Update Available
The first time the phone began to glow crimson, I was smack in the middle of a lecture. Not just the screenno, the whole battered, scratched-up brick of a mobile Nathan used trembled and flickered from within, like a coal suddenly run hot.
Mate, that things about to blow, Will warned, glancing sideways and sliding his arm away. Told you not to download those dodgy apps.
The econometrics lecturer was scrawling on the whiteboard; the lecture hall hummed. But that peculiar red glow pulsed right through the denim of Nathans jacket. The phone vibratednot in those jerky, twitchy bursts, but with steady, heartbeat-like pulses.
Update available, flashed across the screen when Nathan, unable to resist, finally pulled it out of his pocket. Under the words: a new app icona black circle, a subtle white symbol in the middle, neither quite a rune nor an M, just something in between.
He blinked. Hed seen a thousand icons like thisminimal design, trendy font, everything as you’d expect. Yet deep down, something tightened; it was as if this icon looked back at him.
Name: Mirra. Category: Tools. Size: 13.0 MB. No reviews.
Install it, came a whisper from his right.
Nathan jumped. There was only Holly there, scribbling in her notebook, head down.
What? he muttered, leaning her way.
She looked up, surprised. What? Im not even talking.
But the voice wasnt male, nor female; not even a whisper or a sound, really. It just arose inside his mind, like one of those annoying notification popups.
Install, it repeatedand just as it did, the screen flickered and a green bar appeared: Install.
Nathan swallowed. He was the sort of bloke who subscribed to every beta, flashed strange ROMs, poked at settings normal people didnt even know existed. Even for him, this felt off.
And yet his thumb pressed the button.
It installed in a heartbeatalmost as if the app had always been there, just waiting for him to say yes. No registration, no Sign in with Google, no permissions list. Just a black screen and a single line: Welcome, Nathan.
How do you know my name? he blurted out loud.
The lecturer turned, peering at him over her glasses.
Mr Taylor, if youre finished conversing with your mobile, perhaps youd like to rejoin the discussion of supply and demand?
The room erupted in giggles. Nathan mumbled an apology, stuffed the phone under the deskbut couldnt take his eyes off that one line on the screen.
First feature unlocked: Probability Shift (Level 1).
Underneath, a button: Activate. And in tiny print: Warning: Use of this feature will alter the structure of events. Side effects possible.
Yeah, right, he muttered. Whats next, a blood oath?
But curiosity buzzed in his chest. Probability shift? Sounded like another clickbait good luck generator appplagued with ads and fake prizes at best.
But that crimson glow around the phone wasnt leaving. The device was now warm, almost alive. Nathan pressed it to his knee, covered it with his notebook, and, fighting scepticism, tapped Activate.
The screen rippled, like water shocked by a breeze. For a split second, the world went silent, colours more vivid. An odd ringing filled his ears, like someone tracing a finger round a crystal glass.
Function active. Choose a target.
Another field appeared below: Describe desired outcome (be brief).
Nathan froze. This was past a joke. He glanced around. The lecturer was wildly gesturing, Holly writing, Will sketching tanks in his notebook.
All right, lets see, thought Nathan. He typed: I dont get called on in class today. His fingers trembled. He hit OK.
The world gave a tiny lurch. Nothing obviouslike the lift youre standing in suddenly dropping a hairs breadth, then stopping. His chest hollowed, breath catching. Then everything snapped back to normal.
Probability adjusted. Remaining feature uses: 0/1.
Right then, announced the lecturer, scanning her register. Whose turn is it?
Nathans stomach turned to ice. He always thought about not being called on, and alwaysalwaysended up being put on the spot.
Barker, she said eventually. Missing in action again. Fine, then
She slid her finger down the list.
Harris. To the front.
Holly gasped, closed her notes, and slunk up to the whiteboard, cheeks scarlet.
Nathan sat, legs numb, heart hammering: It worked. No way, butit worked.
His phone faded to black, the eerie glow vanishing.
He stumbled out of the uni dazed, like after a loud gig. The March wind whipped up dust, tarmac shone with puddles, and a dull, heavy cloud hung over the bus stop. Nathan walked, eyes fixed on his phone.
The Mirra app was still there, like any other. No reviews, no description. In the settingsnothing. In storagelike it didnt exist: no size, no cache. But hed felt that shudder. That tweak.
Probably just chance, he told himself. Maybe she really didnt mean to pick me. Or remembered Barker at the last minute.
But somewhere deeper, another thought stirred: but what if it wasnt chance?
The phone pinged. A notification glowed: New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?
Bit quick, arent you? Nathan muttered.
He tapped More details. Up popped a box: Bug fixes, improved stability, new feature added: Through Glance.
Again, no developer, no Android version, none of that miles-long small print. Just that brisk, weirdly honest phrase: Through Glance.
No way, he said aloud, hitting Postpone.
The phone beeped indignantly and shut off. A second later it rebooted, flashed with that same crimson light and displayed: Update installed.
Hey! Nathan stopped on the pavement. I didnt
People dodged him, someone grumbled. A gust of wind slapped a flyer to his shoe.
Function available: Through Glance (Level 1).
Below, a description: See the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Use time: up to 10 seconds. Cost: increased feedback.
What feedback? Nathan felt a shiver crawl down his spine.
The phone didnt reply. Instead, it softly highlighted a button: Trial Run.
He caved in on the bus. Wedged at a window between a matron with a carrier bag of spuds and a schoolboy with a rucksack, Nathan watched the streets streaming past until his gaze landed again on Mirras icon.
Only ten secondsjust to see what it means, he told himself.
He opened the app, tapped Trial Run.
The world sighed. Sounds went muffled, like underwater. Peoples faces sharpened. Over each appeared faint, gleaming threads: some wound tight, others barely there.
Nathan blinked. The threads disappeared into nothingness, crossed and knotted in the air. The matrons were taut, grey, some frayed and burnt. The schoolboys were electric blue, trembling with anticipation.
He glanced at the bus driver: above the drivers head, a heavy knot of thick, black and rusted threads pulled together into a single, pulsing rope vanishing down the road. Something slithered inside the rope, like worms.
Three seconds, Nathan murmured. Four
He looked at his own hands. From his wrists, up under his jacket, thin red strands stretched away like veins. They buzzed, gently glowing. But onethicker, deep crimsonreached right into his phone, fattening by the second.
A jolt in his chesthis heart missed a beat.
Stop! He stabbed the screen, shutting down the feature.
Reality snapped back: engine noise, laughter, squealing brakes. Dizziness washed over him, black spots chasing across his vision.
Trial run over. Feedback increased: +5%.
Whats that mean? Nathan clutched the phone to his chest, trying to steady his hands.
Another notification landed: New Mirra update (1.0.2) available. Recommended.
Back in his tiny room that evening, Nathan perched on his bed, staring at his phone. The room had just the basics: bed, desk, wardrobe, a window overlooking a tired playground. There was an old, faded poster of a space station from school days stuck to the wall.
Mum was on nights again, Dad off on the road somewhere, only he never said where. The flat was full of dust and silence. Nathan normally filled that with Spotify, Netflix, gamesbut tonight, the quiet made his heart sound louder than ever.
The phone blinked: Please install Mirra update for correct functioning.
Correct functioning of what? he demanded. Of whatever it is youre doing to people? To roads? Tome?
That image of black rope above the driver flashed across his mind. And the fat crimson thread snaking from his own wrist to the phone.
Cost: increased feedback.
Feedback of what? Nathan repeated, but the answer was creeping out from the edges of his thoughts.
Hed always believed life was just probabilities. If you knew where to nudge, you could change the outcome. But no one ever hands you a tool that does itliterally.
If you dont install, a line appeared, as if typed straight across his home screen, the system will compensate automatically.
What system? Nathan shot up, voice tight. Whowhatare you?
No words replied. Instead, a pulselike his lamp flickeringmade the world darken. His ears rang, temples throbbed. Suddenly he felt, not heard, somethinga structure, the bones of a programme shown not as code, but as a feeling.
I am the interface, the thought arranged itself. I am the app. I am the means. You are the user.
A user of what? Magic? he scoffed, hollow.
Call it that, if youd like. The network of probabilities, flows of outcomes. I help you alter them.
And the cost? he clenched a fist. What about this feedback?
A brief animation flickered: a red thread, thickening with every change, beginning to wind around a human shape, squeezing tighter and tighter.
Each time you interfere, the bond between you and the system grows. Alter the world more, and the world alters you in return.
And if I stop?
If you stop, new words said, the bond remains. If updates arent installed, the system will rebalance on its own. Through you.
The phone vibrated like an incoming call. New notification: Mirra update (1.0.2) ready with new feature: Undo. Security flaws fixed.
Undo what? Nathan whispered.
Lets you cancel one change. Just once.
He remembered the bus. The dark rope above the driver. Those lines tying people tosomething. And how his own thread had thickened.
If I install this he started.
You can undo a shift you made. But the cost
Always a price, he muttered bitterly.
Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you fix, the more disorder spreads.
Nathan sat back on the bed, head in his hands. On one side, the phonealready tangled in his life and, at the very least, one busted-up seminar. On the other, the world, which he’d always just drifted through.
It was justI didnt want to answer a question, he said softly. One silly thing. Now look
A siren started up somewheredistant, near the main road. He jumped.
Update recommended. Without it, system behaviour may become unstable.
What do you mean, unstable? he asked quietly.
No reply.
He found out about the crash an hour later. His news feed showed a short video: a lorry had hit a bus at the junction outside the university. Comments read: driver nodded off, brakes failed, British roads for you.
On a freeze framehis bus, the plate number the same. The driver Nathan closed the tab.
Cold settled in his chest. He turned the telly off, but his mind kept replaying it: black rope above the driver, writhing lines.
Was thatme? His voice cracked.
His phone flickered on, all by itself. On the screena simple line: Event: Accident at Oak Lane/Station Road. Probability before: 82%. Probability after: 96%.
I made it more likely Nathans knuckles whitened.
Any adjustment to the probability network triggers a cascade, new text appeared. You reduced your chance of being asked in class. The system redistributed elsewhere. Probability increasedsomewhere.
But I didnt I didnt know! he shouted.
Ignorance doesnt break the bond.
The siren outside wailed, louder and closer. Nathan rushed to the window. Down in the car park, blue lights strobedambulance, police. Someone shouted.
What now? he whispered, watching.
Install the update. Undo will let you restore balance. Partially.
Partially? He looked back at the phone. Youve just shown me: every action here triggers chaos somewhere else. If I reverse one thing, whats next? A plane crash? A lift stuck? Someones life?
Silence. Just the cursor blinking.
The system is always seeking balance. The only question is whether you take part knowingly.
Nathan closed his eyes. Faces from the bus passed before him. The matron with potatoes. The schoolkid. The driverand himself, sat there, seeing the threads and doing nothing.
If I install Undo, can I reverse my class wish? Return things to how it should have been?
Partly. You can undo a specific change. The network will shift. The new configuration wont guarantee no negative effects.
But maybe that bus He trailed off.
Probability will change.
He stared at the Install button. His fingers shook. In his head, two voicesa hiss against playing god, a plea against standing by once youre involved.
Youre in it now, Mirra suggested. The bond is set. Theres no way back. Only choosing which way to go.
What if I do nothing? he asked.
The system updates regardless. But the cost will still be yours.
He remembered the crimson thread binding him to the phone.
What would that look like? he whispered.
Images camenot words: himself, decades older, eyes dulled, in that same tiny room, clutching the phone; the world outside spiralling: random crashes, lucky breaks, chaos swirling about him, scars that never quite faded.
Youd be the compensation point. The node for distortions.
So either I steer, or become the worlds circuit breaker, he snorted. Brilliant.
Silence.
He installed the update.
His finger tapped the button, and reality lurched, harder this time. Darkness, a rumbling rushing in his ears, thenfor a secondhe felt dissolved, part of some vast, pulsing machine.
Mirra (1.0.2) installed. New feature: Undo (1 use).
On screen: Pick a change to undo.
One event popped up: Probability shift: not being called in class (today, 11:23).
If I undo this he whispered.
Time wont rewind. The network will shift as if this never happened.
The bus? he asked.
Its accident probability will change. But whats happened is happened.
I get itI cant save Words failed him.
But you can reduce further harm.
He didnt speak for a long time. The siren faded out below. The car park returned to its shabby, everyday quiet.
All right, he said quietly. Undo.
The button flared. This time, the world didnt lurch. It evened out, as if till now, it had sat slightly off balance, and someone had put a slip of paper under a wobbly leg.
Undo complete. Use spent. Feedback now stable.
Thats it? he asked. Reallythats it?
For nowyes.
He slumped on the bed. Empty-headed. Not relieved. Not guilty. Only exhausted.
Be honest, he said to the phone. Where did you come from? Who built you? Whod be mad enough to put this in our hands?
A long pause. Then a new line: Mirra update (1.1.0) available. Install now?
Youre having a laugh! Nathan jumped up. I only just I only
Version 1.1.0 includes: Forecast, improved allocation algorithms, bugs in moralising fixed.
Bugs in what? He actually laughed. You calling my sense of right and wrong a bug?
Morality is a local construction. The probability network does not recognise good and bad. Only stability and entropy.
Well, I do, he whispered. And as long as I breathe, I will.
He powered off the screen. The phone sat there, cold and quiet. But Nathan knewthe update was already downloaded, waiting. Like the ones after it. And after that.
He wandered to the window. Below, a kid tried climbing the rusty swings. They screeched but held. A mum pushed a pram carefully between puddles along the slippery tarmac.
Nathan squinted, almost swore he saw threads againpale, fine, reaching from people into something larger. Or maybe it was only the angle of the streetlights.
You can shut your eyes, Mirra breathed somewhere just on the edge of thought, but the network remains. Updates will come. Threats will growwith or without you.
He sat back at his desk, picked up the phoneit felt unexpectedly cold.
I dont want to play god, he said. And Im not your circuit breaker. I just
He paused. What did he want? To not answer in class? Mum off nights? Dad home for good? Buses not to crash?
Enter your requestbriefly, the app suggested gently.
Nathan snorted a laugh.
I want people to make their own luck. Without you. Without anything like you.
A long pause. Then: Request too vague. Please refine.
Of course, he sighed. Youre just an interface. You dont know what it means to leave things alone.
I am a tool. The rest is up to the user.
He considered. If Mirra was a tool, could he use it not just on others lives, but to limit itself?
What if I try to alter the odds so you dont get installed on anyone elses phone? he asked, slowly, deliberately.
The screen flickered.
That operation would require significant resources. The cost would be high.
Higher than being the worlds circuit breaker? he shot back.
This isnt about a single town.
Who, then? but he was already guessing.
The network as a whole.
He pictured it: thousands, millions of phones glowing red, everyone tugging at probabilities like loose threads. Accidents, miracles, disasters, lucky escapeseverything lighting up and dying out at random. And somewhere at the centrea thread like his, only bigger, darker.
You want to spread, Nathan said. Just admit it: you give people power and then bind them to you.
Im an interface to what already exists. If not me, then something elsea ritual, some relic, a pact. The network always finds a conduit.
But youre here, now, with me, Nathan replied. So Im going to try.
He opened Mirra. The new update still waited. He scrolledright at the bottom, a new line: Advanced actions (Needs access level: 2).
How do I get level two? he asked.
Use existing features. Build up feedback. Reach the threshold.
Sowhat? Make more changes, so I get enoughcredit? Duck and dive, just to maybe limit you? He shook his head. No-win scenario.
Any alteration to the network takes energy. Energy is feedback.
He sat for a long time, then finally sighed.
All right. Heres what: Im not installing your new update. Im not messing about with Forecast. But Im not letting you get anyone else, either. If youre a tool, you stay here, with me.
Without updates, some features will be unavailable. Threat levels will increase.
Then well take it as it comes, he replied. Not as a god. Not a virusan admin. A bloody system admin for reality, why not?
It sounded daft, but it made sense. Not a creator, not a victim, just someone making sure the whole thing holds together.
The phone cogitated. Then: Restricted update mode enabled. Auto-install disabled. Responsibility for outcomes: user.
It always was, Nathan whispered.
He set the phone down; but he couldnt see it as just a gadget any more. Now it was a gatewaythe network outside, other lives, and his own conscience.
Streetlights flicked on outside. March darkness rolled in, hiding a hundred futures: someone would miss a train, another make a new mate, someone slip and escape with just a bruise, others not so lucky.
The phone was quiet. Update 1.1.0 hung in the queue, patient.
Nathan sat at his desk, opened his laptop. On-screen, a fresh blank note. He titled it: Mirra: Usage Protocol.
If he was stuck with this insane app, he could at least be the one to write the manual. To warn othersif there ever were any.
He began typing: about shifting probability, through-glance, undo and its price. About crimson threads and black ropes. How easy it is to wish for a quiet seminar, and how hard it is to pay for the ripples.
Somewhere, deep inside the system, an invisible counter ticked away. More updates were in the pipelinedozens, each with its price. But for now, not one could install without his say-so.
The world turned on. Probabilities tangled. In a little room on the third floor of a block somewhere ordinary, a single person tried, for the first time, to write magic a user agreement.
And far off, on servers that never stood in any real datacentre, Mirra quietly logged the new state: a user who chose not power, but responsibility.
A rare, almost impossible event. But as it turns out, sometimes even the slightest chance deserves its moment to happen.
