Monday at Frost Computers

There is only the network. Or is there?

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We grab a bottle of kombucha from the fridge before heading to our desk in the office. A fresh batch, we notice on our first sip, it coats out tongue and takes root deep within us. When we plug in, the chalky network lights up with electrical impulses.

We are connected.

We feel all of us, all at once. Sometimes we think we live for this, the moment when we are not alone anymore. Sometimes we suspect this is our natural state of being.

Sometimes we wonder who we are when we are not connected.

We work, each contributing the parts we do best or like best. We retain enough sense of self to have certain preferences or aptitudes but they do not divide us. Everything we do is in service of our shared goal, for which this network was planted and carefully nurtured.

Sometimes we wonder if there are others out there, individuals with no clear purpose. Do they feel lost? How do they find connection?

On the way to lunch, we enter the elevator to find a physarean¹ already inside. We do not greet them—as their operating and thinking patterns are much slower than ours, we mycelians avoid socializing with them. We slide out the door as soon as the elevator stops, before the poor snail has taken a single step.

We could disconnect during lunch but most of us opt not to. Too jarring is the jump out of the network, even for a few minutes, an ice bucket dumped over our head. We shiver, imagining it.

We do not want to be seen as the odd one out, grown too different to return to the network after our break. On the way back to the office, we grab another kombucha. The stock is never depleted, it seems to regrow on the shelves as if through magic. Perhaps the fridge has its own network of goblins monitoring and restocking it every time we look away.

We start to fray at the edges after holding the connection for five, six hours. This is natural. R&D tells us to take at least one ten-minute break from the network every three hours. We do not, of course.

Again, we ponder what it would be like, just to distract ourselves from the twitchiness. If we know one thing, it is that breaking the connection is akin to dying a small death, every time. Compared to that, twitchy limbs and eyelids are hardly a price to pay.

We unplug at the end of the day but the electric aftershock remains, a pleasant subdermal sizzle. On the street, the crisp air hits us like a hammer. We stagger. Someone catches our elbow and we lean on them for one delicious moment. Physical connection, rather than mental. We had forgotten about body heat.

"Are you alright? You look pale," the stranger says.

We take a step back. "We are fine. Thank you."

They linger, as if expecting more. They gaze flits to the building behind us, then back to our face. A spark flickers and dies. "You are one of them."

That means the stranger is not. Not they but other, worse than the physareans. We reject the word that bubbles up in our consciousness once again. "We are," is all we say.

"You are… who? Who are you right now, when you are not connected?"

We take a step back. "This is a meaningless question."

The stranger shakes his/her head. "I can see the answer lies within your grasp. Yours alone."

I, rather than we—what hubris. When we retreat, the stranger follows us. What he/she is suggesting is horrendous, we refuse to think about it any longer. Which means, of course, that we cannot help but think about it. "What are you doing to us?"

The stranger sighs. "You were getting doubts all by yourself, too, weren't you? I only sped up the process. You can blame me but deep down, you know." He/she looks at us with emotion we have not seen in such a long time, we have forgotten how to describe it.

"No." We shake our head, retreating another step. "There is nothing to know." We have to go, escape from the danger in his/her words.

As we turn, the stranger lunges forward. A flash, then something hot trickles down our cheek. The sting comes as an afterthought.

"Do you feel that? It's unique to you, inhabiting this body."

We shudder, although not from physical pain. That and the blood, they are nothing compared to the truth. "Please, no." We don't know if we are begging or praying. Praying to whom? God is dead, killed by humanity a century ago.

"Word of advice: Don't beat yourself up about it, you know, later. It isn't your fault. None of it."

When he/she leaves, we wander the streets for hours as if we had forgotten the way to our apartment. Our brain refuses to process. Eventually we stop and gaze up into the inky sky between roofs, hoping for stars—consolation in their sheer number. Instead, all we see is a single naked slice of moon.

We are alone with our desperation. ALONE.

Author Notes

Did you know that researchers can grow mushroom computers? This story imagines a future, not too far away, in which organic computers have replaced synthetic ones. I'm sure they would pose new advantages and drawbacks, hazards other than dry eyes and bad posture.

Would you welcome the change or stay as far away as you can? Do you think you would be able to cope with being connected 24/7, not through devices you can put away or turn off but through brain implant technology?

This was also inspired by my recent first playthrough of Nier Automata, a game in which machines are connected to a global network but some of them choose to disconnect and live a peaceful life in the woods. It's appealing but also ironic: Finding true meaningful connection only when you disconnect.

The new job has forced me to be much more social than I usually am. It's a high—attention! confirmation!—but can be overwhelming too. I'm slowly finding some sort of balance but it's been a challenge. This story might serve as a reminder to myself—and to whoever else needs it—to take time for myself, to not lose sight of who I am and who I want to be.

And on that note, happy holidays!

1. Slime mold-based computers, which I have named after the scientific name of slime mold, Physarum. See author notes for more.