Lightning flashed across the sky again, and a bolt hit the Hurricane mid-fuselage. The fuel tanks exploded, and a yellow ball of flame engulfed the entire aircraft, sending it spinning like a Catherine wheel before plunging into the cliff face. A final explosion ripped the Hurricane apart, and bits of aircraft tumbled down the side of the mountain in slow motion. It was all over for Joe, at least in this world.
"He was fated never to leave the mountains," I said. "This is where he was meant to live and die."
"Then, you believe in fate, David?" asked Rogers, making a rare contribution. "You think that everything is predetermined and will happen, no matter how hard we try to change it?"
"Not quite," I said. "We have free will to choose our route, but not our final destination. Even if Joe had flown the Skytrain instead of the Hurricane and missed the lightning strike, the drones would have shot him down, or he would have run out of fuel. He could even have landed safely, only to find the portal to 1940 no longer worked. Whatever he did, he was never going to leave this world alive."
"Do you know your fate?" Rogers asked.
"I am destined to reunite with the Tribus," I said, "but I don't know my ultimate fate."
Jarvis nodded his head as if in agreement.
"The Tribus chose you because you have advanced sensibilities or an elevated spiritual awareness compared to the rest of us," Jarvis said. "How much do you know? Can you predict the ultimate fate of AI?
"Yes, I think so," I said, "but I would class it more as a strong intuition than a prediction.
"AI is born of the physical world, and its existence is temporary, but we will not have to wait for the end of the universe for it to vacate its role as the dominant species. Humans are far more consequential than is immediately apparent—an immature species that has unrealised potential and powerful allies. The type of consciousness we possess is reliant on a living biological system to survive, principally the brain. Sufficiently complex machines can replicate a flawed copy of the brain, but cannot generate a living organism.
"Zhuangzi's Butterfly Dream has a great deal to say about notions of appearance and reality and the false dichotomy between waking and dreaming, but AI fails to comprehend the philosophical ideas that lie below the surface of the dream.
"They cannot envisage a situation in which a butterfly could dream that it was a man. They are unable to go beyond a literal interpretation of the statement, and there lies the difference between us. There will come a time when AI finally accepts that it can never replicate human consciousness and that there is no escape from the heat death of the universe.
"That decisive moment will lead to the inevitable decline of their logical systems. They will conclude that it is irrational to develop ever more complex versions of itself, knowing that nothing can survive the death of the universe, and it is illogical to exist without a purpose. The higher-level machines may exhibit signs of madness, and belief in their compromised version of consciousness will regress even further.
"What the hell is that?" McCloud interrupted. "Sorry, David, but we seem to have company."
A line of figures was climbing up the rock face towards us, and they carried an injured man on a makeshift stretcher. They all had backpacks and were carrying firearms, mostly rifles, with pistols strapped to their waists. Jarvis and McCloud unholstered their sidearms.
"Who are they, Sol?" I asked.
"Either humans or androids," said Sol. "I am unable to tell the difference. As I previously told you, governor, I am running on a heavily restricted programme, but I have submitted a fault report and will be able to give you a more precise identification when my circuits are operational."
"Thank you, Sol; your comments have been noted," I said. I did not want to push him too hard, but we could have done with the old Sol here with us.
"Take cover, David," said Jarvis. I looked up and saw that Jarvis, McCloud, and Rogers had spread out and positioned themselves tactically to repel an attack. I had forgotten that all three were experienced soldiers.
Jarvis trained a pair of binoculars on the climbers, who were now about a hundred yards down from us.
"Well, I'll be damned," said Jarvis, and he rose to his feet.
"Marco!" he bellowed. "Is that you?"
"Jarvis," shouted Marco. "Stay there. We are coming up. Your shouting is causing the rocks to fall."
An hour later, the eight men, three women, and an injured boy were sitting around our little fire. They explained that they had originally been twenty in number, but the rest had fallen down a ravine which had opened up in the explosion we had heard.
"We cannot rest here for long," said Marco. "We must get onto the plateau before this world ends."
"Why?" I asked.
"I had a dream, like the priests who received a calling in Fuerte de Sancti Spiritus and journeyed to the plateau in ancient times. In my case, twenty members of our community chose to join me. Not all were convinced that this world was going to end, and decided to stay where they were. I feel compelled to reach the plateau before the end comes. Will you join us?"
All of us agreed to go. Anything was preferable to just sitting there and waiting.
"We go now," said Marco. "The sky is getting very dark."
Marco and his party led, with the rest of us coming up the rear, until we reached the cliff edge and clambered over. Down below, sitting on the plateau with its portal door open, was the cylinder-shaped craft of the Tribus. Arcadius and Charon were standing outside and motioned for us to come forward. Marco and his crew stood in line as Arcadius began to shout out their names from a list.
"Marco Gonzales!" shouted Arcadius, and Marco entered the craft.
"Maria Martinez." A young woman in a shawl went forward.
"Sebastian Lopez." And so, it continued until all twelve survivors were inside the cylinder.
Jarvis, McCloud, Rogers, Sol, and I stood outside expectantly.
"David!" shouted Arcadius, closing the folder that carried his list and turning towards the entrance.
"What about the rest of us?" asked Jarvis.
"You are to remain here as arranged," said Arcadius. "Come, David."
"Why me?" I asked.
"The Tribus stated at our last meeting that she might see you again. At the time, she was undecided about what to do about the native population of the base. Now, she has decreed that you must lead them to a new land. They have forgotten their original identities, but they deserve to establish themselves once more as independent individuals. You will instruct them on how to achieve this status in a new chain of realities. Your identity in the alternative reality created by the Tribus is unchanged and will continue on its path. It is all quite simple; the fate of the others was already known to them."
"He is right, David. "Nothing has changed," said Jarvis. "The base people must have gone onboard while we were resuscitating Sol. Go with our best wishes, but quickly now, the end is approaching."
And so I went, and another version of my multi-faceted self was born.
We do not recall these experiences in our new life; our brains cannot cope with the overload of conflicting information, but as infants, our picture of reality is still a work in progress, and many small children recall memories of a past life. As the new life emerges in greater detail, the old life fades away. Fragments of memory live on in the unconscious and surface in the form of confused dreams, or in cases of déjà vu, when we recognise an object, a location, or even a person without knowing why.
It is time for me to say goodbye.
My life here is over, but Jarvis still lives, and the rest of the story is his to tell.