Guess it’s just you and me now, son.
#
#
Son.
*END TRANSCRIPT*
Although this particular document obviously contains many continuity issues as well as factual errors, it proved pivotal in myself and my colleagues’ study of the events of the summer of 2050. This AI’s lifetime log was exemplary of the kind of primary text we were looking for – Chief Document Recovery Agent Dr Samara Wright.
THIS DOCUMENT IS FOR OFFICIAL WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION USE ONLY AND MUST REMAIN PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. NOT FOR INTERPLANETARY USE.
Katy Lennon is a new sci-fi and horror writer originally from Aberdeen, now based in Edinburgh. She writes about the future, posthumanism and artificial intelligence. She also maintains the illusion that her constant social media presence is purely for research purposes. Follow Katy on Twitter @blooood_bath
The Worm
Russell Jones
Art: Wallace Wes
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The kids drop today’s worm onto their tongues, the bell rings, and they swallow.
“Is that it for today?”
You’d think, after all these sessions, they’d have learned something for themselves. Tests always come after the worm on Mondays. “No, we’ve a quiz. Now take out your pads.”
They let out a collective hum, like wasps in a jar.
I push the button and the test begins; Doctor Hello appears at the front of the class, his blue skin and lab coat shimmering. My finger throbs, I rub it and imagine a bolt passing through Doctor Hello’s blue brains, my gun purring, a grin across my face.
“Hello class!” Doctor Hello says, cheerily.
“Hello Doctor!”
“Today’s quiz will begin shortly. If you haven’t taken your worm, please take it now.” Doctor Hello turns to me. “Your teacher will confirm when you are ready.”
“Confirm.” I slide my finger across my screen, pretending to work. I think the kids are onto me, they’ve caught me more than once – my movements are too frantic for work, my eyes are too keen. I look up from the screen; the kids are busy absorbing the worm that sits in their stomachs, melting like ice in a glass of bourbon. I still get a buzz from seeing the knowledge slither forward, the spark in each of them as their brains feed. It’s something most teachers take pleasure in: progress.
Everyone remembers their first worm, and their most recent. My first worm was later than most – I was six, just out of Socialisation Class. Toy bricks, circuits, the usual. I held that little blue pill in my hand, tears ploughing down my cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” my mum said. “We all do it.”
When you’re six, that’s not a reassurance. I knew my world, I liked my ignorance. I refused.
“There are ways around it, don’t be concerned.” The Socialisation leader told my mum. I should have been more suspicious when a bowl of ice cream, scattered with blue sweeties, arrived as a treat after dinner that night.
The worm creeps up on you. At first you don’t notice it, you just trail off into a stream of thoughts you didn’t know existed. Then BANG, your head feels different, clearer, like you’ve lived someone else’s life, the years compressed into seconds. You’re aware of things you hadn’t noticed before, you see things a bit differently, understand them. That’s the only way I can describe it; our poets have done no better.
“Quiz question six.” Doctor Hello interrupts my daydream. “In the helio state, which molecule is persistent with the following data...” His question is muted by my incomprehension. I’ve not taken today’s worm yet. I should – we’re easily caught out by the smarter kids. I push a button and the printer dispenses a cup of cream. I place the worm in my palm, still holding the apprehensions of my youth, and knock it back.
The kids are busy swiping their answers. I see them growing more confident as the worm takes hold. They probably know more than me now, having had the worm their whole life, but they’re still kids. Just. Our records say that some of them, the brightest and best, the High Ups, even took worm pre-birth. No doubt that altered the heliocropic enzymes in their blood, any iron deficits bonding with the chemodata. Ah, I’m starting to absorb today’s worm, too.
The test is over. I send Doctor Hello back to his dark dimension in the network, a stone of power rolling in my stomach as I extinguish him. The results flash up on the desks, each kid listed by their performance and average. There are woops, high fives, a few sniffles, a few sniggers. The usual names are at the top, the usual ones at the bottom. No surprises.
“Is that it for today, Doctor?” A kid asks.
I check the time and today’s air toxicity. Fine. “Yes, off you go.”
“Bye!”
They swarm out of the classroom and into the halls. I chant ancient dialogue from a drama I absorbed through another worm, trying to block out the impending rush of chemodata:
“The man who makes an appearance in the business world, the man who creates personal interest, is the man who gets ahead. Be liked and you will never want. You take me, for instance. I never have to wait in line to see a buyer. Willy Loman is here! That’s all they have to know and I go right through...”
“Be liked and you will never want. Act 1, Part 3.” Doctor Sabre leans my door, smirking.
“Yep. At least, I think so.” I rub my finger. “Waiting for the worm to pass.”
“Sorry, want me to go?”
“No, it’s fine.” I squeeze my eyes shut as the data eases off. Modular compounds, axis draughts, temporal variants. I’m done with the lot. I open my eyes and smile. “What a bore.”
“Today’s almost put me to sleep.” Doctor Sabre motions towards the door and I follow, obediently. “Still, it has its uses.” We head towards the staffroom, windows pointing the way. “This new curriculum is a killer.”
“Headaches?”
