Ch 2. – Reboot Civilization Y/N?
July 5th 2056
Tahoe-Reno, N.V – United States of America
“Do not press Cancel if you wish to decline the non-deletion of records exceeding 300,000 years.”
Ayaans team were in the midst of a summer lull, and spent the season downtime on clearing out some old legacy files from their system files. He had not opened an Excel-file for at least a decade. The buttons below it simply read: [Cancel] and [OK]. Ayaan Sheikh stared at the VBA Excel-prompt, concentrating on his decision, so as to not stumble over all the double negations. He took a sip from his cappuccino-mug, its text reading “Switch Citadel Campus – Tahoe-Reno, N.V”. One of the largest data centers in the world, swallowing an incredible one Gigawatt of power. A colleague called out; “It’s 11:45 – let’s move to the cafeteria.” Ayaan responded, his neck facing the screen, and his body twisting to grab his lunch box. “Sure.” Ayaan pressed [OK], locked his laptop screen with Ctrl + L, and went for lunch.
A couple of milliseconds later, 300 m below sea level, a corner of a nuclear bunker lit blue with the light from one of its server access terminals. On the Blue Screen Of Death (BSOD), a message presented itself, reading:
” 🙁 Your PC ran into a problem and needs to restart. We’re just collecting some error info, and then we’ll restart for you. 93% complete. Stop code: INACCESSIBLE_BOOT_DEVICE”. Apparently, that excel table was not something you wanted to delete. The corner of the room went dark again.
The fans in the server room began spinning like crazy – then, in flashing succession, one os-windows prompt overlaid on the other, and a spurt of BIOS-error bells sounded:
“Modification of system state required. Inputting civilization reboot parameters from earlier update.”,
“Something went wrong. Illegal operation.”,
“Object reference not set to an instance of an object – bad .xlsx register overflow.”, “Operation failed due to an unknown error (0x80240020).”,
“Keyboard not found. Press F1 to continue. Keyboard not found. Press F1 to continue. Press F1 to continue. Press F1 to con. The file name(s) would be too long for the destination folder. You can sh.” The fans stopped spinning. Red lights turned on.
A new message;
“Your computer has not been restarted for the past 300 000 years. We’ve got an update for you. Windows is a service and updates are a part of keeping it running securely. The civilization of mankind relies on it…” It seemed that excel file had been more crucial for the operations of the worlds most important data centers and internet switches, than what Ayaan – an experienced IT-export – had been led to believe. The message continued.
“…We need your help installing this one. If you don’t take action within one year, your civilization will restart automatically. Please save all your work, and restart the system to avoid data loss.
[SNOOZE] [RESTART]”
Horrifyingly, the [SNOOZE] option was greyed out. A telefax printer spurted out backup legacy fanfold printer paper, with analog computer outputs:
“INITIALIZING M-39 B-52 SF VERSION HISTORY RESTORATION PLAN –
* Short Term RAM, Healthy? : TRUE
* Long Term NVM, Healthy: FALSE
# ( %”Degradation.Rate(NVM) = ‘- log()’”% )
* Civilizational Reboot, Required? : TRUE
# ( %”NVM BackupStorage.tmp(payload = “AdTel-RootDrive”, transferMethod = “SKA-RadioTelescope”, dataNode = ”prtsMth_Node”)% )
* Impartial Parameter Selector, Activated? = TRUE
* Backup Storage Backup Power, Activated? = TRUE [timeStamp: 04-08-2024]
* Reboot Parameters, Initialized? : RUNNING…”
April 8th 2024
321 Montgomery St. Syracuse – New York, United States of America
321 MONTGOMERY ST. SYRACUSE NEW YORK —
I find myself in a room filled to the brim with dusty cardboard, about as long as I am tall. I can make out the edges of the crates from the green shine of the EXIT-sign. The tiny room it must be a supply closet. It has a large door which I am determined to open.
The Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) standard at 29 CFR [1910.37 (b) (7)] requires Exit signs to be [not less than 15.2 (cm) (6 inches) high – The OSHA [Exit route] requirements, [1910.36 (g) (2)], state that the minimum width of any way of Exit access shall in no case be less than 71.12 (cm) (28 inches).
I regress through the OSHA-approved EXIT and enter into a quiet office. I find office supplies neatly packed in little boxes, one beside each desk. There doesn’t seem to be any personal belongings inside, only ticky-tacky and staples – all look just the same. I feel drawn to personal identifiers, curious of their informational contents. It’s pitch black and I don’t see any individuals. Oddly enough – the front door is wide open. I feel a sudden urge to escape the place, as if it has entombed me for years – like a fen fettering me with the full weight of the monstrous ‘Court of Cassation’ – the Brussels palace of justice; a classical building in Ceausescu-like scale, malplaced in a tiny nation of twelve million people. A lone wall-clock carries the numbers 03 and 23 as I walk out the entrance – it ticks over to 03:24 – and the world becomes awash with light.
Time is seemingly fast forward. I must have biked for a day or more – It feels weirdly nice to move my legs, yet they strain against my heavy cargo, rattling behind me on the bumpy road. I am not sure where I am headed; when I look behind me, I see something pointy sliding around in the cart of my bike. A chafed label on the strange object says ‘C.C.C.P Beta-M RTG’. Although it impedes my acceleration $\sim$ its pointy finned heat sink signal to me it is worth it’s cumbersome transport. I see a sign saying ‘Green Mountain National Forest’ and feel it best to remain in the shade of the budding spindly trees – despite the absence of leaves, and it being mud season – rather than out on the smooth asphalt. I do not see anyone on the trail. Where is everyone? How come I do not feel lost in this vast forest. And why does skipping the road toll feel like a victory whilst riding a bike? I’m so focused on cycling, time is fast-forward.
I arrive. I open the pad-lock with a key found beneath a potted plant. I enter into a drum of a room, with a high stretched inner ceiling. I’ve managed to drag the cart with the RTG generator inside – with embossed tin plates reading “data loss prevention module, backup power source”. I cart the generator down the basement, and connect it to a fuse box powering a red cable. I flip the breaker ON, and I move about like a camera. Like a drone. The sea-side town is empty in April, as most vacation homes lay vacant. I soar towards the roof – I want to be outside – In here, things are dark and stifling – things are not as they should be. The inside is heavily ornate, but there is no way in nor out to marvel at its design. The light source; I must check whether it is connected, whether I managed to turn it ON.
I perceive my structure as cryptically incomplete as the deserted Mingun pagoda. I climb the air, higher, and higher, as if ascending Yayoi Kusama’s Ladder to Heaven – as fiery as Cai Guo-Qiang’s firework display, only going both; up and down. Am I, going up or down? I push myself to the surface with my stomach pointed towards the ceiling. The harder I push, the more uncomfortable I become — I pass through, leaving no orifice behind. I am now in a similar room, though thinner in circumference. I imagine myself, consumed by a citadel oubliette, a captive of baleen bars – sharing my leviathan cell with Captain Ahab, and Pinocchio. The tower gets thinner and thinner as I taper towards its center – as I reach the top of it´s needled structure. I am isolated, like the serviceman of a lighthouse; with no space for windows other than for the garland assembly, the light source itself.
I fly and fly, inside this empty drum, and each ceiling I break leaves me with another, twice as rigid. But the tunnel is thinning so I must be close to the crowning dome. I stare into a large cupola, a dome-like interior. In the center of the dome is a gold-leaf plated all-seeing eye. The Eye of Providence; an eye which sees the object as it is – objectively without error – divine omniscience. As I push my sharpest; I Exit into a room containing a revolving entrance, fashioned from thick fresnel glass – as I push, and revolve on through – I realize it is not a door, but a window. I find myself at the spire, the summit of the tower, looking out as from the gilded peak of ‘the Church of Our Saviour’. I see the sky’s evening pink mix with the sage of dusk, seeping into the bright blue, that was mid-day. Three primary colors mixing: red, blue, and yellow. I see a pleasant town without people and the body of water bordering it.
Where am I? It all looks tilt shifted from my vantage point. I see hints of Königsbergs seven bridges, and the Kronstadt Lighthouse – the graph theory which emerged from them – no, is it the beacon of Fort Nikolai? As I’ve flipped the breaker ON. Whichever, it shines GREEN as olivine. The breeze grows into gusts of wind, forcing me down. I hear a whistle prayer – – – a gentle humm. Lighthouses are always in the loop. Always on, despite every other neighbor light, being firmly snuffed out. Yet the great green light shines regardless of buried dead neighborlights; we depend on them – the reliable lighthouse.
Pompi rolled over in bed, their body somewhat sore and heavy – unrefreshed after the multiples of day’s work which was squeezed into yesterday. Reluctantly, Pompi scooted up their back against the headboard, in preparation for rising out of bed. Yesterday – yesterday had been laborious, with their bike chain jumping off the gears more times than they could count; making them lose all momentum. Pompi looked at their nails, and saw a thin black line of oil under their right hand fingers. Then they remembered something; what an odd confusing mess they had dreamed. They could not recall any details – simply that they had been biking, which was tiresome since biking was what Pompi did for work; which meant Pompi had been ‘working’ even when having their time off. Just as Pompi arose to brush their teeth – a crackling sound commenced beneath the thick sole of their foot; and a sharp feeling, like tiny stones, spread underneath it. Had they stepped on a large shelled beetle perhaps?
They worriedly had a look underneath their foot. Cookie crumbs? A fortune cookie. It lay close to their magenta cube delivery back-pack. Pompi took up the paper slip which protruded from the debris, and carried it to the bathroom light. They sat on the mug, and began to read:
“Establishing civilisational decision tree for reboot. Querying impartial actor.
Question #1. To be always on the move, or to be sedentary, which is better?
[YES – Nomadic civilization] [NO – Settled civilization]”
On the flip side it said –
“INSTRUCTIONS TO IMPARTIAL ACTOR: Select answer to #Q1 within 6.625 days by thinking words loud in head before sleep. Fail to comply, and the decision will be made at random, so as to remain impartial.”
Pompi cleaned their nails in the sink. Confused, they brushed up the crumbs from the carpet and bunched it up with the old Chinese take-out leaning inside their aluminium coated delivery-backpack, and threw it in the trash. It was time to go to work.
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