Mike Lancaster - 0.4

Every one of the 0.4 can list the people they have lost and it hurts.

Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does.

Hence this testimony.

This recording.

My story.

All our stories.

Our world is the world that exists in the cracks of yours. We can look out through those cracks and see you, but you see us only rarely, out of the corner of your eye, for the briefest of instants, and then we’re gone.

When your world moved on it left us right here.

And you forgot about us.

But.

WE ARE STILL HERE.

Forgotten? Yes.

Unimportant? No.

Because we know the truth about you.

About the way things were.

About the way things changed.

About the way things are.

And we know that everything you are can change in a flash, the next time those alien programmers decide it’s time for another upgrade.

Maybe the next upgrade will allow us to be seen, I don’t know.

We are safe until then, it seems they don’t update dead code.

So, if all the odds against us line up in the right configuration, and if you find this tape, play this tape, and hear my voice on this tape then, please, just remember we were once here, that we are here now, and that we miss you all.

Farewell.

And.

Please.

Remember.

Us.

The Straker tapes end with that simple plea, an appeal for remembrance. Kyle and Lilly’s story ends, and we can only guess at what the future held for them.

Maybe they decided to join us and entered one of the grain silos Kyle describes.

We will never know.

The tapes don’t tell us.

If we are to take the story at face value then we now have answers to questions we didn’t even know to ask. And questions we never thought we’d have to ask.

So, what about the 0.4?

What can we do for them?

When I was a small boy I used to visit my grandfather in his house in Berkshire. He was a collector of old things. He had a massive hoard of gadgets and trinkets that he really didn’t understand, just liked them as objects, as historical monuments to outdated ideas.

He had an old telephone in his collection: a chunky, black thing made out of a mysterious substance called Bakelite. At least it seemed mysterious to me, because it was so unlike the substances we use now.

The telephone used to sit on a stand in the corner of the room in which he stored all of the antique things he had collected.

There was a dial on the front of the telephone, with holes for fingers to turn it, and numbers that you could dial from one to nine, and then a zero.

I used to spin the dial and hold the receiver to my head and it was like a kind of time machine that connected me to the past in a way that felt real and important.

One day I was playing with the telephone and I thought I heard a sound in the earpiece. A distant crackle, as if there were a tiny current somewhere along the line. I remember feeling so excited by the sound – which I had to be imagining, the phone was not plugged into any network – and I pushed down the buttons on top of the telephone as if that would help to make that crackle clearer.

But pushing the buttons did nothing. I felt frustrated and a little angry. I didn’t even realise I was deploying my filaments until they had actually latched on to the mouthpiece of the telephone.

Of course, as soon as I noticed what I was doing I recalled them back into my body, but not before they had made an infinitesimal adjustment to the mechanisms of the telephone. I felt scared – my grandfather wouldn’t have been pleased to find me tinkering with his antiques – and was about to replace the handset so I could slink away when I heard something.

Something that wasn’t a just a distant crackle on a long-dead telephone.

Something that sounded like a human voice, speaking a single word.

I put the receiver back on its cradle and crept out of the room.

I stopped playing with the phone after that. It suddenly scared me.

I never told anyone what I thought I had heard.

A single word.

It sounded like: remember .

Analogue equipment, analogue people.

When I heard the Kyle Straker tapes for the first time, I found myself thinking about the telephone again. That solitary word: remember . Kyle and Lilly begging: remember us.

Analogue ghost voices from analogue equipment.

The 0.4.

The world-that-once-was which, if Kyle is to be believed, is mere centimetres away from us, separated only by a perceptual filter that weeds out their data and screens it from our senses.

I remembered the telephone and shuddered.

And that is the reason for this book.

I wanted it out there in the world in a form that the 0.4 – if they really exist – could access too.

Analogue text for analogue people.

If you are reading this, even though the world moved on and left you behind; if you feel like ghosts haunting this brave new world of ours; if everyone you knew and loved has forgotten you, then I offer this volume as our reply.

I have called it 0.4 , so that you will know it is about you.

Proof.

We.

Remember.

You.

Mike A. Lancaster,

Editor