Lost World
I strolled across the university grounds, my mind lost in the sea of impending deadlines and caffeine-fueled study sessions. Lost, until my eyes caught a glint of metallic silver lying on the footpath as I passed the library. Curiosity piqued, I bent down to pick it up, revealing a forgotten USB stick nestled in the palm of my hand. With a shrug and a flicker of excitement, I decided to adopt this digital orphan and give it a new home in the depths of my backpack.
Back in my cluttered dorm room, I plugged the drive into my laptop, eager to uncover its secrets. Was it merely homework, presentation slides perhaps? Maybe someone's movie collection? Something better?
A cascade of files greeted me, an assortment of directories of code and API documentation that seemed to speak a language I barely understood. Amongst the jumble, one file stood out—a plain text document simply labelled "Site.link".
I hesitated for a moment, my cursor hovering over the file, unsure of the journey it would lead me on. With a gulp of anticipation, I clicked. The browser opened, but to my dismay, the page failed to load. Frustrated, I realised I needed to find a place where the university's temperamental Wi-Fi couldn't impede my progress.
In the heart of the sprawling campus, I discovered an unassuming computer lab tucked away, abandoned and forgotten by the bustling student population. It seemed like the perfect hideaway for my clandestine explorations. Surrounded by rows of dusty monitors and rows of unoccupied chairs, I settled in, hoping for a better outcome.
Once again, I plugged in the USB stick and clicked the link, opening the browser, and this time, the page came alive. A personal blog, plain and unremarkable, greeted my eager eyes. It chronicled the research work of a postgraduate student, filled with dry summaries of research papers and seemingly banal ideas for experiments. Yet, buried within the monotony, I sensed a glimmer of hidden potential. Words like "artificial evolution" and "complex emergent behaviour" piqued my interest amongst the technical jargon.
As I continued to scroll through the chronologically ordered updates, my eyes absorbed the postgraduate student's ideas for artificial life experiments, a world of fantastical possibilities. The ecosystem they envisioned consisted of simple creatures, each equipped with sensors and actuators controlled by intricate neural networks. These digital critters would navigate their virtual realm, their behaviours evolving through genetic algorithms. It was like witnessing the design of a miniature world by an enthusiastic engineer-god.
As I delved deeper into the blog, the updates came alive with vivid screenshots showcasing the wonders of the virtual ecosystem. I glimpsed the intricate schematics, revealing the inner workings of the creatures' artificial nervous systems. The designs were the definition of complexity, with algorithms and neural connections that held the key to their intelligence. And then there were the diagrams outlining the evolutionary process, a digital genetic engineering providing a pool of open-ended potential. The blog was a treasure trove, its contents beckoning me to join in the creation of a digital universe.
As I devoured the blog entries, the initial results of running the experiments were exciting. Time in the virtual world had been cranked up to the max, and the digital creatures were living their lives at warp speed. I marvelled at the descriptions of these beings, roaming their virtual domain, each finding their niche and specialising in different aspects of the environment. It was incredible to witness the birth of complex behaviours emerging from this accelerated evolution, at least vicariously, second-hand via blog updates. The creatures were like tiny pioneers, carving their paths.
But just as the summary of results was reaching its peak, a chilling entry halted all enthusiasm. The research advisor's feedback appeared on the screen, a pasted email, casting a shadow.
“After careful consideration and assessment of the available resources, I regret to inform you that the time and resources allocated for this project have been fully exhausted. Given the constraints we face, I must request that you halt any further work on the experiment immediately. While I understand the passion and dedication you have invested in this project, we must acknowledge the practical limitations we currently face. Unfortunately, there is no additional budget to support its continuation.”
The dream of this artificial life experiment was being snatched away, leaving the blog's author with no choice but to wrap up the project.
As I kept reading. The author of the blog had defied all requests to halt the experiment and continued their work in secret. Days turned into a blur as I immersed myself in the updates, witnessing the results grow more and more impressive. The virtual world teemed with life as emergent behaviours took centre stage. It started with individual creatures collaborating, and sharing knowledge, and then expanded to groups working together towards common goals. It was as if I was reading dispatches from a new era, the birth of speciation within this digital ecosystem. It was nothing short of miraculous.
I couldn't help but notice a shift in the author's tone. The writing became manic, and frenzied, as if they were pulling relentless all-nighters to push their work to the limits. The once measured and scientific descriptions now took on an almost desperate urgency. It was both unsettling and captivating, as if the author's obsession with their work had consumed them entirely. The boundary between scientific inquiry and personal obsession blurred, leaving me with admiration and concern for the brilliant mind behind these incredible developments.
The once-rich descriptions of the artificial ecosystem abruptly ceased, leaving a void. I scrolled. There was an update timestamped many days later, but it was terse and the message heartbreaking.
The simulation had been unceremoniously terminated on the supercomputer, at the behest of the research advisor. In one fell swoop, perhaps two years of work were wiped away, the precious results lost in the void of digital oblivion. There were no backups to salvage, except for an old version of the code on a USB stick.