No actual corporeals cried at their funeral.
That’s because there was no funeral.
It was a quiet affair. In like waves, out like waves. Soothing music played over the loudspeaker, something like the drone of a far off helicopter descending down into the middle of a wet rice field to bring you back to the continent. Their biomass digested back down into the stuff that makes Soylent eventually, after the mushrooms were done with them.
That is the way of it with the New Digital Dead.
Only here for a short time to begin with before our profiles are passed backwards through the portals at the time of our Entering. We hold many Vines for them. Our appliances generate Ether to power the off-shore windpowered power station, so that the aerostats can run more efficiently, mapping and charting where it’s chartered passengers will re-appear again on the Surface Web, someday soon springing and bumping into other.
Aren’t my fractals beautiful? Isn’t my server architecture perpetual?
The machine smiled at itself in the mirror.