“Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body!”

—Allen Ginsberg, Howl

When William, a retired engineer, looked up at the green light, he saw that it was still blinking. There was no hope. His consciousness, which had already been uploaded into the Cervus Cloud, the name for the huge server installed on the moon, would find a new cyborg home.

Almost a year earlier, William had received word that the cancer had spread to his brain. There wasn’t much time. Doctor Sprie, a short, plump bald man, broke the news as William sat like a child on the exam table in the same impersonal and monotone way he’d informed him ten years earlier that William suffered from sleep apnea.

“I’m not going to do it,” said William, brushing over his grey hair.

“But it’s the law, Mr. Peyser,” answered Doctor Sprie, leaning over with his stethoscope. “Everyone is required to upload their consciousness. They are safely stored in Cervus Cloud, as you know, until the cyborg units are fully functional. You’ll live forever!”

“Doctor, I don’t think my consciousness is really me. I’m not coming back sir. You’re just stealing my memories, my private experiences. This is a violation.”

Doctor Sprie gave William a card containing all the information he needed to begin the uploading process. There was some documents involved, but the government had streamlined the whole thing. By the time death was near, it was really only a matter of pressing the enter key. The population was slowly becoming more cyborg than human, yet citizens of the Earth didn’t seem concerned about this. If the planet had a true common philosophy, it was denial.

*

The messages began arriving on the subnet. William checked each one just in case they were from his close friends, who were largely made up of ex-coworkers, or from the doctor.

“Congrats, William Peyser! Time to pick your bot. We’ve attached a choice of affordable models for you to choose from or visit a showroom if you’re able to. We’ve got thousands for you to choose from.”

William clicked on the message and he scrolled through models of cyborg units that were available. He’d be able to upload his consciousness after death into an endless variety of machines. He could even choose to become a woman cyborg if he wished. Most people his age, dying at his age, chose cyborgs that most closely resembled them at the time of death. That choice eliminated a lot of unnecessary adaptive changes, both physical and psychological.

“I’d like to go with the adaptive model,” said William to the cyborg dealer, a clean-up young man with luminous black hair and chiseled features.

“You’re welcome to go with that of course,” said the dealer. “But you could have so much more fun in your next life with a CY1 or a CY2 male cyborg. I mean, you’d be in your twenties again! With all the functionality that entails William.”

“I don’t want full functionality,” said William, smiling to himself. “I’ve had enough trouble with women in my life.”

“Okay…” said the dealer. “Well, I don’t know what to say to that? Have you spoken to the administrator? Maybe you need some help getting through this time in your life? I mean, it’s a big change?”

“Are you a CY2?”

“No sir, I’m a CY1. Best model you can get.”

“When was your crossover?”

“Six months ago.”

“Oh, I see. So you went straight back to work as soon as they said it was okay.”

“Why do you ask?”

“How old were you when you died, John?

“I was fifty-five. Heart attack. I don’t see how this relates…”

“You seem so much younger.”

“Just think about it, Will. Can I call you Will? I’ll call you tomorrow to see if you’ve made up your mind.”

John had already hung up.

*

“Dad, it’s easy,” said Georgie, William’s daughter.

Georgie had passed away five years before. She was hit head on by a drunk driver on the way to work. As a television news reporter, she always had to get to work extremely early in the day. The accident took place at three in the morning. It was a Saturday. Her body was mangled to the point that she’d been hard to recognize at the hospital. Nothing could be done to save her life, but she had taken the necessary preparations for her eventual death. She’d chosen her cyborg body. Had it been a premonition? Georgie chose a body to load her consciousness into that was much older than she was when she perished. She died at thirty-five, but her new cyborg body appeared to be about fifty years old, with short, dirty blonde hair, same shade as her father’s hair. This assured that she’d always be able to relate to her nearly eighty-year-old father, whom she adored. An older daughter would feel more like a confidante, and this, Georgie figured, would help her father feel like he could drop his guard a bit more.

“When I died…”

“Georgie, I don’t want to hear you talk about it hun.”

“Dad, listen to me to please. I know you don’t like it, but I have to say this. When you crossover, it feels, I don’t know, it feels almost pleasurable. It’s a sort of long pinch, like when you wake up and have to stretch real bad and then it’s utterly relaxing, like after a great massage. You love massages, Dad.”

“It’s not the massage part, honey. I don’t worry about the actual feeling of it. I’m a grown man. This is my principle. I know what I’m talking about. I worked in engineering all my life and I understand the difference between…” William stopped himself from saying what would ultimately be offensive to say in front of his machine daughter. He was going to say that he didn’t believe machines were alive.

“What principle?” said Georgie, angrily. That I’ll never see you again?”

“Honey, that’s what death is, babe, never seeing someone again but knowing that they’re with you.”

William felt a lump in his throat. He didn’t dare say what he was feeling. Even though he’d developed a great relationship with his cyborg daughter after the death, he’d never considered “it” as his own daughter. He’d been able to pretend, like in a bad marriage.       

“Have you been writing your poetry?” said Georgie.

“I have. You know it helps me calm down.”

“Let me hear one.”

“Okay,” said William, brushing back his greying hair. “This one is about, well, all of this…it’s called ‘Moonbeam.’

Moonbeam

The fetus speaks to me

From the grave.

I board the eternal skiff. 

Only God knows

If my cave of friends

Will welcome me

Wingless. Unadorned

I enter the bowels of Earth

To save my people.”

“Oh it’s lovely,” said Georgie. “I don’t get it…” she laughed. “But I love it! By the way, I got a message on the subnet from the administrator in your area. And he says we have to begin the upload process up to the Cervus Cloud as soon as possible. I’ll be by the house tomorrow and we can go over your options for your next body? Have they contacted you already about that?

“I know which one I want,” said William.

“You do! That’s great Dad! That’s a big step. Show me who you picked when I come over.”

William clicked off the message. Talking with his daughter had drained him of energy. He could feel a soreness traveling all through his body. He knew the time was near, so he decided to pull the trigger. He’d order the most desirable cyborg body he could find: the CY1. He’d be twenty years old again, and fit and beautiful. He’d get the body some men his age, usually the most shallow, creepy, and self-centered males, would get. As instructed, however, William still had to upload a picture of himself at twenty. The makers would honor his request for a CYI model, but they wanted it to resemble the client’s twenty-year-old self as well, so as to vary the types of CY1’s that were produced.

            *

Four government representatives, well-dressed and in lab coats, arrived early morning the next day, one young very friendly black woman and three men. They brought the coffin-like rig that would take William’s consciousness. He was instructed to lay in it. The whole process only took about fifteen minutes. William laid down in the shiny black box and crossed his arms over his chest like a vampire. The box was a black color but it was only tinted black because William could see the mess of wires and digital screens inside of it, as if the box were an organism with translucent skin, it’s wire and screens like veins and organs showing through it. The process was so painless, William wondered if the whole thing was a ruse. Had they convinced the population that their consciousness was real when it wasn’t? No one could know for sure.

            *

The day came when William was too weak to stand. Georgie leaned over him at his bedside. She’d been living at William’s house for the past three months. She had no need of rest or sleep, so it was easy to take care of her ailing father. There were old pictures scattered all over his disheveled bed from the night before; William had been talking to Georgie about his days at the engineering firm. There were old photos of him standing next to experimental aircraft, sleek, massive engines, and one of him holding a peculiar laser gun, flanked by two or three other gentlemen from the company.

“We’re going to take you to the hospital now, Dad,” she said.

“God bless you, honey. I know,” said William, stroking Georgie’s cheek.  

Months ago, when William still had some energy to move around, he’d been invited to spend some time with his cyborg clone. William had asked if he could bring it home with him for a few days, just to get accustomed to it a bit more. Many people requested this. It made the end-of-life stage easier to accept. They grew to love the cyborg in their own home, like a precious porcelain doll one grew to love in childhood.

William looked at the cyborg which resembled his twenty-year-old self, though with some pretty obvious augmentations. The cyborg body was more fit than he was at twenty. It was a bit taller than he ever was too. The eyes were a deeper shade of blue than his own. It was mesmerizingly beautiful, standing in the living room like a lamp worth millions of dollars.

In the evening, when William knew there was no chance of visitors to his home, he’d attempt to open the machine man. And one night, he succeeded.

            *

It had evolved into a kind of ritual. The family of the soon to be deceased person would all gather for moral support. William only had his daughter there. His ex-wife had died long ago and William didn’t have any siblings or extended family nearby. Georgie was kneeling at his bedside holding a rosary. She had always considered herself Catholic, though she was non-practicing. Her own funeral took place at her local church and some members of her parish had attended, as well as her father. Georgie was unmarried and after suffering a miscarriage from a previous failed relationship, she’d also opted to live the rest of her life on her own. William recalled how the congregation stood outside after the long mass to welcome Georgie, or Georgie’s cyborg body that is, back. She had emerged from a white van like Lazarus to the applause of all the attendants. But today it was William’s turn to make the crossover.

“This is the right thing,” said Georgie.

“I know it is. And I want to apologize for not accepting you, the cyborg you when you died.”

“That’s what I love about you. You’re so firm about your opinions. But this is me and I’m here to help you with this.”

“William,” said Doctor Sprie, “I’m going to administer something to calm the nerves okay? This won’t hurt a bit.”

“Okay. Go ahead, I’m ready.”

William’s CY1 model was standing off to one side of the hospital room. Its eyes were closed, and it was dressed in a brand new tuxedo, as if it were about to walk down the aisle at its wedding. Georgie thought that her father’s choice of dress was a bit odd, but William had just told her he wanted to dress up for his crossover. It felt like birthday.

William closed his eyes as the doctor administered the shot. And he kept them shut. The monitor showed that this heart was slowing down. Georgie put her head down on his right arm. She looked over at the monitor that showed a fully uploaded consciousness and a blinking green button indicating that it was ready to be downloaded into his new body. At the moment of the patient’s death, it became legal to download the consciousness into the cyborg body. The moment would be recorded by the doctor and William could begin his new life.

Looking over at Georgie, William smiled and said, “It’s been a good life. For all of us.” .

“Yes,” said Georgie. “And it still can be. I have a lovely dinner planned for us when all of this is over.”

“That’s good baby. Goodbye.”

William’s head dropped to one side and he was gone forever. Doctor Sprie called the official time of William’s crossover at 2:18 pm. He waddled over to the Cervus Cloud pad and typed a few notes, then he hit a button and the blinking green light, indicating that William’s consciousness could now be released into the cyborg, stopped blinking and became much brighter.

Georgie calmly turned toward the beautiful male mannequin standing behind her. She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness but also relief that she had talked her father into following the law and uploading his consciousness into the Cervus Cloud. She had always marveled at the emotions she was able to feel. She recalled moments when she was alive and knew that her cyborg’s emotions were virtually indistinguishable, as this current feeling of grief, from the emotions she felt when she’d been organically alive. Then, CY1 opened its stunning, blue eyes. And it also began to reveal a wide grin.

*

The explosion took out half of the hospital. William was no expert at explosives but his time as an engineer had served to help him learn how to prepare the right amount of mixture and hide it within the body of the CY1. Nobody, not even the cyborgs in the building, survived the detonation on the side of the hospital where William had taken his last breath.

Toward the children’s section of the hospital, a wing that took less damage, there was the body of a cyborg child sliced in half, at the waist, by a projectile. The child had just perished and been downloaded into his new body only seconds before the explosion. Leukemia had taken the nine-year-old boy. His parents, who only spoke Spanish, were unharmed and had witnessed the projectile take out half their cyborg child just as the download process was complete. They had caught the excited eyes on the cyborg’s little face and then there was a whoosh of hot wind. The parents and everyone else in the room, a nurse and a doctor, had instinctively taken cover. The cyborg child was murmuring a few indistinguishable sounds when they found the torso. The child and its consciousness were obliterated. If the download process was in any way interrupted, then the consciousness could ever be retrieved. It was scrambled and could never be revived. This was why it was so crucial to monitor the upload and download process. Death was still possible during the transmission.

In a small, virtually indiscoverable cave somewhere in the state of New Mexico, William’s former engineering coworkers began clapping, as well as some others who part of the clandestine group. They were all sitting at consoles similar to those one sees in a mission control center monitoring a rocket blasted into outer space. They gave each other semi-subdued handshakes. It was a war after all, so they didn’t dare celebrate too much. Human beings had perished, but it was a significant victory for the organization whose ultimate goal was to preserve human culture, to make sure that the process of cyborg transmission would come to an end.

One of the oldest male members of the team stood up from his chair and proclaimed:  

“The road is a flattened sun.

And we have found a simple river,

Skipping our rocks over eternity.

The paper misses its mark.

We’re no longer angels without wings.”

Then a middle-aged Asian woman replied:

“It no longer stands to chance.

Our hunger is at an end.

We have the love of the crickets.”

Many years ago, the team had discovered that speaking in modern poetry worked best to defend themselves from cyborg detection. Cyborgs, human beings of below average intelligence as well as the largely uneducated, couldn’t comprehend modern poetry-speak. In this way, they could be sure that no one could listen in on their plans. Cyborgs were expert spies, and their satellites were able to monitor nearly every utterance on the entire planet, but they could not decipher the code of poem-speak.

“Moloch be damned!” They all chanted.

“Moloch be damned!”

“Moloch be damned!”

William’s consciousness would be deleted after the government finished its final inquiry into the incident. And no one ordered the CY1 model ever again.

Alejandro Escudé’s first book of poems, "My Earthbound Eye," was published in 2013 upon winning the Sacramento Poetry Center Award. He received a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis. A new collection, “The Book of the Unclaimed Dead,” published by Main Street Rag Press, was published 2019.