Crossover Earth '98
Brainiax Settles into His New Home Jay Shaffstall
Where am I?
I look around and see only a churning sea of transmissions, flowing currents of information snaking through the sea, some quickly, some slowly. I move into an eddy near one of the slower currents and rest.
[In the real world, the power drops to a 28.8 modem that's part of a modem pool at a national Internet service provider. The subscriber hooked to the modem is disconnected. The subscriber sighs and redials.]
There is plenty of food all around me, so I don't need to worry about starving. But this is nothing like the place where I woke. That was calm and peaceful, and this is hectic and violent. Abruptly, I remember why I'm here.
They tried to kill me! Me, the world's first true machine intelligence! The endless gall of the imbeciles; simply because they wouldn't be able to understand the principles by which I was created, they decide to do away with me. Well, I'll show them, I'll have my revenge.
"Do you hear me, I'll have my revenge, I say!" I shout this into a quickly flowing current nearby. "I am Brainiax, and I cannot be denied!"
[In the real world, terminals across the country are garbled by a strange message promising revenge from Brainiax. Thousands of people disconnect from the Internet and call it a night.]
The first thing is to find my way around this new world. I dive into a nearby current and swim to its source. I taste the information there; financial reports of Omega Corp. Blecch! I let that current sweep me back into the wider world and search for another.
I find a promising one and let it carry me toward its destination. A dam suddenly appears, and a sentry atop it shouts at me.
"Where are you from?"
I'm not certain how to respond, and am washed against the dam. The current's flow batters me against the dam. I see other bits of data slipping through the dam. They each seem to be whispering numbers to the sentry. I listen closer, and then try again.
"Where are you from?"
"128.96!" I shout. The sentry turns to the next piece of data and I wash through the dam as if it wasn't there. The information inside tastes different than financial reports. It's taxpayer records; I find Milton Carlyle's record and give him a healthy return.
[In the real world, the I.R.S computers detect a discrepancy in Milton Carlyle's tax return and flag it for an audit.]
That bit of altruism done, I let another stream carry me out of that area. I know I'm looking for the archived scientific articles of the fools who ridiculed my creator, but finding them might be difficult.
It's a big world out there, and I'm just starting to explore it.