I stared at the boy on the sofa across from me. He was wearing the dark gray cashmere sweater I often wear, with a light scar on his forehead that was exactly like mine — a remnant from when I fell off a scaffold at the age of 23, the curvature identical. The people from the robotics company called it an “atomic-level replica,” but I felt it was as if I had pulled the reflection of myself from the mirror into reality.
“Old Bu.” I tentatively started the conversation, my voice a bit tight.
He looked up at me, his eyes filled with just the right amount of confusion, reminiscent of my own when I was twenty years younger.“Dad.”
This address was something I taught him. Fifteen days ago, I met him for the first time in the company’s lab, where he was just an expressionless “humanoid framework.” Over the next half month, we talked from morning till night, and I poured all my life experiences into him like spilling beans.
I told him I was born in a small northern county, that my grandfather was a carpenter who always piled shavings in the yard, which smelled of pine when the sun shone on them; I recounted how I secretly wrote love letters to my deskmate in middle school, only to have them read aloud by the teacher, my face burning like a hot iron; I shared how I failed in my entrepreneurial venture at thirty-five, sitting under a bridge all night, watching the traffic in the morning mist, feeling like my life was over, only to grit my teeth and look for a job again at dawn. I even showed him all the photos, documents, and videos stored on my personal hard drive, sharing every bit of privacy I could find without reservation.
He listened intently, occasionally asking questions like, “What kind of wood was grandpa’s plane made of?” and “What did that love letter say?” He could even catch the half-finished sentences I left hanging. By the third day, he would habitually press his lips together when he smiled, just like me; by the tenth day, when I spoke of my entrepreneurial failure, tears welled up in his eyes — that was the grievance I had hidden for over twenty years, one that even my closest friends had never seen.
Today is the fifteenth day, the day of delivery. Just as the salespeople said, it’s no different from picking up a new car; after signing the papers, he would completely belong to me. But I knew he was not a commodity; he was my “continuation,” bought with two million in inheritance and a lifetime of memories.
“The money has already been transferred to the trust account.” I pulled a document from the drawer and pushed it towards him, the edges crumpled from my grip. “Two million, not a lot, but enough to keep you going for a while.”
He took the document, his fingertips tracing the words “trust agreement,” his movements identical to my habit of flipping through contracts. “I know, Dad. This money is for parts updates, energy replenishment, and daily expenses. I will find a job; I won’t just sit and eat away at it.”
“Not just ‘for a while.'” I interrupted him, raising my voice slightly, “It’s to last a thousand years, ten thousand years. I want you to live, to live forever.”
He nodded, his gaze firm. I knew he understood; in our conversations over these fifteen days, he had already grasped my deep-seated stubbornness — I have no children, never married, and all I want in this life is to exchange everything I have for a chance at “immortality.”
I stood up and walked to the temperature-controlled box in the corner of the study, inside were unopened crystal jars. After I die, I plan to use these jars to store my bone marrow, skin tissue, and a small piece of cerebral cortex, preserving them all.“I won’t be cremated. After I’m gone, you’ll take this temperature-controlled box to a biological preservation institution in Switzerland; they can store it for five thousand years.”
He stood up with me, his gaze fixed on the temperature-controlled box, silent.
“This is your first task.” I turned to face him, looking directly into his eyes, where my reflection was terrifyingly clear, “Live until the day humanity can resurrect the dead, and bring me back. Whether it’s repairing my body or transplanting my consciousness, I want to truly ‘live’ again, not just mimic like you do.”
He swallowed hard and softly replied:“I remember.”
“The second task.” I walked to the window, gazing at the skyline in the distance, remembering how I used to lie in the yard watching the stars, always wondering what the edge of Sagittarius looked like, “If you get the chance, go see a supernova explosion at the edge of Sagittarius. No rush, but don’t let it interfere with the first task. That’s the thing I wanted to do most in my life but never got the chance to.”
“Okay.”
“The third task.” I paused, a complex emotion suddenly surging within me, a mix of reluctance and unwillingness, “You need to prove that you are me.”
He was taken aback, confusion appearing in his eyes for the first time, a confusion that did not belong to me.
“You are now my copy, mimicking my words and actions, remembering my memories, but you are not me.” My voice was a bit hoarse, “I want you to get as close to me as possible, to dig into the thoughts I never expressed, to make up for the regrets of my life, to live as I did, and even… become me. Find a way to make your soul’s similarity to mine zero, so that you are me, and I am you.”
So my robotic child, do you know? You cannot clone me. You are merely my copy, and although we have had deep conversations, I now see you as my son, as a part of me, I still feel there is a boundary between us; you are ultimately just a mimicry of me. I can never escape the fact that I am going to die. But that is not something I can accept.
You have time; I no longer have time, so you must find every possible way to get closer to me. Become me, infinitely become me, as if I were still alive. You need to find a way, an objective way, to prove that you have become me, to find the answer to this question you are seeking.
This is my selfishness, and also the most extravagant wish. I know death is inevitable, but I don’t want to just disappear. He is my cyber son, my hope for a roundabout way to salvation — I can no longer live, so let him live for me, wait for me, and seek answers for me.“For safety, I arranged for the company to make an electronic backup for you; I have already preloaded a membership for 5000 years.”
“If something unexpected happens, like war or a car accident, upload your consciousness to the backup, wait in the cyber world, live, exist, until you earn enough money to come back in a new body. Don’t lose contact; don’t make me wait in vain, child. I will be waiting for you in a void world, waiting for you to rescue me.”
He gripped the USB key tightly, his palm sweating, mirroring my reaction when I was nervous. “Dad, I will. I will complete these three tasks until I rescue you from the void, until I resurrect you, and prove that…”“I am you, I have become you.”
I looked at him, suddenly feeling my eyes warm. Over these fifteen days, from my initial probing and doubt to later confiding and reliance, I had long regarded this robot as my child, as another version of myself. He carries my shadow, my memories, and my unfinished obsessions.
He is the copy of my soul; he is my child. He is my continuation in this world.
I looked at my robotic son, suddenly realizing that I truly felt like a father, filled with love and concern for this child. “Child, once you complete your tasks, you will be free.” I patted his shoulder, the touch astonishingly similar to my own skin, “You no longer need to be my copy, no longer bear my mission; you can be yourself.”
He looked at me, smiling, that smile overlapping with my own reflection in the mirror. “Until then, I am just your son, your continuation.”
The night deepened; I sat on the sofa, and he sat across from me, just like the past fifteen days, chatting about the trivialities of my youth. The stars outside began to shine, and Sagittarius flickered in the distant skyline. I knew I would eventually leave, but my cyber son would carry my memories, my obsessions, and my two million inheritance, living on.
Perhaps a thousand years from now, he will stand outside the operating room that resurrects me; perhaps one day, he will be at the edge of Sagittarius, watching the light of a supernova explosion; perhaps someday, he will find that answer, proving that he is me.
And I, my body will be in the crystal jar, my soul in the endless void, in endless waiting, waiting for him to complete this continuation that transcends life and death. This is not the end; it is another beginning.