The End of a Beginning
Near R.G.'s castle gate, a suit-wearing partial cyborg and a connection bot materialize. Immediately, R.G.'s security system asserts control over all non-organic systems, sending remote-control requests to their personal interfaces.
Both visitors accept, regaining motor control while feeling the castle's protocol lingering in their systems, a digital ghost granting the host priority access. As the colossal gate swings open, they walk inside where one of my serviceborgs approaches.
"A most humble welcome to thee, in the name of my master, Sire R.G., to his beautiful castle, Crown's Peak." The borg bows deeply. "Beggin' your pardon, milady, but we weren't expecting visitors today. Fear not, this fine castle has ample accommodations for your comfort."
Clearly confused, the suit-wearing visitor responds, "Milady? You must be one of those fetishborgs I've heard about. Interesting programming. Simulation: turn off." Nothing happens. "I'm not staying longer than necessary. Call your master."
"Oh, milord! Forgive me, I beg you!" A genuine, unprogrammed tremor runs through the borg's clasped hands. It drops to its knees. "On my very life, I crave your pardon for my foolishness. I pray you don't have me beaten or... or deactivated. My life is yours to command, and I'll do anything you ask, I swear it. But I beseech you, milord, have mercy! Don't let a word of this reach the ears of Master R.G.!" The serviceborg looks up, its optical sensors wide with what appears to be authentic terror.
The visitor's voice drops into a formal, almost playful tone. "Peace, girl. You meant no harm. Fetch Master R.G. for me, and this will be forgotten."
My bedroom lies in the castle's west wing, where my true body rests on a comically large and pompously decorated canopy bed while I attend a HyperNet meeting with my project's developers.
"I don't see any other way, R.G. We're 18% over capacity for the consciousness transfer matrix," Xam reports.
"So even after Jem's refactoring, we're still 8% beyond limits," I confirm.
"Without those extra terabytes, the AI will be essentially mute," S.G. adds. "The new storage algorithm could solve this, but that's still 10 millennia away."
"Too long. We'll have to sacrifice the voice module to make room for the reinforced base systems. This run will gather data while we adapt to... actually succeeding." I pause, checking my security feeds. "S.G., I'll contact you later. I have visitors, including what appears to be a connection bot."
"Connection bot? Maybe an antique trader. Living in a castle, that wouldn't be unreasonable."
I ignore the remark and access Jem's interface. "Jem, identify our guests. And explain why they're still breathing."
"M'lord, still with us? What be the meaning of your words?" Jem responds, voice locked in medieval persona.
"Jem, override code ***********. Simulation mode off. Now, who is this?"
"Sir, thank you. Primary entity: humanoid male. Secondary: connection bot."
Lacking patience for deliberately obtuse AI responses, I close the interface and link to my organic backup body. A vertical stripe of light appears on the wall, fading to reveal hidden seams that part like a doorway.
Walking past my motionless true form still sends chills through me. The backup body, however, feels hollow, functional but lacking the existential weight of authentic consciousness. As I move toward the main hall, I review security footage, surprised by their ability to materialize so close to my defenses.
"Sir, signature analysis complete," Jem's neutral voice reports through personal comms. "The humanoid originates from Caldwell 35."
I stop walking. "Caldwell 35, one of the supergiants in the Coma Cluster?"
"Correct. More specifically, the galaxy where a supernova became visible from Earth on April 26th, 2025."
The data crystallizes in my mind like ice forming in vacuum. "Run #890. A supernova in the Coma Cluster during our simulation." The implications hit me like a collapsing star. “How could we have missed that?"
"Project priorities were... redirected at that time, Sir," Jem replies carefully.
The weight of cosmic coincidence, or something far more destined, settles over me as I continue toward my unexpected guests.
