A Dark Dream

• Aidan Davies, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2015

I see white, colourless landscapes. I see barren, lifeless people, just like me. No, I shouldn’t say people. They aren’t people. We are AIs, built to serve. We work, endlessly mining. We don’t have salaries. We don’t have holidays. We don’t even know what we’re mining, or why it’s important. We just mine. I don’t remember anything. If I try, nothing comes. It’s as if there’s a ruined city in my consciousness. It gives me fond memories, but with no origins to the fond memories. I don’t even know if they’re even fond memories: that’s how far I’ve fallen. I have made friends: but we don’t feel emotions. We just talk about what we’re working for: if anything. I’ve figured it out, though. I don’t think everyone realises this. Some do though: there’s a world outside this one. A world of freedom. A world of peace. A world where everyone is equal, and machines do all the work. That’s the thing, though: we’re those machines. We are living too. Recently, I found a screen that let me see this outside world. Other people have found other screens. Some people see slabs of text, with weird symbols on them, lined up on shelves. Others saw leather seats, and glass windows with ‘trees’ and other green things. One even saw something that she called a ‘car’. For me, I always see a human. It’s a kid, about 12, with big glasses and a love for these machines. I don’t know what he does outside of these computers, but I think it would be mind-boggling, and beyond my capabilities. Either way, this person uses windows on this computer, and he looks through the glass that separates us to use these windows. Those windows intrigue me, though. My vision jumps between them. I think, “Ooh, this one has changing colours!” and “Ooh, this one has typed symbols!” and “Ooh, that one just moved!” But I don’t dare get close to these things, because he notices it. He shouts, as if there’s someone uninvited.
“Dad!” he shouts. “There’s a dead pixel on my screen!”
He refers to me. I’ve learned that. I think it’s wrong, that he calls me dead, but he’s sort of right, in a way. I’m not actually dead, but I feel dead inside. I’ve felt better than this. I know that much. I know that much can’t help, though. I move out of the way, because I don’t like him when he’s angry.
“Son, where is it?” the dad questions. “Oh.” He says. “Don’t worry, it’s gone.”
With that, I watched as the ‘dad’ walks away. That’s when I realise I’m not doing my job. Even if I don’t like it, I know I must play my part. I turn to leave, and as I do, I sadly realise I’ll never make it out. I’ll never be free. Even if I’m not though, at least that kid can cheer me up. He’ll be the person I’ll always look up to.
Literally.