_Everyone knew it was just around the corner, but we were still amazed when the Eternal Life Corporation announced an end to death. They had developed a process where the information of your brain was copied and stored on a hard drive. When you died, the information would be recovered and transferred to a robotic human casing. The initial casing didn’t really take my fancy, but I assumed everyone would eventually end up in one anyone. It would probably become quite fashionable, with stylish updated models released each season. I was a little concerned at first; what if I forgot to backup my brain? Wouldn’t I be restored to ancient version of myself? I talked to the sales staff and they assured me that the remote auto backup function would take care of everything; I wouldn’t lose more than a few seconds of recorded memories. I signed the necessary paperwork and within a few minutes the duplication was underway. Shortly after, the sales assistant approached. I could tell something was wrong; he said the download would take no longer than a few minutes.
“Sorry sir, there doesn’t seem to be enough space in our storage system,” he said.
“That’s surprising,” I replied, “I’m not that smart.”
“Maybe you have a photographic memory or something,” he said. I thought about it for a moment; perhaps I do have a photographic memory. “What’s your first memory?” he asked.
I thought hard about his question but couldn’t come to a definitive conclusion. “It’s a three-way tie between my dad commenting on the size of my fingernails, my mum passing out, and the doctor struggling with my umbilical cord,” I said.
“Sorry, but if we can’t fit your brain into our vast storage system there is no way it’ll fit into a robotic casing. We don’t have the technology to sort through and copy just the important events of your life.”
It was a little bit annoying: I didn’t even realise I had a photographic memory, and now it was a hindrance rather than an advantage – Everyone would be granted eternal life except me.
“Sorry sir, there doesn’t seem to be enough space in our storage system,” he said.
“That’s surprising,” I replied, “I’m not that smart.”
“Maybe you have a photographic memory or something,” he said. I thought about it for a moment; perhaps I do have a photographic memory. “What’s your first memory?” he asked.
I thought hard about his question but couldn’t come to a definitive conclusion. “It’s a three-way tie between my dad commenting on the size of my fingernails, my mum passing out, and the doctor struggling with my umbilical cord,” I said.
“Sorry, but if we can’t fit your brain into our vast storage system there is no way it’ll fit into a robotic casing. We don’t have the technology to sort through and copy just the important events of your life.”
It was a little bit annoying: I didn’t even realise I had a photographic memory, and now it was a hindrance rather than an advantage – Everyone would be granted eternal life except me.