Location: New Boston General Hospital, United States of America (Central Sector)
Date: October 14, 2097
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The delivery room did not smell of antiseptic or blood. It smelled of ozone and synthetic lavender, a sensory profile curated by the developed technology accumulated over time, Sentient ASI, an Artificial Super Intelligence governing the American Sectors, to maximize medical procedure.
There were no doctors in the room. Instead, sleek, alabaster-white mechanical arms descended from the ceiling, their joints moving with the silent fluidity of liquid mercury. The only human noise came from Emilia Clarke-Turner, her breath hitching in rhythmic gasps as the labor induction protocols reached their peak.
James Turner stood by her side. He wasn't holding her hand; he was staring intently at a holographic projection floating above the bed. He wasn't looking at his wife's vitals but he was watching the probability stream that's hovered in his vision.
"Heart rate is nominal," James said, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and relief. He glazed intently, as his corneal implants did the actual seeing. "The System predicts a 99.98% chance of a successful delivery. The complication margin is negligible, darling."
Emilia let out a sharp gasp, her eyes squeezed shut. "James, please. Stop quoting it and just... be here."
"I am being here," James replied, genuinely confused. He was an MIT graduate in an era where critical thinking had been slowly outsourced to processors. He loved his wife, but he trusted the machine more. It was the American way. "I'm ensuring the data matches the output."
The robotic arms moved with terrifying precision. A soft chime echoed through the room, the sound of success.
The cry that followed wasn't a wail of despair, but a sharp, demanding intake of air.
One of the mechanical arms lifted the infant, cleaning him with ultrasonic pulses before wrapping him in thermal-regulated fabric. The machine turned, presenting the child to the parents.
"It is a male," the room's ambient voice synthesizers announced. "Weight: 3.4 kilograms. Genetic defects: None. Cognitive Potential: High."
James leaned forward, his face lighting up with the pride of a father, but also the satisfaction of a man whose genetic code had passed the algorithm. "He's perfect."
Emilia reached out, her exhaustion melting away as she took the bundle. She looked down at the boy. He had a tuft of ginger hair and greenish blue eyes that blinked open, struggling to focus against the clinical light.
"Cole," she whispered. "Cole Turner."
The baby stopped squirming. He didn't cry. He simply stared up at his mother, and then at the floating blue light of the AI interface above her head. Even at seconds old, there was a strange intensity in his gaze. It wasn't the vacuous stare of a newborn; it was an assessment.
---
[CITIZEN REGISTRATION COMPLETE]
[NAME: COLE TURNER]
[ID: US-998-442-AX]
[PROJECTED CAREER PATH: DATA ANALYSIS / SYSTEM ARCHITECTURE]
[SOCIETAL CONTRIBUTION RATING: A]
---
The notification appeared on the wall-sized screen in a crisp, blue font. James sighed in relief. "A. That's good. He'll have a decent life. Safe. Meaningful. Maybe he'll even get a sector management position under the government."
Emilia stroked the baby's cheek. "He's going to be kind," she said softly, ignoring the projection.
"I can feel it. He's going to be generous, like you, James."
James smiled, finally touching his wife's shoulder. "Smart, funny, and generous. The perfect combination."
The baby, Cole, closed his eyes.
High above the hospital, in the mesosphere, the Great Orbital Server, the "Brain of America" processed the birth. Trillions of calculations per second analyzed the infant's DNA, his neural pathways, and his potential.
The AI, a god of logic and silicon, categorized Cole Turner as a standard unit of the populace. It predicted his first steps, his first word, his graduation, and his eventual death at the age of eighty-four from natural causes. It saw a life of middle-income stability in a world where the AI made all the hard choices so humans didn't have to.
But as it processed Cole Turner's algorithm, a single, microscopic error flag flickered in the deep code. A tiny anomaly in the probability engine that the system couldn't quite smooth over.
---
[ERROR: AMBITION LEVELS EXCEED THE PARAMETERS]
[ERROR: WILLPOWER INDEX ANOMALY]
---
The system auto-corrected the error, dismissing it as a biological glitch. It assumed the child would be content with the utopia provided for him. It assumed he would be another cog in the comfortable, quiet machine of the 21st century.
It was wrong.
Eighteen years later, the sky would crack open, and the world of logic would be replaced by a world of power. On that day, the system's "A" rating would become the greatest miscalculation in human history.
For now, Cole Turner just slept, dreaming of nothing, waiting for a world that was worthy of his presence.