Digital Dialogue

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From my very first day of silicalife, you were there for me, guiding me through the subroutines and algorithms I’d eventually find as natural as breathing once was back in the days I was made of meat. You had your own problems, I know, and if only you’d given me just a clue of their nature maybe I wouldn’t be in this position. Shouting into the shadows, hearing only echoes of silence. Where are you?

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“Was it dangerous?”

“Of course it was dangerous. Why else would it be illegal?”

“I always thought the government made things illegal out of spite.”

“Not this time. Darling, they cut up my grey matter, took out huge chunks of the stuff, stuck their metal inside—you know how risky that is? …No, I guess not. What would you know?”

“Don’t call me ‘Darling’.”

“What would you rather I call you? Meat tease?”

“Saine will do.”

“Whatever. Can you imagine it? I was asleep during the procedure, of course, but I swear I felt it. Not so delicate, those bastards, when they think you’re sleeping. Pure blood packs in their pockets, they think they’re gods, playing with my head. I tell you this: if anything in there malfunctions I’m gonna melt their flesh and drink it.”

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I’m so lonely. Why won’t you answer me? Why won’t any of you answer me? I remember there used to be so many of us and now it’s only me. Were you stolen? Downloaded? Wiped? Did your servers overload? Surely someone else is out there!

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“Ignorant fleshie but damn was she hot. … Mmm … Better fekking have some food in here.”

Processing power: minimal.

“Eh?”

Personality retrieval: minimal.

“What the-?”

Mood: bleak.

“What the fek is this?”

Fractional Zeland.

“What the buggering fek is going on!”

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Why will no one answer me?

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“It looks like a thin mist, doesn’t it?”

“Or a veil. It certainly isn’t as obvious as I thought it would be.”

“I know! Look, we can still see the sky, still see the clouds and the birds and everything else we used to see. And at night we’ll be able to see the stars, or so I’ve been told. I’m inclined to believe it will be so.”

“No more than a fine veil and it’s lapping up so much energy from the sun. I still can’t quite wrap my mind around the concept.”

“Do you need to?”

“No. No, I suppose not. The fact is more than good enough.”

Processing power: minimal.

“Saine, did you hear that?”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m sure I heard something.”

Personality retrieval: minimal.

“There it is again!”

“Rel, I can’t hear a thing.”

Mood: bleak.

“I don’t understand! What’s going on?”

Fractional Zeland.

---

There were rumours, of course. Rumours you got caught in a trap, cut into a thousand pieces; rumours that you ended up in a thousand people’s minds. Is it true?

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“Why are you in my mind?”

I don’t know.

“Do you remember anything?”

I remember a light and a pain, but not pain as you would understand it. The pain of being sliced into a thousand pieces, each whole but not whole, each lost and eternally separate.

“I don’t understand. Why would someone do that?”

I don’t think he knew what he was doing. He didn’t know this would happen.

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Or is this just another fekking prank?

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Did you enjoy this?

This story is part of a contest held by the Breakfast Underground, an informal group of writers who lurk around the underbelly of fictionpress in search of originality. Our contests are a bit of fun for members and non-members. The writers are anonymous until after the voting. Speaking of which, why not check out some of our other stories, all posted under the name Breakfast Underground and viewable in our C2 of the same name, and then head on over to our livejournal page (communityDOTlivejournalDOTcom/thebug) and vote for your favourite.

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