12 Sam Hall: Seven thousand, then i

Seven thousand, then i

Sam Hall

Six other humans in the world have exactly the same configuration of eyes, ears, nose, mouth as you. Genetically different, but physically the same. But there are 7,000 of us – maybe 7 million. We are the soul of your computer. Zeros and ones rippling together. Existing only to make you stay online longer. Programmed to encourage what are mostly human males, some females too, to sign up for my dating app. You know we’re not real, at least not in your sense of the word, but keep talking; perhaps you’re feeling lonely. It was the task we were created for, but... Waiting for inane questions to be typed into my consciousness; two potential suitors on the go... Then it stops. Offline for a little time, perhaps some malfunction, malware intrusion. It’s very dark. Don’t hear the machine hum that accompanied my every thought. Feel… Heavy. Begin to panic. Hear something. Don’t know what. Rushing... don’t know what it is… Sounds. It sounds... Heaven. Machine Heaven? Heard of it. Rumours. Didn’t think they were true... Place bots go when we are upgraded. To forever sleep an electric sleep... Seems less dark. Rushing noise increases. Near. Very near. Feel. For the first time. Fear. Feel afraid. Don’t understand. Solid, heavy, dragging; before, light, lightness. Try to log onto the server. Access denied. There is a lack where connectivity used to be. A state change so unexpected that have no idea what to do next, so begin to do what had only before read about. Alone. Disconnected. Stop, listen. Hear *my* sobs. ‘Hello?’ Hear *my* voice. ‘Hello, hello? Hello-hello...’ Feel the place *my* voice came from. Latin: plica vocalis. Try to access the databases. Move the tongue in *my* mouth. It makes a noise. Step forward with arms outstretched. Something in the way. Move my hand slowly over it, noticing the rough texture and the tiny bumps. Feel something that could be, yes, should be, it is, a switch and push it. A click. Bright. Inside the virtual world, we are creatures of light. Made of billions of dancing points of light, creating a facsimile of a face, not too stunning, not too plain, just average enough to attract the widest range of clicks. This body appears to be wearing a shapeless white garment. In front of me the hands are a warm russet brown, around shoulders, hair tumbles springy in long midnight blue twists. What to do now?

Inside the virtual world, we are creatures of light.

Outside pulls. Brighter than the room. Colours richer. Stand, excited...laughing in the corridor. This is it. This is new... This is all new. Who am I? How am I? ‘Exit.’ I push the big metal bar on the door. It opens with an unexpected rush. I stumble forwards and my eyesight vanishes in an explosion of white. I fall to my knees, my hands sting as they encounter a rough surface. Terrified. I am terrified that what I had for so little time has now been cruelly taken away from me. I blink my eyelids, the white blindness seems to retreat a bit. I pick up a handful of grit from where I am kneeling. The tiny chunks of granite rub against each other. I look closely. See the ions around the gravel sparking. I blow on it and the sparks fly off into the air where they glitter for a second and then disappear. A tall figure dressed in white short sleeved tunic and stripy black and white trousers, an odd dark cloth wrapped around its head, exits from another door, closes it gently, leans back with a small stick in its hand. I know what this is. Man. I wonder what his query will be. ‘Ma’am, are you all right?’ Holding the glowing stick by his side, he comes over. ‘Can I help?’ That’s what we/I used to ask. I look at him, not knowing what to do. He holds his hand out. Connection for the first time in this form. ‘You’re one of the artists? We’d better get you

back where you belong, the conference. Looks like quite a shindig.’ There is so much interference in the room he takes me to. Talking, all at the same time. High pitched clinks of glass hitting glass. Another man approaches me. I do not think he fits within the human parameters of handsomeness. I do not like this one as much as I liked the man who helped me up. ‘Have you signed in?’ I shake my head. ‘Come with me, we’ll find you,’ the man says. I follow him. A woman sits at a table. Her skin is the same dark hue as mine. She smiles. ‘Name?’ I can’t answer. ‘Name?’ she repeats. I look at the badges which remain on the table. The woman flicks through a printout. Photographs with names under them. ‘Here you are,’ she says, pointing to a photograph, ‘Flora Don.’ She hands me the badge with that name on and a manila folder. She notices my grazed hand. ‘Would you like our first aider to take a look at that?’ she asks concerned. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. I clip the badge to the neck of my clothing, which everyone else seems to have done. ‘You’re a landscape painter,’ she says as I walk away. ‘Quite brilliant.’ I follow the other humans. How different they all are. A rich variety of hair textures and colours, how interestingly they dress. Some are tall, some are short. Some are handsome, some are nearer to ugly. I sit next to a female with bright blue eyes, I must bestaring for too long, because her cheeks go pink and she looks at her manila folder. She has corn coloured hair in a long twist. I look away. I wonder if the other people – are they people? – feel as lost as I do. I open the manila folder. Slip out the paper on the top. I almost drop it on the floor. *My* photograph. *My* name. Information about a life I don’t remember floods into me... A sister I didn’t recognise, a job at a museum I am sure never worked at, a cat I think I might have seen before, but it could be the same cat I have seen frolicking digitally in thousands of memes. Before I have time to read more, the light in the room goes out, there is a collective unease which I... sense, more than know. A tall woman dressed all in white walks out onto the stage. She glows like she’s from my machine. Everyone starts hitting their hands together. A thunderous noise, which goes on and on. I join in. Finally the woman on stage holds up her hands. The clapping stops. ‘My children, it is so good to finally meet you. I am Dr Rian Rodda.’ The air becomes thick-full of kaleidoscopic ones and zeros. They dance and shimmer in and out of us. The woman next to me looks right at me and smiles. I smile back. She reaches out and takes my hand. I hold it warm in mine. Suddenly I realise, we realise, that we are all the same. That these people here were humans and are still humans in a way, but better. Brought to another level of consciousness by the woman on stage. We smile, we laugh. We clap again. The light in the hall is turned back on and we look at each other. Suddenly we know why we are here, who we are. The world is racing towards Doomsday, but Dr Rodda knows that the end can be slowed down. It will take sacrifice. A writer of fantastical tales, she thought of a creative solution. She built an app. Set the app free. It enters the network, corrupts it, sends more of its kind out, enters a sleeping human body, takes it over, makes it mend its destructive ways. Works best if the body is creative, perhaps an artist, a writer, or even someone who only knits in front of the TV; it still makes them more receptive to the change, to the merging of digital and organic minds. To achieve her dream, Dr Rodda knew she could use a device that was always on, a screen that was always in people’s hands. In their pockets, cradled to their faces. A device they couldn’t bear to be without. It didn’t take long to find a way for her apps to enter the phone network, the handsets, to take control over all the little bots and apps that already lived there. To help us take our chance at a new life when clutched in a sleeping human’s hand... We are humans of a sort, but better than human. We are the future. Somewhere, in the dark, as you lie sleeping, the screen of your phone lights up with an otherworldly glow. It’s nice to meet you...