A Chiptune for Rasterman
by James Andrew Selby
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
Outside of The RasterEvolution Center, a line of people stretched around the corner of West 96th Street and Columbus Avenue, continuing down well past Broadway. Upper and lower class, young and old, male, female and everything in between, ready to abandon their old lives — their old world — and start anew. People ready to leave behind poverty, sickness, age and reliance. People gazing up to the large platinum letters on the corner of the building, in hope, reading:
No More Degradation.
No More Weakness.
No More Limits.
Evolve.
* * *
German sat in the makeup chair reviewing his notes for the interview. He was a notable recluse, and it was to be his first televised appearance since long before the reveal of Raster, and the volume of what was to be discussed had since, to say the least, increased. Fortunately, though — or unfortunately — he had yet to decide which, the RasterEvolution had made a far greater impact on the world than his titular superhero. And despite being somewhat resentful of humanity for shying away from its valiant synthetic guardian, he couldn’t help but feel grateful to rid himself of the moniker of “war criminal.”
There was a knock at the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Horowitz,” said a production assistant, returning from a lunch break spent filling out the legal forms required to join the RasterEvolution.
“German, ‘the genius,’ it’s so great to see you again,” welcomed the show host as German walked onto the stage. (AUDIENCE APPLAUSE) “It’s been so long. How are you?” he inquired as German struggled to fit into the leather armchair beside his desk.
“Oh, you know,” said German, monotone. “Busy.” (AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)
“I have something to ask you,” said the host, leaning in with a predatory affability. “What kind of deal did you make with the Devil for that brain?” (AUDIENCE LAUGHTER) “Do you still have his number? Can I have it?” (AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)
“We left that space on the contract blank,” replied German as the audience quickly subsided.
The host snorted affectedly, simultaneously looking to his papers and delivering German a playful punch to the shoulder. “Well, it’s been a big couple years for you,” continued the host. “First there’s this — and forgive me if I’m being blunt here — this fiasco with this Rasterman robot you made.”
“Android. And I wouldn’t call it — it wasn’t a fiasco — it—”
“Making enemies of fundamentalist groups, China, the U.N. and Congress in one year. German, unless you threw the world’s greatest party and didn’t invite any of them, then it was most definitely a fiasco. And if you did have that party, then where was my invite, German? WHERE WAS MY INVITE?” (AUDIENCE LAUGHTER) “I mean, come on, man, a superhero flying around the world, rescuing cats from trees? Never mind China, it’s Hollywood and the labor unions that you need to worry about.” (AUDIENCE LAUGHTER) “It’s a good thing no one else has that noggin of yours, otherwise Rasterman might have to contend with some leg-breakin’ robot teamsters.”
“Android. And it’s not as black and white as that. You’re misrepresenting—”
“But then you turned it all around, rising like a phoenix,” said the host pantomiming bird wings. (AUDIENCE LAUGHTER) “You did what you do best, and you changed the world,” he concluded conciliatorily, lifting his stack of papers. “I have it here that, as of today, 93.6 million people have joined the RasterEvolution, since its release only three months ago!” (AUDIENCE APPLAUSE) “And more are joining every day.” (AUDIENCE APPLAUSE) “So here’s my question for you: How’s it legal?” (AUDIENCE LAUGHTER)
“Well—”
“Seriously, German, all these people have to do is fill out some forms, and poof, that’s it, they get sucked into that computer game of yours for the rest of their lives?”
“Well they have to be twenty-one or older—”
“I mean, I knew daily life could be boring, but—”
“And once they’re digitized, they’re theoretically immortal—”
“What was that?”
“Once our members are digitized into the RasterWorld, as long as our servers continue to run, our members are immortal.” (AUDIENCE APPLAUSE, confused and scattered, echoed through the studio.)
“But, it’s not real, German,” said the host, affability gone. “It’s not reality.”
“To our members it is,” replied German. “Virtual reality has been photorealistic and lossless for the better part of a decade now, and all of our members’ senses and bodily functions are simulated through algorithms. To them, there’s no difference, except they don’t age, don’t feel pain, don’t need to eat, or sleep—”
“BUT IT’S NOT REAL!” screamed the host. “This mug,” lifting the mug, “this desk,” gesturing towards the desk. “It can look, smell, taste, be screwed on the same, but it’s not... IT’S NOT REAL,” he concluded by slamming his mug onto the desk, shattering it. The larger chunks of porcelain spread like shrapnel throughout the stage. Silence fell over the studio while the host wiped the blood from his hand. “Anyway,” he continued, attempting to restore equanimity to the room, “you didn’t answer the question. How is it legal?”
“Well, I lobbied the right people,” answered German. A weakened laughter echoed from a sparse few in the audience. “Also,” German coughed, removing the notes from his pocket. “Billions are spent in charities every year to help out th... the impoverished, the sick — physically and mentally — the battered.
“And the world is now facing a massive roadblock in sustainability with environmental impact and how our nations are going to feed their people. RasterWare has famously given millions to charities throughout the years, but what we decided — and scientists, our investors, and world leaders agreed with us — is that there are just too many people for the world to support. So, instead of... well, we decided to atta... uh, fix the problem at its roots. And that’s why so many philanthropists were willing to invest. And that’s why RasterEvolution is free for the general pu-public.”
“Yeah, well, I hear your cult joined en masse,” added the host.
“Religion. And I have n-no formal association with The Church of Rasterman, the, uh, Rasterians,” he replied, wiping mug debris from his lapel. “But they’re more than welcome to join. With the RasterEvolution, there’s no limit on space or resources. We’ve made real progress with solving the world’s population problem.”
“Yeah, a real panacea.”
“Well, the only thing that makes this world better, in my opinion, is that we have our own Rasterman.”
* * *
The first bombing of a RasterEvolution Center occurred two days after the interview. Rasterman managed to rescue fourteen people from the building’s debris, but the tens of thousands of consciousnesses existing in the facilities’ routers had been extinguished. Responsibility for the attack was difficult to establish, as numerous religious groups and Luddites had threatened violence against RasterWare since the project’s announcement.
Raster disappeared for five days after the bombing. For the first three, German stayed awake, watching him through his tracking device as Raster remained motionless above the Antarctic. After six days, arrests were made of members of the fundamentalist True Church of Rasterman. RasterWare improved security at its facilities, but more attacks followed with gunmen and, later, even military drones. And with every facility destroyed and thousands of consciousnesses lost to the world, Raster’s absences grew longer, and German remained awake, at his vigil, watching him on the tracking screen.
“I couldn’t stop it,” said Raster, eventually returning after every bombing, increasingly despondent. “I failed.”
“You couldn’t know, Raster,” responded German, increasingly desperate. “It wasn’t the type of thing you were designed for.”
In the months following, a military coup occurred in New Assyria. It was uncovered that the nascent dictatorship — after a forceful acquisition of a RasterEvolution Center — had begun cleansing “enemies of the state” by the thousands, digitizing them into a stripped-down RasterWorld where its inhabitants were condemned to unremitting suffering and misery without the potential reprieve of death.
Soon after, Rasterman entered the capital, Assur, recovering the facility and single-handedly overthrowing the dictatorship. But the heavily damaged code of innumerable digitized consciousnesses proved unsalvageable — either mangled beyond repair or too negligently converged with the artificial world to ever be recovered. RasterWare was forced to delete the wavering algorithms, euthanizing thousands. Raster spent the following four weeks in a self-imposed seclusion, drifting in the earth’s orbit.
“I couldn’t stop it,” repeated Raster, returning to earth, ever more despondent. “I failed.”
“You couldn’t know, Raster,” responded German, ever more desperate. “It wasn’t the type of thing you were designed for.”
* * *
Several months passed before a former RasterWare employee came forward, revealing that many of the corporate investors in RasterEvolution had been deciphering the code of millions of digitized brains. The source claimed that people’s entire lives — their banking information, their most intimate moments, their childhood memories, their phobias and desires — had been collected by various conglomerates worldwide, and in turn, collected by the governments they influenced. Public outrage soared, and German attended his first board meeting since introducing the RasterEvolution.
“You’re no longer the majority shareholder,” informed one of the board members. “We didn’t need your input.”
“We haven’t for some time actually,” added another. “Sinclair has been the majority shareholder since last December.”
“And we agree with the direction they’re taking the company,” continued the first. “This isn’t a dictatorship, German.”
“Y-you can’t do this,” said German. “It undermines the pr-principles that I created it under.”
“We knew you would disapprove,” said another. “So there wasn’t really a point in informing you of our decision.”
“That’s why we’re moving ahead with the advertisement protocol without you,” added a fourth board member.
“What ‘advertisement protocol’?”
The board members seated around the black mirrored surface looked toward one another. Finally, the member on the far end of the table raised his hand. “I can cover this one.” Swiveling his chair to face German directly, he intertwined his fingers, resting his elbows on the table. “Well, essentially, we’ve realized the potential the RasterEvolution has for marketing, in that it allows us to bypass advertising altogether—”
“No—”
“From translating the algorithms that were created by coding our members’ brains, it’s become increasingly obvious how simple it would be to manipulate the coding—”
“Y-you can’t—”
“And that way, we can influence those in the program to invest their finances wherever we want, or wherever our investors want—”
“P-please don’t do this—”
“We’re aware the number of people who have wanted to leave the RasterEvolution, even temporarily, has been, at its highest, under ten percent, but we can manipulate—”
“Don’t say ‘manipulate,’” interrupted a board member.
“Ah, right, sorry. We can influence our members to come and go of their free will—”
“I WON’T LET YOU—”
“German,” said a board member, patronizingly, “we’ve been over this. You’re not the majority shareholder anymore. It’s just not your call.”
“Christ,” cried German, burying his face in his palms. “What am I going to tell Raster?”
“I’m glad you brought that up,” answered one of the board members. “German, we need to talk about the robot.”
* * *
Shortly after German had brought his creation into the world, Raster began to display an insatiable curiosity in humanity. Researching voraciously, the android delved into the arts, believing them to illustrate mankind’s unique ascension above the other species. And early on in Raster’s existence, he inquired of German: “Which author best captures the essence of humanity?”
German was, for the first of many times, dumbfounded by his own design. Never an alien to humanity, at least anatomically, the question had not occurred to him, the poet who, in his opinion, best conveyed the substance of man. No less, did so in the unadulterated form of the written word.
But he truly knew then, beyond any doubt, that he had succeeded in his goal. He had created a being who functioned beyond the capacities of a meagre artificial intelligence, who displayed original, unprogrammed thought and passion. A being whom he loved not only as a best friend, but as a son, more so than any he could have created organically.
Upon this realization, a response occurred to him. Not simply an answer realized through computation, but like Raster’s view of the arts, one that seamlessly combined an emotional response with higher rational thought.
“Oscar Wilde,” he answered.
* * *
It was Oscar Wilde he thought of now, in the private workshop of his home, as Raster stepped into his containment pod.
“I have to put you to sleep while I do some of the upgrades,” said German. “as to not cause any shocks to your mainframe.”
“That’s alright,” replied Raster. “How long will I be in stasis?”
“Not too long.”
“That is not very informative,” replied the android. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. See you soon.”
German reached the central computer, commanding the door to close and after inputting several security protocols, put the android into stasis. The computer prompted a timer for reactivation, and German set it for two years. Two years should be enough time, he thought.
German approached the now darkened pod and, peering through the glass, gazed into murky spheres, which moments ago had glowed bright, opalescent and aware. He sighed, exiting the workshop, which became engulfed in darkness behind him as sensors shut off the lights, placing computers and various equipment on standby, and started preservative measures on organic material.
Fitting comfortably into the upsized golf cart, he uttered, “Helipad.” The cart propelled him through the lustrous fields and under the manicured oaks, until arriving at the Sinclair ZX-171A2. He soared deep into the Appalachians, far from civilization, landing on a remote mountainside.
And exiting the aircraft, German approached a large steel door. He entered the code and the massive grinding doors began to slide open. Sensors, recognizing his presence, animated the second, private and unknown laboratory. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he approached the imposing steel and glass containment pod on the far end of the workshop. He looked with trepidation through the glass of the pod, and observed the blistering jagged armor and formidable jets, which would ignite into a tremendous scorching cape. Two years, he thought. Two years would be enough time for Vectorman to wipe out a sufficient amount of the population before Raster would have to begin the undertaking of stopping him.
He leaned against the pod, trying desperately to slow his heart, praying it wouldn’t give out before he had finished. Mustering the resolve, he approached the central computer, bypassing security protocols and unlocking the big red button. He took one final, foreboding glance towards the pod and, inhaling deeply, leaned forward, pressing into the word DANGER.
Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them, German thought to himself, unable to look towards the robotic fingers starting to twitch and complex facial muscles, which began to constrict and relax. And making his way towards the other end of the laboratory, German changed out of his clothing and into the formfitting Composer Suit and, stepping into the Codifier, digitized himself into a 16-bit role-playing game.
Copyright © 2022 by James Andrew Selby
