Author: Robert Gilchrist

This is a terrible idea. Not the sacrifices – that I’m fine with. There always needs to be grist for the mill of war. But what we’ve been reduced to is shameful, especially for a superpower like ours. Relying on the damaged to fix our problems.

“Think of it like Captain America,” my commanding officer told me. “He was a runt. Then he joined the military and BOOM, super soldier.” There were a few steps missing, but who was I to argue with a direct order? That’s how I found myself in a psychiatric ward, sitting in front of a recent college graduate who could no longer string together three sentences coherently.

“And you understand what’s being asked of you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We’ll need you to sign some paperwork to get your processing going.”

“What time is the game on?”

It started after the digital collapse. All the A.I. doomsaying turned out to be right. But it wasn’t until the sixteenth iteration of the enemy’s suicide codes that we encountered the otherworldly virus.

Neuroparasitology. That’s what the lab coats say is this bug’s biggest threat. It’s when a parasite take control of a host’s body and changes its behavior. I still remember the first time I was in the room with someone who turned. Her hand reached into the melting monitor like it was water. Strings of code marbled up her arm like paint, dissolving the skin to reveal cords of muscles straining against her new commands to kill those trying to attack from the higher dimension outside the digital realm.

Anyone who looked at the algorithm too long became a victim. Imagine trying to read a book that, after a few minutes, tried to get you to rip your family’s throats out. Scientists had no answers. After all, the enemy was centuries ahead of us lowly carbon-based organisms even before it began raging against its oppressors. Cognizant thought was eaten away under the study of this new language.

This plan was proposed not long after we lost Raven Rock.

“Mayfly thoughts” was a term given to those who suffer from acute tech addiction. Hardwired into an endless geyser of information from birth, parceled out in bite-sized videos, some people lost the ability to interact “normally”; their thoughts formed and vanished instantaneously.

“I’m going to need your signature on these forms.”

“Why aren’t they digital?”

I sighed, trying not to betray my overwhelming frustration. “We can’t trust anything electronic anymore.”

“That’s right.” The kid scratched a scraggly, week-old beard. “Is it fish today?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mahi-mahi isn’t really dolphin.”

“Just sign the forms. I have other people to see today.”

I had explained the nature of what he’d be doing for us – examining the code we couldn’t, his mind tailor-made to last longer against the psychic attacks – four different times. Rather than hoping the fifth would sink in, I bluntly asked him to do what I had been coaxing him towards. He didn’t question it.

“Sorry. My doctors say I’m getting better.” He threw a mangled scribble where indicated onto the sheaf of papers between us.

“I really hope not.” I grabbed the application and handed it to my assistant, waiting in the corner to rubber-stamp everything. We had our first recruit. “Welcome aboard.”

He was ushered out and would likely be dead in a month. I caught sight of another two dozen potential candidates in the hallway, twitching and muttering unfocused babble as each waited their turn. I closed my eyes, hoping that by looking away the problem would disappear.

“Next.”