Damon continued chatting with James, the customer service rep, as they made their way toward the back office. James shared that he was attending Johns Hopkins Virtual School for Medicine, aiming to secure a position at Coeus Corporation after completing his two-year mandatory service. The deal promised to cover his medical school expenses but bound him to work for twice as long as it took him to graduate. Damon understood the allure—avoiding crushing student debt was tempting—but he couldn’t ignore the reality of committing to a corporation for the next 20 to 30 years. He wanted to comment but realized there were far worse deals that corporations used to lure young people in.
The room was modestly furnished, with a solitary desk at the center and a few chairs scattered around. The chairs, though still standing, bore the marks of age and neglect, their upholstery faded and frayed like the edges of an old book.
“Please have a seat and review the screen,” James said with a sigh. “As you predicted, Coeus Corp performed a facial recognition scan when you entered the building. I just need you to verify that the information on the screen is correct.”
Damon sat down and glanced at the screen, mumbling, “Big Brother is always watching.”
James’s eyes flicked up from the screen. “Did you say something?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just talking to myself.”
The screen displayed:
Name: Damon DeDominic
D.O.B: April 28, 1980
Height: 174 cm
Weight: 84 kg
Social: XXX-XX-XXXX
Blood Type: AB-
Sex: Male
Marital Status: Widower
Next of Kin: Spiro Von DeDominic* (Deceased)
Military Status: Veteran
Occupation: Retired
Credit Score: 850
Net Worth: $3.6 Million
Purchasing Power: $218K (Bronze)
“Well, isn’t that nice,” Damon said with a bitter smile. “A lifetime of memories and experiences boiled down to this flat, cold screen. Is this what we’ve become? Just data? And only fourteen lines at that. I’d bet the last three lines are the only ones corporations care about as they herd the masses.”
James shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not supposed to comment on any specific line of data, but I can tell you that the Upload Program looks at more than just your financial status. Now, can you confirm that the rest of the information is accurate?”
Damon’s eyes lingered on line 8. “There’s a problem with these lines.”
James approached the touch screen. “What seems to be the issue?”
“I was married to Sarah Elizabeth DeDominic for thirty-seven years of the deepest joy, followed by two years of unendurable sorrow. More than half my life was entwined with hers, and yet her name is erased from this cold, mechanical record. Our son’s name appears, though he never lived beyond the NICU, but Sarah—her name is nowhere. When she beat ovarian cancer the first time, she had a name, Sarah Elizabeth DeDominic. When she lost that battle twenty years later, I put her name on her headstone. And now, this screen erases her. I know you can’t make the corporation care, but I will not leave here until her name is on this data sheet. SARAH. ELIZABETH. DEDOMINIC.”
A tear rolled down Damon’s cheek as he spoke. James looked away, his eyes distant. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
He left the room, returning after a few minutes with a box of tissues. He handed it to Damon with a solemn nod.
Damon almost crushed the box in anger but was stopped by the dampness on his cheek. As he sat there in empty detachment, reliving memories, the screen flickered.
Marital Status: Widower. Previously Married for 39 years to Sarah Elizabeth DeDominic* (Deceased), mother of Spiro Antonio DeDominic* (Deceased)**
Damon swallowed hard, fighting back a sob, as James reentered the room.
“Apologies for the oversight,” James said gently. “We’ve corrected the errors. If you’re ready, we can proceed with the next part of the process. Is there anything else that needs to be adjusted?”
Damon cleared his throat and wiped away a stray tear. “No… It’s perfect. Thank you.”
James hesitated, then spoke softly, “It must have been difficult to lose her.”
Damon’s voice was quiet but filled with deep, resonant sadness. “When I was young, I believed I was meant to sing alone, my voice setting the tone and tune of my future. But when I met my wife, I realized we were meant to create a harmony together, a melody that gave life its meaning. But when she died... the music died with her, and now all I have left is her echo in the silence.”
James seemed at a loss for words, so he simply nodded in understanding. Damon continued, his voice carrying the weight of unresolved pain. “We came to a place like this when she found out her latest battle with cancer was a losing one. They did a rudimentary mind map, but the cancer had affected her neural synapses too much. They told us the risk of not capturing her consciousness was too great. We were mad, but what could we do? We resigned ourselves to spending what little time we had left together.”
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A shadow passed over Damon’s face as he added, “But they still mapped her brain. There’s a chance... a small chance that a piece of her might be among the AI headed out on that exploratory ship. That’s why I have a grudge against Coeus Corp. They took her data but couldn’t give us what we wanted most—a little more time.”
James, feeling the gravity of the situation, spoke carefully. “I understand why you feel that way. The Upload Program is far from perfect. But if you’re ready, we can move forward. The next steps are the medical exam and legal counseling. We’ll make sure everything is in order.”
Damon nodded, his resolve hardening. “I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.”
James took a deep breath and continued, “Before we begin, I must inform you of a few things. This question-and-answer session will be recorded under the Personal Persuasion Act of 2035. A copy of this recording will be provided to you upon completion. Should you ever feel coerced, threatened, or otherwise pushed into a decision against your will during this process, you have the right to terminate this session and consult an adjudicator before proceeding further. Do you understand these terms, or do you have any questions?”
Damon nodded, his eyes glinting with a mix of weariness and suspicion. “No questions. Let’s get started.”
“Very well. We’ll begin session one. It’s August 28th, 2048, at 14:30 UTC, and this is Upload Center Number 24601. We’ll start with a word association exercise. There are no right or wrong answers; this exercise is designed to assess psychological typology and psychopathology. Just respond with the first word or phrase that comes to mind. There’s no need for justification or explanation. Are you ready to begin?”
Damon settled into his chair, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Ready when you are.”
“Your first word is ‘night.’”
Damon looked at the word ‘night’ on the screen and wondered about the endless cycle of questions. Was this just another way for the system to peck away at his psyche, piece by piece? A test of endurance and will, disguised as something benign?
For nearly an hour, Damon and James engaged in a relentless volley of words. Damon’s initial answers were simple and direct—synonyms and antonyms that flew by like mundane echoes. But as the questions grew more abstract, he began to dig into cultural references and literary allusions.
“Blade,” he said, “Runner.”
“King,” he responded, “Lear.”
The words became increasingly complex, weaving through the realms of pop culture and mythology. Damon’s annoyance began to surface as the session wore on.
“Can we take a break before I lose my patience?”
James gave a nod of understanding. “Of course. This phase is complete. There’s no set number of responses required, and taking a break is a sign of acknowledging your limits. I’ll get us some water. When you’re ready, we’ll move on to the next part.”
Damon stretched, the weight of his decision pressing heavily on him. As he sipped the water and stared into the void of the sterile room, he couldn’t help but reflect on the surreal nature of the process.
After a few moments, he looked over at James, who was absorbed in the glow of his tablet.
“Alright, what’s next?”
James met his gaze, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. “Next, we have a series of ten inkblots. I’ll show you each one in turn. Take your time and describe what you see. We’ll shuffle them and review them two more times. Often people see different things on subsequent viewings. Just let me know when you’re ready for the first one.”
Damon gave a nod, his mind still caught between the existential weight of the session and his own private musings. “Let’s go.”
As the inkblots appeared on the screen, Damon’s descriptions ranged from the whimsical to the deeply symbolic:
“The Pokémon Eevee reflected in a river. Two gnomes playing pattycake. A Cenobite from Hellraiser. The Octopus from Space Invaders. A bat. A robed cleric holding an angel’s mace. A man giving himself a thumbs-up in a mirror before he fades away. Two lionesses hunting a wounded elephant. Blood Wing from the view of the spinal column. Mardi Gras in front of the Eiffel Tower.”
A green light blinked at the corner of the desk, signaling that the second and third rounds of inkblots would not be necessary.
“It looks like we won’t need to continue with the inkblots,” James said, his tone a mix of relief and curiosity.
Damon chuckled, his laugh carrying a hint of bitterness. “Ah, I was hoping to flip them upside down and tell you it’s clearly my mother disapproving of my life choices. But I guess the universe had other plans.”
James smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that or something similar. People always want to see more in these tests than what’s on the surface.”
“So does this mean I’m all set to go?”
“Not quite. This just means you’ve passed the preliminary screening. The AI has confirmed that you’re a promising candidate, but you’ll still need a medical exam and legal counseling before making your final decision. Based on your financial situation, Project Phoenix isn’t an option for you, but there are other paths within the Upload Program.”
Damon’s eyes reflected a mix of hope and resignation. “I don’t have the cash to Walt Disney myself into a digital utopia, nor do I want to spend eternity as a mere digital assistant. I’m more interested in that exploratory vessel.”
James tapped his temples thoughtfully, trying to grasp Damon’s abstract desires. “I understand what you don’t want, but you haven’t been clear about what you do want with long-term exploration. Most of our clients end up as quasi-AIs, providing a human touch to various digital services. I think you might find a different path more suited to your goals.”
Damon leaned forward, his voice steady but passionate. “If I’m to become a sojourner, living off the goodwill of others in a digital form, then I want to be uploaded onto the exploration ship Pequod and see what lies among the stars...and perhaps a copy of my wife will be among the digital crew.”
James raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I understand your choice, but a simple brain mapping isn't going to have her memories or likely her personality if they did in fact include an AI based on your wife's scan. Additionally, you should know that Coeus Corp’s space exploration missions are neither cheap nor safe. Choosing this route means committing yourself to cold storage for the better part of a century, with Coeus Corp responsible only for the initial upload.”
Damon’s eyes shone with a mixture of resolve and wistfulness. “That’s fine, hope is all I need. I once thought I found heaven on earth, fleeting as it was. Now, I’m ready for a new journey. I don’t need a final destination—just hope to guide me and new path to explore. Let’s get this paperwork done. The hurry-up-and-wait is simply a part of the adventure.”