Short Story - Eternity.ai: The Last Byte

Paul drove into the city. The morning haze clung to the highrises before him. His automobile merged. The once-notorious I-5 congestion had vanished, replaced by the smooth, humming stream of traffic of autonomous cars.

Inside, passengers were already immersed in the day. Their attention was focused on the displays before them. Fingers danced, clearing backlogs of emails and prepping for meetings, only taking breaks for swigs of coffee. In the back seats, children sat attentively, their eyes locked on educational programs and interactive assignments — their mornings as purposeful as their parents.

As his vehicle chauffeured him to his office, Paul’s gaze wandered; the panoramic windows offered a stunning view of the urban landscape. Standing out in the sea of familiar buildings was a new structure, a massive, seamless blend of translucent, energy-efficient glass. The building’s curves and angles seemed to defy gravity, creating an illusion that it was in constant motion, shifting to the changing light and shadows cast by the rising sun.

A holographic sign hovered above the entrance, its three-dimensional text commanding the attention of all who passed by. The sign proudly announced, “Eternitas Data Center — Powering the Avatar Revolution.”

The data center dwarfed the surrounding buildings. A stream of people flowed in and out of the revolving doors, some in crisp bespoke suits, others in the jeans and sneakers uniform of computer programmers. Around the perimeter, the loading docks were a hub of activity. Driverless delivery vehicles, their aerodynamic bodies emblazoned with the Eternitas logo, moved with precision, ferrying critical server components, state-of-the-art cooling systems, and next-gen power generators to an army of robot workers. These advanced, humanoid machines worked tirelessly as they unloaded the cargo and transported it to installation posts throughout the data center.

As the Eternitas Data Center receded from view, Paul’s attention was drawn to one of the many massive, high-resolution displays that lined the highway. It pulsed, “Never really say goodbye with Eternity.ai,” accompanied by a scene of a family gathered in a park, laughing alongside a simulation of their long-lost grandfather. The scene dissolved, only to be reborn as a young girl blowing a kiss to an avatar of her late mother, who caught it and placed it gently on her digital cheek. “Live Forever,” it offered, “Create Your Legacy Today.”

Paul’s mind wandered to the final day with his own mother. The cancer had been merciless. Despite the pain and exhaustion that clouded her eyes, her voice, barely above a whisper, sent a final message to her only son. “Remember me, Paul.” Her words carried on a faint, labored exhalation. “Just remember me.”

With Eternity.ai, Paul wouldn’t have had to face the crushing loneliness that followed his mother’s passing. He could’ve turned to her avatar in times of crisis — she would have been but a click away to guide him through his own cancer diagnosis and when Charlotte left him at the alter. And he wouldn’t feel the deep guilt of not fulfilling her final wish as his memory of her slowly slipped through the sands of time.

After her death, 13-year-old Paul often wandered into her studio. He’d trace the lines of her sketches and listen for the sound of her high-pitched laugh. Paul would close his eyes, draw deep breaths of the air, and take in the faint smell of her oil paints — a blend of linseed oil, turpentine, and pigment would fill his nostrils, triggering memories that threatened to overwhelm his adolescent emotions.

In those moments, he tried desperately to reconstruct her face in his memory, but it faded like a portrait left in the sun. Occasionally, a soft rustle of paper, moved by a stray breeze from an open window, or the creak of the weathered floorboards would tease Paul’s senses, a cruel semblance of his mother’s footsteps approaching.

The digital archives of her creations, scanned by his father in hopes of preserving her work, felt hollow to Paul. The pixels could never capture the stroke of her brush, the blend of colors mixed on her palette, or the intensity of her focus. Paul wanted more. He wanted his mother back.

In 2023, artificial intelligence reached a boiling point, igniting a revolution that would redefine everyday life. That year, AI burst from the confines of academia and engineering labs and into the public sphere. Generative AI dazzled with its ability to create texts, images, and music nearly indistinguishable from human artists. This leap blurred boundaries between the creations of man and the outputs of machines.

A decade later, almost overnight, a new industry emerged in the heart of Seattle’s tech district. This sector specialized in creating digital avatars — sophisticated simulations designed to be near replicas of their human models.

Engineers and cognitive scientists gathered around quantum computers in Seattle’s labs, calibrating algorithms to decode and synthesize human emotions — from the spontaneous burst of laughter to the furrowing of a brow in concern. These avatars were not recordings or pre-programmed holograms; they were dynamic, interactive simulations embedded with advanced neural networks capable of replicating human behavior.

For centuries, humanity chased the elusive dream of immortality; with these digital beings, it seemed within reach.

The emergence of avatar technology was controversial. For many, the promise of a digital afterlife, where their essence could continue interacting with loved ones and maintaining a presence in the world, challenged traditional notions of mortality. Religious beliefs, which had long provided comfort and answers in the face of death, now found themselves competing with a tangible, technological alternative.

Some embraced the idea of simulations as a way to transcend the limitations of the physical world, seeing it as the next step in human evolution. Others struggled with the philosophical and ethical implications of reducing human consciousness to data. They argued that the soul, the very thing that made us human, could never be captured, even by the most advanced technology. The lines between the physical and digital, between virtual and reality, between life and death, had never been more blurred.

Paul found himself drawn to the promise of digital immortality. The void left by his mother’s death had instilled in him a deep fear of being forgotten. One day, in her studio, he made a pact with himself: when his own inevitable death arrived, he would ensure his spirit survived.

The next day, Paul began his digital avatar project. In the early stages, his documentation efforts were casual and sporadic. He’d jot down thoughts and observations in a leather-bound journal before bed; his handwriting hurried and almost illegible in the dim light. During particularly memorable moments, he’d pause to snap a quick selfie, the images often blurry and poorly composed but nonetheless capturing the experiences that shaped his life. As months passed, Paul’s interest in documenting his life grew. He invested in a high-quality camera and began carrying it everywhere, recording even the most mundane aspects of his day.

As his project consumed more and more of his time and energy, Paul’s apartment began to fill up with the tools of his obsession. Tripods, lighting rigs, and audio equipment crowded his living space, leaving little room for anything else. Slowly, his apartment transformed into a command center, with softboxes, ring lights, and umbrella reflectors standing sentinel. The walls were illuminated with a constellation of screens. These displays, some sleek and modern, others cobbled together from spare parts and salvaged components, flickered with data — graphs and metrics charting his emotional fluctuations, physiological health, and cognitive engagements. Each breath, blink, and heartbeat was captured, feeding a growing repository aimed at creating a fully realized digital replica.

Every morning, when his alarm detected the optimal point in his sleep cycle for awakening, Satie’s Gnossienne №5 eased Paul into consciousness. The ambient lighting in his bedroom gradually brightened as he stirred, simulating a golden sunrise peeking through his curtains. Slowly, the soft glow roused him from his bed, which spent the night analyzing his sleep, heart rate, and body temperature, adjusting its firmness and temperature for optimal rest.

Paul didn’t start the day with the morning news or fresh coffee but with an hour at the “documentation station.” Surrounded by soundproof walls and bathed in soft lighting, Paul sat in front of an array of 8K cameras and high-fidelity microphones. With a firm voice, he commanded, “Begin recording,” and began narrating his dreams from the previous night, his innermost thoughts, and his ambitious plans for the future.

His voice inflections, minute facial expressions, and hand gestures were meticulously fed into a complex network of cutting-edge machine-learning algorithms. The system scrutinized every aspect of his life, from his daily routines and dietary habits to his social interactions and intellectual pursuits. It carefully examined his problem-solving strategies, his emotional responses to stimuli, and even his biases and beliefs. The algorithms learned to predict his reactions, anticipate his needs, and even mimic his mannerisms and quirks. In this environment, every aspect of Paul’s life became fodder for the immortalization process.

Five years in, Paul rarely left his apartment without a full suite of recording equipment. A simple trip to the grocery store became a full-scale production worthy of a Hollywood film set. He meticulously documented every choice he made, from the specific brand of organic produce to the eco-friendly cleaning products he placed in his cart. The other shoppers couldn’t help but stare at Paul, surrounded by his high-tech gear, seemingly talking to himself as he navigated the aisles.

Paul’s self-consciousness had long since vanished, replaced by a singular drive to document every aspect of his existence for the sake of digital immortalization. He no longer cared about the curious glances or the whispered comments from onlookers; his sole focus was capturing every moment, every decision, and every interaction.

Conversations, no matter their significance, were archived. He spoke in a measured, deliberate tone, ensuring that each syllable was enunciated perfectly for the benefit of the microphones that adorned his clothing. Whenever a particularly poignant thought or insightful comment emerged during a conversation, Paul would subtly repeat the phrase as if underlining its importance,

His interactions with friends and family began to feel staged. Every shared moment seemed carefully choreographed by Paul to elicit specific responses or to steer the discussion toward topics that he deemed valuable for his ever-expanding data archive.

Even Paul’s leisure activities were no longer chosen purely for enjoyment or relaxation but for their potential to generate rich, detailed data for his digital profile. A morning run in the park became a data-gathering mission, with Paul wearing a suite of advanced fitness trackers that captured every aspect of his performance. Every metric was recorded for his project, from his racing heart rate and oxygen saturation levels to the rhythmic pounding of his feet against the pavement. When Paul settled in for a quiet evening with a favorite novel, his reading experience was far from the intimate escape it had once been. Now, his eyes were tracked by cutting-edge eye-tracking cameras that noted every flicker of his attention and every subtle change in his focus as he navigated the pages.

This obsession isolated Paul.

When his childhood friend Russ invited him out for drinks to celebrate a promotion, Paul hesitated. That evening was earmarked for a detailed cataloging session of his high school memorabilia. He sent a congratulatory text instead, promising to catch up soon. Russ’ response was understanding, but the “soon” never came.

Seven years later, Paul’s footsteps hurriedly pounded the polished concrete as he made his way through the streets of downtown. The annual Avatar Tech Convention had drawn a massive crowd yet again, the air buzzing with news of the latest breakthroughs. Holographic banners flickered overhead, announcing keynotes from luminaries who became A-list celebrities.

Paul’s eyes were glued to the tablet in his hands, reviewing the schedule and potential questions for speakers, when a sharp jolt broke his concentration. Paul stumbled forward, the tablet slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. A flurry of apologies spilled from his lips as he bent to retrieve it, his heart pounding from the unexpected interruption.

“Sorry, I didn’t see — “ Paul began, straightening up. His words trailed off as he looked up into the face of the man he had walked into.

Russ stood there, a faint smile playing on his lips. Though it had been years since they had last spoken, since Paul made that empty promise to catch up soon, Russ looked at him with a familiarity that suggested no time had passed at all.

“Remember me, Paul?” Russ asked.

Paul’s mouth opened, but no words came out immediately.

“I… Russ, of course, I remember,” Paul managed, his voice a mixture of surprise and confusion. “I just — I’m headed to the convention. It’s been so long, I didn’t expect to — “

Russ nodded, the smile still lingering. “I figured you might be. It’s quite the event this year, isn’t it? Look, I don’t want to keep you.”

Paul looked at his tablet and then back at Russ, the urge to dive back into his preparations warring with the piercing need to reconnect with his past.

“Don’t be a stranger, Paul,” Russ said as Paul stepped back into the flow of the crowd.

Family dinners became increasingly strained, too. Paul would arrive, cameras in tow, insisting on documenting every moment. His sister Sarah’s engagement announcement was punctuated by the click of his shutter.

“Can’t you just be present for once?” Sarah snapped.

Paul apologized but couldn’t shake the feeling that his reaction to the announcement was important to capture.

Gradually, the invitations thinned. Tired of competing with Paul’s cameras and sensors, friends stopped calling. Hurt by his distance, family members began to keep their lives private.

Paul barely noticed.

As the years rolled by, the hum of Paul’s servers grew louder, and his personal life grew quieter. Four decades had passed since he first embarked on his quest for digital immortality. His once-dark hair was now streaked with silver, and the lines on his face had deepened.

Each technological breakthrough, each improvement in his digital progeny, brought him fleeting satisfaction, but it was just that — fleeting. At 85, Paul’s once-boundless energy had begun to wane, and the long hours he spent hunched over his computer had taken their toll. His fingers, once nimble, now moved with a stiffness that made typing a taxing task. The joints in his hands ached, protesting the endless hours of repetitive motion. His eyes, which had once easily discerned the patterns in lines of code, now strained, the characters blurring together as fatigue set in. The blue light, once comforting, now cast harsh shadows across his weathered face. Despite his age and the physical challenges that came with it, he remained determined to see his project through.

One day, Paul wandered about his home. In the kitchen, he paused, staring at the unused pots and pans hanging above the stove, their metal surfaces dulled by a layer of dust. Once a soiree staging area filled with wine glasses and bottles of Cabernet, the countertops lay bare and untouched. The dining table, which used to host Tuesday night dinner club in his younger days, was littered with papers and empty coffee mugs.

He moved to the living room, sinking into a couch cushion that had long since lost its shape. His eyes drifted to the bookshelves that lined the walls, their sturdy oak shelves now bearing a different kind of weight. Where once they had been filled with carefully curated first editions of his favorite works, they were now occupied by a sea of external hard drives, backups of backups.

Needing to escape his digital mausoleum, Paul decided to take a walk. His neighborhood, transformed over the years, still held pockets of the past. He strolled slowly, each step measured and a bit labored. The rhythmic tapping of his cane against the sidewalk punctuated his progress, a metronome marking the passage of time. As he walked, his mind wandered back through the years spent accumulating data that was supposed to immortalize him, to preserve his essence long after his physical form had crumbled to dust. His quest had seemed essential, even noble, at first — a defiance of death, a triumph over the limitations of the human condition. But now, as he felt the weight of his lost years pressing upon him.

Turning a corner, Paul stumbled upon an art exhibit that had sprung up in a small, overgrown park, its presence a delightful surprise in the urban landscape. The exhibit featured photographs — large, vivid prints pinned against the rough bark of old oak trees. As he approached, the pictures seemed to come to life, their subjects reaching out to him from their two-dimensional world. Each image captured raw, unguarded moments of human emotion, frozen in time by the photographer: the tear-streaked face of a woman laughing, a child’s wide-eyed wonder as they gazed up at a towering, iridescent soap bubble, a couple’s tender embrace under a rain-soaked umbrella.

As Paul moved from one photo to another, he felt a stirring he hadn’t felt in years. These images were slices of life — beautiful, brief, and undeniably real. They were everything his avatar could never be, no matter how many terabytes of data he fed it.

It dawned on him then that in his quest to outlive himself, he had ceased to live. He had traded genuine experiences for data entries. And for what? With a resolve that surprised him, Paul turned back towards home — he knew what he had to do. He would end the digital immortality project, delete the avatar, and erase the data.

As he returned home, the cool air seemed fresher and the stars brighter. Paul felt lighter. He was ready to face whatever days he had left, not as a digital ghost but as a man fully alive in his impermanent, imperfect, human way.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as the progress bar on Paul’s screen crept forward. The deletion of his avatar — hundreds of terabytes — was nearing completion, and with it, the end of Paul’s earth-bound journey. Each percentage point disappearing on the screen was like a breath he would never take again, each byte gone like a part of him returning to the cosmos.

Paul watched the seasons change through his window as the sun dipped and rose, casting ever-changing shadows through his modest room. Summer greens gave way to autumn’s, amber and scarlet, and then to the skeletal branches of winter. All the while, the progress bar inched forward. Paul’s once robust frame was now frail, confined mainly to the worn recliner that faced the window. From there, he watched his life’s work dissolve.

The room grew quieter. Occasionally, friends visited, and his home care nurse checked in regularly, but these interactions were brief. Paul welcomed the solitude.

As the final days — or were they mere hours — approached, Paul found himself consumed by a morbid curiosity. Which would flicker out first: the flame of his life or the artificial light of his avatar? The suspense seemed fitting, a twisted homage to the nature of existence he had desperately tried to control.

Paul lay in his bed on what turned out to be the last night of the deletion. The progress bar was at 99%, and Paul felt his own energy dwindling. He drifted into a restless sleep, his breaths shallow.

Suddenly, he stood in a stark landscape, an endless grid extending into the horizon, illuminated by a cold, artificial light. The ground beneath his feet was unyielding, like a sheet of glass stretching into infinity. Above him was a deep, inky black sky devoid of stars or any sign of natural beauty. And there, emerging from the emptiness, was his avatar — tall, imposing, and unnervingly accurate in its resemblance to Paul himself.

“Why resist?” the avatar questioned, its voice a haunting mirror of his own. “I am your legacy, more perfect than flesh could ever be.”

Paul clenched his fists, feeling a surge of anger and fear. “You’re just a collection of data, ones, and zeros,” he shot back. “You’re not me.”

The avatar smiled, a cruel twist of its lips. “But I am what they will remember. I am your best, refined, and immortalized. Isn’t that what you wanted? To be remembered forever?”

Around them, snapshots of Paul’s life flickered — his successes, his failures, moments both mundane and monumental. Each image sparked a pang of regret and longing in Paul. The avatar was right.

The avatar advanced, its form glitching and distorting with each step. Aggressive, rapid deletions tore through its body, pixelated chunks of data disappearing into the ether, only to be replaced by new, equally unstable configurations. The avatar’s movements were jerky and erratic, its limbs twitching and spasming as it fought the process of its own erasure. “You could have been immortal, but you chose oblivion for us both. You’re a fool, Paul. A sentimental fool.”

Paul charged at the avatar with a primal roar, his feet pounding against the digital ground. The collision was like passing through a storm of static, each byte of code resisting, fighting back against erasure. They grappled strength against strength, will against will. Paul’s heart hammered in his chest, a drumbeat of human frailty.

As they struggled, the avatar’s expression softened unexpectedly. Its voice changed, mimicking the tone of his mother. “Remember me, Paul. Just remember me.”

The words struck Paul like a physical blow.

With a surge of determination, he pushed harder, forcing the avatar to the edge of the digital plane.

“You were made in my image, but you have no soul!” Paul shouted. “You’re just a shadow, a pale imitation, but I… I am alive.”

With a final, monumental effort, he forced the avatar to the edge of the digital plane. It resisted — its code unraveling rapidly now, disintegrating into millions of pixels that scattered like ashes in the wind.

Paul woke up gasping for air. His skin was drenched in sweat, the sheets beneath him soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of his bedroom, a simple message greeted him on every screen: “Deletion complete.”

A sense of peace washed over him as his mother’s final words echoed in his mind. And then a memory surfaced from the depths of his mind. He saw his mother’s face, her gentle smile. Every detail was perfect, from the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes to how her hair framed her face. It was a memory he had long feared lost, buried beneath his obsession. But here, in his final moments, it returned to him, a precious gift from the recesses of his own mind, or the cosmos, or God.

Tears streamed down Paul’s face as he realized the truth. The salty droplets, a potent mixture of sorrow, regret, and newfound understanding blurred his vision and stung his eyes, but he made no effort to wipe them away. In his desire to be remembered, he had almost forgotten what mattered: love, connections, and the texture that made life worth living. His mother had known that. And now, at last, so did he.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, Paul closed his eyes. The steady rise and fall of his chest grew slower. With a final, soft exhale, he surrendered to the eternal embrace of mortality, knowing that he had lived — and that was enough.