BooksBarbecue
Back Nothing to See Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. Dedication
  4. Dedication2
  5. 1994
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 2006
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 2018
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. Acknowledgements

The Tamagotchi phone vibrated. She pulled it over to where she could see it. K. it said. Then another message straight away, HF, and then another, I vil tell u after eat u start. The moderating algorithm she’d built was working pretty well. It was learning. She was sure she could teach it to see. She thought about the cheese grater not being there and then suddenly being there. She thought of all the things she’d lost – where did they go? Nothing was solid, there was no way of keeping hold of anything. The rules kept changing. It wasn’t the blackout and it wasn’t an accident. Things turned up and things went away – nothing was stable or had any objective value. Nothing was real. And if this was true for the things in the world she lived in, then it was true for her and everyone else. Their lives meant nothing, and they could disappear in a heartbeat. She touched the wall beside her and remembered the day in the park when everything had switched into three dimensions. That had felt real, and so did the wall, but what if the idea of real had been programmed into her with the same set of instructions that had made the wall? Nothing meant anything, because the meaning of everything lay outside this place – the place where all the things and all the people and she existed. Their morals were some element in an equation – her happiness, her love, her fear. She understood, and that was her superpower. Nothing could frighten her or upset her again, because she’d lost everything in the flick of a switch, in the tap of a hand. She’d been left all by herself and her grief was just the outcome of a series of inputs. Her grief didn’t belong to her. Nothing did, none of it was real and none of it mattered.

She sent an email and carried on with what she was doing. She got a reply within minutes. The email had a set of attachments and a link to a form for her payment details. One of the attachments was a zip file with a piece of software she needed to download to her computer, so they could tell when she was working for them, so they could pay her properly. Not for anything creepy, the email joked.

She opened the zip file and looked at what was inside. There were pieces missing, but it looked like all it could do was turn itself on when she was working for them. Everyone else used timesheets. She downloaded it.