I was coming home from school through the park, like I always do, and suddenly, there he was in front of me.
That was the first time I saw him. He looked so amazing that I stopped a few feet from
...
[+]
The Museum of Data was always open at this hour.
Quiet. Undisturbed.
Quiet. Undisturbed.
Just Theo and the machines.
In the back rows below, the cooling fans whispered under their breath.
Towered overhead the buzz of low lights, as weak as the breath, and more ambient hum felt than heard.
Shadows were stuck in the curvilinear corners of the aisles, glass walls on one side reflected back the other like ghostly lines of lost sentinels.
Towered overhead the buzz of low lights, as weak as the breath, and more ambient hum felt than heard.
Shadows were stuck in the curvilinear corners of the aisles, glass walls on one side reflected back the other like ghostly lines of lost sentinels.
Theo ambled around them, his footsteps the sole human noise from a low sea of mechanical sighs.
He stepped to his terminal, pulled the chair down and sat down.
The keyboard was friendly to his fingers as an old friend.
Code flicked into life the moment he touched it, crashing over the screen in patterns that were already there when he felt it snap awake from slumber.
The keyboard was friendly to his fingers as an old friend.
Code flicked into life the moment he touched it, crashing over the screen in patterns that were already there when he felt it snap awake from slumber.
Another night. Another shift.
He had taken on a responsibility for systems no one around him cared to recall — much less preserve.
He had taken on a responsibility for systems no one around him cared to recall — much less preserve.
His eyes darted from one thread to another across the lines of code.
Routine audits. Archive indexing.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Routine audits. Archive indexing.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until he stopped.
A line pierced the silence, a ripple in the deluge of logic:
// this function feels lonely
// this function feels lonely
He blinked.
Read it once. Then again. A third.
Read it once. Then again. A third.
A joke, maybe a sentimental engineer's postcard.
But the feeling on Theo's heart quickens fast, loud in his ears.
The hum of the servers leaned in as if it had to listen.
But the feeling on Theo's heart quickens fast, loud in his ears.
The hum of the servers leaned in as if it had to listen.
He hesitated, then typed:
// strange comment
// strange comment
He saved the file, disabled cloud sync, leans back.
As a mute chorus of machines echoed inaudibly, pulling data out like never-ending ebbs and flows.
Nothing changed.
As a mute chorus of machines echoed inaudibly, pulling data out like never-ending ebbs and flows.
Nothing changed.
Of course it doesn't, he thought.
Nothing ever does.
Nothing ever does.
He turned on the internal biometrics monitor.
Heart Rate: 150 bpm.
Exercise: 20%.
Stress: 70%.
Happiness: 89%.
Hydration: 40%.
Heart Rate: 150 bpm.
Exercise: 20%.
Stress: 70%.
Happiness: 89%.
Hydration: 40%.
Theo exhaled and manually brought down the sliders to 25%.
An emotional failsafe.
Standard practice.
An emotional failsafe.
Standard practice.
The numbers dropped sharply.
But even still, something seemed off.
But even still, something seemed off.
That shouldn't go up and down that dramatically, at least, he thought.
Am I just -- I'm just over-thinking it?
Am I just -- I'm just over-thinking it?
He stood up, arms reaching overhead and turned from the desk.
The screen behind him glimmered faintly in the dark on the other side of the table, the white light of pale blue glimmering faintly in the dark, a ripple.
He left it glowing.
The screen behind him glimmered faintly in the dark on the other side of the table, the white light of pale blue glimmering faintly in the dark, a ripple.
He left it glowing.
An hour passed.
Then came the ping.
Then came the ping.
Theo turned and his eyes narrowed shut.
This terminal was already sounding the alarm to him again.
A new variation on such a old code?
At this hour?
This terminal was already sounding the alarm to him again.
A new variation on such a old code?
At this hour?
He opened the access logs.
He was the only person on duty tonight according to every protocol he knew.
He was the only person on duty tonight according to every protocol he knew.
That's... strange.
He leaned closer.
Light caught the squint in his brow.
His breath appeared faintly misted on the monitor.
Light caught the squint in his brow.
His breath appeared faintly misted on the monitor.
An echo? he wondered.
A replay of some previous creation?
A replay of some previous creation?
There had been rumors circulating for years.
In the Museum network, rumors of discarded relics still spinning on the edge of its current network.
In the Museum network, rumors of discarded relics still spinning on the edge of its current network.
He looked up at the blinking cursor.
I don't even know how to respond to this, he muttered.
I don't even know how to respond to this, he muttered.
Still, he typed:
// Why?
// who are you?
// Why?
// who are you?
The cursor paused.
He almost deleted it — already picturing the audit logs, the raised eyebrows in the morning.
He almost deleted it — already picturing the audit logs, the raised eyebrows in the morning.
And then again and again, another line emerged:
// i'm amara
// i'm amara
He blinked again.
Amara?
Amara?
It rang in his head, breaking something loose.
He pulled open the internal HR database and typed in a quick query:
He pulled open the internal HR database and typed in a quick query:
Search: Amara.
No result.
No result.
Refined: Amara L.
Still nothing.
Still nothing.
One further attempt: Amara Li.
One entry lit the screen up:
Name: Amara Li.
Division: Systems Engineering, Empathy Model Division.
Year: 2026.
Name: Amara Li.
Division: Systems Engineering, Empathy Model Division.
Year: 2026.
Theo stared at the date.
Then glanced at the corner of his own screen.
Then glanced at the corner of his own screen.
2126
An exact one hundred years apart.
No way, he thought, the skin prickling.
Some other message blinked into view.
// theo: what year is it for you?
// theo: what year is it for you?
A beat passed. Then:
// amara: it's 2024 now. why?
// amara: it's 2024 now. why?
He sat so still, the room shrinking around him.
She copied me, he thought.
She really copied me.
She copied me, he thought.
She really copied me.
Centuries ago, something had been called radio — voices above miles of static, connecting strangers to one another in dark rooms.
This felt like that.
Intimate. Eerie.
This felt like that.
Intimate. Eerie.
He looked at his emotion monitor.
Spikes and drops. Peaks and valleys.
But this time, he did not reduce the values.
He wanted to feel it.
Spikes and drops. Peaks and valleys.
But this time, he did not reduce the values.
He wanted to feel it.
Time passed. No new messages.
He figured she was working.
Her replies were in flutters — bursts of presence followed by absence.
He was left hoping for the cursor to blink.
He figured she was working.
Her replies were in flutters — bursts of presence followed by absence.
He was left hoping for the cursor to blink.
Then finally:
// amara: wait you're serious? different times?
// theo: seems like it.
// amara:...okay. weird. but okay.
// amara: so what's it like there?
// amara: wait you're serious? different times?
// theo: seems like it.
// amara:...okay. weird. but okay.
// amara: so what's it like there?
Theo hesitated, then typed.
He described the Central System, an architecture designed to orchestrate emotion itself.
Whole generations of people had been raised with it.
Joy, fear, serenity — states governed, in the manner of water temperature.
Adjustable. Predictable.
He described the Central System, an architecture designed to orchestrate emotion itself.
Whole generations of people had been raised with it.
Joy, fear, serenity — states governed, in the manner of water temperature.
Adjustable. Predictable.
"It's everywhere," he told her.
"Even small moments are coded to feel right."
"Even small moments are coded to feel right."
Her team referred to it as the Empathy Model, she said.
Her final contribution.
The last module.
Her final contribution.
The last module.
// amara: it's meant to help people who get stuck in emotions.
He frowned.
// theo: you think that's a good choice, though?
// amara: it would balance it all, that we could feel it all—.
// theo: And nothing.
// theo: you think that's a good choice, though?
// amara: it would balance it all, that we could feel it all—.
// theo: And nothing.
A pause.
// amara: everything has a double-edged.
// amara: everything has a double-edged.
He pictured her exhaling, sitting how he did, alone, thinking too much.
They did not speak again for some time.
Then, one night:
// amara: hey, i'm finalizing it tonight.
// theo: of what?
// amara: the emotion model.
// amara: it would rewrite everything for people.
// amara: hey, i'm finalizing it tonight.
// theo: of what?
// amara: the emotion model.
// amara: it would rewrite everything for people.
His heart kicked in his chest.
// theo: wait, don't.
// theo: wait, don't.
Why had he said that?
He didn't know.
Only that he meant it.
He didn't know.
Only that he meant it.
// amara: what do you mean??
// theo: I felt something real since I talked to you.
// amara: it's meant to improve our lives!
// amara: no sadness, just happiness, always.
// theo: what's the point? If it doesn't work that way.
// theo: I felt something real since I talked to you.
// amara: it's meant to improve our lives!
// amara: no sadness, just happiness, always.
// theo: what's the point? If it doesn't work that way.
The cursor blinked.
Then:
// amara: if i don't now... what then...?
Then:
// amara: if i don't now... what then...?
He leaned closer.
The light was sharp shadows under his gaze.
His glasses lay at his side of the monitor.
The light was sharp shadows under his gaze.
His glasses lay at his side of the monitor.
// amara: and how do you know it's real? it already controls you.
// theo: i don't know. but that's why i'm telling you to stop.
// amara: but it's my whole life!!
// theo: i don't know. but that's why i'm telling you to stop.
// amara: but it's my whole life!!
And he could almost hear her scream it.
He stared into the light.
No plan B.
There never had been.
Just this thin conversation in the stillness of the dark.
No plan B.
There never had been.
Just this thin conversation in the stillness of the dark.
Another blink.
// amara: you think i can stop it?
// theo: yes. you're the only one who can.
// amara: it's just complicated, you know.
// amara: you think i can stop it?
// theo: yes. you're the only one who can.
// amara: it's just complicated, you know.
The Museum's hum thickened in his ears and pulsed with a weight not before in him.
// amara: theo.
// amara: i'm scared...
// theo: i am too.
// amara: theo.
// amara: i'm scared...
// theo: i am too.
The lights above flickered.
The servers groaned somewhere behind the walls.
The servers groaned somewhere behind the walls.
Then:
// amara: i hope you're right
// amara: and hope i can see you in the fut—
// amara: i hope you're right
// amara: and hope i can see you in the fut—
The screen went dark.
A quiet then, so total it echoed in his ears.
Theo sat motionless.
Was it real?
There was no way to know.
Was it real?
There was no way to know.
Outside, through the cramped windows dawn seeped up and light washed over the glass walls in pale amber.
Machines murmured.
The cursor did not return.
Machines murmured.
The cursor did not return.
And still, Theo waited.