? Bye now, she said, ending the call.

It hadn’t occurred to Stu that anyone could think he was stupid until she mentioned it.

She don’t know what she’s talking about, querido. Maria sat on his lap and gave him an always-electric kiss. She miss you’re in the Turing finals? I mean, damn. Right?

People who met Maria Gutierrez misremembered her as older than her late twenties and three inches taller than her petite, curvy figure — made strong by countless marches. Maria’s energizing voice straightened postures and enlarged pupils. But Stu could still imagine their future babies gurgling smiles while dropping to sleep, her soft lullabies serving as enchanting commands.

C’mon. You got a live stream to do, she said.

Sitting in their 400-square-foot apartment, these lean past four months threatened Stu’s long-built tolerance of missed chances. As a thirty-something, part-time influencer, Stu Reigns was cursed with enough subscribers to validate his high self-esteem but too few to get rich (yet). They appreciated his pithy philosophies, though some wished he was 36% funnier so they could recommend him as a comedian to anti-intellectual friends.

Stu had hoped showcasing his inventions would attract equity investors. Over time, likes sufficed to salve the routine dream slashes. Though he’d have to find the R&D funds somehow. Stu advanced his tech ventures primarily to benefit the world. But a close second was getting public credit for it and necessarily before the zeitgeist leapfrogged him.

OPTIONAL ENDNOTE #1 — ONLY READ IF YOU YOU’RE FEELING ULTRA-NERDY (otherwise skip) - Stu’s AI Research is on Page # 253

TL; DR — AI suffers from hallucinations (making up information and presenting it as fact). Stu likened that to how humans often bullshit. So, he simply added a better gatekeeping layer of fact-checking and created open-source protocols for independent fact-checkers.

Let’s roll, Stu said, careful not to wake Tillman, their adorable 70 kg bullmastiff. The sucha-good-boy’s brindle striped-red coat made him look like an alpha wolf went undercover to hang with tigers. Stu activated a hovering mini-drone camera and his proprietary visual effects software. Well beyond any video conference background, even in 3D mode, it convinced 100% of his social media followers he lived in a plush loft overlooking a majestic harbor with magnificent boats — a de facto envy machine.

Projecting luxury to raise one’s status has been around since a Neanderthal first found a shiny rock, whereas Stu had targeted tastes. If he was offered a Ferrari 939 GTS, a lifetime of haute couture, or a used, dinky skiff, he’d have biked in sweats to Seaforth Marina.

Stu streamed his video rant with a self-aware smirk, "Hey, my Reigns-makers. Since the 18th century, government bureaucrats terrified of their tyrants made Hollywood-style sets displaying a flimsy shell of prosperity, as ‘Potemkin village’ propaganda. Instead of making lives better, it was about appearances. ‘Look how everything is going great, boss. No need for executions today.’

"Everyone gets sick of that bullshit. So, we love catching others’ facades. Yet, that’s all we show on the web and see on our screens. We’re absurd to obscure the world by painting only what we like inside our glasses. Deception gets worse, and claiming ‘everybody does it,’ rationalizes staying part of the problem. But contentment is an opium, and cynicism is a sickness. Their hallucinations paralyze us. It’s dangerous to see the world as either 100% beautiful or irreparably corrupt because those excuse us for not doing good.

Who’s going to help solve problems? It’s rewarding, by the way. Responsibility makes you feel productive and valued. My advice? Step up ... and enjoy it. Promote what’s right more than you criticize what’s wrong. Use the hashtag StuedWisdom. He was one synapse-firing away from revealing his digital trick; instead, Stu winked and said, Root for me at Turing! He stopped the feed and background hologram. So?

At least you’re sticking the ‘promoting’ part, Mr. Self-Hashtagger, Maria said, Except, I dunno about slamming whole groups — happy folks AND cynics? Okay, Papi. But that’s a lot of people. Who’s left?

A million spam-bots hawking shady meds and spreading hostile foreign propaganda. You know, my fans. Off her grin, Stu said, I guess my slow-growing streaming audience. I’m nearing the next ‘sub count tier’ plaque. He returned the drone to its charger and recoiled from its loud replace-battery chirp.

Maria went to contain the awakening Tillman. C’mon, Stu. That’s a half-step above worthless. Shit, I got more followers than you, and I’d still rather get fifty protestors outside than 50,000 re-posts online.

Maria first went viral by hijacking her quinceañera (streamed to her extended family) at the last minute, switching her speech to preach her ideals.

OPTIONAL ENDNOTE #2 — ONLY READ IF YOU WANT A NERDY RANT (otherwise skip) - Maria’s Quinceañera Speech is on Page # 255

TL;DR — Maria advocated for altruistic intersectionality, going beyond family and tribe to expand your loyalty and effort to any in need, even strangers. But she drew the line at vegetarianism. She couldn’t give up her mom’s al pastor.

Serving the greater good hadn’t synced well with getting rich, and their decor showed it. Stu and Maria hung the iconic Sports Illustrated poster of Kaepernick cheering his daughter when the triple Super Bowl Champs, Detroit Lions named her their number one draft pick. Political campaign signs they began collecting as kids adorned the other walls. Vote for SpongeBob. Okay, Fine. One of the Old Guys. 2020, Hopeful & Terrified 2024, Oprah’28, Anyone but Suri Cruise-Holmes 2032, Jon Stewart 2036, and AOC/Rogan 2040.

Stu’s smartphone chimed a two-day coding gig offer, and he clicked apply like he was buzzing in on a game show. His high-paying assignments were too infrequent, so he braved the barren weeks subsisting on credit card debt and feasting on ambitions, fearful they were delusions. Recent events raised his hopes further because this year’s Grand Turing AI Competition could change everything. He always knew he’d win it all. But he thought that last time, too, when he didn’t even crack the Top-10.

Maria struggled to contain the rambunctious Tillman, who slipped free and leaped into Stu’s arms, slavering kisses. She laughed, Sixteen months in, and your perro loco will finally let me hold him for a whole minute. I’m gonna go wash my hands and then collect my ‘best girlfriend of the year’ trophy.

Thanks, Maria. Stu gave Tillman belly rubs and said, You’re such a good boy! He followed that with the calming touch of slow, firm pressure, petting from neck to tail.

As if he was a toy poodle, Tillman pounced back on Stu, resulting in a crushing tackle for a loss of two yards. No flag on the play since the adorable pooch can have all the hugs he wants.

Maria turned her phone on and endured the dozens of backlogged texts. Seven from Fernando – all angry emojis. The message from Sis read, "IDK where U found $$ but I luv U. Never Subtiree! Ob-gyn says me & Bobby got twins!! Due soon. Call me!"

Maria paired her brightened eyes with an ironic frown. She returned, palms up to defend against another Tillman slobber. Taking the hint, Tillman curled up on his doggie bed, giving them a nap’s worth of quiet.

A ghost kitchen Food Delivery Drone flew to their window dock, expelled a steaming bag, and took off to its next destination. Stu’s spidery, low-end, early-gen Cookba unpacked the meal, chicken tikka masala tailor-made according to a recipe Maria found and Stu modified. It removed the fresh naan it had just baked and said, Breakfast is served. These rebels with too many causes challenged most conventional thinking. They’d even eat pancakes for dinner but drew the line at pineapple on pizza. They weren’t savages.

Before the plates hit the counter, Stu and Maria perched with utensils in hand. They savored the half home(bot)-cooked meal.

She fluttered her eyes, and with a half-cheerful pitch, Maria asked Stu, Any news demanding urgent panic and action?

They had to cut down on lamenting how often the news caused anxiety. Sensitive hearts could never bear knowing the scale of misery worldwide. Humans’ natural sympathy for the unfortunate tainted the entertainment that tablets provided.

In this new era, everyone used a SocialMui (Social Media User Interface).

OPTIONAL ENDNOTE #3 — ONLY READ IF YOU’RE FEELING NERDY (otherwise skip) - Social Media User Interface is on Page # 259

TL;DR — SocialMui gave users total control of their feeds. They could layout and prioritize whichever posts they wanted according to keywords and favorite sources. Social media companies could no longer optimize user engagement by maximizing outrage.

Stu read aloud the news alerts to Maria, No priority matches. Thank God for a slow news day.

Maria shrugged.

Stu expanded the screen for his followed feeds:

• @Roxy Zhang: Damn end of Moore’s Law! Render times too slow!! Also desperate for more talented AI researchers. Apply at ZerQuali.com. See you at Turing!

• @Gwendolyn Grantham: Gave my sworn testimony in @ChuckRosti’s trial. He stole more of my money, but ain’t nothing compared to regular folks’ life savings he robbed. Heaven knows my faith in ultimate justice can’t be shaken.

Scanning down, Stu’s eyes gleamed. Look, Maria, you made it to the top of the SoCal news feed.

I’ll take the kind wind. Which post?

Stu read aloud, "@RealMariaGutierrez: ‘#ForeverMinds means only the wealthy will become immortal. No way the powerful let the next Gandhi, Martin Luther King, or Greta benefit from eternity. #ProtestNow #Beforeitstoolate’"

What’s today’s top post from that toxic dirtbag, Rosti? Maria asked.

"@ChuckRosti says, ‘@GwendolynGrantham is a nasty, sneaky liar. I’ve made so many investors a ton of money. And I’ve got big plans. Nothing can beat me. #BeatCancer.’"

Maria scanned her calendar, seeing her few barista shifts coming up. Get a hobby, Maria mumbled to herself as she headed out. She turned to Stu. Meet you later, outside the convention center. You’re gonna destroy those lame-ass nerds.

Acting like he was offended, Stu said, You know ‘nerds’ shouldn’t be used as a pejorative word. That’s brain-shaming, and it’s not okay.

Oh, I am allowed to use it because I am one, too, she said, mimicking him by over-enunciating, The key to my slam was the modifier ‘lame-ass,’ whereby the word ‘nerd’ was a neutral noun. She code-switched back to her normal voice, ending with, You lame-ass nerd... with a killer kisser.

In a 1950s-style, lilting tone, Stu said, Fair points, sweetheart.

Maria smiled and returned to her natural state as his casual coach. Just go win. You beat a thousand chumps. Only gotta beat two more. You got this, Stu. See you there.

#

Pyotr Renko was a 5’7 bald, Russian former field ops chief with wiry strength and the baseline intensity of a dictator spotting a journalist by a window. I’m heading to see Vasily now, Мамочка (mama). When you’re sick but have money, best medical care in world is in USA. If he’s up, I call you from his room. Yes, yes. You, too. Bye," Pyotr said and hung up.

For January in Orange County, it was a relatively cool 96 degrees. Pyotr could only look forward to the A/C of Westcrest-Skripal, a hospital problematically vertically integrated with a hospice facility. The first set of double doors closed behind him, and giant vents sucked air. The green light and opening of the second set of doors indicated no extraordinary presence of pathogens.

Tchaikovsky played softly through the hidden speakers of the halls. Wafting cucumber-lime water and scented oils gave the aroma of a 5-star resort’s spa. The exquisite furniture and timeless design of Vasily’s private suite provided zero comfort to the decaying patient. Even so, Pyotr was considered a fine brother for covering Vasily’s platinum care.

A nurse entered and went straight to take Vasily’s vitals. While making notes, expressionless, she said by rote, So sorry. In my experience, people at this stage don’t last very long. She caught Pyotr’s pained expression crowding out his ever-prominent stare. Her voice softened to show professional civility. It’s good you visit him now.

I know. Lately, he only wakes one time in three. Pyotr made a fist that could’ve cracked the rook of a chess set. No way to get him higher on list? At all? Pyotr asked.

We only do palliative care in this wing, she said by routine but responded to his insinuation. No American hospital would give him a donor liver. He’s too sick. Shady foreign hospitals where you could ‘unconventionally’ find a donor don’t have the expertise to get the perfect-match necessary. It’s complicated, not like finding the same blood type.

Pyotr’s voice slashed with a jagged edge. If billionaire’s brother is like this, nothing could be done? For any price? Ridiculous.

She reached out to touch Pyotr’s arm to comfort him with a physical connection.

He whipped to roll away from her, his jacket snapping like a judo gi during a throw. He trudged to the door. Over his shoulder, he said, Our mother arrives in two days. She’s VIP.

Of course, sir. She froze like a fawn within earshot of a grizzly.

#

Maria exited her driverless taxi outside a dance studio to see her loan shark, Fernando, wearing a white suit too tight for his belly and too clean for a pedestrian.

You look mah-velous, Maria, he said with a twisted grin.

Okay, Fernando. Just delivering my vig. That’s it, she said, reaching for her wallet.

No, no, no. I gotta tell you something. Let’s go in. He grabbed her by the elbow, softer than a bouncer would but harder than a gentlemanly escort.

Inside, overhead lights blasting the naked wood floor highlighted its emptiness.

I don’t have time, man, she said, pulling away but still in his grasp.

Nothing is better for your health more than waiting for my associate to arrive. I got nothing to say until then. Sit down and get comfy. Or do a plie or some crap over there.

Fernando often roughed up slow payers like her, but he wasn’t a murderer. She accepted his misdemeanor assaults as a known penalty, but never gave him the satisfaction of showing fear.

Maria took off her jacket, revealing her backless blouse. She stared at her tattooed body in the mirrored wall. Her squint deepened her premature stress wrinkles as her fingers glided over her inner forearm, tracing the lines of the newest ink. Two days old, it vibrantly contrasted with the faded others. It depicted a shotgun-wielding Barbie proud of three still-smoking bullet holes in a door. Up close, the holes were actually still-healing cigarette burns on her skin — a way to hide Fernando’s reminders.

Muttering to herself in the mirror, she wasn’t kind. Two grand on a tattoo. Real smart, Maria.

Pyotr burst in, commanding attention by sharply snapping his fingers, which echoed ominously. His voice sounded husky, yet quickened and pre-heated. Fernando, bring her to me. His relaxed body language made this appear ordinary for him.

She gave Pyotr a look of near recognition. Fernando took her arm with more force this time, closing the distance fast, like an anxious waiter with too many tables.

You must be lovely Maria, Pyotr said with a lower-half-faced smile, eyes prowling.

Do I know you? She asked, then turned to Fernando for information.

His voice cracked. That’s Pyotr. He bought your debt from me, and now you owe him. Like a blackjack dealer at shift change, Fernando did a hands-brush-flourish, nodded that this was real, and said, I’m not involved with any of yous, now. He cowered away while checking for approval from Pyotr.

You may go, Pyotr said to him while eyeballing her.

Fernando scurried away. Maria fought the instinct to constrict her brow; she relied on her brave-face tactics.

Pyotr said, Okay. First, you will learn rules, and clapped his hands together. It sounded like a gavel slam. The echo punctuated the moment.

I’m supposed to be terrified of you, Pi-yo-ter?

You can say, Peter, if that’s easier for you. Pronunciation is not important, but tone... must always be... respectful. He admired the tattoo-decorated burn and intruded into her personal space. The pungent body odor from his maximum garlic diet spiked the acrid knockoff Drakkar that drenched his collar. This low-grade chemical warfare had to be a form of trolling. None ever dared to call him out on it.

Maria turned her head as a gesture of submission and to hide her wince at the smells. She shielded her face with some cash. Here’s the five thousand dollars to pay my vig.

Pyotr crumpled the bills into his pocket like they were an empty packet of chips. He composed prayer hands, which so ill-suited him while searching for his next words. Would you like to know why I bought your debt?

I don’t need to know anything. Just tell me how to get you paid from now on so I can be done with this. Anything else is not my business. Maria said.

Smart girl and fertile shape. I can see why he likes you.

Who? Fernando? Fuck that clown.

This is defiant way to talk for unarmed woman. You better be sure no one ever hears you talking such a way against me, Pyotr said with a glare.

In a staccato pace, Maria said, Wouldn’t do it. Not me. No doubt, sir.

Pyotr motioned for her to follow him to the back. She obeyed and stayed close behind but kept looking around, perhaps for Pyotr’s thugs, who must’ve been nearby. In the underlit hallway to the locker room, he pointed to a six-foot stadium speaker case.

Can we be sure you will comply with my demands? Or do I need to show you what’s in this box?

I, for sure, do not need to see anything, my dude. I trust whatever is in there is very persuasive. So, let’s skip to you letting me go. Cool?

I am not convinced, Pyotr said and slammed his hand on its side. It shook, and muffled screams for help and mercy pierced through. I am thinking about making this box quiet for one reason: to show you how serious this is.

The pleas squelched, and there were visceral pheromones of fear.

Maria hid her right hand in her left to fiddle sweat off her fingers. She said, You can return that demo box to its home because I have 100% faith in you, Peter... Pyotr.

Pyotr’s hand went into his pocket as he sized her up again.

Maria’s phone rang. Three rings. He measured her in every second. The rings stopped; their absence resonated louder. Maria’s mouth noises scraunched like a crumbling dam. A redial reverberated with tinny tones. He relaxed on his heels; she tensed to her toes. In a neutral but quivering monotone, she asked, Should I get this? She read the permission on his face and answered. Maria here. What’s up?

He pulled out his phone, revealing it was he who called. Good. You will do like that. But you will answer me within three rings, or there will be consequences.

Pyotr drew her attention back to the coffin-like box with a hammer fist strike. Which led the person inside to resume his chillingly desperate begging for help. Ultimatums are always a threat. But this one roared over the stifled shrieks from a ready-to-bury container.

She put on her jacket without breaking eye contact. She did a head swivel, getting a better sense of her exit route. So, I’m gonna go then? All right?

Yes. Be sure to put ‘Peter’ in your contacts. You’ll see me later — or soon.

#

A JanitorBot’s base scrubbed a luxury skyscraper’s sidewalk until it noticed a security robot and, as programmed, stopped. That Robo-Krupke retracted its Taser for clearance and sped past with its moped-fast Segway wheels.

In this post-scarcity, nearly street-crimeless world, the 40% who were unemployed