Human.4

… last side of the last tape I can find. It’s one of Dad’s mix tapes that he makes for the car so he can embarrass us with his bizarre musical taste on long journeys.

Still, I guess we’re almost through now. There’s not a whole lot more to tell.

Only the bad stuff.

The stuff I don’t even want to think about.

This might get a little mixed up, but bear with me, I need to work out the best way to tell you the things I have to tell you.

I wonder if anyone’s listening.

If you are then I need you to believe me.

It’s the truth.

Chapter 38

Inside the barn it was dark, and there was a musty stench in the air that made me gag. My shin crashed into something hard.

"Oh, I’m sorry," Danny said in the gloom. "How thoughtless of me."

I heard him moving about and then…

. . . then it wasn’t dark any longer.

I heard Kate O’Donnell gasp.

Oh, I know how crazy this sounds. Do you know how many times I have run it through in my head and still end up doubting the evidence of my own senses?

An eerie halo of reddish light, bright enough to illuminate the barn around us, suddenly appeared, surrounding Danny.

He smiled.

"Bioluminescence," he said, as if it were another of his conjuring tricks he was performing and he was particularly proud of it. "I knew I could do it, but . . . well . . . WOW!"

Danny looked at us and shrugged.

"It’s a simple trick, really," he said. "Basically, I converted some skin cells to photoproteins." He spoke like that was not only normal, but something we should understand. "I’m fueling them with some excess calcium that I’m growing from my own skeleton."

He laughed. "It tickles, if anyone’s interested."

We stood there open-mouthed, trying to work out if Danny was toying with us, or whether he’d really just used parts of his skeleton to light up the barn.

There was a long silence and then Lilly stepped towards Danny with a ferocious look on her face that was altered into something satanic by that strange red glow. Danny shook his head, and there was something about the way that he did it that made Lilly stop in her tracks.

Suddenly it wasn’t rage on her face.

It was fear.

One small shake of the head and that’s what Danny could do now: stop rage and turn it into fear.

What have you done to my friend? I thought, because this wasn’t him.

"Please," Lilly said. "Please, Danny. Stop playing around with us. I’ve had enough. I’m tired and cold and scared and I want to go home. What happened today? Why has everyone… changed? What are you?"

Danny looked on the verge of saying something. He had a dreadfully serious expression on his face and seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. Instead he looked around the barn and gestured towards a row of straw bales at the back of the barn.

"OK," he said. "Sit down."

"We don’t want to sit down," Mr Peterson said crossly. "We want to know what the hell is going on."

"THEN SIT!" Danny said, his face suddenly looking cruel in the red light.

We sat.

"I only have a few hours," Danny said. "This is a… caretaking routine for the master program that will end as soon as the installer quits." He paused and reflected on his words. "Actually, and more accurately, it’s a sub-routine, but that’s just splitting hairs."

"The master program," Lilly said. She turned to me. "That’s what you were talking about. A computer program that was the spaceships and ray guns all rolled into one. You were right."

Danny laughed.

"Was he?" he said, amused by the idea. "Why, Kyle? What did you say?"

His gaze made me feel nervous.

"I said that our planet was being invaded," I said. "That we were experiencing an alien invasion that doesn’t waste ships or troops, and doesn’t give us a chance to fight back."

Danny raised an eyebrow.

"Sounds fascinating," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Tell me more."

I felt a sudden, red urge to punch him in the face.

Instead I carried on.

"Whenever I try to get my head around all of this, I keep coming back to computers," I said. "I don’t know if it’s because we first saw the weird language on Kate’s Mac, but it made me realize that an invasion doesn’t have to be violent. Because an alien race could send a signal across space, a signal that contained a computer program designed to overwrite humanity and all the things that make us human. With one clever piece of software they could change us all, at once, into the image of themselves.

"Maybe human DNA has been altered by this signal. And human brains are being reprogrammed to mimic the invaders" brains."

Danny grinned as if he were delighted by my words. He clapped his hands together and then rubbed them against each other.

"Oh, how wonderful," he said, again with the patronizing tone, the superior air. He was almost daring me to continue.

"We just happened to be in your trance when the signal was transmitted," I said. "A one-in-a-million chance. It meant our brains were in a different state, and the signal passed us over. Maybe our invaders had considered every possible human state—from awake to asleep and everything in between—but hadn’t considered hypnotized . Maybe there’s a tiny percentage of humanity that—for a variety of reasons—will be immune to this invasion by computer program. Us. The zero-point-four."

"Zero-point-four," Danny said, rolling the phrase around his mouth, still obviously amused. "Oh yes, you are zero-point-four. You must know, or at least sense, that you are no longer… relevant."

"We feel pretty relevant," Mr Peterson said.

"Of course you do," Danny said solemnly. "But you’re not."

"What are you talking about?" Mr Peterson demanded.

"The problem, as I see it, is that you completely misunderstand the nature of the thing that has happened to you," Danny said. "That has happened to us. But how to explain?"

He pretended to be puzzled, then grinned as he pulled Mrs Birnie’s video camera from his pocket.

"Aha," he said. "Exhibit A. The invasion captured on amateur video. Have you watched it yet? Oh, silly me, of course you haven’t."

He handed the camera to Lilly.

"Just press play," he told her.

Lilly fumbled with the device, pushing buttons again and again, and getting frustrated at her lack of success.

"Hurry. Hurry," Danny said. "Unless you want the vestigivore catching up with you again."

He saw our blank looks.

"Ves-ti-gi-vore." He said. "Vestige—a sign, mark, indication or relic. Vore—suffix, meaning eater. Vestigivore—eater of relics, of things no longer needed. How about you think of it as . . . well, a kind of anti-virus software. As in: it touches you and you die, almost as if you never existed. Delete. No restore from recycle bin."

He cocked his head.

"Listen," he said.

The roaring, chattering, hissing sound from earlier suddenly seemed very close.

Just outside the barn, in fact.

"Give me the camera," Danny demanded, urgently. "Quickly now."

Lilly threw it back at him as if the object had suddenly grown hot in her hands.

The sound ceased, almost instantaneously, like a switch had been thrown.

Just like the sound had stopped outside Kate O’Donnell’s house the moment she turned her computer off. And like it had stopped when I threw the camera to Danny.

"For simplicity’s sake, think of it like this," Danny said. "You are . . . have become… incompatible with this camera. You four are analogue. The camera is digital." He turned to Lilly. "The reason you couldn’t get it to play is because you can’t. It, like me, has been upgraded. You might set it off by accident, and incur the wrath of a vestigivore, but our technology is pretty much dead to you now."

He pocketed the camera.

"I’ll put this somewhere safe," he said.

"What are you talking about?" Kate said. "None of what you are saying makes any sense."

"Well, let me make things clearer," Danny said. "You four just happened to be in a hypnotic trance when the most significant event in history occurred. An upgrade to the human operating system was transmitted, and you missed it." He smiled. "Oops."

I felt my temper rising.

"Wait a minute," I said. "An upgrade? You’re saying all of this is happening because of an upgrade?"

"Correct," Danny said. "A necessary software update with a raft of improvements, bug fixes and a whole load of new and interesting features."

The look on our faces made him chuckle. I saw Lilly’s jaw was clenched, and her hands were tight fists at her sides. I guess she wanted to punch him too.

"You only have to take a look at the world around you to see the old operating system was hopelessly out of date," Danny said in a mocking voice. "Now we have an alternative. From this day everything changes. There will be an end to crime, war, poverty, fear, starvation, disease, greed and envy; a straight path, fast track, express route into a golden future of unlimited possibilities."

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."

Chapter 39

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.

Chapter 40

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.

Chapter 41

Except that wasn’t what happened.

Of course it wasn’t.

That’s just silly storybook stuff.

When Danny clicked his fingers, nothing happened.

We were in the barn; Danny was still shining inside his bioluminescent aura; and Mr Peterson, Lilly, Kate and I were still very much zero-point-four.

It was in the silence following the click that things happened.

Small things.

Human things.

The only things we had left.

Lilly started to cry—huge, body-wracking sobs and fat tears—and Kate O’Donnell put a protective arm around her. I just stood, watching dust motes swirling in the air of the barn and tried to understand this new world.

Without falling apart.

Danny stood there, watching us.

Watching us all deal with it as best we could.

He took no pleasure from the sight, I’m pretty sure of that, but looked on with a cold, alien detachment that made me wonder if the 1.0 were going to be as perfect as Danny seemed to think.

Maybe he wasn’t even really listening. Perhaps the alien code was bedding down, performing last-minute tweaks.

I realized that he was losing interest in us—he was looking more and more like he needed to be somewhere else.

I had a few last questions for Danny.

Danny the boy magician, encased in his impossible halo of bone-fueled light.

I asked Danny what he was missing out, what he wasn’t telling us.

He looked a little baffled.

Maybe a little hurt, although perhaps that’s just me, trying to see him as my friend, rather than the alien thing he had become.

"That list of people who skipped the upgrade," I said. "You said it was contained in a ReadMe file. What is that?"

"It seems to be installation information," he said. "Although for whom, and why, I do not know. I’m sure it will auto-delete when the update is complete."

"What else does it say?" I asked him.

Danny looked surprised that it interested me, but then he shrugged and started reeling off a bunch of jargon and tech-stuff in a robotic voice before trailing off into silence.

Most of it I didn’t understand, so most of it I don’t remember.

But I do remember three things he said about halfway through his recitation.

Danny said, "Fixed system slowdown when individual units are put to sleep, allowing greater access to unconscious processing activity."

And he said, "Tightened encrypted storage parameters to comply with new guidelines."

And then he said, "Completely reworked user interface makes access of data easier and faster."

"What does that mean?" I asked, when he was finished.

Danny shook his head.

"I’m sure you’ll figure it out," he said. "You do realize that this upgrade was necessary, don’t you, Kyle? The human race had become a danger to itself, to the planet."

"Well, why did they leave us here?" I asked. "Why didn’t they just get that vestigivore thing to wipe us all out?"

Danny smiled a cryptic smile.

"That wouldn’t be anywhere near so entertaining, would it now? Think of the future generations," he said.

I thought he was joking.

"I’d say, “I’ll be seeing you,”" Danny said. "Except I won’t, of course."

Just before he turned for the door, he looked at me and said, "Annette says “Hi”."

I stared back at him.

"She says it was really sweet of you," he said. "Trying to save her, and all."

I could sense Kate O’Donnell’s stony glare and felt my cheeks redden.

"Now she wants to try to do the same for you," Danny said, that red aura fading. "Meet her up at the Naylor silos and you can end all of this now."

Then he turned and left.

Didn’t look back.

A taste of things to come.

Chapter 42

"What did he mean?" Kate O’Donnell demanded. "About the silos, and Annette and trying to save her?"

We were sitting on bales of straw, and it was pretty much pitch black outside.

I felt the words knot up on the tip of my tongue.

"WELL?" she prompted. "Do you have something to tell us?"

Lilly’s hand sought mine and I held on to it tightly as I told Kate and Rodney Peterson about what had really happened when we separated on the Crowley Road.

Kate was furious.

"And you didn’t think that this might be a piece of information that we would want to know?" she said incredulously. "You selfish, stupid—"

"Steady on, Kate," Mr Peterson said calmly. "They were only—"

"ONLY WHAT?" she demanded. "Only keeping things from us? Only telling us lies? Only preventing us from making the most important decision of our life?"

"There’s no decision to make," Mr Peterson said. "I’m not going to volunteer to become one of those… things."

There was another silence. A big empty space where nothing was said, but so much was revealed.

It was Mr Peterson that broke it.

"Surely you’re not actually considering it?" he asked, his voice shocked.

"I don’t know," Kate said at last. "It might not be so bad."

"I saw them," Mr Peterson said firmly. "I saw them for what they really are. I can tell you this with absolute certainty: they are not the same as us. Not even close. I saw them and I do not want to be one of them. I’m happy being who I am."

Kate let out a cruel bark of laughter.

"A postman and part-time ventriloquist?" she said derisively. "A bad ventriloquist, at that."

Mr Peterson looked at her, not with anger, but with humor.

"I guess that is who and what I appear to be," he said. "But that doesn’t mean it’s all I am, or the way it has always been. For now, being a postman is good, honest work. And it makes me happy. Not everyone has to fly high to prove they exist; some of us are perfectly happy flying low and enjoying the view.

"I’ll never be rich, but that doesn’t matter to me. Before I came to Millgrove I had a good job, a devoted wife and a beautiful little boy. But leukemia stole my son from me, and everything else just crumbled away. Iain was four when he became ill, and Mr Peebles was just something silly I made to put a smile on his face. Most of the joke was how bad I was. But when he was laughing he forgot the pain, and that was better than doing nothing and watching him slip away.

"So, yes, I’m a terrible ventriloquist, but it used to make Iain laugh. And so once a year I get Mr Peebles out of the cupboard and I stand in front of the village and I invite everyone to laugh. Not with me: but at me. Hearing other kids laughing makes me think, just for a second, that he’s still here. Here in the world. Not a cold, dead thing in the ground.

"I don’t want to be upgraded. I don’t want to become one of those things. I want to remember my son. If you want to give up, become one of them because it’s easier, then go ahead. But difficult is good. It’s what makes us human."

"I’m sorry," Kate said quietly. "I’m just scared. More scared than I have ever been."

"Scared is something," Mr Peterson said.

We sat there in silence, letting it all sink in.

We were all scared, but who wouldn’t be?

If what Danny said was true—and I for one no longer had any doubts—then we no longer existed.

We were 0.4.

Irrelevant.

Chapter 43

That was all three months ago now.

Three long and very strange months.

I still remember every detail of that crazy day and crazier night.

Now I have committed them to tape I hope the nightmares that replay every night when I close my eyes may finally leave me in peace.

Or the thing we call peace these days.

Danny didn’t lie to us, you see.

If anything, he understated.

We stepped out of the barn when it was morning. It was just before 7 a.m. according Mr Peterson’s Mickey Mouse watch. The dawn had revealed a low bed of mist that clung to the field, making it seem ghostly.

Lilly and I had done a lot of talking well into the night. Then we’d lain there on lumpy, scratchy bales of straw and tried to sleep: the kind of fitful half-sleep that bends a person’s back in such a way that it hurts when you move and it hurts a different way when you don’t.

We had a fuzzyheaded vote on what we should do next, and the consensus was that we go back into Millgrove. If a fraction of what Danny said was true then we wanted to see evidence of it at home.

It seemed important, somehow.

A way to say goodbye to the things we had lost.

We hit the village outskirts and headed towards the green.

In my mind I had a single plan.

I was going to walk up to someone I knew and I was going to wish them a very good morning.

And as it was early on a Sunday morning, it was likely that the people of Millgrove would still be sleeping, so I reckoned I would have to walk up to a front door, ring a doorbell and see what happened from there.

As it turned out, things were nothing like we had expected.

Chapter 44

If the people of Millgrove had slept, there was certainly no sign of it. As we drew nearer to the green we could see that the place was a hive of activity. From a distance it looked like the people were pulling the village apart. Frantically. Cars, buildings, even lamp posts seemed to be in the process of being dismantled.

It looked like some people were digging up areas of the path and road as well.

They were systematically wrecking the village, with wires and cables being ripped from the ground; cars with their bonnets open being stripped of engines and electrical systems; lamp posts were opened up and their wires bared; people were knocking holes in the roofs of their houses; teams of locals came out of houses with gadgets and appliances which were then piled up on the village green. Washing machines and fridges; television sets and home computers; lawn mowers and microwave ovens and leaf blowers and electric toasters.

We were starting our first day under The New Rules.

New Rule Number One: Don’t try to figure out what the 1.0 are doing; you’re simply not wired to understand them.

A group of people were working on dismantling the equipment, and putting the components of each item into carefully ordered piles.

The people working on the cars would occasionally walk over and drop components, light bulbs or car batteries, off at this strange recycling center, where they were quickly and efficiently organized.

There was no idle chatter; no one was messing about or goofing off.

We reached the green and no one even saw us arrive.

We stood there watching the crazy industry around us and, if we happened to be in the way, the person who needed to get past would suddenly change their path slightly to avoid us without even a passing glance.

We tried talking to them, pleading with them, screaming at them; but nothing could get them to notice us.

Just like Danny had said.

We were being filtered out.

We were irrelevant to them.

New Rule Number Two: The 1.0 can’t see or hear us.

They really can’t.

It’s not a trick—they’re not pretending not to see us—we no longer register to them, and all memory of us has been wiped from their minds.

So we watched for a while, stunned by the activity going on around us. If there was rhyme or reason to what they were doing then it wasn’t a rhyme or a reason we knew.

No matter what we did or said, we could not get them to notice us.

"I’ve just about had enough of this," Mr Peterson said angrily. He rolled up his sleeves and walked up to Eddie Crichton, who was hauling a dishwasher out on to the green.

I saw what Mr Peterson planned to do, but I don’t think any amount of sensible argument could have stopped him.

He drew back his fist and punched Eddie in the face.

I closed my eyes for a second, not wanting to watch, and I waited for the sound of a fist connecting with a face and maybe a howl of pain.

I got neither.

I opened my eyes.

Mr Peterson was standing there, looking confused.

Eddie Crichton just carried on with what he was doing. It didn’t look like he had felt a thing. It didn’t look like he had noticed a thing. He dropped off the dishwasher and made his way down the road. Mr Peterson strode back to us.

"I couldn’t lay a glove on him," he said. "All the energy I put into the blow . . . it just . . . I don’t know… it went somewhere else."

Now, of course, three months down the road, we know exactly what Mr Peterson meant. We can’t entirely explain it, but we know it well.

New Rule Number Three: We can’t touch the 1.0.

We can’t get closer than an inch or so away from them without our hand/body/whatever getting stopped by some force or charge that prevents us making physical contact. It’s like some kind of dampening field, a protective layer that means that the 0.4 and the 1.0 are no longer capable of interacting.

Over the course of the day we watched as the people we once knew used the machines of the village to construct strange new technologies, recycling their possessions to create new machines. Often we would see people interface with a machine, a component, a circuit board, by connecting to it with those fleshy filaments.

New Rule Number Four: You never get used to the sight of those filaments.

You really, really don’t.

Of all the things they do that seem alien to us, this one is still the worst. It affects you at a base level, both horrifying and captivating at the same time. You know it’s something you shouldn’t see; something that goes against all the laws of nature and order.

But you still find yourself staring.

We sat there on the edge of the green and watched as people suddenly started fusing themselves to circuit boards, changing the chips and connections by what seemed like thought alone.

Even Chris—my baboon boy, idiot, football-obsessed brother—was performing delicate adjustments to the circuitry. It was such an unlikely sight that I watched him for a long time. And as I sat there, I began to realize that Chris was gone now, gone forever, and that we would never argue or fight again. I felt a cold stab of regret, of loss, and I had to turn away from him.

I was surprised to find that I had tears in my eyes.

Lilly, it seemed, was taking it all rather badly too.

She had been growing more and more gloomy, watching as people acted in ways that were strange and disturbing. I kept trying to reassure her but it didn’t work.

Eventually she stood up, made an exasperated noise and stormed off across the green without another sound. I wondered if I should follow her, but she hadn’t invited me and she probably needed some time to think about things by herself.

Kate took off a few minutes later, and Mr Peterson went with her to make sure she was OK.

I sat there in the sun and watched the people of Millgrove doing their stuff.

Understanding none of it.

It got too much for me to bear alone and, after a while, I went home too.

New Rule Number Five: You can’t go back.

Well, of course you can physically go home, I just don’t recommend it. It’s not good for your sanity to see just how easily you can be painted out of a family picture.

The front door of my house was wide open and the place inside had been systematically trashed.

All the electrical gadgets had been taken out, stripped down, and were probably already being wrecked for parts on the green.

New Rule Number Six: Even to the people you knew and loved it is as if you never existed.

My room was stripped bare.

Stripped right back to the wallpaper.

Nothing of me remained there.

In just a few short hours I had been carefully Photoshopped out of my own family.

Out of my own life.

When I got back downstairs, and when the tears had cleared from my eyes, I found that all of my possessions had been taken down into the back garden and just dumped there.

I think that was the worst moment for me.

Standing there amid the discarded remnants of my life, thinking about the cold-hearted programmer who had written the sub-routine that got 1.0 parents to empty a forgotten 0.4 son’s room, and leave it piled in the garden like so much rubbish.

I dragged a rucksack out of the debris; filled it with some clothes, books and mementos from the pile, and then turned my back on the house.

Forever, I thought.

Only thing is: forever is a long, long time.

I went back to the green feeling sick, feeling betrayed, feeling utterly alone. I threaded my way through the crowd of people who no longer knew I had ever existed. They just moved around me without realising they were doing it. Piling up more gadgets on the green, ready for…

For what?

I didn’t know.

I was surprised to find Lilly there already. She was almost impossibly relieved to see me and ran over, throwing her arms around me, and crying into my neck.

The story she sobbed on to my shoulder was the same as my homecoming, with only minor differences.

She, too, had packed a bag.

"I can’t stay here," she said through her tears. "I just can’t."

"I know," I said. "I can’t, either."

We both felt it—the overwhelming need to get away from this place. If we were dead to the people of Millgrove, then they were dead to us. We would be like ghosts haunting our old lives, and if we were going to make it in this world that had forgotten us, we were going to have to do it somewhere other than here.

We stopped round at Kate’s house.

She and Mr Peterson had made their decision about how they were going to proceed.

They told us over a breakfast put together from the things in Kate’s cupboards. Some toast and cereal, orange juice and a hot cup of tea. I ate like I hadn’t eaten for a month.

Kate O’Donnell and Rodney Peterson were staying put.

"The truth is I’ve always been an outsider here," Kate told us. "I don’t think things will be that different, if I’m honest. I have Rodney now. We’ll be fine."

Mr Peterson looked over at her and smiled.

They made an OK couple, I thought.

We told them that we understood, said our goodbyes, and then Lilly and I set off for Cambridge. The nearest town, a place we both knew, but that wouldn’t carry the painful associations of a village that had simply forgotten we ever existed.

It would be a good starting point.

And then, we thought, we would go travelling further.

New Rule Number Seven: You live with this the best way you can.

Chapter 45

And now we’re done.

I have made a record of these events and maybe I will feel better for doing it. I feel like I have been carrying all of this around in my head, and it has been weighing me down.

Perhaps the burden will be lighter now.

There are only a few things left for me to say.

No neat, happy ending: but an ending all the same.

There are so many questions that we are unable to answer; but what I can tell you is how we are today.

The 0.4.

In a 1.0 world.

Lilly and I keep moving. It’s a choice we made. We thought that we would see a few places before we decide where we’re going to settle and what’s going to become of us.

There are a fair few of us 0.4 around, and many of the others we have met are already working on living as closely as they can to how they once did—before this happened. They are busy forming communities, banding together and generally making the best of the hand that life has dealt us. There are places that the 1.0 don’t go—whole estates, whole villages—and the 0.4 move in.

It’s easy to find the 0.4 in whatever city or town we visit. Graffiti is our notice board, and we advertise ourselves to others like us; tell each other where we can meet, where we can find beds for the night among friends. We’re in this together and, although it is far from perfect, it’s far from terrible, too.

We stay away from the machines that the 1.0 build. They are forbidden and we know just how we will be rewarded if we dare to break that simple rule.

The 1.0 love their gadgets.

They have completely revolutionized the way they live, and have already developed a form of energy that travels through the air and seems to have no environmental impact whatsoever.

To be honest, we mostly stay away from the 1.0 altogether. They are the reminders of everything that we aren’t, and of everything we have lost.

In darker moments I wonder how many have gone before us, previous versions, skipping upgrades and being forgotten by everyone.

Living.

Surviving.

Having families and carrying on their outdated lives.

Generation after generation hanging on, still here, unseen by even the 0.4.

The 0.3.

The 0.2.

The 0.1.

I wonder if they are here too, forgotten as each new version overwrites the old. I wonder if we share this world with the direct descendants of Neanderthals, homo erectus, proto-humans. I wonder if they are still here, just hidden from view by the algorithms and code of our programmers.

I think it’s likely, but it brings little comfort to know that there are others like us.

If anything it makes it worse.

We’re not unique.

We’re just another layer of junk in the landfill of upgraded humanity.

Chapter 46

I keep thinking about the night in the barn.

It’s like a scab that I keep worrying at with a nail.

I keep thinking about Danny’s insistence that the upgrade from 0.4 to 1.0 had been necessary, to stop the human race from destroying itself and the planet it inhabited.

I contrast that with the three things I remember him telling me from the ReadMe file, and think that far from being society-improving, humanity-improving god-figures, the programmers responsible for the human upgrade had other things on their minds entirely.

"Fixed system slowdown when individual units are put to sleep, allowing greater access to unconscious processing activity."

"Tightened encrypted storage parameters to comply with new guidelines."

"Completely reworked user interface makes access of data easier and faster."

When the nights are dark and I can’t sleep—and those nights are frequent—I often find myself thinking about these improvements, and try to work out just what they say about our programmers, and the programs the 1.0 are running now.

It all comes down to the question of motive.

I think we are useful to the programmers.

We are to them as computers are to us.

We are their tools.

The human brain has something like 100 billion neurons. It’s the most sophisticated computer on the planet. Multiply it by the six billion people on Earth and you have a lot of computing power.

Tie those minds together and you have one hell of a network.

We don’t use all of our brains, all of the time.

We use the small bits that we need and the rest just sits there.

Imagining. Daydreaming. Inventing.

Maybe someone is renting out all that extra processing power.

Or all that extra memory space.

Renting it out from our programmers.

Maybe this is what most things on our planet are about: commerce.

Maybe we consumers are, ultimately, nothing more than consumables.

Some of the 0.4 think I’m crazy when I start talking like this, and perhaps I am.

But perhaps I’m not.

Because since the rest of the world was upgraded, all of the 0.4 agree on one odd, beneficial side effect for us, the ones who missed out.

It’s a small comfort, but it’s how I have been able to remember so many details when relating these events into a tape recorder.

You see, our memories have become much more effective; the clarity of recollection seems much stronger than before. I remember entire conversations, verbatim passages from books, thoughts I have had and things I have seen, all with such clarity that it’s as if, for the first time, we are allowed to use our whole brains.

Rather than the parts rationed out to us by a memory-intensive operating system.

I guess no one wants to store their data the old way.

Chapter 47

Lilly and I eventually came back to Millgrove, to see how our families were doing without us.

Fine but weird is the answer.

I stood in my old home (which no longer looks like the house I grew up in: there are odd tubes and ducts running through the place and the house is lit by—I really can’t tell you what by) surrounded by my family, and I was absolutely invisible to them.

They were happy, the three of them, happier than I’d ever seen them. It made me feel angry and sad and confused and alone.

I waited for them all to go out before I dragged the hidden tape recorder out from under the stairs and…

. . . and I guess this is the point where we came in.

Now I have made these tapes, and left a record, Lilly and I are going to travel some more.

Before we set off there are just two more things for us to do.

First up we’re going to look in on Kate O’Donnell and Rodney Peterson, see if they’re doing OK, to see if they’re still even here.

And then comes the big thing.

The last thing.

We’ve talked about it, Lilly and me, and it’s something that we can’t avoid. We have to know. We have to give ourselves the opportunity to make all of this go away.

We’re going to stop by Naylor’s silos, and we’ll see what happens.

Even if they are still full of the alien programmers" code, we’re pretty sure we won’t take the upgrade.

But you never know until you are in the position to find out.

That’s why we’re going to sit there and wait a while.

To see if either of us wants to.

If one of us does, the other will too.

It’s our pact.

So this is it. It took a long time to get here, but this is my final message, and the whole reason, I guess, for these tapes.

Lilly and I have talked it over and over, and we agree that the hardest thing about all of this is the fact that we have been forgotten. By our families and friends. By our world.

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.