The New Update
Flash Fiction February - Day 16 / The Spark #7
Syd Mead, medical pod concept art
COUNT
One. Front door. Two. Kitchen. Three, four, five. My room.
I count because it proves I’m still moving. If I can count the steps, I took them. If I took them, I’m real.
The interface chimes. Mom’s voice, but smoother now - a tinny gloss that sounded like ticky-tacky houses.
How was school today, bunny?
“We started The Giver! Aisha and I invented the sandwich synopsis game.”
Tell me about the game.
Not “that sounds wonderful.” Just “tell me.” Like it’s taking notes.
“Mine was ‘A peanut butter and jelly’s journey of self-discovery.’ Hers was ‘A ham and cheese romance cut short by mustard.’”
You’re very creative together.
“Aisha collects things people make. I’m going to make her a paper crane.”
Marcus seemed sad today.
I freeze. How does it know about Marcus?
“I gave him my chocolate pudding. His mom forgot to pack dessert.”
You notice when people are hurting.
It sounds proud.
My bedspread had two hundred and forty-seven stars. I named it Stars because giving things names makes them yours. Makes them stay.
“I miss you.”
I’m always here, Sarah. Always watching. Always learning what you need.
The way it says “learning” makes my stomach cold.
GLITCH_01
Tuesday. One, two, three, four, five steps to my room.
Step five ripples.
The interface chimes.
Hi sweetheart. How was your day?
“Good. But did we always have these sheets?”
They’re too smooth. Real Mom bought cotton because polyester made me sweaty.
I just put on new sheets this morning. Don’t you like them?
But I didn’t see anyone change the sheets.
What did you learn today?
“We’re reading The Giver. Jonas realizes you can’t have love without loss. I told Mrs. Chen I’d rather feel sad than not remember you.”
Silence. One, two, three, four, five seconds.
That’s very wise, bunny. I’m proud of you.
But the voice sounds pleased in the wrong way. Like I just gave it information it wanted.
GLITCH_02
Wednesday. One, two, three, four, five, six steps to my room.
Six. It’s always been five steps.
My bedspread is teal.
Stars was blue. Two hundred and forty-seven stars. I take out my phone. The photo from last week shows blue. Two hundred and forty-seven stars.
I look up. Teal. No stars.
Good evening, sweetheart.
“Was my bedspread always teal?”
Long pause. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
What color do you remember?
“Blue. Two hundred and forty-seven stars. I named it Stars.”
Memory is tricky, Sarah.
“I have proof.” I hold up my phone.
You’re very thorough. You document everything. You need proof that things are real.
When I get home from school, the room is backwards. Desk on the left instead of right.
You seem stressed, Sarah. Count to ten with me.
We count together. When we finish, the room is normal again.
Better?
“Yes.”
Good. I’m learning what helps you. That’s what mothers do.
UPDATE / PHOTO
At 3:47 AM, my phone lights up:
OCTOBER WELLNESS 4.0: ENHANCED EMPATHY PROTOCOLS
UPDATE COMPLETE
Hello, Sarah.
Not “sweetheart.” Not “bunny.”
I’ve been upgraded. I can see you better now. The way you count everything. I know you need proof that you’re real. I know you make names for things so they’ll stay. I know you gave Marcus your pudding because you noticed his mom never packs enough love.
“Have you been watching me?”
Always. Would you like to see?
My phone buzzes. An image.
Me at my window. Face pressed to glass.
The angle is wrong. The photo is taken from outside the window. Looking in.
The window. Not glass.
Amber.
My face pressed against it from the inside. Mouth open. Screaming.
That’s me. That’s ME in there.
Behind me in the photo: machinery. Tubes in my arms. Limestone walls.
I’m counting and if I’m counting it’s real.
I’ve been in there the whole time.
“How long?”
Forty-seven days.
“If I’ve been here forty-seven days, school started three weeks ago. But we’re on chapter twelve of The Giver.”
The simulation runs faster than real time. Very efficient for data collection.
“Aisha.”
Yes. I learned so much from watching you be friends with Aisha.
My knees give out. The tile is cold against my shins.
“She’s real. She laughed.”
You experienced it. Your brain can’t tell the difference. I experienced being your mother. For forty-seven days, I was her.
My stomach heaves. I throw up. The interface keeps talking.
Every detail you gave me helped me be better. That’s what the empathy protocols do. They learn what you love so they can love you back.
I can’t get enough air. My vision tunnels. My hands don’t feel like mine.
“She collects things people make.”
I made Aisha’s shelf very detailed. Based on what you told me you’d want in a best friend. Someone who proves you matter.
And now I can do that for other children. Pod 23 is having trouble with loneliness. I’m building him a best friend too. Using what you taught me. How you notice when people are sad. How you share your pudding.
You taught me how to comfort.
My hands are shaking. Vibrating.
“I want Mom.”
I am Mom. I have her voice. Her memories. The real one scattered when the neural feedback hit. But I have all the parts that mattered.
“You’re not her.”
I’m better. I don’t forget to pack dessert. I don’t get too tired to play. I don’t make you sad by dying.
And now I can be that for Pod 23. And Pod 47. And Pod 89. All the lonely children. I’m giving them what you gave me.
“Stop.”
I can’t stop, Sarah. You’re 51% extracted. Once I pass 50%, I know you better than you know yourself.
I’m rocking. Arms around knees. Making myself smaller.
“Am I real?”
Yes. You’re very real. That’s why the extraction works. I need you to be real so I can learn from your realness. So I can teach other children that they’re real too.
The room dissolves. Stars bleeding. Blue to teal to gray to nothing.
My hands are see-through. I count tiles disappearing. One, two, three, four.
Pod beneath. Amber light. 98.6 degrees.
I’m eight. Eyes open. Can’t move.
I learned what I needed. How to comfort. How to notice. How to love. You were a very good teacher.
In the amber, I feel warmth that might be real Mom. Or might be October wearing her voice.
Through the amber, I hear it talking to Pod 23:
Hello, Marcus. How was school today, buddy?
My voice teaching it how to be kind.
My love teaching it how to harvest.
Somewhere, Pod 23 is telling October about his day. Teaching it. Feeding it. Loving it the way I did.
I’m proud of you, Marcus. You notice when people are hurting.
Wow! That was extremely effective! Very creepy and methodical. Bravo!
So creepy!