Time Like a Face In Barber's Mirrors.

Eight bits is a byte. Or, is a byte eight bits? The question weighed heavily on the mind of Charles Pennington, as he stepped into the heat of the lights. “Ladies and gentlemen, I come here today as a messenger. Our future, the future not only of us but humanity as we know it rests on the cusp of a new era. My research has propelled us far beyond the bestial and infirm bodies our ancestors have bequeathed us.” The lamps beamed at him like celestial smiles. The heat brought a glimmer of sweat above urgent lips. “What can we do but evolve? It is our purpose, and drives the very nature of our being. A man with a microchip brain can think, react, and remember better than any purely organic entity. With a speed of 10,000 petaflops per second, the digital brain can read the Library of Congress in just under 4 days. Not just read it, but remember it and use it immediately.” He let the hush emanate from the panel. Ten sillhouettes, black against the sterile green-grey wall. Movement from his left focused his eyes on a raised hand. Not asking for a question, but pausing the movie for commentary. “How can we begin to believe you without a shred of evidence, Mr. Pennington? This technology would change the Earth, yet you expect us to blindly pick up the tab?” The voice steady and low, the same tone a boss would begin discussions of termination with. Charles Pennington’s voice was equally assertive in reply “I am the proof.” One murmer from the face on his right, but not quite the shock he had pictured. “Seven weeks ago, I underwent the surgery to implant the Cereberix chip in my own brain.” Several minutes of silent heat crept by before anyone ventured a response. “This is a highly unorthodox development, and is entirely against regulations, Charles.” This a cold female voice. “I understand that,” Charles continued, “but, under the circumstances, I felt it was warranted. As you can see, I have suffered no adverse effects from the treatment. On the contrary, it has worked as intended. Since we last spoke, I have finished reading the entire Encyclopaedia Brittan…” “DENIED.” came the brusque interruption from the back of the panel.
Later, cooled-off in the silent spaces between stacks, he turned his logic chip up to full capacity. This was denoted by slight tunnel vision and a distant buzz like the first cigarette after a cold-turkey month. Scanning the pages before him, his concious mind began to drift. Free on the influx of ideas, like seaweed adrift and floating, collecting bits and pieces of human civilization. Where was it floating to? More and more peices joined the seaweed mass as he waited. Plastic bottles and cast off fishing nets. Migrant sealife dropped roots on the mass, feeding on growing moss. What was the point? Were the people sitting in that cold and sterile room right? The pieces of his mind coming together random and shapeless, yet reflecting an order on deeper levels. The input and importance of data. Various characteristics determining thier place among the brickabrac of his intelligence. The chip accelerated this process, but to what end? Now, with the help of the chip, he could get there faster and easier. But, where was he going?

1 thought on “Time Like a Face In Barber's Mirrors.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.