Parse. Error. Reset.
Art: Gustavo Torres

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Tech

Parse. Error. Reset.

In the future, we'll be able to use lifelike "alters" to stand in for us at work and social events. Just be sure to note the expiration policy.

Yesterday, we published the first winner in our Post-Human contest with AMC, a story that explored a near future filled with nü-prostitution, Apple products, and emergent artificial intelligence. Our aim is to gather the best, most inventive, and most enjoyable speculations about the future of AI in three different future time zones. Today, we'll be looking a half-century down the road, at a world in which social media avatars have become embodied, no longer just standing in for us online, but taking our place at work, at play. Perhaps, even, replacing us entirely. —The Eds.

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I arrive late to the cocktail party wearing a plain black shirt, pressed grey trousers, and buffed black shoes. I am not wearing the waistcoat I'd said I would when Dania first invited me to the party. Dania hugs me, whispering her disappointment. She'd already pre-approved what everyone would be wearing, optimized for maximum social network shareability, and does not like the unexpected deviation. I don't have enough energy to care, so I smile, forge ahead into the brightly lit penthouse and say hello to everyone. Most of them are familiar; the usual crowd. Kiss. Kiss. Hug. Hug. Handshake. Smile.

Electro-swing-jazz seeps into the space softly without being intrusive, but only just. It is all wearily familiar, like my workstation.

I grab a glass of port and settle into a corner of the room near two men talking. One of them is obviously an alter; I can see the electronic stria running through the whites of his eyes. I vaguely recognize him: Deinde, from Human Resources. I guess he's too sick to come in the flesh but too scared not to show up for one of Dania's events. She doesn't take it well when people don't honor her invitations. These days, your social profile is everything, even if you need an alter just to keep up with it.

A hand settles on my shoulder and I turn immediately.

"You shouldn't stare at him like that." The hand belongs to Luiza; an elfin Brazilian expat with mottled cheeks and red hair like bloodied silk cascading down to her shoulders. She works as a technical sales rep in Dania's team and we sort of had a thing last year. Dania did not approve, but Luiza never knew that, of course. Still, nothing lasts long in our social circle without Dania's approval. Luiza and I didn't either.

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Tonight she's wearing a coquelicot bodycon dress that clings to her like a jealous lover and brown contact lenses through which she stares at me, probably gauging how attracted I still am to her. Usually, every part of my body would signal an obvious yes, but today, I feel nothing. Not even animal lust.

"I wasn't staring," I say drily.

"Of course you weren't," She says, sidling up to me and whispering, "I never thought I'd see the day Deinde didn't actually come to one of queen Dania's parties, or any other outing for that matter. No matter what else was going on with him, he was always the life of the party. I kind of hoped to see him here at least."

"Well, technically, he's here," I reply. "I mean, it's basically him in there, neurosocial profile and all, and once he syncs with and discards it, it'll be just like he was here."

"Yeah. Right," she says, tightly, and I remember that she used an alter last year to avoid a twenty-two hour flight to Brisbane; everyone appreciates the ability to approximate being in two places at the same time. Then she asks, "You've used one before?"

"I have, actually."

"It's strange," she says. "The experience. Everything about it. And that deadline thing is just super creepy."

She is either referring to the three-day defect-disclosure deadline or the sync-and-dispose-within-ninety-days deadline. Violating the former voids the warranty, and defaulting on the latter means the alter becomes a separate legal entity and can file for independence. She probably means the latter. Most people do when expressing concerns about the tech.

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"I suppose so."

She takes a sip of her drink, something brown with an olive in it. Her movement must have caught alter-Deinde's eye because he glances up from his conversation to see us unlooking at him as hard as we can.

She waits a while, and then says, "It's not just tonight though. Clearly you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what?"

She watches me like she's evaluating something, and then continues. "Deinde," she says. "He's been sending his alter everywhere, even to the office, for almost three months now. Did you see his last LifeCast post?"

I haven't really been keeping up with our little network lately. Warily, I tell her no.

"He's grown a ridiculous beard and hasn't left his house in weeks. Rumor is he's resetting."

I freeze.

All of a sudden, I feel naked. Resetting is an intensely private matter, like excretion or suicide. In fact, it is suicide. Sort of.

Luiza asks, "Did you hear what I said?"

I exhale. "Yes, I did. It's just…he never seemed the type. It's a bit shocking," I say. Though I might understand why, I think. I cycle back mentally and remember hearing that familiar hollow echo in Deinde's laughter, remember seeing that recognizable desperation behind his eyes when he smiled. I think I know the signs. Every person has two versions of themselves; the person they really are and the person they'd like to be. If those two people are different enough, and the person is self-aware enough, it can cultivate a certain type of haunting, like a blanket of shadows. Some people take that and use it to drive them, to make themselves better. Some people just can't, or try as they might, they only fail, so they give up and start over: custom build a better neurosocial profile, cherry-pick the memories they want to outlive them and then go quietly into that long goodnight, letting their alter file for independence and inherit their identity.

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Reset.

"Makes you wonder just how well you really know people, doesn't it?" Luiza says. "I need another drink," she adds, obviously more interested in manufacturing drama than quenching her thirst.

The man alter-Deinde is talking to steps away, and Dania takes his place seamlessly. Their conversation is animated. By the time I turn, I see Luiza sashaying toward me, a parade of curves and confidence. I can tell what she wants to do and I play along not because I want to but because I am supposed to. This will be a hot gossip item on all the social networks tomorrow, splashed and re-cast in dozens of Lifecast posts and reposts. I parse her actions as they occur, selecting appropriate responses.

She reaches me. I wrap my hand around her waist. She puts her hand to my neck. I stoop slightly. Our lips embrace, her breath in mine. I kiss her as eagerly as I know she wants me to. I feel nothing. I pull away and apologize, and then I exit the penthouse. I walk home.

It's just past midnight when I slide into the cool darkness of my air-conditioned flat, sweating and grateful to be free of the oppressive Lagos air, heavy with heat and hope and humidity, even at night.

"How was the party?" My alter asks from his perch on the couch. He sounds just like I do.

"Same as all the others," I reply. It's strange talking to a variant of me, with a body as close to mine as is legally required, thinking with an edited imprint of my neurosocial profile and memories.

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"But you keep going. Why?"

"Habit."

"You said the same thing about work," alter-me says, his voice a little confused, a little curious.

"Honestly, I really don't know why I do anything anymore," I pause to shut the door before continuing, "When I was younger, I wanted to be important. I wanted my life to mean something. But life is just a pantomime now. Nothing about it feels like it actually matters. Or ever will."

My alter grunts and shifts on the couch as I remove my shirt and throw it on the floor without looking where it lands. I think he wants to say something but isn't sure if he should, or if it is his place to. I know because I would be thinking the same thing, if I were in his place. We are similar enough for that emotional approximation to be especially true. He is me, mostly, isn't he?

I don't turn on the lights.

"It's been eighty-nine days," alter-me reminds me carefully, as I sink into the couch beside him in the darkness. There is uncertainty and restlessness and not a little yearning in the tone of those few words. I recognize these things from my past and in that moment, I am finally and absolutely sure.

"I know," I say to myself, and close my eyes. "I'm done here. You can be me tomorrow."


This story is part of Terraform, our home for future fiction. Art by Gustavo Torres.