Test post
"How do I know I am not going to be tortured, or my nervous system is not being manipulated?" Your nervous system is being manipulated. Damaged nerves are about to be brought back to life tem-perature and revitalized. Would you like a neutralizer? There will be some pain. "How much pain?" You are going to be tortured. Would you like a dis-"What kind of discontinuity? An anaesthetic?" Pain signals must be traced to confirm that the in center of your brain is healthy. Naturally, it would be counterproductive to numb the pain under these circumstances, but the memory of the pain can be redacted from your final memory sequence, so that the version of you who suffers will not be part of the personal continuity of the version of you that wakes up.
"No more versions! I am I, Phaethon! I will not have my self tampered with again!"
You will regret this decision.
Odd, how matter-of-fact that sounded. The machine was merely reporting that he would, indeed, regret the decision.
And, just as he blacked out again, he did.
Phaethon woke in dull confusion, numb, heavy, paralyzed, blind. He could not open his eyes, could not move.
For one suffocating moment, he wondered if he had been captured by the enemy, and was even now a helpless and disembodied brain, floating in a sea of nutrient muck.
He was glad Atkins had not told him the plan. He remembered that he had agreed to it; but this was all he remembered.
Where was he? A short-term memory file opened: He was aboard the ship. His ship.
His ship.
A long-term memory file opened, and he saw the schematics of the mighty vessel. A hundred kilometers from prow to stern, sleek and streamlined as a spear blade, a hull of golden adamantium, an artificially stable element of unimaginable weight: immeasurably strong, inductile, refractory. The supermetal had an impossibly high melting point: plasma could not make the adamantium run; it could dive into a medium-sized yellow star and emerge unscathed.
"No more versions! I am I, Phaethon! I will not have my self tampered with again!"
You will regret this decision.
Odd, how matter-of-fact that sounded. The machine was merely reporting that he would, indeed, regret the decision.
And, just as he blacked out again, he did.
Phaethon woke in dull confusion, numb, heavy, paralyzed, blind. He could not open his eyes, could not move.
For one suffocating moment, he wondered if he had been captured by the enemy, and was even now a helpless and disembodied brain, floating in a sea of nutrient muck.
He was glad Atkins had not told him the plan. He remembered that he had agreed to it; but this was all he remembered.
Where was he? A short-term memory file opened: He was aboard the ship. His ship.
His ship.
A long-term memory file opened, and he saw the schematics of the mighty vessel. A hundred kilometers from prow to stern, sleek and streamlined as a spear blade, a hull of golden adamantium, an artificially stable element of unimaginable weight: immeasurably strong, inductile, refractory. The supermetal had an impossibly high melting point: plasma could not make the adamantium run; it could dive into a medium-sized yellow star and emerge unscathed.