Author: Laura Jarosz

“Whaddya mean, gone? Like, dead?”

Dante shrugged. “The safehouse was totally empty. Door hanging open, no Homer inside. No stories, either.”

I pressed my hand against my pocket and felt the reassuring crinkle of paper. At least I still had last week’s story. As I walked numbly away, I let my eyes devour the lovingly hand-copied tale, taking in the voice, the characters (my favorite: a hyperintelligent, pipe-smoking orangutan named Sven) and, most importantly, the twist. ATTIS (that is—the Authentic Tale Telling Innovation Synthesizer) sucked at twists.

It ended in a cliffhanger. If Homer really was gone, I would never know what happened to Sven.

I couldn’t risk taking public transportation back to the flophouse, or someone might turn me in for disconnecting myself from ATTIS. It was a small price to pay for knowing your ideas were yours and yours alone (not that I had any worth writing down—not like Homer’s). Plus, walking meant I wouldn’t be force-fed any ATTIS-generated drivel while I ride. Not like I could escape it—on this street alone, I could see at least three giant screens streaming ATTIS-generated entertainment. I glanced at one and saw—

A pipe-smoking orangutan.

Adrenaline pumping, I turned and ran back to tell Dante. ATTIS found Homer. They’d plugged him back in.

*****

It was months before I heard from Dante again. I’d started to believe ATTIS caught him, too. When he showed up back at the flophouse it was almost like seeing a ghost, but before I could stutter out a question, he told me to go nick two laser cutters from the chop shop and follow him.

Now, he was making me carry them both through a part of the city I’d never set foot in before–in fact, it was so deserted, I don’t think anyone had in a long time.

He stopped in front of a crumbling building made of actual brick. Never seen one those before. The door was wood. We just kicked it until it broke. What did we even need the cutters for?

When we threw it open…

Rows and rows of real paper books, each written by a single, human author. I wanted to scoop them in my arms and take a big sniff.

“This was the first stuff they trained ATTIS on,” Dante explained. “It all got worse from there. But it’s why—”

He gestured. Looming before us were two thick, massive metal doors, bludgeoned into place where an antique brick wall used to be.

“—ATTIS is here.”

The whine of heated metal tortured us until we were finally able to cut through, and restrained to a gurney amidst the blinking bank of computer readouts was a small man that had to be Homer. Dante started cutting through the restraints while I went to the small port in his left temple to disconnect him again. “It’s an honor, sir,” I said awkwardly. “I’m sorry ATTIS stole Sven from you.”

As Dante helped Homer to his feet, I glowered at the bank of computers, imagining the laser cutter ripping through them. But before I could even lift mine, they all emitted a horrid, unending screech, the screens blinking one by one to a garish blue.

I turned in shock, covering my ears.

Homer seemed unsurprised. He yelled into my ear over the noise. “The last idea I fed it was a story about a man discovering the secret to crashing an AI.”