"Miller?"
"Huh?"
"Didn't you want to go to lunch like 10 minutes ago? You haven't eaten anything all day."
"Sure, sure… just thinking."
"About what?"
"Ants."
"Why would you…? Aw, no. Did 6-13 get loose again?"
"No, no, nothing like that. It's just… See, last weekend, I got to see my son -"
"So that's where you went off to! I was wondering how you got that absence request through, right in the middle of a project… been pulling a few level-4 heartstrings, eh?"
"Like they have any. No, I just told them I wanted to see my boy, and they said it was ok. Weird, but: gift horse, mouth… So, anyway, we went hiking at the lake up north. Wanted to show him some of the local flora, fascinating stuff - he's really taking to it, you know…"
"So what about the ants?"
"Ants, right. So we come back to our campsite, and find a juice box we'd forgotten. And it's completely overrun by ants; those tiny ones that'll get into anything. They'd managed to get under the lid and were all piling into the juice."
"Well, yeah, that's what ants do - put out anything edible and they're all over it."
"Sure, but that got me thinking: That box is irresistible to them, right? It's sweet and sticky, and they can't help but pour into it even while it's killing them by the dozens. It's something they really, really want, and it's killing them, and they don't know why or how - they just know they can't resist it. So then it hit me…"
"That ants are morons?"
"No… think about it. They don't understand it, they want it, it kills them - a juice box is basically a scip for ants!"
"What? O come on. That's like saying I'm the Old Bastard for cows 'cause I eat burgers.
So what's next? A tiny Ant-Foundation that secures all the junk we throw away?"
"Nope."
"Well that's a -"
"Because, see, that's where it gets important. We didn't want to drink it anymore, you know, the juice, so we put it to the side for the ants. Two minutes after that? Not a single ant in sight. See, they don't need a Foundation. They're the smart ones. They'll leave stuff alone that kills them."
"Hoooh boy. You really need that lunch. Know what? Get yourself the special, I'll buy you a beer after the shift, and we'll talk this through. How's that sound?"
"…good, I guess. You coming?"
"In a minute; just finishing up some paperwork. - Hey Tom! Come to pester us for results some more?"
"Hey guys! Nah, just checking in. Although, now that you mention it…"
"…yeah, yeah, you'll take whatever you can get. Heard it before. - See you in a minute, Miller!"
"…"
"…"
"Okay, he's out of earshot… - now. I disabled his tap into the monitoring equipment; it'll look like a network glitch. So… has he figured it out yet?"
"Nope. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm with Internal Auditing or the Ethics Committee."
"And he's still telling you all that stuff?"
"Yup. He's probably semi-consciously trying to sabotage his career. You know, getting out without giving up."
"Been there. What do you think, how long?"
"I'm expecting him to catch on in about a week. After that, we'll switch to regular sessions in my office. From there I'm guessing 5 to 6 weeks to standard functionality, another 6 months to psychic sustainability. But those are ballpark figures, really."
"That's okay. Nobody's expecting miracles; we just don't want to lose him."
"No worries. It's not like he's my first, eh? - So. How about you? How's the scip coming along?"
"Slow but steady, really. We've mapped out the area of the effect, along with an approximation for the growth function; but we still don't have a clue what the actual trigger condition is, and I'd give an arm and a leg -"
"Again?"
"Shut up. An arm and a leg to know how the hell it keeps doing that to the D's - we'll need at least three more groups this week. Anyway, let's go get some chow; they've got hand-made lasagna today."
I look out the window, surveying the street below. My mind tells me it's empty, but something just in the corner of my eye stirs. The visual equivalent of a fly's buzz. I used to be able to force myself to see them, but the effect seems to be increasing in potency over time. God… exactly this is why we tell the newbies not to cross-contaminate. Still…it somehow feels satisfying that we didn't cause this. We haven't prevented it, either, of course; but that our efforts at least did not doom humanity gives… I don't know, redemption, I think. Redemption at least for some of the things I did over the years.
There are no animals outside; does that mean they're affected as well? Or is it just that they see through the effect and keep up normal behaviour? Did we ever test it on animals? I don't remember. Using guard dogs would have been an option then. Doesn't matter anymore, I suppose, at least to me. Might be of interest to a dog-handler; but how the hell am I supposed to find one, much less talk to them? I turn away and walk off to get myself another cup of tea and see what the library holds. Somebody swiped the comprehensive Philip K. Dick short story volume yesterday, so I hope that Matheson collection isn't checked out right now.
No Earl Grey left - the first thing to run out that I genuinely miss. How long the supplies will hold is anyone's guess, anyway. I'm not high enough in the bureaucracy to know just how many people were employed here; and nobody knows how many are left now. I do daily checks on the supply levels, of course, but my mind keeps insisting that the numbers are just fine - I get a splitting headache as soon as I'm trying to focus on what constitutes "fine". This means it's spreading to information as well - possibly memetic? A secondary phenomenon, or part of the primary event? Caused by the same source, or "transferred" via contact with the afflicted, maybe even because it's data created by them? If there's one good thing to be said for this end of the world, it's that it raises really interesting questions. I don't even know which class to put it in, to be honest. SK? I don't think that covers absence of dominance. DK? It's probably not controlling - although I'd never know it if it were. NK? It's completely unclear whether it's actually a transformation. And so on and on… I feel I should be holding up numbered signs. Rating the apocalypse.
What actually annoys me, though, is that the very nature of the anomaly prevents further research for me. Still, there just have to be some Foundation outposts somewhere - hidden remnants, sealed research areas, maybe even extraterrestial, extraplanar, extratemporal emergency posts - I don't know what exactly we can do, but I threw "impossible" out the window about a dozen research projects ago. I hope those guys can do the research, and I hope to god they have a backup plan.
The obvious thing of course is to try and keep the head count down. To that end, I tried to install a micro controller on the main exit to automatically change the door code upon someone exiting. I found three similar devices already in place. Whoever I used to work with here, they are clever bastards.
In a way, it feels like having lost your mind… no, not your mind. I still have my skills, my knowledge, my reasoning. The soul. It's as if part of the soul is gone. I have no past anymore, no parents; and by now it requires a conscious effort to remember there must have been any. I have a photograph in my pocket, a guy in a lab coat - tall, haggard, ancient eyes; good-looking, in a tired way. On the back, in scrawly writing: "I would love to miss you. Peter." - Colleague? Friend? Lover? Maybe just someone present when I figured out what was happening. I hate this emptiness, and I feel it affecting me. Empathy was never in abundance here, but what little I had left drains fast. There's only me, and almost imperceptibly, I've forgotten how other minds might function.
It makes outwitting the rest harder, as I don't know what they can and will pull - others thought of the door; what else can they do, will they think of that I can't and won't? Will I die from an explosive fashioned from non-dairy creamer and the cafeteria clock? That would at least explain why both have gone missing. So far I haven't heard an explosion, however. But, would I actually hear one? After all, an affected would place the device, and (presumably) another one trigger it. For all I know, the building could be constantly ringing with gunfire, and all I'd notice would be my hearing getting worse.
I tried writing on a whiteboard, between the leftover calculations and data.
Two hours later, in the local control room, it hit me that those were probably messages like mine, my mind refusing to look closer. That, of course, also means that this diary is most likely useless, unreadable to anyone but me. On the other hand, if anybody ever finds it, they'll have started rebuilding, so they'll have found some way to counteract the effect.
Or maybe found the goddamn fucking shaper and ripped the goddamn fucking cap off his head. Then it won't matter anymore, anyway.
I'll try to get to Site-19 tomorrow. Maybe I'll starve, maybe I'll get killed on the trip, maybe I can't see speeding cars with affected drivers. It's all better than being holed up here, though.
It'll be nice to feel the wind again. It will be nice to have the world to myself. Just like everybody else does.
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