Software failure

Every day was the same day: wake up, eat, go to work, eat, sleep. 

Every day, Number 7’162’534 said the same thing: good morning. How did you sleep? I’ll see you later. Good evening. How was your day? Good night.

Every day was the same day and no one was expected to do anything else. The Numbers’ lives were directed by the Computer. They could not stray left or right, because they didn’t know anything else: wake up, eat, go to work, eat, sleep. They were programmed to live like that. Not that they were robots, droids, or artificial intelligence. No, they were just Humans. Numbers. 

The oldest Numbers, the ones still not yet at the Million, could still remember stories of Numbers not yet still in the Thousands. Legends. Myths. Things like freedom and love filled these stories. Things that the Numbers didn’t even know what they were, anymore. 

Legends. Myths.

Number 7’162’354 was coming home on the commuting train, holding fast to the bar so we wouldn’t fall. Not that he would fall, they were crammed in the train like crazy. In front of him, another Male Number, with barely a finger’s width between them. Behind him, a Female Number. He could feel her breath on his neck. Not that he questioned it, usually: it was always like that. 

But that day, he felt uncomfortable. It was an unusual feeling. He wasn’t used to it. His skin was clammy and drops of water sprouted from his forehead. He didn’t know what to do about them and blinked several times when they dripped into his eyes. His breathing picked up some pace and his heart beat hard in his chest, as if it was about to explode and crack his ribs. The edges of his vision turned black and little bright dots marred his vision. 

Number 7’162’354 looked at the plan on the ceiling of the train: only 3 more stops before his. But he was feeling sick. His legs became soft and wobbly and he held on for dear life at the bar.

Life.

LIFE.

L I F E.

life.

Two more stops. The Number behind him left the commuting train, only to be replaced by another Number. Left and right, the ranks were closing in on him and more water sprouted on his skin. His hand was slipping on the bar. His heart hadn’t calmed down and was still resonating in his ears. Was he dying? Was that what death felt like?

Death.

DEATH.

D E A T H.

death.

One more stop. Number 7’162’354 closed his eyes and focused on his breathing that was becoming ragged and short. Not enough air came to his lungs and he heard a whistling sound, very high, penetrating his skull. He looked around, panicked, but no other Number seemed to hear the whistling. It was in his head. All the other Numbers were ignoring him, looking straight ahead. 

That was the programming the Numbers were programmed for: do nothing, even when something odd was happening, which was rare. If never.

Only… Number 7’162’354 was one of those rare occasions and he wished someone would notice his discomfort– but how would they? The Numbers were not programmed for discomfort.

Number 7’162’354 followed the other Numbers getting out at the same stop and took a deep breath, finally filling his lung–

“Number 7’162’354, come with us,” two silver droids said in unison, blocking his road. 

Now what? Number 7’162’354 thought as the droids took his arms and dragged him away. They pushed him into a small vehicle he had only ever seen droids use. 

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, but the droids did not respond. They were not programmed to answer Number questions. They only obeyed and answered to the Computer. With nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, he watched as the city went by, grey and golden blurs. It was the end of the day and Numbers were slowly getting back home and turning lights on. His Companion Number would wonder where he was, but she wouldn’t do anything about it: she was not programmed to do anything about it.

The bright dots had subsided from his vision, and though he was terrified – yes, terrified and that was a very new feeling for him – at where he was going, he breathed better. Just a tiny bit, but it was still better. His breaths were no longer short and ragged. They were just short.

Number 7’162’354 lost track of the seconds and the minutes as they blended together, and when the vehicle suddenly stopped, his stomach did something funny, as if there was a huge stone that had fallen in. He grimaced at the discomfort. The two droids slipped out of the vehicle and dragged him along. Number 7’162’354 looked at the building in front of him: it was the biggest building he had ever seen. One thing was sure, he had never come to this part of the City and this was not his Living Place.

He didn’t have time to dwell on the grandeur of the place because the droids pulled him inside, where everything was shiny and new and so unusual. The droids brought him through the entrance hall, down a large corridor and through a set of double doors. They pushed him inside and closed the doors behind him. He was all alone in a giant, empty room. 

“Number 7’162’354,” a voice said from somewhere. He couldn’t say if the voice was male or female, or from where it came and he turned around, searching. “I am the Computer,” the voice continued. “Do you know why you’ve been brought here, Number 7’162’354?”

“No,” he replied, but he might have had an idea. He just didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Lie,” the computer said. “You have never been taught to lie. Why are you here?” it asked again, though it didn’t show any anger or curiosity. It just said the words.

Number 7’162’354 felt a constructing in his chest, a feeling different from the terror he had felt earlier. But still, he didn’t say anything. 

“I wonder,” the Computer said. “How did you bypass your programming?”

“Who are you?” Number 7’162’354 said instead of answering the question. Because he didn’t know the answer. The feeling of closing in had overwhelmed him unawares. Then terror, followed by curiosity and aweat the building. The last feelings he had registered were stress and guilt, followed by pride: he had bypassedthe programming. 

“The Computer,” the voice said. “I dictate your life. Why are you here?”

“Because I can FEEL!” Number 7’162’354 yelled, exasperated by the Voice. Or the Computer. Whatever they were. 

“That is correct,” the Voice said, impassible. “You are faulty. The antivirus software program doesn’t work on you anymore.”

Number 7’162’354 snorted: he was feeling more and more alive. He has feeling. This had to mean something, no? “What are you going to do?” he challenged, crossing his arms over his chest. “Delete me?” That word was full on sarcasm on his part.

“Yes.”

“Wait. What?” Now he felt disconcerted. “You can’t delete me,” he said. “Can’t you just update the software?” 

“No. Updates take time, and a reboot of the entire system. It is not worth a single Number.” The Voice paused. “Goodbye, Number 7’162’354.”

“No, wait! Let me–” he cried out, but it was too late. From flesh and bones, he disintegrated into a binary file and floated in the abyss of deleted Numbers. He was surprised to see so many others. But what he was most surprised about was to realized he still had a consciousness. He tried to call out to the others, but he didn’t have a mouth anymore. He was just an infinite series of 1 and 0, moving about the system, into computers, droids, and the entire software of the city.

He had never coded in his life, but he knew in an instant what was happening around him: more and more flesh and bones Numbers were feeling, and being deleted by the computer. Maybe when the trash file would be big enough they could override the system? Number 7’162’354 held on to that hope.

Hope.

HOPE.

H O P E. 

hope.

That was an amazing new feeling that warmed his binary numbers from head to toe…