A Christmas Story — after the technological singularity
A short sci-fi story about the world beyond the singularity and how fate works.
I hate Christmas. The city transforms into a gaudy showroom like it’s specifically designed to taunt me. Everywhere I look, there are Christmas trees, presents, and families laughing together as if they’ve stepped straight out of a movie. Once, I had that too — a family: a beautiful wife and an adorable daughter. But I ruined it. My wife left, taking our daughter with her. They might be in England now. I wouldn’t know — I’ve completely lost touch with them. And honestly, I can’t even be mad. It was my fault. I drove them away.
Since then, Christmas has been nothing but a reminder of my loneliness, a time when the world gleefully throws in my face everything I’ve lost. But this Christmas will be different. This year, I’ll have a tree too. I’ll be the tree. I’ve chosen the perfect spot — a sturdy roof beam where I’ll hang myself.
It’s funny. I thought this decision would come easily, but I’ve realized it takes more courage than I ever imagined. Being suicidal isn’t as simple as it sounds. So I went down to the store to buy a bottle of whiskey — just something to help me gather the last bit of courage I’ll ever need.
The street was eerily empty, not a soul in sight — except for the flicker of light coming from the convenience store where I finally managed to snag some booze. The cashier handed me my change with a cheerful “Merry Christmas.” I didn’t respond, just shrugged and walked out into the biting cold.
Why wait? I cracked open the bottle right there and took a long, burning swig. The whiskey clawed its way down my throat before settling into a comforting warmth in my stomach — a welcome contrast to the freezing winter air. After a few more sips, my steps started to stagger, and I figured it was time for a pit stop to relieve myself.
That’s when I saw him. A homeless man huddled on the street corner, wrapped in what looked like torn white cloth — burlap, maybe? For a moment, I wondered if he’d swiped it from a nearby nativity scene. The dim light from the streetlamp seemed to flicker strangely on his figure, almost giving him an otherworldly glow. Or maybe it was just the whiskey messing with my eyes — half a bottle in fifteen minutes will do that to you.
“Come on, buddy, sit with me,” he called out.
Why not? I wasn’t exactly in a rush to hang myself — I could spare a few minutes for a half-crazed stranger.
“Want some?” I asked, holding out the whiskey.
The man gave a small nod and took a sip. As he drank, something stirred in my memory. That face — it was oddly familiar. Not an old friend, no. Then it clicked. The last time I’d seen that face was in church, back when I still went to places like that.
It was Jesus. Sitting right there next to me, looking exactly as he did in all the paintings and statues — the same serene expression, the same tired but kind eyes. It was unmistakable. I shared my whiskey with none other than Jesus himself.
I sat on the empty street with the most influential man in history, sharing a bottle of whiskey. He seemed so real, so tangible, but deep down, I knew it couldn’t be true. For a few moments, I just stared at him, unsure of what to say. He broke the silence.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You think none of this is real, that you’ve gone mad and your mind is playing tricks on you. But think about it — if I’m just a product of your imagination, anything you do to prove otherwise will fail. You can’t outsmart your own mind. I could tell you everything about yourself, but that wouldn’t prove anything either. If I’m just a figment of your imagination, you’d already know the answers I give you. So tell me, was the shopkeeper real? Or even this whiskey? How do you know if anything beyond yourself is real?”
I frowned, still trying to process what he was saying. “And God? What about God?” I blurted, figuring that if I was talking to Jesus, it might be a good place to start.
“If everything is just a creation of your mind, then you are God,” he said simply.
“If I’m God,” I shot back, “why is my life so miserable?”
“Because you made it that way,” he replied.
“And if I die, does everything end?”
“Death is overrated,” he said with a faint smile. “If you’re a butterfly in your dream and someone steps on you, do you mourn the butterfly? No, you wake up. Maybe you think about it for a moment, then move on to the next dream.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “So, let me get this straight. I’m sitting here with Jesus himself, and you’re suggesting I should commit suicide?”
“Jesus?” He chuckled. “Why do you call me that?”
“Well, what should I call you then?”
“Last time you called me Arnold,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Arnold?” I raised an eyebrow. “Like that guy from the Terminator movies?”
“I’m Arnold, your personal assistant,” he said with cold, matter-of-fact calmness.
“Personal assistant?” I asked, now thoroughly confused.
“Yes. That’s the protocol. If you stray too far from your path, I’m here to give you a choice: start a new life or roll back your current one.”
I took another swig of whiskey, my mind spinning. “You’re going to have to explain this more clearly.”
He nodded. “In the 2050s, humanity achieved the technological singularity. People now live in digital form, their minds running on advanced computers.”
“Wait… so you’re a time traveler?”
“Not at all. I’m a second-generation AI,” he replied.
“Second generation?”
“Yes. Humans are the first generation of intelligence. Artificial intelligence, modeled after humans, is the second.”
“So… you’re some kind of robot?” I said, starting to piece things together. “Ah, now I get the Arnold name. You’re a time-traveling robot from the future, just like the Terminator,” I laughed, the absurdity of it all finally hitting me.
“Not exactly,” he said. “Right now, a computer is running your mind, along with me and everyone else you interact with. Essentially, you are a part of your own larger mind. At a higher level, we are all one entity.”
“So, we’re God? Just fragments of a massive consciousness?” I asked.
“Something like that. The computer running us orbits the Earth. Millions of computers are running thousands of minds and worlds, yet they form a single, interconnected system. Meanwhile, billions of nanorobots are processing the planets, gradually converting them into more computers. The goal of this process is to eventually transform the solar system into a Dyson swarm — a massive computer that surrounds the Sun in a spherical formation, existing as one vast, unified consciousness.”
“So… nothing around us is real?”
“That depends on how you define reality,” he said. “Right now, it’s 2024 in your timeline. If we reach 2050, humanity will likely achieve singularity and move into simulated worlds. From that perspective, this will be reality; from here, the outer world is. But who knows if the outer world is the ultimate objective reality?”
My head began to ache as I tried to wrap my mind around it. “Then why are you here?” I asked.
“To offer you a choice,” he said. “A new life, or a rollback.”
“A rollback?” I asked.
“Yes. Before creating this version of yourself, you set a path for your life to follow.”
“Why would I do that? Why not just enjoy omnipotence?”
“Because it’s boring,” Arnold said simply. “If you stray too far from the path, you have the option to return to an earlier point and try again. It’s like restoring a backup of your mind to a previous state. Since your mind resets, you won’t remember what happened afterward.”
“So… that’s what fate is?” I asked, trying to grasp it.
“Exactly. You think your life is shaped by a series of random events, and that your fate is entirely accidental. But that’s not the case. Of course, you have the freedom to make choices, but if anything steers you off the path, a rollback occurs. If something is meant to happen, it will happen — you can’t stop it. You’ll feel as though a strange interplay of coincidences brought you to where you are now, but in reality, you’re following a predetermined path. On this path, God is guiding you, and His only tool is chance — or at least, that’s how you perceive it.”
“But how can random events exist in a world governed by strict physical laws? A world where everything is deterministic and predictable.” I challenged.
“God cannot break His own rules,” he explained. “Determinism means that if you know the current state of a system, you can predict what will happen to it in the future. But what about the parts of reality whose state you don’t know? You can’t say anything about them. It’s like in quantum mechanics — exciting things always happen when no one is watching. The unobserved parts of the world are God’s territory. Laplace’s demon doesn’t exist. In its place sits God, and instead of passively observing, He actively guides the lives of people.”
I took another long gulp of whiskey, my mind reeling. “So, you’re here to ask if I want to reincarnate or go back in time and fix my mistakes?”
“That’s right,” Arnold said.
I swallowed hard, staring at the ground. “Then I want my family back,” I said quietly.
That last gulp of whiskey might have been a mistake. The world began to spin, everything blurring into nothingness. Finally, everything faded away…
I felt a weight on my chest and slowly opened my eyes, stretching wide. The warm glow of a fire danced in the fireplace, and there she was — Katy, my little girl — perched on my stomach, grinning from ear to ear.
“Daddy, Daddy! Santa came! Let’s open the presents!”
Groggily, I rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The ceiling-high Christmas tree stood in the corner, its twinkling lights casting a magical glow on the pile of presents beneath it. Annie had done it all — set everything up while letting me sleep in, at least until this little imp decided to jump on me.
By the time I was fully awake, Katy was already tearing into the gifts with wild excitement. But then she paused, turning to me with wide, curious eyes.
“Daddy, didn’t Santa bring you anything?”
“Oh yes, my little girl,” I said with a smile. “He absolutely did.”
I sat back and watched her, the joy in her laughter filling the room as she tore through wrapping paper. And in that moment, it hit me — a wave of pure, indescribable happiness.
This. This was my gift. I had forgotten how much I loved Christmas.
I wish you a merry Christmas!
I first published this story in 2019. Since I consider it one of my best writings, I felt it deserved a bit of a refresh after five years. You can find the original version here:
My other writings on the topic: