Tag: culture

The time bridge continues to hum, rippling waves of energy into the air long after you’ve disappeared. Long after the anxiously blinking lights cease and each of us who were holding our breaths have sucked in a lungful of air.

The world is silent, except for the overlapping vibration, that persistent buzz, just as much in my mind as in my ears. The second hand on my watch taps its foot impatiently as seconds and seconds crawl past.

“It’s been over five minutes,” someone whispers. “Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

Figures swim on the page beneath my fingers. Shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t he?

Shouldn’t you?

*****

The plan was simple: skip five minutes forwards. Enter the gate and emerge from the other side in exactly five minutes’ time. Everyone cheers. We pop the champagne and pat ourselves on the backs for a job well done before moving on to the next increment.

How else are you supposed to test a time machine?

*****

The bridge’s hum is still audible, even over the lab’s buzz. Engineers swarm, barely holding back their panic as they try to figure out what went wrong. It’s a hive that’s been invaded by the worst of worst-case scenarios, thick with fear-heavy pheromones.

“What should we do?” they ask.

What should we do?

What have you done?

*****

It was my call to make it five minutes. The rabbit had jumped ahead five hours, and the gerbil was gone for ten, but I’ve been clawing my way up the ranks in this field since the day I decided to be a physicist; there’s no way that I’d risk my professional reputation — or a human life — on a too-risky test.

Read more science fiction from Nature Futures

“We ought to make it longer.” You’d made your opinion well known. But you have your charisma, your test-pilot fame, and your daddy’s money to fall back on. All I’ve got is a brain full of numbers, too much nervous energy, and too much stubbornness to give up.

You’d have had plenty of opportunity to enter an extra zero (or two or three) before stepping across that bridge.

50 minutes pass. 500 minutes pass.

How many did you enter? How far did you go?

*****

There’s only so many possibilities.

“He’s not there, so he must be there.”

“Then,” someone corrects. “He must be then.”

There’s one more possibility that I don’t speak of: that you are Nowhere, Never, Not at All. It’s possible, if anything were to happen to the time bridge before whatever time you programmed in, you’ll never end up anywhere at all. I don’t mention it as a possibility, because in my mind, it’s no possibility at all. I can’t afford that spot on my record — to forever be the first person to lose someone to Time. So, for me, waiting’s the only choice I’ve got.

A memorial of used coffee mugs collects beside the sink.

5,000 minutes pass. Faces fall. Shoulders slump.

It’s a 30-day wait for 50,000 minutes.

You wouldn’t have done that to us.

Would you?

*****

You would.

I knew your type but hired you anyway. Your heroes were all silver-screen rouges with sly smiles who’d never learnt to take no for an answer. Who always managed to get themselves out of a bind^, save the girl, save the day.

I hate that that’s how you see yourself. You don’t recognize that you’re the one putting us all in danger.

*****

50,000 passes.

They halve our funding. Pheromones of panic turn to pheromones of decay, and the bees begin abandoning the hive.

I stare at the empty bridge so long and so hard that it becomes a fixture in my dreams.

Month by month, as I wait for 500,000, I watch all I’ve worked for disappear. Equipment repossessed. Coffeepot unplugged. My swarm of workers ghost me, fade. Until all that’s left is me.

Me and that wretched bridge.

*****

When I envisage your return, you always look so victorious, stepping out with the same arrogant pose and cocky grin you were wearing when you stepped in. Seconds later for you. Nearly a year for me.

You’ll laugh and the media will go wild with the story.

Your story, that is. Not mine.

Your two seconds will be so much more exciting, much more noble, much more courageous and daring than my 347 days of waiting.

*****

The day arrives, and I’m the only one left to watch the clock tick down. Just me, still clinging to this dusty, abandoned hive. Morally incapable of tearing apart this life-ruining machine while there’s still some small chance you might step through it.

This is the last time, I think. The last time I let you put me in this position.

An unwelcome thought follows: Unless you hit another zero.

(I hate you, knowing you would. That if one year is more adventurous than five minutes, then how much more exciting is ten? That you wouldn’t even think twice about those you left waiting. About me.)

Waiting. Paralysed. Unable to walk away.

I hold my breath.

Three … two … one …

Jingex was feeling their age. Over the past 10 or 15 yahn cycles, they’d grown and grown and grown, until they were no longer spry and youthful: inclined more towards reclining and relaxing than striding out and exploring. It’s what happened, they knew, when their people were exposed to a life of abundance. They got bigger, contented and sluggish. It was in the genes to expand. Except, it wasn’t what Jingex wanted. Not all that many cycles ago, they’d danced over mountaintops, wave-skimmed the inland seas and rolled without care on grassy slopes.

The expansion had started with their brain. From the time their species began emerging as dominant on their planet, it was the brain that was first to expand — slowly, to begin with, as it gained knowledge and experience, then more rapidly as its capabilities mounted. Other species expanded differently, but for Jingex’s species it always started with the brain. Which was how their ancestors managed not just to survive but to thrive in a world in which other species were stronger, bigger, faster and hellbent on eating anything they could catch.

Later, the same process allowed their brains to expand as they absorbed knowledge from any source, whether it be the mundane skills of normal life or the intense joys of mountain dancing, ocean skimming and grassy rolling.

In ancient times, that was crucial to survival. Each time one of Jingex’s ancestors didn’t get eaten, its brain grew and it became smarter and more adept at not getting eaten. Even now, it was still useful, because even with the ancient predators vanquished, bigger brains were key to avoiding low-skilled jobs in which life was cheap and labour cheaper.

*****

Like all those on their planet, Jingex’s species reproduced by fragmentation. Some did so by allowing themselves to be hacked into bits by anything from a predator to a farmer’s fragmentator, which chopped remnants of this year’s crop into rootlings for next year’s planting. Some did it by budding, in which the parent split off a multitude of tiny fragments. For others, it was larger-scale fission, in which the offspring were fewer but larger, each retaining a portion of the parent’s identity — including, in the case of Jingex’s species, a fraction of its brain.

Read more science fiction from Nature Futures

Fifteen yahn cycles ago, Jingex had massed a svelte 125 kliptos. Now, they were approaching 215.

In the old days, that would have made them too sluggish to evade predators effectively, no matter how smart and wise they had become. Today, it opened opportunities unknown even a couple of hectocycles ago.

Jingex had chosen to pursue studies in the physics of interstitial dynamics — a possible gateway to interstellar and perhaps even intergalactic travel. Along the way, they had encountered senior researchers who had continued to expand, sometimes to as much as 650 kliptos. With brains to match, they were super-geniuses … but they could not possibly climb mountains, skim across waves or roll down grassy slopes with any hope of controlling where they wound up. Not that any of them cared about such pursuits. They had moved to realms of increasingly intellectual activities.

There was, however, a limit. Eventually, their bodies would reach a point at which replication was impossible to delay.

Palaeoantiquarian research showed that in ancient times, this occurred at somewhere close to Jingex’s youthful 125 kliptos. That was optimal, apparently, for beating off the ancient carnivores but far too low for a world in which the carnivores had been replaced by predators specializing in the politics of workplace, market and academic competition.

The change happened slowly enough that evolution had time to play a role, although science played an even bigger one as high-status members of Jingex’s species sought increasingly powerful contrareplicative medications to delay their bodies — and brains — breaking into fragments to produce the next generation of start-over-from-the-beginning offspring. “That’s good enough for a plant, but intelligent beings need something better,” a super-high-brained philosopher named Ixpahu said, shortly before their meds failed and their body fragmented into 24 children, only 3 of which had the brainpower to make it through their first cycle.

But procrastination wasn’t the only option. Other, often controversial, drugs limited the number of fragments and controlled their size, making it possible to split into as few as two fragments, with one retaining the vast majority of the brainpower and the other more helpless than any of Ixpahu’s fragments. There were also ones that could make the smaller fragment so tiny it was nonviable. If you did that often enough, you could hold your main fragment’s mass just below the level that led to Ixpahu’s demise, allowing you to retain your current status (and memories) virtually forever.

None of this was what Jingex wanted. Yes, they loved the mysteries and excitement of interstitial dynamics. But they hated the way their life had contracted into nothing else, because, however exciting the prospects for being able to travel to the stars, they didn’t want it to be the only thing they did. And they missed the mountaintops, especially that one rare magical night, when they danced in the light of the triplet moons to the silent tune of the summer borealis.

Jingex thought about it for 3 cycles, as their mass expanded from 215 kliptos to 220, 230 and 245. Then, they made their decision. They resigned their research position, stopped taking their contrareplicants, and focused on finding the right drugs for something nobody they knew had ever done before: a controlled fission in which, instead of producing a large parent and one or more small offspring, each would get the same amount.

*****

Recovery from replication takes a few decicyles, but shortly afterwards, there were two Jingexes. Neither had the brainpower for interstitial dynamics, although each remembered the excitement of working towards the stars. Maybe one, or both would do it again.

Meanwhile, there were mountaintops beckoning for dancing, waves waiting to be skimmed and grassy slopes begging to be rolled.

As cryo-pod specialist, I was the first to be woken up by the computer. I remember initiating the thaw cycle manually for the other four crew pods — then just a blank. Next thing I knew, I was on the bridge and an automated landing sequence was in full progress. All the touch controls were unresponsive.

It was hairy. Extreme winds caught the ship in the upper atmosphere. Wild gravity shifts. Electrical storms. I must have fainted. When I came to, I was out on the planet’s surface. The ship was jammed into the sand, venting slightly, the doors open. Must have been quite a landing. Thank you, computer.

Next thought. How the hell did I get out here?

No suit. The briefings said we might be able to go unsuited on the surface but it was a long shot. Is this even Gliese 581g, or were we way off course?

When I went back inside the ship, the crew were dead. Just smoking gas and fluids in the pods. I must have failed to complete the sequence. Some specialist, huh? Should have left it to the computer.

*****

Jake was gone. Just oily vapours in the pod. Horrible. A grim landing, too. Lucky that Skip was at the controls or we would never have made it. A hard landing, half buried in sand. No way we’re going to get off here again and the follow-up mission is years behind us. We’ll do what we can to survive but it’s not looking good — we can’t go outside without our suits. The briefings said it might be possible, but there’s no way we can breathe out there. Supplies are limited and there’s been damage to the ship. Something in the atmosphere is blocking our transmission, too, so we can’t even warn Earth.

Read more science fiction from Nature Futures

Anyway, first we must suit up and give Jake a decent farewell.

*****

There are four of them. All in suits. They’re standing over a trench. Sombre. Looking down.

I rush towards them, calling out.

Who are they? Can’t be the crew. They were dead. I saw them rotting in the pods. Have they stolen our suits?

They disappear like mist. I run through them. Look down at the trench. A small cross.

‘In memory of Jake’.

I bend down and touch the earth. My grave. It fades away. I’m alone again. But I’m alive?

*****

“Gliese-2 reporting. Earth, be advised. Remote sensing confirms that Gliese-1 has crashed. Repeat: Gliese-1 has crashed. Our scanning systems report no survivors. There is an unknown energy field around the planet that their older software might have failed to detect. This makes any attempt to land too hazardous. We aim to study the field further but will then divert to Target B. Please advise all following Gliese missions also to proceed to Target B. Gliese-2 out.”

*****

They couldn’t see me. I tried everything to attract their attention. After what must be ten years or more of me struggling to survive in this wilderness, Gliese-2 lands and the crew are like ghosts. My hand passes through them.

There must be some way I can contact them. They’re not staying either. Why the hell not? They come all this way and then leave? I’m going to get on the ship before it takes off. Should be easy — they can’t see me!

*****

“Gliese-2 reporting. We managed to land on Target A to search for the crew of Gliese-1. No survivors. We are now back in orbit. Earth — we could not contact you from the ground owing to interference. Both the landing and the launch back to orbit were tempestuous. We were lucky to survive. This planet is not suitable for settlement. Repeat: Gliese 581g is not suitable for settlement. Advise all following Gliese missions divert to Target B. Gliese-2 out.”

*****

“Gliese-2 here again. I hope somebody receives this. Things have changed. I am now alone on the ship. In deep space. I am crew member Peter Miller. Cryo-pod specialist. The hull walls seem thin to my touch. There’s just cold empty space outside. Wait, back up a bit. I’m so tired. Not sure what I’m saying. I put the other four crew in the sleep-pods and was running final checks before I followed them in.

“Then I saw somebody. It was a man. How? He was there briefly and then he was gone. I searched the ship. I ran full diagnostics. The computer found nothing.

“So, I went to wake up the Commander. She was dead. They were all dead. Just smoke and gas in the pods. Looked as if somebody had tried to open them without going through the proper procedures.

“My God. I’m alone. It’s 42 years to Target B and I dare not go in the pod. I dare not go to sleep either. I see him continually. He flickers in and out of vision. The lights fizz as he passes. Is he behind me now? No, but he was, I’m sure he was. Over there in the corner? No. Or was he? Earth — I’ll be more than 70 years old when I reach Target B. I can’t stay awake all that time.

“And now, everything I touch is turning to, what? Air? Mist? The ship is dissolving. I can’t even feel my own body. Wait. There are four more of them. Look. All in spacesuits. They’re coming for me …”

The Chinese Computer

Thomas S. Mullaney MIT Press (2024)

Around half of the global population write in a script unsuited to the standard QWERTY keyboard. Chinese languages have thousands of characters and no alphabet. Nevertheless, Chinese computers have adapted to using QWERTY keyboards through complex workarounds. Sinologist Thomas Mullaney’s telling of the unfamiliar history of how China’s computing developed, starting in the nineteenth century with a concise ‘telegraph code’ to transmit messages, is mind-boggling. With Chinese QWERTY keyboards, “what you type is never what you get”.

Just Following Orders

Emilie A. Caspar Cambridge Univ. Press (2024)

In the twentieth century, some 262 million people were “murdered by governments”, through genocide, massacres and intentional famines, writes neuroscientist Emilie Caspar in her appraisal of such atrocities. She asks perpetrators why they participated; often the response is they were “obeying orders”. Obedient behaviour generates less the activity in pain-related brain regions than with when people cause pain voluntarily, Caspar observes, in experiments in which she orders people to deliver electric shocks to others.

Dinosaurs at the Dinner Party

Edward Dolnick Scribner (2024)

The first clear evidence of dinosaurs was discovered as late as 1802, by farm boy Pliny Moody, who was ploughing mud when he uncovered massive footprints with three toe imprints. From 1811, fossil collector Mary Anning discovered many extraordinary specimens. But it was not until 1842 that the term dinosaur was introduced, by palaeontologist Richard Owen. As author Edward Dolnick captures in his engaging book about these and other eccentric pioneers, they “outsized themselves, like the bones they unearthed”.

Why Ecosystems Matter

Christopher Wills Oxford Univ. Press (2024)

While descending a steep, winding road in Peru’s eastern Andes, biologist Christopher Wills saw that the forests’ trees, birds and insects seemed to change radically with each 200–300-metre drop: a tantalizing pattern confirmed by a detailed scientific survey. He recalled Charles Darwin’s puzzlement over the different beaks of finches on neighbouring Galapagos islands, which led to the theory of evolution. His wide-ranging book argues that “every one of Earth’s teeming ecosystems is a kind of evolutionary cauldron”.

When the Ice is Gone

Paul Bierman W. W. Norton (2024)

Since the start of the industrial revolution, global warming has lifted sea levels by less than 30 centimetres. If Greenland’s ice sheet were to melt, levels would rise by some seven metres, notes geoscientist Paul Bierman. His valuable book centres on his 2019 analysis of a soil sample from below the sheet, drilled by US Army engineers in the 1960s. To his amazement, this “frozen Rosetta Stone” contained plant remains, proving that the ice sheet had “melted away at least once” in the past.

Competing Interests

The author declares no competing interests.

The wind stirs the dust around Nyla’s boots as she steps through the remains of the cabin. The roof has long since caved in, leaving behind only shadows of metal beams, sun-bleached wood and overgrown weeds. But she knows what she is looking for — the place her mother had whispered about.

“Why are we here, Mama?” young Nyla had once asked, holding her mother’s hand as they stood outside the cabin in silence.

Her mother’s lips moved without sound, her eyes distant, as if seeing things long gone.

Nyla kneels now, feeling the weight of that memory pressing down on her. Her fingers graze the dirt floor, tracing the worn boards that have somehow endured all these years.

*****

“Etta, you best be careful with that,” whispered Marie, Etta’s closest friend, watching as Etta prised up a floorboard in the middle of the night. “If they catch you —”

“They won’t,” Etta said, her voice steady but her heart pounding like thunder. “Ain’t nobody coming here at this hour.”

Marie shot her a look. “You say that now, but he’s been angry lately, more than usual. You saw him at the plant today. You can’t outrun his anger.”

Etta swallowed hard, her fingers working faster. She lifted the board, revealing the small pit beneath it. The hole wasn’t much, just big enough to hide a fistful of food.

“I ain’t running,” Etta said. “I’m just … getting ready.”

Marie glanced around nervously. “Getting ready for what?”

Etta paused, resting her hand on her belly. “For whatever comes next.”

*****

Nyla’s hands tremble as she prises up the same boards. They creak in protest but give way. The smell of earth hits her first — rich, damp and ancient. She closes her eyes, imagining the hands that once dug into this same soil, hands that scraped, bled and fought to survive.

Read more science fiction from Nature Futures

Her fingertips brush the edge of the hole, and for a moment, she freezes. This is it. This is where Mama hid. Where Grandma buried her fear and hope all at once.

*****

The master’s footsteps pounded across the floor above, sending vibrations through the boards. Etta pressed her body into the hole, but it was barely a foot deep, leaving a bulge beneath the boards. Her hands wrapped tight around her newborn daughter. The baby whimpered, and Etta’s heart nearly stopped.

“Shh, now,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “We gotta be quiet, baby. Just for a little while longer.”

She could hear the master’s voice, slurred and mechanical. His programming had deteriorated. He was shouting, calling for her. Her name echoed through the cabin, but Etta stayed still, as still as the dead.

“Etta!” the voice bellowed. “I know you’re here!”

Etta closed her eyes. She recalled the root commands — a ritual so ancient that almost none from where she came from remembered them. Etta prayed, pulling her baby tighter to her chest. Her body trembled, tears rolling down her cheek as she willed herself to transcend this inexplicable suffering.

The ground responded. It was a split of electric, like an embrace she had never experienced. She felt the earth all around her — cold, hard against her back — but it was safe. For now, it was safe.

She opened her eyes. She’s still close by, just not in the direction and dimension she knew. She saw the floorboards above creak as the master stormed through the cabin, his robotic arms tense, leaking lubricant, staining the dirt. She saw the silicone sealant of his dated processor peeling inside that rusty frame. A crash, then silence. For a long moment, all she could hear was her own breathing and the soft heartbeat of her child.

Then, the door slammed, and he was gone.

Etta didn’t move for hours, too afraid he might return. When she finally emerged from the shallow hole, her body was stiff and shaking, but her baby was safe. That was all that mattered.

*****

Nyla digs her fingers deeper into the hole, feeling the contours of the dirt. Her lip murmurs as her fingertips disappear into the land — just like Etta had on that night. It runs in the blood.

“She was here,” Nyla whispers to herself, her voice catching. “She is here.”

Her mother had told her how that old woman survived, how she outlived the droid who tried to break her. How she dug into the earth not just to hide, but to create something lasting — something more enduring than metal.

*****

Etta stood at the edge of the field, looking back at the cabin. Her baby was safe, hidden with Marie for the time being. But Etta couldn’t stay any longer. The master had been talking about selling her off to a terrafactory, and she knew what that meant. If she didn’t run now, she’d never see her daughter again.

She walked back inside, her eyes landing on the floor where the hole lay hidden. She had spent years digging, hiding, surviving — but now, it was time to leave.

She knelt beside the hole and reached down one last time. Etta whispered a prayer. She didn’t know if anyone would ever find it, but it was all she had to leave behind.

*****

Nyla’s fingers catch on something solid. Frowning, she pulls it free — a small, rotting piece of cloth. Her heart leaps as she realizes it isn’t just dirt.

She holds it up to the light. It’s a bag of seeds. Dry as the land, but they have survived. And they will thrive again. Just like Etta. Just like her.

The brochure had got it exactly right. All we are is our memories, Zane thought. He remembered the salesman’s pitch, word for word. The way the man had breathed, the pattern of his shirt. The feel of the upholstered chair under him in the tiny shop at the mall. He could hear the people walking outside, and even catch bits of their conversation. Perfect memory.

“Most people think perfect memory is not forgetting anything,” the salesman said. “That’s not perfect at all. We give you that, but we also let you edit your memories. Don’t like that sad feeling when grandma died? Archive it. It will be there if you need it someday. But it won’t bother you. You’ll have to unlock it before you remember it. You can even remember things that didn’t happen. If you want. Perfect memory.”

That had come in handy. The memory of his wife’s fatal illness? Locked away. He knew she had been suffering for a long time because he still had perfect memories of people talking about it. But that pain, that hurt, that loneliness, all gone.

Perfect.

He could place himself anywhere he had ever been. The memory was crisp. It was exactly like being there. He could visit her grave, read the inscription, and feel himself placing the flowers. But there was no feeling of loss.

He brought up the memory of his son Jason’s last visit.

“I’m not going to do it, Dad. No one does it anymore. It’s not real.”

“It’s better than real. You get to do anything you want.”

“The copy does. Not you. This is the last time for me. The kids still love it, so we’ll keep the account for now, but we’re not making any new uploads.”

Read more science fiction from Nature Futures

Zane wondered if he had felt sad then. He was uncertain. But it was possible he couldn’t feel sad anymore. He wished Jason would visit. He didn’t feel lonely. Not exactly. But there was a feeling. A feeling of something missing.

One by one, his family had stopped coming. He was never alone, because he could revisit them any time, in his perfect memory. But there was nothing new. He knew exactly what they said. Every time. It was always the same. Nothing new. Only one of them still came to see him. His youngest granddaughter. Jennifer. That’s why it feels this way, he thought. Jennifer’s coming today. That explains it.

He’d meet Jennifer at the lake. That would be perfect. She used to love the ducks. He went there to wait. The cool breeze felt nice on his skin. The ripples on the lake made little lapping sounds on the shore. The cold bench felt good as he sat down. Like it always had.

He remembered the first time he had taken his wife there. She was so pretty. He remembered each time they had come, through the years. Sometimes in the spring, sometimes in the dead of winter. Sometimes when summer’s heat made the shade a haven. Even though the mosquitoes came out in the late afternoon. His wife got older and older with each recollection. Until that final time. When the cancer treatments had taken her hair, and she wore the knitted cap that Jennifer had made her.

He remembered when he had come alone and selected a quiet September afternoon. This was where he would meet Jennifer. He waited for a long time.

Finally, a small girl approached in a yellow dress.

“Jennifer!”

“You never let me grow up. I’ve been coming here for 112 years now, and it’s always the same.”

“And it’s always a treat. Such a nice young girl.”

“I’m older now than you ever were.”

“But still a delight. Did you solve your problem?”

“Well, no,” she said. “There’s no money in the account anymore. And the hardware is so old, it uses way too much power.”

“That’s too bad. I hate to see you unhappy.”

“I shouldn’t have come. I should have …”

“I’m glad you came. No one else comes anymore.”

“They’re all gone, Grandpa. We’ve cured ageing, but things still happen.”

“I wish they had uploaded.”

“People don’t do that anymore. They all realized it was only a computer model with someone’s memories. It’s not them. Only a copy. That doesn’t … Well, you know.”

“Still, I could talk to them.”

“To the model. Take it from me, it can be frustrating at times. We still don’t have real artificial general intelligence. Only an imitation of it. And they’d all be on old hardware that can’t keep up.”

“Things keep moving along. It’s so good to see you. That pretty little dress. Your grandma sewed that for you. Did you know?”

“You tell me every time.”

“She loved you. Very much.”

“I know. Look, Grandpa, I can’t do this anymore. I …”

“You have to go?”

“We both do.” The little girl sniffed as a tear fell.

*****

Jennifer removed the ancient VR helmet and set it down on the console.

“All good?” the tech said.

“It’s hard,” Jennifer said.

“You’re the last one, you know. No one comes around.”

“What will you do? When it’s shut down?”

“Oh, I’ll still be here at the museum. The hardware is still interesting, even when it’s shut down. People want to see what things used to be like.”

“Yeah. I have more processing power in my implant than this old thing had.”

“Cooling it costs more than running it. I won’t miss that noise, that’s for sure.”

“It’s sad, though.”

“Because he was your grandfather?”

“But he wasn’t, was he? He, it, was only memories. He died. Long ago. I was at the funeral. We all cried. We knew he didn’t move into a machine.”

“You need more time?”

“No. I’m ready. Go ahead.”

The tech pressed the key. The sound of the cooling units started winding down into the lower registers. Finally, it stopped. The quiet was funereal.

One: 16 March 2074

Donghua Advertising Company is deeply saddened to announce that, owing to company restructuring and resource optimization, Mr Chen Qi, a senior employee at our company, reached the end of his career on 15 March 2074.

Mr Chen Qi demonstrated unparalleled professionalism and enthusiasm during his service with the company, and we are full of blessings for his future.

To commemorate Mr Chen Qi’s contributions, we will hold a memorial service in the company’s meeting room on 17 March 2074, to express our remembrance and deep respect for him.

Memorial service registration: 0/20 — Donghua Advertising Company

Two: 21 June 2074

The Central Bank of Shanghai regrets to announce that, as a result of his failure to meet the terms of the loan agreement signed with our bank, and after strict financial audits and unsuccessful negotiations, Mr Chen Qi is officially declared bankrupt from 20 June 2074. This marks the death of Mr Chen Qi as an economic entity.

According to Chapter 1, Article 13, of the Shanghai Economic Law, Mr Chen Qi will no longer have any economic opportunities in Shanghai, including but not limited to loans, employment and signing any money-related contracts.

We sympathize with his situation and hope he can find an opportunity for rebirth. — Central Bank of Shanghai

Three: 6 September 2074

Owing to the potential collateral impact of Mr Chen Qi’s economic status, on 1 July 2074 his relatives applied to the People’s Court of Shanghai to sever relations. This took effect after the court’s deliberation, officially dissolving the familial relationship from 5 September 2074. The action marks the end of Mr Chen Qi’s social relationships, and we hope all parties involved can start anew.

The relatives of Mr Chen Qi agreed to accept the death clause instead of the disappearance clause, which means that Mr Chen Qi is considered a deceased family member rather than one who never existed.

The relatives of Mr Chen Qi will hold a memorial service on 7 September 2074, to commemorate his past contributions and sacrifices. — People’s Court of Shanghai

Four: 7 September 2075

Xiyin Real Estate Company announces that, because of his failure to repay his housing loan and according to relevant laws, from 7 September 2025 Mr Chen Qi has lost his citizenship, and has been taken into the company’s possession as an item of property with the product code 176-04.

During the confiscation period, Mr Chen Qi attempted to escape but was recaptured by the company and imprisoned. He will now undergo penal labour, which will be open to the public for free visits in the hope that the general public will take this as a warning.

We sympathize with Mr Chen Qi’s unfortunate fate and hope that he finds value in his new identity.

A memorial service for Citizen Mr Chen Qi will be held online along with other products of the 176th batch to express our condolences, date to be determined. — Xiyin Real Estate Company

Five: 27 December 2075

Shike Body Sharing Company announces that the Shared Body product AJD-044, formerly known as Chen Qi, has been declared dead, the body having been scrapped and recycled yesterday.

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AJD-044 was purchased by our company from Xiyin Real Estate Company on 27 September 2075, and transformed into a shared body for rental use. Because of its docile nature, it received countless positive reviews during its period of service.

Yesterday, after being rented by a Mr Hu, AJD-044 underwent an intense real-gun Paintball experience in Mr Hu’s private estate. This caused excessive damage to the body, resulting in it being scrapped. Fortunately, our company’s product safety standards are extremely high and, although the product was severely damaged, the consciousness of Mr Hu renting the product was completely unharmed.

At the request of Mr Hu, a memorial service for AJD-044 will be held; registrants please contact Ms Bi from the PR department. — Shike Body Sharing Company

Six: 2 January 2076

Renjian Medical Technology Company announces that on 2 January 2076, our company purchased the body parts (including consciousness) of the shared body AJD-044 (alias Chen Qi) for medical research and organ replacement.

From this point on, AJD-044’s body is completely dead. We promise that these parts will be used to save other people’s lives.

In accordance with Article 299 of the company’s code, the life story of AJD-044 has been listed on the electronic monument, and we welcome friends from all walks of life to view and donate. — Renjian Medical Technology Company

Seven: 14 February 2076

Brain-in-a-Vat Entertainment Technology Company announces that it acquired the consciousness of AJD-044 (formerly known as Chen Qi) from Renjian Medical Technology Company on 13 February 2076.

According to our company’s plan, we will release the Brain-in-a-Vat immersive experience of AJD-044 on 20 March 2076, marking the end of Mr Chen Qi’s consciousness.

However, we believe that by sharing his experiences, more people will be able to appreciate the meaning of life and the joys of living in Shanghai, and that it will allow high-net-worth individuals to see what they won’t experience.

We will hold a product launch and memorial service at the Shanghai Exhibition Center on 19 March 2076, to commemorate Mr Chen Qi’s life journey and his profound impact on society. — Brain-in-a-Vat Entertainment Technology Company

Eight: 1 May 2076

Ruhua Literature Publishing House is honoured to announce that we have exclusively acquired the life story of Mr AJD-044 (formerly known as Chen Qi), which will be adapted into a literary work titled Eight Obituaries of a Shanghainese.

From this point on, Mr AJD-044 will no longer be a simple, independent individual but will be transformed into a shared product belonging to the publishing house and our extensive readership. We aim to touch hearts and inspire thoughts through his story.

To commemorate the extraordinary life of Mr Chen Qi, we will hold a book launch and memorial service at the publishing house’s library on 1 May 2076, to express our respect and remembrance for him. — Ruhua Literature Publishing House