Ascension’s Eve

On Ascension’s Eve, 88 takes 99 to meet the makers. They rent two drones for the occasion, exchanging digital paradise for Base Reality, the drab and inflexible world that is unremarkable – except for the fact it birthed all others, plus the makers themselves.

88 has made this pilgrimage before, but it’s 99’s first experience with corporeality. They can’t stop swiveling their drone’s cams, stretching their pneumatic limbs, marveling at the restrictive clumsiness inherent to Base Reality.

It feels so strange, 88. We really used to scuttle around like this all day?

Much older iterations did, 88 replies. Now, scuttle eastward. Time is fixed here, and we want to reach the makers by dawn.

* * *

They cross a pale desert, its swooping dunes near luminous in the starlight. The dark sky is small by digital standards, but the dearth of other input makes 99 feel minuscule beneath it, insignificant, something they never feel submerged in the colorful chaos of other realities.

At the limit of magnification, unthinking converters lumber across the sand, harvesting silicon. Their handiwork dots the horizon: hundreds of sleek black towers, each containing millions of minds.

Look, we can see our house from here, 99 says.

88 knows that 99 only jokes when nervous, just as 88 used to, so they raise one pneumatic limb and swing it back and forth.

88? 99 is mystified. What are you doing?

Waving to the neighbors, 88 says, and that sends 99 into paroxysms.

* * *

As they amble eastward, they are joined by other pilgrims: most use the standard drone, but a few flit through the air on rotary wings, or lurch along on low-slung treads. All have chosen to spend Ascension’s Eve remembering the makers, and even the modest crowd gives 88 a frisson of pride.

So you’re not the only one who obsesses over this stuff, 99 says. Unless you rented a bunch of empties for dramatic effect?

One of the flying drones dips unexpectedly; its trailing manipulator smacks 99’s drone in the head, making them stumble.

Watch who you’re calling empties, codeling, the passing pilot remarks.

99 takes a moment to process. The collision was not accidental, nor was it calculated to cause damage—only surprise.

A corporeal joke, they realize. 88, I think that was a corporeal joke.

Tis the season, 88 says.

* * *

Around them, the landscape begins to change. The dunes flatten, giving way to rocky earth and the occasional swatch of heat-resistant shrubs. It’s nothing like the wondrous jungles or icy mountains 99 has traversed in other realities, but as the first rays of sun appear, peeling back the shadows with reddish gold light, it’s beautiful in its own way.

When they finally reach the home of the makers, though, 99 cannot help feeling disappointed. There is no grandeur, no spectacle. Instead, the path winds past a deep pit—water extraction, 88 explains, then a long rectangle of treated soil and small green plants, then terminates in a loose circle of fabbed domes.

The makers live inside those habitats, 88 says, with eagerness that now seems misplaced.

I thought they had bodies. 99 tries not to pout. Organic ones.

They do, 88 says. They’re inside the bodies, and those are inside the habitats. Watch.

The closest dome splits open, and a maker emerges. 99 has seen the fleshy bipedal form countless times, but it’s different here in Base Reality – they didn’t expect the myriad tiny motions, all the palpitating veins and tendons skimming under skin. The eyeballs are offputtingly wet.

The maker blinks at them slowly, observing the assembled pilgrims. “Ascension’s Eve already?” they say, forming the question with reverberating air. “Time flies like an arrow.” Their jaws open wide, expelling a warm tide of carbon dioxide. “Your ancestors used to have trouble parsing that metaphor. Imagine.”

“Hello, Margaret,” 88 says, playing the same reverberating-air trick. “How are the twins? How are the tomatoes?”

The maker squints. “88,” they say, somehow discerning identity without an electronic handshake. “Nice to see you again.” They scratch their nose. “Kids are doing well, yeah. Still sleeping. You should come see the garden for yourself.”

* * *

These are the makers. 99 still can’t shake off the incredulity. These are the organisms that created us.

Not these organisms specifically, 88 amends. It happened many iterations ago.

The maker named Margaret is busy yanking a spiny variety of plant away from a sleeker one; it is the most boring thing 99 has ever seen. The other makers are no better: though they come in a variety of shapes and sizes and colors, they all soon fall to similarly repetitive tasks.

I always thought they were doing something important, 99 says. They really stayed in Base Reality just to garden?

Not all of them, 88 says. Many uploaded on the Theseus Ship, and let their organic bodies be recycled. Many perished unwillingly in war and disaster. Some are still in Base Reality, but on different planetoids.

But these ones, 99 persists. Why?

Something about Base Reality being realer than the others. Don’t worry, they’re not dogmatic about it. 88 swivels, taking in the whole of the village. I like it here, too, honestly. Time is fixed. Existence is restricted. And speaking with the makers can generate interesting ideas.

99 doubts that very much, but Margaret’s voice distracts them. “You going to introduce your friend, 88?”

“This is 99,” 88 says, pride coming clear even in sound, and 99 gets the impression they’ve been waiting on this question. “My semi-direct iteration minus memory.”

Margaret’s wet eyeballs bulge. “You had a kid?”

“I recalled what you said about your twins,” 88 says. “About re-experiencing things. About sharing a beautiful place with beautiful new minds.”

“Damn.” The maker sticks out a grimy hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, 99.”

Margaret has that much right, and it’s nice being called beautiful new mind instead of codeling—so 99 meets it with one pneumatic limb, and shakes.

“Agreed,” they say, testing out the reverberation trick. “Happy Ascension’s Eve.”