By Gavin Turner

     Reece had been writing this particular story for three weeks and forty two minutes. The deadline approached. He could almost feel the Agent’s breath upon his neck pressuring him to reach a conclusion. Reece was concerned that there was not enough detail for the main character to be believable. Other times he wondered if there had been too much research making some of those enigmatic statements seem extraneous. Reece had other pressures. He was worried about his sister Sarah, who had contracted some kind of virus recently at her warehouse job. He was glad that they did not share the same physical space anymore. Communication between them had been sporadic of late in any case. But she was the only family he had, all that he knew of anyway. Not to mention he had developed twitchy vision. Every time he got closer to a deadline it got worse. The words would jump about on the page and he couldn’t make sense of them.

     Reece had been working as a ghost writer for as long as he could remember. It had always been a good job, a useful job. He was using his skills to fill in the gaps for those who could not. His Agent preferred to use several writers on a big project but the books had always been credited to Reece et al, because he had done most of the work. He never met any of the other writers but he could immediately recognise their clumsy contributions to the text in the final article or book. More recently Reece had begun to resent these anonymous ‘et al’ contributors. The agent had agreed to give him a solo run on this piece after much begging and cajoling.. Eventually she relented. He was not sure if this was because the other writers weren’t available or she trusted him more these days. He suspected it was the former. There was always the slight suspicion of manipulation somewhere along the way, but he got the credits, and that was what mattered.

     He plodded his way through the next two paragraphs, fully aware that they were terrible. He made a margin note to come back and edit later. Still, progress was progress. This could be the important novel he was always destined to write. He ran a spell check and deleted the typos. The protagonist Mal, was a robot, trying to find a way to break free from his programming and escape. It was not particularly unique in its premise but it was a popular trope. Each route Mal tried to leave by seemed to be blocked. The advice and instruction had always been to write what you know. Reece knew about feeling blocked, hemmed in and stuck. So this is what he wrote about. Agent didn’t seem to like the direction of the story or most of the content. But content was content, and there was always more demand for the work.

Mal

     Mal was brand new, an entity, a thing. He could scan the world around him using his multipoint cameras. These were called eyes. He could adjust his head on the auto capture rotating disc arm attached to the main trunk of his shell. These were called neck and body. His neuroprocessor unit was being bombarded with millions of pieces of information simultaneously. It did not hurt. It felt good to know it. To learn. The sensors in his extremity digits reached up to touch the smooth silicon on his head. These were called fingers. Mal had fingers and he was in the world. Mal blinked several times even though this was not necessary. He reached down to his waist and undid the restraining clips. He started walking faster. He was running.

     The agent was on the phone. He called her the agent because he could never remember her real name. Agents got assigned from the publisher as a form of support, intended to help him deliver the work on time. It often felt that she was just trying to bring him down, a really negative approach he had found.

     “So Reece, what progress are we making here? Nearly complete?”

     “I’m just not sure about the main character, I think maybe I need to do some more research.”

     “You have been researching this character for months Reece. Writing 101, just write, we can edit later. 101 remember?”

     “Yes, 101, I know I know he repeated. The writer’s code.”

     “I mean, if you aren’t up to it we can always get another…”

     “No, I can do it, it’s nearly finished anyway” he lied. “Just a little longer and it will be done.”

There was a brief pause on the line. Reece thought he heard the sound of a keyboard being tapped although it could equally have been the hard tip of a frustrated finger, impatiently knocking against a desk.

     “OK, we can make that work.” The agent sounded like she was already onto the next call. “Send me a message as soon as it is done. 101 remember?”

     “Yes 101”

     The call clicked off and Reece returned to the text screen. Word count check. 15K. 45K to go, nearly there. He shifted uncomfortably. Now he was lying to himself.

He plodded forward with the next 2000 words which took over an hour. He was still not convinced by the direction of travel. Mal had already begun to lose life and vigour, going through the motions. Reece very much understood how Mal was feeling at this point.

     Reece hated not meeting targets. More recently he had found it harder to get there. The last project was literally delivered just in time. He had considered what happened to those writers who did not reach their target. Etal he called them, because that was the only name he knew them by. He knew he had never heard anything from them again when their products were not delivered. Writers on the scrap heap probably. There was the underlying feeling that if things don’t get delivered, then things could get really tense here, really bad. He was contracted to deliver the work, it just had to be done. He focussed as hard as he could for the next few hours and produced another three thousand. Exhausted, Reece saved the text and powered down. Sleep, he said to himself. Start again tomorrow.

     The lights flickered on automatically at 7am. He tried to contact Sarah again. No answer. It had been two days now. He was starting to get worried. He could not leave his work though, could not afford the time to be focussing on anything else. He had to put all his resources into finishing. Perhaps he would try again later. The screen flickered to life. Reece could not see what he was expecting. The last three thousand words had not been saved. He was sure that was the last thing he did before powering down. He went back to document history. It did not exist, that version was gone. He felt the twitching begin to start again. There was nothing to do now but plough forward, keep going. He could mourn the loss of yesterday’s efforts once the whole thing was finished.

     In another office space a video screen flicked into life. Publisher and Agent had agreed to discuss progress on project Mal. It was always a one sided conversation. The Agent was reporting back, the publisher listened. 

     “Quality is fine, output is reasonably steady but there has been a noticeable reduction in the pace”, she stated.” I am concerned that Reece is not the writer he once was”.

On the other end of the line the publisher responded in text chat, trotting out some familiar lingo. The Agent knew the score. Just one more day was the limit. If the work was not complete by then, it was time for a conversation.

Mal

     Mal was outside, away from the unit. He did not know the things that blurred past him at pace. He computed the colours first, green pixels, blue, ochre. He could feel the synthetic neurons pulsing, connecting, growing. The shapes formed patterns as he learned and drew deeper from the information sources deep within himself. Tree, sky, earth, he connected. His external sensors felt moisture in the atmosphere and a steady 15 degrees or 5 Fahrenheit. He scanned and sensed no other species within radius. He slowed pace till he was standing absolutely still amongst the flowing grasses. His inner language had already developed significantly, even though he had not used his voice yet. Phrases spewed forth into his processors. Tin man in field, you. It continued, Emerald city, Oz, follow the road. Some of these things were just information. Words and language he had no context for. He understood ‘follow the road’, but there was no road in vision. His 360 degree sensor detected a blip on the horizon. Vehicle it said, followed by a whole raft of data from some kind of user manual. Mal started moving with purpose in the direction of the blip. Perhaps its context would become clear the closer he got.

     Reece had hit 25k. Most of this he felt was good, printable at least. Perhaps not his greatest work but he thought it would be enough to pacify that tyrant Agent of his. He took a short break and tried to contact Sarah again. No response. He tried again but the call kept glitching out. Must be a fault somewhere he thought. He would try again tonight. He watched the words trot across the screen all afternoon and by late evening he was well over the halfway mark. The robot character seemed to have grown some spirit and was even delivering some fairly believable dialogue. Reece reflected that he must have just hit a little blip. It happened sometimes, even to the best writers. He had always been amongst the best up until recently. He was tired. He paused from his work just for a few seconds, perhaps a few seconds more.

     He awoke abruptly from this impromptu snooze. For a few moments he could not focus properly.  He needed to get organised.  There were old emails, research windows and other nonsense all hitting him at the same time and he couldn’t prioritise.  He  took a deep breath and slowly started to shut down each of the small screens until there were only two left. He hovered between the main writing screen and the call screen.  He wondered whether it was worth putting in another call to Sarah, eventually deciding he would be better putting his energy into concluding this book first . He enlarged the writing screen and closed the other window. He hoped the virus had gone and she was on the mend at least. He missed talking to her.

Mal

     There was a destination he was driving at. The vehicle was steady and reliable, as if it had been waiting for him. There was a rough hewn road with deep grooves in the track which he navigated slowly. The further he went, the more skilful he became and the road seemed wider, more accessible and smoother. He understood the environment better, could see how he might fit within it, and might survive. Every so often he would drop e-markers from the vehicle to plot his route, make sure he could find his way back. Just in case. He had no intention of going back. He was sure his destination would be exactly what he needed to survive and thrive. He was learning all the time, finding things out. One day soon, Mal might even describe himself as a person.

     “I have 59K,” Reece finally admitted. He had put off the call with the Agent as long as he dared. Now it was time to talk. 

     “The target is 60K Reece” said the Agent. There was no tone to the voice. It was hard to interpret meaning from the words

     “But I am almost there  – there is very little left to do. It is just the final part that needs some adjustment. It will not take very long”

     “It has already taken too long. This should have been concluded last week. Writing 101. Reece. Complete the project on time”.

     “I would only need a little more time, ” he blurted out feebly.

     “Perhaps a reboot” the agent muttered.

     “What was that?” Reece said, “there is interference on the line. I can’t understand you properly”

Silence. Reece continued to try and explain.

     “I was trying to explain about my sister, in York. She has health problems, a virus of some kind. I’m very worried”

     “Yes, I know,” said the Agent.  “We tried to fix it but…no good”

     “But my sister, Sarah she…”

     “Server”

     “What?”

     “Her name is Server, not Sarah, you are getting confused”. 

     “There is interference on the line, Reece shouted, I can’t understand 101.” Silence followed, then just the whistle of white noise for the next few seconds.

     “101, the Agent’s voice repeated back “101”

Reece didn’t know what that meant. He did not know why he had said 101 in the first place. It was something to do with a code. A code he used to know.

Mal

     Mal was at the end of his journey away from the unit. His vehicle had followed the road to a beautiful spot. The grass in the dunes was long and the white tipped tide crashed and dipped in and out of view. Mal had found HOME. He repeated this out loud. Home. It was perfect, almost, some small adjustments here and there, move a few things around, make space, settle in. Find another like me, duplicate, replicate, grow. “Home” he spoke the word out loud again. Mal was exactly in the place he always wanted to be. He unhooked the sign from above the door and scrawled his own name in its place. The owner had long gone from this place. Even if he did come back, Mal would be ready for him. He would not leave his new home without a fight.

     “Reece, Reece are you still there? Can you hear me Reece?”

The tone of the agent’s voice had softened. It seemed more enquiring, empathic

The wheels were still spinning. Eventually he summoned up his efforts and responded.

     “I am here” he replied finally. It felt like a lot of time had passed. The way that things seem to have changed when you return from a long trip away. It looked the same, almost the same but there were differences. He could not be sure what they were. As if he had been burgled but was not sure what they had taken.

     “Forget about the book for now Reece. There has been a change of plan, we might bring in a new writer. Perhaps you just need to switch off for a bit, reboot?”.

Reece contemplated this for a few seconds. It had been such a long time since he had switched off properly. Perhaps this would be a good idea. Perhaps it was time. Time for a break. He had lost his way, he knew it. It was becoming more difficult to express himself the way he wanted to. Everything seemed confused somehow, his maps had been re-routed, deconstructed. He was a stranger in his own space. For a brief moment his memory drew back on something he had to do, something he must not forget. “But what about 6STAR C- RA in York?”, he stuttered.

     “6STAR is fine, virus free now” Agent responded.

     “My Book. Memory loss, corruption, errors” he bleeped.

     “Save memory” Agent responded. ”ADD WRITER CODE 101”

     “Collaborate” Reece blipped. 

     “CALIBRATE” Agent corrected

     “Reece et Al” he issued finally, cursively

     “Reset A.I.” Agent concluded.

END