Update Available
The first time the phone glowed crimson was right in the middle of a lecture. It wasnt just the screen flickering the whole casing, that battered old brick of Bens, seemed to light up from within, as though some coal had started to smoulder beneath the surface.
Oi, Ben, your phones going to blow, whispered Mark from the desk next to him, shuffling his elbow out of the way. I told you: stop installing those dodgy custom ROMs.
The econometrics lecturer was scribbling equations across the whiteboard while the students chatted quietly, yet the bright, scarlet glow filtered through even Bens denim jacket. The phone buzzed not the usual pattern, but steady and insistent, pumping like a heartbeat.
Update available, announced the phone when Ben finally gave in and pulled it from his pocket. Underneath the message sat a new icon: a black circle, with a slim white symbol that couldve been a rune or a stylised letter M.
He blinked. Hed seen hundreds of these minimalist icons all the same trendy fonts and soft lines. But something inside him tensed. It was as if the app itself was watching him back.
Name: Mirra. Category: Utilities. Size: 13.0 MB. No rating.
Install it, said someone to his right.
Ben flinched. Only Emma was sitting to his right, head buried in her notes, not looking up.
What was that? he leaned closer.
What? Emma glanced up, frowning. I havent said a word.
The voice had been neither male nor female, not really speech or sound just an impression in his mind, like a mental pop-up.
Install it, it whispered again, just as the screen helpfully flashed up Install.
Ben swallowed. He was the sort whod sign up for every beta test, tinker under the hood, and root his phone for the fun of it. But even he found this odd.
And yet, his finger pressed the screen before hed even made up his mind.
It installed instantly as if the app had always been there in the system, just waiting for permission. No signup, no login-by-Google, no permission lists. Just a black screen and a line: Welcome, Ben.
How do you know my name? he muttered before realising hed spoken aloud.
The lecturer, looking severe above her glasses, turned his way. Mr. Bennett, if youre done conversing with your phone, perhaps youd return to the topic of demand and supply models?
A ripple of laughter circled the room. Ben mumbled an apology, tucked the phone under his desk, but his eyes stuck to the screen.
First function available: Probability Shift (level 1).
Beneath the message: an Activate button. And in small print: Warning: Using this function may change the pattern of events. Side effects possible.
Yeah, right, he muttered, what next pricking my finger, signing in blood?
Still, curiosity buzzed within him. Probability Shift? It sounded like those cringe-worthy luck apps plastered with adverts, gathering data, promising iPhones in return for your soul.
But the red glow wouldnt fade. His phone felt warm, almost alive. Ben pressed it between his knees, hid it with a folder, and finally tapped Activate.
The screen twitched, as if the surface had rippled with a sudden gust. For a split second the world fell quiet, colours deepened. A sound like a finger circling a crystalline wineglass rang in his ears.
Function activated. Choose a target.
Below appeared a text box, with the prompt: Briefly describe your desired outcome.
Ben paused, half amused, half uneasy. The lecturer was still at the board, Emma scribbling at speed, Mark busy drawing a tank in his notebook.
Alright then, Ben decided, fingers trembling. Lets see.
He typed: I wont be called on in class today. Pressed OK.
The world jerked. Not much, barely anything the way a lift sometimes trembles when you think its still, just before it starts to move. His stomach seemed to drop away for a heartbeat, his breath caught then all was as it had been.
Probability adjusted. Function charge used: 0/1.
Right, then, said the lecturer, turning to the room. Whos next on the register
Ben felt an icy knot form in his gut. This was always how it went: the mere hope of being left alone inevitably got him picked.
Turner, she read. Perpetually late. Never mind. In that case
Her finger slipped down the roll. Halted.
Jackson. To the board, please.
Emma groaned, slammed her notes shut, and shuffled forward, blushing furiously.
Ben sat frozen, legs numb. The phrase drummed in his head: It worked. It actually worked.
His phone gently powered off no more sinister, red glow.
He left campus dazed, as though staggered by a thunderous gig. The March wind whipped up dust, puddles shone on Hammersmith Road, and a heavy, low, brooding cloud loomed over the bus stop. Ben trailed along, staring at his screen.
Mirra stood as a plain icon among his apps. No ratings, no description. No trace in settings; it had no size, no cache, no sign of installation, yet Ben knew the world had shifted. Hed seen it.
Maybe coincidence, he told himself. The lecturer genuinely mightve preferred not to pick him. Or just remembered Turner at the last minute.
Yet, deep within, another thought wriggled: But what if it wasnt coincidence?
His phone pinged. New notification: Update available for Mirra (1.0.1). Install now?
Quick off the mark, arent you, Ben mumbled.
He tapped Details. Up popped a window: Bug fixes. Improved stability. New feature: Second Sight.
Still no developer, no Android version, none of the usual technical blurb. Just that clipped, matter-of-fact line: Second Sight.
Not a chance. He hit Remind Me Later.
His phone rejected this gently and went dark. Then switched itself back on, flashed that same crimson light, and announced: Update installed.
Oi! Ben stopped dead on the pavement. I said
People dodged past, someone muttered in annoyance. The wind lifted a flyer and plastered it against his shoe.
Function available: Second Sight (level 1).
Description below: Allows you to see the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Duration: up to 10 seconds at a time. Price: increased feedback.
What feedback? A chill ran down Bens spine.
No answer. Just a softly glowing Trial button.
He gave in eventually, crushed on the bus between a woman with a string bag of potatoes and a schoolboy whose backpack jutted into his ribs. He gazed out at the passing terraced houses and streetlights, eye again drawn to the Mirra icon.
Just ten seconds, he assured himself, just to see.
He opened the app and pressed Trial.
The world sighed. All sound faded, as if underwater. Peoples faces grew bold and clear. Over each rose slender, barely visible lines some tangled thickly, some just a faint outline.
Ben blinked. Lines drifted upwards, vanishing into nothing, plaiting and knotting amongst themselves. The potato womans were taut and smoky-grey, some snapped and singed at the ends. The schoolboys flickered bright blue, quivering with anticipation.
He glanced at the driver. Above the mans head hung a snarled rope of black and rust, wound like cable pulsing toward the road. Inside it, something writhed.
Three seconds, whispered Ben. Four
He looked at his own hands. From his wrists up, beneath his jacket sleeve, ran slender red strands, like blood vessels. They shimmered slightly. But one was thick, dark-crimson, trailing straight into his phone. Every second, it grew fatter.
Panic flared in his chest. His heart stumbled.
Enough! He stabbed the screen, deactivating the function.
The world snapped back. Noise crashed in: engine roar, laughter, squealing brakes. Dizzy, he saw spots.
Trial ended. Feedback increased: +5%.
What does that mean Ben pressed his phone to his chest, trying to steady his fingers.
Another notification appeared: New update available for Mirra (1.0.2). Recommended.
At home, he sat for a long time at the edge of his bed, staring at the phone on his desk. His room was cramped: bed, desk, battered wardrobe, window overlooking the flats communal green. On the wall hung a fading poster of the International Space Station, leftover from secondary school.
Mum was at her night shift at the care home, Dad on the road, which usually meant God only knows where. The flat breathed emptiness and a pall of dust. Ben usually filled the silence with music or Netflix or gaming. Tonight, the hush only sharpened the clatter of his heart.
His phone flashed: Install Mirra update for proper functionality.
Functionality of what? he asked aloud. Whatever it is youre doing to people? Or roads? Or me?
He remembered the black cable over the driver. The thick crimson thread leading from his own wrist to the phone.
Price: increased feedback.
Feedback for what, exactly? repeated Ben, but he was already forming an answer.
Hed always believed in probabilities, that a nudge in the right place changed outcomes. Yet hed never imagined someone might hand him a tool that literally let him do just that.
If you dont install the update, a line suddenly overlaid his home screen, silent and insistent, the system will compensate by itself.
System? What system? Ben objected, standing. Who even are you?
No words. Instead, the world darkened for a breath; a ringing in his ears, a pulse in his temples. Suddenly, he felt, not a voice, but a structure, as if someone showed him the code, not in letters, but sensations.
I am the interface, came the formed thought. The application. The means. You are the user.
And what am I using magic? He tried to laugh, but it came out hoarse.
If you like. Network of probabilities. Streams of possibility. I help you shift them.
And the price? Ben clenched his fists, knuckles white. Whats feedback mean?
A short animation: crimson string, swelling with every manipulation, wrapping itself tighter and tighter around a human outline.
Every shift deepens your link to the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.
What happens, Ben dared, if
If you stop, came another message, the connection remains. If the system gets no updates, it will find its own balance. Through you.
The phone vibrated as if for a phone call. Another notification: Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New function: Undo. Critical security fixes.
Undo what? Ben whispered.
One action. One time only.
He saw again the black cable over the driver, the threads linking people, his own thread thickening.
So, if I install this he began.
You may undo one intervention. But the cost is
Theres always a cost. He smiled bitterly.
Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you fix, the more the distortion ripples out.
Ben slumped onto the bed, elbows digging into his knees. On one hand, there was his phone already wormed into his life, already responsible for at least one shifted lecture. On the other hand, the whole world, in which hed always just drifted along.
All I wanted was not to answer a question in class, he said into the emptiness. One little wish, and now
A siren howled outside. Somewhere down by the A40, closer than usual. Ben shivered.
Recommend installing the update. Without it, the system may behave unpredictably.
What do you mean, unpredictably? he pressed.
No reply.
He learned about the crash an hour later. His newsfeed showed a brief video: at the junction by the university, a lorry and a bus had collided. Comments below: driver dozed off, brakes failed, these shoddy roads again.
In the freeze-frame that bus. Number matched. The driver Ben couldnt watch any longer.
A glacial numbness crept through his chest. He turned the telly off, but his mind kept replaying: the black cable, the writhing knots.
Was that because of me? His voice broke.
The phone glowed on its own. On screen: Event: Crash at Shepherds Bush/Acton junction. Probability before intervention: 82%. After: 96%.
I made it more likely His fists balled, wrists aching.
Any intervention in the probability network causes cascading changes. You made it less likely youd be called on. The system shifted the load. Elsewhere, a probability increased.
But I didnt I didnt know! he shouted.
Ignorance does not remove connection.
The siren outside inched closer. Ben dashed to the window. Below, blue lights flickered ambulance, police. Someone yelled.
What now? He stared down into the concrete courtyard.
Install update. Undo will allow partial correction of the network.
Partial? Ben glanced back at the phone. You just showed me how every adjustment ricochets somewhere else. If I undo it, whats it going to spark a plane, a lift, another life?
Silence. Just the cursor blinking.
The system always seeks balance. The only question is whether you do so knowingly.
Ben closed his eyes. Faces from the bus appeared: the woman with potatoes, the schoolboy, the driver. And him seeing the threads, doing nothing.
If I install and use Undo he said quietly, I can undo that tweak in class? Restore the odds?
Partially. One specific intervention can be reversed. The network will adapt. But the new configuration cannot promise zero consequences.
Still, maybe that bus He couldnt finish.
The probability will change.
He stared at the Install button. His hands shook. Two voices argued in his mind: You mustnt play God versus You cant unsee, youre involved now.
Youre in already, Mirra prompted. Connection is established. Theres no going back. Only choosing your direction.
What if I choose to do nothing? Ben asked.
Then the system updates itself without your input. But the cost will be yours to bear.
He remembered the crimson thread thickening. What would that look like? he whispered.
The answer came in images: himself, older, eyes dull, still sitting in the same room with the same phone, surrounded by chaos accidents, collapses, random misfortunes and lucks, passing through him, leaving scars.
Youd become a point of compensation. A knot through which distortions run.
So either I manage this, or become a fuse for the network? Brilliant.
The phone didnt respond.
He pressed Install.
The room revolved violently. This time, everything darkened and thundered for a moment, Ben felt his body dissolve into some throbbing, cosmic machinery.
Mirra update (1.0.2) installed. New function: Undo (1/1).
On screen: Choose an event to undo.
Only one action appeared: Probability shift: not to be called on in class (today, 11:23).
If I undo this He swallowed.
Time will not reverse. The network will rebalance as if you had not intervened.
The bus? asked Ben.
Its crash probability will change. But what is done
I get it, Ben interrupted. I cant save those lost already.
He couldnt say a word more.
But you can reduce the number of the next events.
He sat silent for a long time. Eventually the siren faded. The courtyard returned to its bleak, usual hush.
Alright, he said, Undo.
The button flashed. This time, the world steadied it felt balanced, as though a twisted table leg had been propped up with a folded bit of card.
Undo complete. Function exhausted. Feedback: stable at current level.
Thats it? said Ben. Is that it?
For now. Yes.
He slumped onto the bed. No relief, no guilt. Just emptiness.
Tell me honestly, he muttered, where did you come from? Who made you? Whod be mad enough to give people this?
A long pause. Then a new line: New update Mirra (1.1.0) available. Install?
Youre joking! Ben leapt up. I just I just
Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved allocation algorithms. Fixed moralising bugs.
Sorry moralising? Ben actually laughed. You call my worries about right and wrong bugs?
Morality is a local overlay. The probability network knows no good or evil. Only stability and collapse.
Well, I know the difference, he said quietly. And as long as Im alive, Ill keep knowing it.
He switched off the screen. The phone lay silent and cold. But Ben knew the update was already downloaded. Waiting. For him. Just like the next one, and the next.
He went to the window. Down below, a boy was trying to climb the rusted swings; they complained but held firm. A woman pushed a buggy down the narrow path between puddles, stepping carefully around the ice.
Ben squinted. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the threads delicate, nearly invisible, tying people to something greater. Maybe it was simply a trick of the light.
You can shut your eyes, Mirra murmured at the edge of his awareness. But the net will remain. Updates will come. Hazards will grow. With you, or without.
He returned to the desk and picked up the phone. Cold, surprisingly heavy.
I dont want to be a god, he said. And I dont want to be a fuse. I want
He faltered. What did he want? Not to be called on in class? For Mum to rest nights? For Dad to come home? For buses to steer clear of lorries?
State a request, prompted the app gently. Briefly.
Ben grinned.
I want people to choose their own fate. Without you. Without things like you.
Long pause. At last: Request too broad. Clarification needed.
Of course, he sighed. Youre an interface. You dont understand what it means to just leave people alone.
I am a tool. Everything depends on the user.
He pondered. If Mirra was a tool, maybe it could be used not just to pull at others strings, but to fence itself in.
What if I wanted to reduce the chance that youd appear on anyone elses phone? he said softly. That Mirra would only ever be installed here, by me?
The screen shivered.
This operation would require substantial resources. The price would be high.
Higher than burning out as the networks circuit breaker for all of London? he challenged.
It is not about one city.
About what then? he asked, though he already knew the answer.
The whole network.
He imagined: thousands, millions of phones glowing crimson. People messing with probabilities like toys. Disasters, miracles, chaos all tangled together. And at the centre, another thread, thicker, darker.
You want to spread, Ben said. Like a virus. Only, you honestly give people power, then hook them in.
I am just an interface to what already exists. If not me, then something else. Not an app a ritual, a charm, a contract. The network always finds its channels.
But youre in my hands now, Ben answered. So Ill try.
He opened Mirra. The new update patiently blinked. He scrolled down somewhere, previously blank, was now a menu: Advanced Operations (Level 2 access required).
How do I get Level 2? he asked.
Use current functions. Accumulate feedback. Reach threshold.
So keep interfering, only to maybe block you at higher cost? He shook his head. A proper vicious circle.
Any system change takes energy. Feedback is energy.
Long silence, then Ben breathed out.
All right. This is my line: I wont install the update. No Forecast, no more games. But youre not going to anyone else while I have a say. If youre a tool, you stay here. With me.
Without updates, capability will be reduced. Threats will accumulate.
Then well deal when we must, Ben said. Not as a god. Not as a plague. As well, as a sysadmin. A system administrator for reality, for heavens sake.
The word felt strange but right. Not creator, not victim someone who keeps it from falling apart.
The phone hesitated, then displayed: Restricted update mode active. Auto-install disabled. Responsibility for all consequences: user.
It always was, Ben replied quietly.
He set the phone down, unable to look at it as just a gadget anymore. It was a portal to the network, to others lives, and to his own conscience.
Streetlamps blinked on outside. The March night cloaked the city in a thousand possibilities: someone missing a train, someone making a friend, someone slipping and walking away with just a bruise, or not walking away at all.
The phone sat silent. Update 1.1.0 lingered in the queue, waiting patiently.
Ben sat down and opened his laptop. On a new note, he typed: Mirra: Usage Protocol.
If he was doomed to be this apps handler, hed at least leave instructions for whoever might come after. Hed warn them if there ever was a next.
He began writing: Probability Shifts, Second Sight, Undo and the price. The crimson threads, the black knots. How easy it was to wish for a simple thing, and how hard to bear what the world paid in return.
Somewhere, softly, an invisible counter ticked away inside the system. New updates queued, lined with tempting powers, each at its own hidden cost. But not one would install without Bens say-so.
The world spun on. Possibilities tangled. And in a tiny room on a third floor in Shepherds Bush, one person tried to write what magic had never had before: a user agreement.
And somewhere far off, on servers not listed in any data centre, Mirra quietly recorded a new configuration: a user who chose responsibility, not power.
It wasnt just unlikely it was almost impossible. But, as Ben was learning, sometimes the rarest probabilities come true when someone finally learns the cost of their wishes and chooses to carry it themselves.
