Update Available
The first time it happened, Daniels battered old phone lit up scarlet, right in the middle of the lecture. Not just the screenthe entire brick-like body of the thing, scratched and ancient, glowed from within, as though it had smouldering coals trapped inside.
Mate, is that about to blow? muttered Luke from the next row, shifting his elbow away. Told you not to install those dodgy ROMs.
The econometrics lecturer was drawing cryptic diagrams on the whiteboard, the hall was humming, but the lurid red glow managed to seep out even from under Daniels denim jacket. The phone vibratednot the usual jerky buzz, but with a steady and unsettling rhythm, like a heartbeat.
Update available, said the screen, when Daniel, finally giving in, yanked it out of his pocket. Under the message: an icon for a new appa black circle with a fine white symbol that looked like a rune or perhaps an elaborate M.
He blinked. He could have sworn hed seen hundreds of icons like it beforesome minimalist thing, trendy font, nothing unusual at all. Yet something twisted inside him: as if the app had stared right back.
Name: Mirra. Category: Tools. Size: 13.0 MB. Rating: None.
Go on, install it, whispered someone to his right.
Daniel jumped. To his right sat only Emily, nose buried in lecture notes. She didnt look up.
What did you say? he leaned toward her.
Pardon? Emily glanced over. I havent said anything.
The voice hadnt actually been a whisper, nor a sound, nor even clearly male or female. It was just there, like a notification pinging inside his head.
Install, it repeated, right as the screen flashed and offered Install now?
Daniel swallowed. He was one of those peoplesigned up for every open beta, perpetually fiddling with the OS, poking round in the sort of settings normal humans leave well alone. But even for him, this felt odd.
And yet, his finger tapped before he’d truly decided.
It installed instantly. Almost as if the app had lurked there all along, just waiting for a nod. No sign-up, no Facebook login, no requests for a million permissions. Only a blank black screen and a plain message: Welcome, Daniel.
How do you know my name? he blurted, a bit too loudly.
The lecturer turned, targeting him with the infamous spectacles glare.
If youve finished conversing with your mobile, Mr Evans, perhaps youd help the rest of us with supply and demand?
The hall sniggered. Daniel mumbled an apology, stuffed the phone beneath his desk, though he kept glancing at the message.
First function unlocked: Probability Shift (Level 1).
Beneath thata big button, Activate. And in the fine print: Please note: using this feature alters the structure of events. Side effects may occur.
Brilliant, he muttered, what next, sign with my own blood?
Curiosity gnawed at him. Probability shift? Sounded like another clickbait luck generatortrick you into watching ads, harvest your data, at worst spam you with Congratulations! Youve won an iPhone! notifications.
But the scarlet glow refused to fade. The phone felt warm, almost alive. Daniel hid it under his notebook, then, giving in, tapped that tempting button.
The screen rippled, like a pond when the wind catches it. For an instant, the world hushed; colours saturated. In his ears, a high-pitched chime, as though someone had run a finger round a crystal wineglass.
Function activated. Select your target.
Now a text box. Describe the desired outcome (briefly).
Daniel paused. It sounded like a joke, but suddenly it didnt. He checked around him. The lecturer brandished her marker at the whiteboard. Emily scribbled notes. Luke was sketching a tank.
All right then, he thought, lets see.
He typed: Dont get called on in class today. His hands trembled. Pressed OK.
The world jolted. Not enough to noticelike when a lift youre standing in moves a millimetre, then stops. His heart lagged a beat. Then everything resumed.
Probability Adjusted. Function cooldown: 0/1.
So, said the lecturer, scanning the room. Whos up next
Daniels stomach turned to ice. Of course shed pick him. It was inevitablethe more you hope she wont, the more likely youre doomed.
…Peterson, she said. Is he here? Late, as always. Right, in that case
Her finger ran down the register, stopped.
Jones, to the board.
Emily audibly groaned, snapped her notebook shut and slouched to the front, glowing crimson herself.
Daniel sat, legs numb. In his head: It worked. It actually worked.
His phone faded to black, no more blood-red luminescence.
He left uni in a daze, as if stumbling out of a gig. The March wind whipped stubby dandelions; the pavement shimmered with puddles; a massive grey cloud sat like a duffel coat above the bus stop. Daniel trudged, phone in hand.
The Mirra app remained, now just another boring icon. No rating. No description. No trace in the app settingsno size, no cache. But hed seen it: the way the world had hiccupped. The way it changed.
Just a fluke,” he tried to convince himself. “Maybe she was genuinely annoyed at Peterson, or remembered him late.
But in some dusty corner of his mind, another thought rattled: what if it wasnt a fluke
His phone pinged. New notification: Update available for Mirra (1.0.1). Install now?
“Well, that was quick,” Daniel murmured.
He tapped for more info. The update window popped up: Bug fixes, improved stability, new feature: See-Through Gaze.
And again: no developer, no Android version, no laundry list of details. Just this unnervingly honest description: See-Through Gaze.
Yeah, right, Daniel said, mashing Later.
The phone beeped petulantly, powered off, then rebooted all by itself and glowed that same nasty crimson. Update installed.
Oi! Daniel stopped dead on the path. I said!
People side-stepped around him. Someone grumbled. The wind pasted a takeaway flyer to his shoe.
New function unlocked: See-Through Gaze (Level 1).
And an info card: Allows user to see the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Duration: max. 10 seconds. Cost: heightened feedback.
Whats heightened feedback?! Daniel felt a cold finger down his back.
The phone stayed silent. The only answer was the glowing button: Try Now.
Daniel lost his nerve in the bus, sandwiched between a woman with a bag of potatoes and a schoolboy with an absolutely lethal backpack. He stared out at the city blurring past, but couldnt help peeking at Mirra again.
Just ten seconds, he rationalised. Might as well find out.
He launched the app and tapped Try Now.
Everything seemed to sigh. Sounds muted, like underwater. Peoples faces grew starker, more vivid. Above each head, fine, gossamer threads glintedsome webs were dense, others faint.
Daniel blinked. The threads twined into nothingness, vanished, tangled. The potato-womans were tight and grey, some frayed like burnt fuses. The schoolboys were blue and jittery, crackling.
He glanced at the bus driver. Over his head, a thick, black-and-rust rope dangled, bound into a knot, trailing along the road. Inside the cord, shapes writhed.
Three seconds four Daniel whispered.
He glanced at his own hands. From his wrists, up along his forearms, slithered thin red lines, pulsing softly. But one was thicker, a dark scarlet, leading straight to his phone. Growing fatter every second.
His chest tightened. His heart stumbled.
Enough! He stabbed at the screen, slamming the feature off.
The world jerked back. Noise crashed inengine roaring, someones laughter, grinding brakes. Black dots danced before his eyes.
Trial ended. Feedback: +5%.
What does that mean? Daniel clutched the phone, shaking.
Another message appeared: Mirra Update (1.0.2) now ready. We recommend installing.
He sat at home for ages, slumped on the edge of his bed, staring at the phone on his desk. The room was tiny: bed, desk, wardrobe, view of a playground sagging outside. A faded space station posterthe sort you stick up in Year 9yellowed on the wall.
Mum was on night shift, Dad waswell, on the road, which basically meant missing in action. The flat was stuffed with echo and dust. Usually Daniel filled it with music, TV, games. Tonight, the silence only made his heart drum louder.
The phone pulsed: Please install Mirra update to ensure proper functioning.
Proper functioning of what? he said aloud. Your party tricks with drivers? Or with me?
He remembered the black cable above the driver. The growing red thread wound from his wrist.
Cost: heightened feedback.
Feedback of WHAT? he repeated, though the answer was already forming.
Hed always reckoned life was just a tangle of odds. Give the right nudge, shift the outcome. Hed just never believed someone would literally offer him a button for it.
If you dont install the update, the screen told himno notification, just calm, right across his homepage, the system will compensate automatically.
What system? Daniel jumped up. Who are you?
No reply in words. The world flickered, the room dimmed as if a light shorted. Ringing in his ear. Pulsing in his temples. Thenhe sensed it, not as language, but code, software logic unravelled as feeling.
Im the interface, the thought formed. I am the app. The method. You are the user.
User of what? Magic? he scoffed, but his laugh rasped.
Call it what you like. The web of probabilities. Outcome flows. I help you alter them.
And the cost? Daniels hands balled into fists. Whats this feedback?
In answer, a quick animation: the red thread fattening with every change, beginning to wrap a figure, squeezing tighter.
Each interference strengthens your link to the system. The more you twist the world, the more it twists back on you.
If I stop?
If you stop, the link remains. If the system cant update, itll look for balance another way. Through you.
The phone shuddered, as if someone were calling. Notification: Update ready: Mirra (1.0.2). New function: Undo. Critical security fixes included.
Undo what? Daniel murmured.
One intervention. Once only.
He remembered the bus. The black cord. The pulsing string.
If I install this, will thatcan I undo the class thing? Reset the odds?
Partly. You can revert your specific action. The web will reweave itself. New config doesnt promise no side effects.
But maybe that bus he didnt dare finish.
The probability will be altered.
He stared at Install. His hands shook. In his brain, two voices: one whispered, you cant play God. The other: you cant stand by after what youve done.
Youre in, now, Mirra prompted. The link is live. No way back. Only which way you choose to walk.
What if I do nothing?
Then the system updates without your consent. But you pay the price.
He pictured the scarlet thread thickening.
What what does that look like? he whispered.
The answer flashed as images: him, older, haunted, sat right here, phone in hand. All around him, chaosrandom tragedies, shocks of luck, things he never chose, yet each one leaving a mark.
You become a conduit. A node through which disruptions pass.
So its be a reluctant adminor a fuse? he snorted. Nice.
Silence.
He installed the update.
His fingertip pressed down, and the world lurched. Harder this time. His sight tunnelled, ears popping. He seemed, for a moment, to dissolve into something vasta single nerve in some living network.
Mirra updated (1.0.2). Function: Undo (1/1).
Onscreen: Choose intervention to reverse.
Only one appeared: Probability shift: not being called on in lecture (Today, 11:23 AM).
If I undo this he whispered.
Time wont rewind. Probabilities adjust as if youd never tapped the button.
The bus?
Its likelihood of the accident changes. If its already happened
I get it, he cut in. I cant undo what’s passed.
He let out a breath.
But you can reduce what happens next.
He sat for a long time. Outside, sirens finally faded. The estate slipped back into its drab emptiness.
All right, he said. Undo it.
The button flared. This time, instead of another jolt, the air righted itselflike someone had finally wedged a folded leaflet under an uneven table leg.
Reversal complete. Function expended. Feedback stabilised at current level.
Thats it? he said. Really?
For nowyes.
He collapsed onto the bed. His brain felt emptied. No guilt. No relief. Just exhaustion.
Be honest, he said to the phone. Where did you come from? Who wrote you? Which lunatic gives humans something like this?
Pause. A new line appeared: Mirra 1.1.0 update available. Install now?
Youre joking! Daniel practically shouted. I justI just
In this release: Forecast feature. Improved distribution algorithms. Morality bugs fixed.
Morality bugs? He even laughed aloud. You call my moral dilemmas bugs?
Morality is a local overlay. The web of probabilities recognises neither good nor bad. Only stability or decay.
But I do, Daniel murmured. And while Im here, I will.
He powered off the screen. The phone sat, silent, suddenly cold. But Daniel knew1.1.0 was already queued, just waiting its turn. Like the next, and the next.
He wandered to the window. A young lad tried to clamber onto creaky swings; a woman eased a pram round icy puddles.
For a moment, Daniel thought he glimpsed threads trailing from folk to the skytenuous, shining, or maybe it was just weird March sunlight.
You can close your eyes, Mirra whispered at the edge of his thoughts, but the network stays. Updates come, threats grow. With or without you.
He sat at his desk, picked up the phone. It was surprisingly cool.
I dont want to be God, he said. Or a fuse. I just
He trailed off. What did he want? Not be called on? For Mum to have day shifts? For Dad to finally come home? For buses not to meet lorries at crossroads?
Formulate a request, prompted the app. Keep it brief.
Daniel snorted.
I want people to have the right to their own fate. Without you. Without this kind of thing.
Long pause. Then: Request too general. Please refine.
Of course, he sighed. Youre an app interface. Leave us be means nothing to you.
Im a tool. Its all about the user.
Daniel frowned. If Mirra was just a tool, maybe you could use it not to meddle in livesbut to stop itself.
What if I want to change the chance of Mirra appearing on anyone elses phone? he said carefully.
Screen flicker.
That would require significant resources. The cost is high.
Higher than being a fuse for the city? he shot back.
Thats not the level were talking about.
So what then?
The entire network.
He pictured itthousands, maybe millions of phones glowing red. Each person playing with fate, chaos erupting like a loose mains cable. And at the centre, a thicker thread than his, coiled tight.
You want to spreadlike a virus. Only youre honest about it: power for a price.
I am the interface to what exists already. If not me, then another. If not an app, a ritual, a relic, a pact. The web always seeks conductors.
But right now youre in my hand, said Daniel. So I can at least try.
He opened Mirra. At the bottom of the page, where nothing had been before, now: Advanced Operations (Level 2 access required).
How do I get that? he asked.
Use existing features. Gather feedback. Reach the threshold.
So I’d have to tamper more, just to try to limit you? He shook his head. What a joke.
Any change needs energy. That means connection.
He was silent for a long time. Then finally, Fine. Heres my deal: no more updates. No Forecast, none of that. And youre not going anywhere else. If youre a tool, you stay here. With me.
Functionality will be limited. Threats will multiply.
Then well deal with them as they come, Daniel replied. Not a god, not a virus, just a sysadmin. The bloody system admin of reality.
The word tasted odd. But it fit. Not creator, not playthinga caretaker, just trying to keep the whole thing from eating itself.
The phone considered. Then: Limited Update Mode active. Auto-install disabled. Responsibility: user.
It always was, Daniel murmured.
He set down the phone, eyeing it now not as mere gadget, but as a portalto the threads, to other lives, to his own conscience.
Streetlights flicked on outside. Evening settled over London, hiding a thousand probabilities: someone missing a train, someone finding a soulmate, someone stumbling on black ice and getting away with just a bruiseor not.
The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 hung in the queue, patient as a tax return.
Daniel opened his laptop. New note: at the top, he typed, Mirra: Usage Protocol.
If he had to be the unlucky sod saddled with this mad app, he’d at least leave behind instructionswarnings for whoever (God forbid) might come after.
He started writing: about Probability Shift, about See-Through Gaze, about the cost of Undo. About red threads and black ropes. About how wanting to dodge a lecture once could leave you owing the world far too much.
Somewhere deep in the guts of the system, an unseen counter ticked. New updates queued upeach with its own hidden price. But for now, not one could budge without his say-so.
The world kept spinning. Probabilities crisscrossed. And in a small top-floor flat in some shabby London block, one young man tried, for the first time, to draft for magic what had never before existed: a terms of use.
And in some unreachable placenot on any British serverMirra quietly logged the change: a user whod chosen not power, but responsibility.
A rare, nearly impossible event. But, as experience now taught Daniel, sometimes even the unlikely gets its day.
