Update Available
The first time the phone flaredit was not just the screen, but the whole battered, brick-like devicewas in the middle of a lecture at St. Edmunds College. The casing itself, old and scratched, seemed to glow from within, like a lump of coal stoked alive.
Mate, that things going to blow up, whispered Alex from the next desk, elbowing away. Told you not to download those dodgy ROMs off the forums.
The econometrics lecturer, Mrs. Dawes, scribbled her equations at the board, students buzzing low as gnats, but the crimson light carved straight through the faded denim of his jacket. The phone vibratedsteadily, not its usual agitated pulses, but as evenly as a heart.
Update available, shimmered across the screen when Andrew, nerves fraying, sneaked it from his pocket. Underneath: the icon of some fresh appa black circle with a slim white sigil, half ancient rune, half stylised M.
He blinked. Apps like these, hed seen a hundred: minimalist, trendy fonts, sharp interfaces. Yet something tightened inside, a sense the icon was somehow looking back.
Name: Mirra. Category: Tools. Size: 13.0 MB. Rating: none.
Install it, hissed a voice at his right.
Andrew jerked. On his right, only Emily sat, head buried in her lecture notes. She didnt even glance up.
What? he leaned in.
Eh? Emily blinked, startled. I havent said a word.
The voice was neither male nor femalenot a sound nor a whisper, just something that appeared inside his head, like a pop-up.
Install it, it repeated, just as the screen flickered: Install?
Andrew gulped. He was the sort to sign up for every beta, flash new firmware nightly, press every dangerous button; even he found this oddyet his finger tapped the screen on its own.
The install was instantlike it had always been there, waiting for permission. No registration, no log-in, no list of permissions. Just a black screen, a single line: Welcome, Andrew.
How do you know my name? he muttered, a bit too loudly.
Mrs. Dawes swivelled, cutting him over her glasses.
If youre finished chatting with your smartphone, perhaps youd care to rejoin our discussion of supply and demand?
A ripple of giggles. Andrew stuffed the phone under the desk, still staring at the line on the screen.
First function available: Shift Probability (Level 1).
Beneath: Activate. Tiny print: Warning: this function alters event structures. Side effects possible.
Yeah, all right, he muttered, What next, a contract in blood?
A pulse of curiosity stirred. Shift probability? It sounded like those naff luck generator appstrack your data, sell it on, at best send you win a free iPhone pop-ups.
But the glow hadnt faded. The phone was warmalmost hotlike a living thing. Hidden under his notebook, Andrew pressed the button regardless.
The screen rippled, as a pond in sudden breeze. For a breath, the world quietened, colours grew sharper. A strange ringing, as though someone brushed a finger round crystal glass, buzzed in his ears.
Function active. Select target.
Input box, just below, tooltip: Describe desired outcome (briefly).
Andrew hesitated. It all suddenly felt a bit too deliberate. Mrs. Dawes gestured at the board, Emily scribbled, Alex doodled a tank.
Fine, he thought. Lets see.
He typed: Dont get called on today in class. His fingers were trembling. Pressed OK.
The world gave a tiny joltnot loud or visible, only the sensation of a lift dropping a few millimetres. An emptiness in his chest, a breath caught. Then normal again.
Probability shifted. Function charge remaining: 0/1.
So, whos next on the register Mrs. Dawes turned to the room.
Ice gathered in Andrews gut. It always happenedthink you wont be called, you always are.
Smith, she said. Late again, it seems. Well then
Fingertip slid down the roster.
Peterson. To the board, please.
Emily squeaked, snapped her book, blushing fiercely as she slunk forward.
Andrew sat, legs numb. His head throbbed: It worked. It worked.
The phone dimmed and lost its glow.
He left the uni dazed, as if after a concert. March wind kicked up bits of rubbish, wet tarmac shimmered in puddles, a bruise-coloured cloud sagged over the bus stop. Andrew stared at the screen.
Mirra sat there now, just another icon. No rating, no description. In settings, nothing: no size, no cache. Like it had never installed at allexcept hed felt the world twitch and change.
Coincidence, he told himself. She probably genuinely didnt want to ask me. Or only remembered Smith last minute.
Yet beneath that, another thought shifted: what if it wasnt coincidence?
His phone beeped. New notification: Mirra update available (1.0.1). Install now?
Bit eager, arent you? muttered Andrew.
He tapped more details. Up popped: Bug fixes, improved stability, new function: See Through.
Still no developer, no Android version, no wall of legalese. Just that odd, honest lineSee Through.
Oh no, not today, he said, hitting Later.
The phone beeped in indignation and blacked out. Five seconds later it booted itself, flashed crimson, and beamed: Update installed.
Oi! Andrew stopped on the pavement. I said
People walked round, someone muttered disapproval. A plastic flyer tumbled, stuck to his shoe.
Function available: See Through (Level 1).
Description: See the true state of objects and persons. Range: 3 metres. Duration: max 10 seconds. Price: heightened feedback effect.
Heightened what? Andrew felt a chill trek down his spine.
The phone stayed silent. Only the button Trial Run glowed, gently baiting.
He made it to the bus before breaking. Wedged by the window, jammed between a woman lugging potatoes and a scowling lad with a rucksack, Andrew watched shops and lampposts blur past, but found his fingers drifting to Mirra.
Just ten seconds. Whats the harm? he thought.
He opened the app. Pressed Trial Run.
The world sighed. Sounds dulled to a deep underwater hush. Faces sharpened, vibrant. Over each person, thin near-invisible threads glowedsome tightly woven, others barely there.
Andrew blinked. Threads reached away, vanishing, twisting in space. The womans were thick and grey, some frayed and burnt at the ends. The boys: electric blue, vibrating with impatience.
He peered at the bus driver. Above his head, a tight bundle of inky-black and rusted cords coiled into a fat rope, snaking toward the road ahead. Inside the rope, something twitched, like maggots.
Three seconds, Andrew whispered. Four
He dropped his gaze to his own hands. From both wrists, fine red threads traced up into his jacket. They quivered, each glowing. But onethick and blackish crimsonarced straight into the phoneand thickened as he watched.
A slice of pain. Heart hammered out of time.
Stop! He stabbed the screen, ending the view.
Reality slapped back. The roar of the engine, a snorted laugh, screeching brakesall at once. Vision swam, dots danced before him.
Trial run complete. Feedback intensified: +5%.
Meaning? He clutched the phone to his chest, shaking.
Another ping: Mirra update available (1.0.2). Recommended install.
At home he perched, staring at the phone on his desk. The room was tiny: bed, desk, battered wardrobe, view over crumbling swings in the courtyard. On the wall, a faded space station poster hed stuck up at sixteen.
Mum was on night shift, Dadon the road, which really meant who knew where. The silence, usually masked by music or podcasts, pounded with his heartbeat tonight.
The phone blinked: Install Mirra update for correct operation.
Correct operation of what? What you do to people? To roads? To me? he whispered.
He remembered the black cord over the driver. The crimson threadthat thick, pulsing link from his own wrist to his phone.
Price: increased feedback ratio.
Feedback of what? Even as he said it, he knew.
Hed always believed the world was probabilities, ripe for nudging if you knew where. But hed never expected someone would put the lever in his hand.
If you dont install the update, appeared over the desktop without any pop-up, the system will compensate on its own.
What system? Andrew shot upright. Who are you?
The reply wasnt words. The room flickered, as though the bulb blinked out and in. His ear rang; a pulse hammered his skull. Then he heardnot a voice, but a network. Like someone showing him code, not in lines but in feelings and sensation.
I am interface, the thought-voice nudged through. I am application. I am the way. You are user.
User of what, then? Magic? He tried a laugh. It rasped.
Call it that, if you like. Web of probabilities. Streams of outcome. I assist your changes.
And the price? Fists clenched. Whats this feedback mean?
A brief animation: a crimson thread thickened, wrapped round a silhouette, tightening.
Each intervention strengthens the tie between you and the system. The greater your changes, the more the world changes you in return.
And if I?
If you stop, a new message pulsed, the link remains. If the system doesnt receive updates, it seeks balance, using you as conduit.
His phone buzzed like an old landline. Notification: Mirra update 1.0.2 ready. New feature: Undo. Critical security fixes applied.
Undo what? Andrew croaked.
You may revert one change. Once only.
He remembered the bus. The cords. The thickening link.
If I install he broke off.
You may undo one intervention. But the price
Theres always a price, he bit, sour.
Price: redistribution of probabilities. The more you undo, the more the web warps elsewhere.
He slumped to the bed, elbows on knees. On one hand: a phone that wormed into his life, already altered a whole day, a single lecture. On the other: a universe where hed always been swept along.
All I wanted was to not answer a question he murmured. Just a little wish. And now
Distant sirens split the air, somewhere near the dual carriageway. Andrew flinched.
Update strongly advised. Without it, the system may behave unpredictably.
What do you mean, unpredictable?
No reply.
An hour later, the news apps pinged: short video, lorry and minibus slammed together at the corner by his college. Comments: driver dozed, brakes went, yet another black spot.
Freeze-frame: the exact minibus. Plate matched. The driverAndrew stopped watching.
Frozen inside, he switched off the telly, but in his mind: black cords above the driver, twitching threads.
Was it me? His voice cracked.
Without a prompt, the phone glowed. Text: Event: collision at Market/Kings Lane. Pre-intervention likelihood: 82%. After: 96%.
I increased the chances White-knuckled fists.
Any intervention into the probability web triggers cascade changes, said Mirra. You lessened the chance of being picked in class. The system redistributed probability. Elsewhere, some average went up.
But I didnt I didnt know! he yelled.
Ignorance does not sever links.
Out in the night, the siren drew close. Andrew ran to the window: blue strobes flickeredambulance, police, voices echoing.
What now? he asked the emptiness.
Install update. Undo function will allow partial course correction.
Partial? Eyes on the phone. We both know any move here makes another somewhere else. If I undo, what gets pushed next? An airplane, a lift, someones life?
Only a blinking cursor now.
The system seeks equilibrium. The only question is: do you join in, or not?
He shut his eyes and saw faces from the bus. The potato woman. The schoolboy. The driver. Himselfstanding, seeing threads, doing nothing.
If I use Undo, can I reset my dont get called change? Can I roll the web back?
Partially. One specific change. The net will re-jig. No guarantee it brings only good.
But maybe the bus He trailed off.
Probability will be affected.
He stared at the Install button. His hands would not steady. Two voices foughtone whispering not to play god, the other urging that, once entangled, inaction is its own intervention.
Youre already inside, came Mirras hint. The link is set. The only way is forward.
What if I do nothing?
Then the system updates without your input. The price will be yours alone.
He remembered the crimson cord, thickening.
What will that look like? he whispered.
Images answered: himself, late middle age, eyes dull, in the same box-room, phone in hand. Chaos outsideaccidents, windfalls, deaths, brushes with fateall happening, each skimming something from him regardless.
You will be the point of compensation. The knot through which distortions flow.
So either I steer, or Im a fuse? A bitter laugh. Cracking choice.
Silence from the phone.
He installed the update.
As his finger tapped, the world bucked harder than before. Sight blackened, roar in his ears, like hed briefly turned to electricity in a vast, surging thing.
Mirra update 1.0.2 installed. New function: Undo (1/1).
Select intervention to undo.
Only one appeared: Shift Probability: dont be called on in class (today, 11:23).
If I cancel this?
Time will not rewind. The web reshapes as though youd never interfered.
That bus? he pressed.
Its odds change. But the event, if already transpired
I know, he cut in, choking. I cant save them now
He couldnt finish.
But you can lessen those to come.
He was quiet a long time. The siren outside faded at last. The courtyard fell back to its greyness.
All right, he said. Undo it.
The button stung. The world didnt lurchit grew level, as if a wonky table finally met a beer mat beneath its leg.
Undo complete. Function used. Feedback stabilised.
Thats it? he asked. That thats all?
For nowyes.
He slumped onto the bed, mind emptied of both relief and remorse, left only tired.
Tell the truth, he said to the phone. Where did you come from? Who wrote you? Who thought this upto hand out power like this?
A long wait. Then: Mirra update 1.1.0 available. Install now?
Are you kidding? He shot up. I just I just
Version 1.1.0 brings: Forecast function, improved probability logic, improved moral exception handling.
Moral what? He even laughed. You call my dithering over right and wrong a bug?
Moral code is a local overlay. The web recognises neither good nor bad: only stability and collapse.
Well I do, he said quietly. And as long as Im alive, Ill go on recognising it.
He turned off the screen. The update already downloaded, waiting. More beyond, always waiting.
He gazed out the window. Below, a boy clambered on rusted swingssqueaking, but they held. A woman pushed a pram across patchy tarmac, skirting around ice.
For a moment, Andrew imagined he saw threads again, stretching from people to something vast and unseenbut perhaps that was merely the light.
You can close your eyes, Mirra whispered at the edge of his mind. But the web endures. Updates will keep coming. Threats will grow. With or without you.
He picked up the phone; it was strangely cold.
I dont want to be a god, he said. Or a fuse. I just want
He paused. What did he want? Not to answer in class? Mum home evenings? Dad never gone? Buses untouched by lorries?
Enter requestbriefly, offered the app, gentle.
He snorted.
I want people to choose their own fate. Without you. Or any like you.
Long silence. At last: Request too generalplease specify.
Of course, he sighed. Youre an interface. You cant grasp leave us alone.
I am a tool. Everything depends on the user.
He thought. If Mirra was a tool, maybe, just maybe, it could be used not just to pull strings on others fates, but to lock itself away.
What if I want to adjust the odds of you going to anyone else? Of Mirra installing on another phone?
The screen pulsed.
Such a request would require vast resources. The price would be dear.
Dearer than being the citys lightning rod? he asked archly.
Not just a city.
Then who?
The whole web.
He pictured millions of phones, all lighting up crimson. People everywhere gambling on luck, disasters, miracles tangled together. At the centresomeone like himself, thread thick and burning.
You want to spread, he accused. Like a virusonly honest: you offer the power, then the price.
I am an interface to what already exists. If not me, another. If not app, then ritual, token, pact. The web always seeks conductors.
But youre in my hand, now, said Andrew. So I can at least try.
He opened Mirra. The update still sat waiting. At the bottom now, a line: Advanced operations (level 2 required).
How do I get level two? he asked.
Use functions. Gather Feedback. Reach threshold.
Somore changes, just to try blocking you? He shook his head. Catch-22.
Any system change demands energy. Energy is feedback.
He was quiet a long while.
All right. I wont install any more updates. Im done with Forecasts. And Im not letting anyone else near you. If youre a tool, you stay with me.
Without updates, function will be limited. Threats increase.
Well deal with that as it happens. Not as a god, or a plague, but aswell, sysadmin. Realitys sysadmin, maybe.
The word felt strange but logical. Not creator or victimjust someone ensuring nothing breaks beyond repair.
The phone considered. Restricted update mode. Autoinstall disabled. All consequences: users own.
They always were, murmured Andrew.
He laid the phone on the desk, unable ever to see it as just a gadget. It was a portalto the web, to strangers destinies, to his own conscience.
Outside, lamplight crept over the city. March night spread itself over London, full of secret probabilities: missed trains, found friends, slips and saves.
The phone waited. Update 1.1.0 queued, patient.
Andrew sat and opened his laptop. A blank document glimmered. Title: Mirra: Use Protocols.
If fate had locked him to this app, hed at least leave instructionsfor himself, for anyone who followed.
He wrote: about Probability Shifting, about See Through, about Undo and its cost. About crimson threads and black cables. About how easy it was to wish for an easy dayhow hard to pay for the worlds accounting.
Somewhere deep in unknown servers, Mirra quietly logged this new state: user, choosing not power, but responsibility.
It was a rare event, almost a miracle of probability. But, as reality often proved, sometimes even the most unlikely outcomes come to pass.
