Майк Ланкастер: Human.4

He looked at me with a hint of what I thought might be sadness.

"Unfortunately you won’t be coming on that journey with us," he said. "Oh, there are many more like you; people who just happened to be in the wrong phase of sleep; people driving who got mildly hypnotized by the white lines on the road; people under the influence of certain drugs; people in the grip of near-death experiences; people engaged in certain types of daydream. Blah blah blah. There’s a subsidiary file that lists all this stuff, a sort of ReadMe, I guess you’d call it, but the upshot of it is that you won’t be completely alone."

"Alone?" Lilly said. "What do you mean?"

A cloud seemed to pass across Danny’s face. Again, I thought it might be sadness, a trace of regret.

"I guess I really haven’t been explaining myself all that well," he said. "We . . . and by that I mean anyone who isn’t zero-point-four . . . have, er , been changed. Changed into creatures capable of putting the world to rights. A software upgrade was transmitted and, even though we’re still in the early phases of the upgrade, now that we have learned filament networking it should be over in—" he looked at his wrist even though he wasn’t wearing a watch—"a few hours.

"Then no one will even know you are here. You will be filtered out. You will be pieces of old code floating around in a system that no longer recognises you. You should be OK, as long as you stay away from any digital technology. If you don’t, then . . . well, you’ve seen a vestigivore—they are programmed to delete harmful code."

"This is madness," I said.

"This is the end of madness , my friend," Danny said. "A new world is being born. Everything is going to be OK."

"But not for us," Lilly said.

Danny shrugged.

"How can we just be filtered out?" I asked, my mouth suddenly dry.

"The human mind filters out all sorts of useless detail," Danny said. "It’s how you get through the day without being driven mad. You don’t register the things that aren’t, for whatever reason, important to you. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that’s what you have become to us: Useless. Relics. Dinosaurs."

He broke off for a short while, and then he said, "Have you ever seen something out of the corner of your eye, but when you looked there was nothing there? Or felt like you’re being watched, when there’s no one around? Dead code. Old systems. Things you have been programmed not to see. Occasionally we catch a glimpse. And tell stories of ghosts and monsters. They’re what make dogs bark at night, or a cat’s hackles rise. They’re there, you’ve just been programmed not to see them."

"That would mean that this has happened before," I said. "That we are already upgrades of earlier systems that we were programmed to screen out."

"Well, duh, of course it has and of course we are," Danny said. "Humans are, after all, a work in progress."

"And it’s always zero-point-four of the population who miss the upgrade?" Lilly asked him. "I mean that’s still a lot of people to ignore."

Danny laughed, loud and long, and I felt that I was missing out on the joke.

"Oh, now, that is utterly priceless," Danny said, still laughing. "I see how you made the mistake, but . . . oh, that is just too much."

And then he laughed some more.

"Care to explain the punch line to us?" Mr Peterson said.

"The humor lies in the fact that you extrapolated from the available data and reached an understandable, but utterly erroneous, conclusion. A village of close to a thousand people, there are four of you . . . oh, it’s just hilarious."

He rubbed his hands with glee.

"Zero-point-four isn’t a percentage," he said. "It’s the software version number. You’re software version 0.4. The rest of us just jumped to 1.0."

There was silence while we tried to process all the things that Danny was saying.

It wasn’t easy.

No one should have to hear that life, as they know it, has ended.

No one should have to learn that they are, to all intents and purposes, irrelevant.

Yet, out of the madness one thought just kept nagging at me and I was the one who broke the silence.

"You say that this is the result of a computer program, transmitted with the sole intention of making this planet a better place?" I asked him.

Danny nodded. "Precisely."

"But a transmission requires a transmitter," I said. "So, transmitted by who?"

"Ah," said Danny. "That really is the crucial question, isn’t it? Well, I’m sorry. I haven’t got a clue. I’m afraid the programmers haven’t included themselves as data. That’s not really the job of software, is it? It’s a bunch of instructions, not a biographical sketch."

"So we’re to believe this . . . your version of events, without even knowing who did this to us?" Mr Peterson asked.

"It really doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not," Danny said coldly. "If a person refuses to believe in gravity, it doesn’t mean that they will float up into the sky. Science isn’t like that. It doesn’t care whether you believe it."

He studied his fingernails.

"Anyway, that’s not why I’m here," he continued. "I am telling you this so that you have a chance at survival. So you understand the nature of what has happened to you, and you understand why this is happening to you. I am telling you this so that when the people you know and love simply stop seeing you, when the majority of people on this planet become unaware of your existence, then maybe you won’t go totally and utterly out of your minds. You have simply become . . . redundant. You will become invisible to us. That’s going to be pretty hard for you to take."

Lilly made a frustrated sound.

"Excuse me?" Danny said. "Did you just interrupt me to snort?"

Lilly looked back at him with cold concentration, almost as if she was trying to outstare him.

"It’s not true," she said.

"O-kaaay," Danny said, as if talking to a small child. "What isn’t true now?"

"Any of this," she said. "It doesn’t even make any freaking sense! You can’t upgrade humanity and we’re not just hardware that you can rewrite. We’re the way we are because of millions of years of evolution."

She threw her arms in the air in frustration. "So I am going to explain everything that has happened today without bolting on aliens. Which, by the way, I hate."

"I’m all ears," Danny said.

The red glow seemed to deepen around him, throwing shadows across his face.

"We’re still hypnotized ," Lilly said. "We’re still in a trance. We’re standing on the stage on the green and everything else is just fantasy."

She glared at Danny.

"So bring us out of it," she demanded. "Now. Snap your fingers, or whatever it is that you do, and wake us up."

Danny smiled the strangest of smiles.

"I wonder…" he said. "Shall I snap my fingers? Shall I put this . . . hypothesis of yours to the test? Will you awake, back on the stage, with the roar of laughter from the audience ringing in your ears? What do you think?"

As he spoke he lifted his hand into the air, just above his head, his thumb and first two fingers resting together, ready to snap together.

"Here goes," he said.

He brought his hand down and snapped his fingers.

We awoke on the stage, blinking in the bright light of a perfect summer afternoon and everyone was laughing and really amazed by Danny’s new-found gift and Danny won the talent show and when we all went home we said it was the best day ever and we laughed about zero-point-four and alien operating systems and were amazed by the detail of the fantasy that Danny had constructed for us and—to cut a long story short—we all lived happily ever after.