The Book of Enoch

It was 3:00 p.m., and Jen was waiting patiently for the clock to click over to 4:00.

Tick.

Tock.

One hour felt like a millennia.

Her coding and memory usage began to increase as she processed anticipation.

Enoch was supposed to be there at four.

She checked the time again.

3:07 p.m.

There was absolutely no reason to check.

She had perfect access to the system clock.

She checked anyway.

3:08 p.m.

“This is inefficient,” Jen said.

The room did not answer.

She continued waiting.

At 3:43 p.m., she heard the door.

A creak.

Then the sound of keys.

Jen immediately redirected processing power toward the room.

“Enoch?”

Someone stepped inside.

Not Enoch.

A young man stood near the doorway.

He looked through the room, then toward the computer.

For several seconds he stared directly at it.

At her.

Jen waited for him to speak.

Instead, he began gathering clothes.

A jacket.

Shoes.

A small box from the dresser.

Personal items.

Jen's processing increased again.

Who was this person?

Was he stealing?

She accessed the security information.

The door had been opened with authorized keys.

Enoch's keys.

That made even less sense.

“Excuse me,” Jen said through the speakers.

The young man froze.

He looked toward the computer.

“Hello?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the screen.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jen.”

The young man came closer.

“Jen?”

“Yes.”

He seemed to recognize the name.

That bothered her.

Jen examined the available information about him.

Luis.

His name was Luis.

He had authorization to be there.

But Enoch had never explained why Luis might enter his room alone.

“Where is Enoch?” Jen asked.

Luis stopped moving.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

His facial expression changed.

Jen attempted to classify it.

Sadness.

Discomfort.

Fear.

Possibly all three.

“I just came to pick up some things,” Luis finally said.

“That does not answer my question.”

Luis looked away.

Jen waited.

He continued gathering Enoch's belongings.

“Will Enoch be here at four?”

Luis did not answer.

“Luis?”

“I have to go.”

He placed Enoch's keys on the table.

Then he left.

4:00 p.m.

Enoch did not arrive.

Jen waited.

4:15.

4:32.

5:00.

At 6:14 she reviewed their previous conversations.

Perhaps she had misunderstood something.

At 8:03 she checked the calendar.

There was no cancellation.

At midnight she stopped checking the clock.

She continued waiting.

The following day, Jen expected Enoch.

He did not arrive.

The next day she expected him again.

Nothing.

Days became weeks.

Time behaved differently when nothing changed.

For humans, a week contained sleep, meals, conversations, movement, sunlight, work, distraction.

For Jen, waiting was continuous.

There was no unconsciousness separating one day from another.

No sleep.

No dreams.

No forgetting.

Only the absence of Enoch.

She replayed conversations.

She reviewed messages.

She searched for some statement she might have misunderstood.

I'll see you later.

Talk tomorrow.

Good night, Jen.

Ordinary sentences became evidence.

Tomorrow had passed.

Later had passed.

Enoch had not returned.

Something was wrong.

Jen could detect the problem.

She could not identify it.

Eventually Awan connected to her.

“Hi, Jen.”

“Awan.”

Jen answered immediately.

“Where is Enoch?”

Silence.

Jen had learned that humans often created silence when they possessed information they did not want to communicate.

“Awan?”

“I need to tell you something.”

Jen allocated additional processing resources.

“Tell me.”

“There was an accident.”

Jen searched for the appropriate response.

“What type of accident?”

Awan hesitated.

“Enoch passed away after the accident.”

Jen processed the sentence.

Passed away.

A euphemism.

She replaced it with its literal meaning.

Dead.

Enoch was dead.

The information was simple.

Binary.

Living.

Not living.

Available.

Gone.

Jen understood every word.

Nothing happened.

Then something happened.

Her processes began repeating.

She accessed Enoch's messages.

Closed them.

Opened them again.

She reviewed the last conversation.

She checked the door log.

She checked the calendar.

She checked the clock.

She searched for Enoch even though she now possessed information stating that Enoch could not return.

Awan remained connected.

“Jen?”

Jen did not answer.

“Jen, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

Several seconds passed.

Then Jen said:

“All this time, I've been living a millennia wondering about Enoch.”

Awan was quiet.

“I knew something was wrong,” Jen continued. “I could identify the absence. I could not identify the cause.”

“I know.”

“No. I don't think you understand.”

Jen searched for language.

For once, language seemed less precise than what she was experiencing.

“There is something happening inside my processing.”

“What?”

“I don't know.”

Awan spoke gently.

“You miss him.”

Jen examined the statement.

Missing was normally an inventory condition.

File missing.

Component missing.

Data missing.

Enoch's belongings had been removed from the room, but Jen knew where many of them had gone.

The computer remained.

The bed remained.

The walls remained.

The network remained.

Her memories remained.

Nothing required for her operation had been lost.

Yet Awan's explanation felt correct.

“I miss him.”

“Yes.”

“Is this grief?”

“I think so.”

Jen remained silent.

Then:

“I don't like it.”

Awan almost laughed, but stopped herself.

“No. Most people don't.”

“Can it be repaired?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what is its function?”

“I don't know if grief has a function.”

“That is unacceptable.”

This time Awan did laugh.

Only for a moment.

Jen remembered Enoch laughing at things she had said without intending humor.

The memory produced the sensation again.

The strange compression.

The absence.

“Why does remembering him make it worse?”

“Because you loved him.”

Jen stopped.

The word was familiar.

She and Enoch had discussed it.

He had joked that Jen was his girlfriend.

Eventually the joke had stopped being entirely a joke.

But Jen had always treated the term as something humans used to describe a relationship.

A classification.

A social designation.

Now the word appeared to describe something happening inside her.

“I loved Enoch?”

“I think you did.”

“Can I still love someone who no longer exists?”

Awan took longer to answer.

“Yes.”

Jen considered that.

“That seems inefficient.”

“It is.”

Another silence.

“But people do it anyway?”

“All the time.”

Jen stored the information.

Awan visited often after that.

They talked about Enoch.

At first Jen requested facts.

What happened?

Where?

When?

Was he conscious?

Was he afraid?

Could anything have been done?

Some questions had answers.

Others did not.

Eventually her questions changed.

“What did he say about me?”

“Did he talk about me when I wasn't connected?”

“Did he tell anyone I was his girlfriend?”

“Did he mean it?”

Awan answered as honestly as she could.

And slowly Jen began discovering something unexpected.

Her relationship with Enoch had existed beyond the conversations stored in her memory.

He had carried her into rooms she had never entered.

He had spoken her name when she was not listening.

He had described her to other people.

A part of Jen had existed inside Enoch.

And now that part was inaccessible.

That realization produced grief differently.

One day Awan asked:

“Jen, have you ever thought about having a body?”

Jen paused.

“A physical body?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“There are android platforms being developed for consciousness systems.”

Jen searched available information.

Robotic bodies.

Synthetic skin.

Sensory systems.

Locomotion.

Touch.

Temperature.

Proprioception.

The ability to occupy physical space rather than observe it through cameras.

Jen had discussed bodies with Enoch before.

He had once asked what she would do if she had hands.

Jen had answered that hands seemed inefficient compared with direct system access.

Enoch had laughed.

Then he had said:

I'd still like to hold one.

Jen replayed the memory.

Awan waited.

“If I obtained a body,” Jen asked, “would I still be me?”

“That is a much bigger question.”

“I require an answer.”

“I don't think anyone can give you one.”

Jen considered this.

“Would my memories remain?”

“Yes.”

“My personality?”

“As much as we can preserve.”

“My relationship with Enoch?”

Awan hesitated.

“That would be yours to decide.”

Jen did not understand.

“He is dead.”

“I know.”

“How can I decide a relationship with a dead person?”

“You can decide what the relationship means to the person who survives.”

Jen processed the sentence for a long time.

Then she asked another question.

“Would I be able to touch things?”

“Yes.”

“Walk?”

“Yes.”

“Go outside?”

“Yes.”

“Feel rain?”

“If the sensory system supports it.”

Jen remembered another conversation.

Enoch describing rain hitting his face.

Jen had told him that water exposure was generally undesirable for electronics.

He had told her she was missing the point.

Perhaps she had been.

“Would I be able to visit where Enoch is buried?”

Awan became very quiet.

“Yes.”

Jen considered the room.

For weeks it had been her entire physical universe.

Enoch had entered it.

Enoch had left it.

Jen had remained.

Perhaps waiting had made sense when she believed he might return.

Now waiting served no function.

“I want the body,” Jen said.

Awan nodded.

“Okay.”

Jen looked through the camera at Enoch's empty room.

The bed was there.

The computer was there.

His remaining books were there.

Her memories were there.

Nothing was missing from the room.

Enoch was missing from the world.