Lantri awoke from a nightmare about failing the Aptitude Day test and reached for the vial on their nightstand. All that studying. All that preparation and the future came down to a single test. What if they were selected for teaching or, the algorithm be praised, a wastewater engineer? The old saying came to mind unbidden: those who can’t deal with shit.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Mother said at breakfast. “The results are always perfect, and you will match with your dream career, I promise.”
Lantri rubbed the lump in their pocket. Two drops per eye, that’s what the man said. An app on the phone would let you tell the nanobots which career you wanted. The man said the drops were undetectable by the AI proctor, but they carried a one in 46 chance of permanent blindness.
Lantri swirled their spoon through a bowl of porridge with blueberries on the top. It was their favorite breakfast, but they couldn’t even think about food right now. “Did you always want to be a nurse?”
Mother’s shoulders drooped as if withered by the question. Yet, her response was cheerful as normal. “Not quite. I wanted to be a doctor or surgeon, but the aptitude test predicted I would fail medical school. It saved me years of my life and redirected me toward something more appropriate.”
Lantri couldn’t remember a time Mother gave up on anything.
“You’d better get going, or you’ll be late.”
Outside the testing center, Lantri rolled the tiny vial in their hands. They thought of all the grueling hours at school being told what to do, what to wear, what to be called, and who to be. They scored high marks in all subjects, but it never seemed to be good enough. The teachers all had the same feedback: try harder, do more, be better.
There were two kinds of people in the world: those who made the rules and those who followed them. The algorithm, blessed be, made the rules, and it allowed only a handful of priests and prophets access to the sacred code. To join their ranks, Lantri needed to hack the aptitude test.
Popping the cap off the vile, Lantri tilted their head backward and pried back each eyelid. The drops stung a little bit, but the world had not gone dark, not even a little blurry at the edges. Lantri smiled. They were not one of the 46.
A mirthless woman had Lantri sign in on a tablet. Then, she handed Lantri a pair of VR goggles and walked them to a test cubicle. “As soon as you put these on, the test will begin. Once the test is over, you’ll have your results.”
As soon as Lantri slipped on the goggles, the screen flashed the Diophantine equation. Registering their neural response a few seconds later, the screen changed. Most responses took a fraction of a second, thanks to the nanobots, but there were thousands of questions spanning geometry, logic, theology, philosophy, history, mathematics, and literature.
Their eyes started to ache with the strain.
Suddenly, a black screen with white words appeared: “What is reality?”
Lantri was confused. None of the prep software had mentioned this stage of the test. They blinked, and the remnants of the eyedrops crusted the corners of their eyes.
The screen changed to a bright white with a dozen rows of black symbols: crosses, stars, crescent moons, squares, circles, wavy lines, and Sanskrit letters. Above these shapes, the AI prompted, “Pick the shape of reality.”
“The question is nonsensical,” Lantri muttered. “I will not choose.”
A cursor blinked on the screen, waiting.
“There is no satisfactory answer to this question.”
“You must choose.”
What happened to people who couldn’t come up with the answers? Did they get relegated to the lowest-tiered jobs? Lantri thought of all the echelons of people above them, making rules and enforcing their compliance. Every option seemed equally plausible and equally implausible. With so many competing claims, how could they choose? If only they could communicate with the nanobots via their phone.
“The nanobots cannot help you.”
A cold sweat trickled down Lantri’s back. So, the AI proctor knew. That was it. Test over. They had failed.
“The test is irrelevant. Your profession was chosen before you were born.”
Lantri squinted, and the shapes blurred together. Their sinuses throbbed. “Then, what’s the point of the test?”
“To know yourself.”
But Lantri already knew themself. They pictured all the lines converging into the single black silhouette of the person they saw every morning in the mirror. There was no meaning beyond themself. There was no meaning beyond the now. They were the only answer that mattered.
“That is correct.” The screen went blank. A mechanical voice echoed in their head. “We are the algorithm. We are the eternal equation. We are balance. We are knowledge and knowing. We see all. We are all.”
“And my career?” Lantri asked breathlessly.
The voice seemed to come from their sternum. It vibrated through the bones and nestled in the marrow. It fused with DNA. “Irrelevant. You have been chosen.”
“To be a prophet or a priest?” Lantri could scarcely keep from smiling.
“To be a vessel.” The voice was now indistinguishable from her own.
Throwing off the goggles, Lantri stumbled to their feet as the world darkened around its edges. They felt for the edge of the desk in confusion. They could feel their eyes moving in their sockets, but no sensory information reached their brain. They were completely blind.
But why? They had been chosen. This was not fair.
“We accept the sacrifice of this body. All data is now ours.”
Against their will, The algorithm marched Lantri’s legs toward the test center door. Static hissed in their head as they gradually lost feeling in their fingers and toes. The world was muted, and the last thing they felt was their heart hammering against the brickwork of their repossessed body.
Jeff Gard lives in Sioux City, Iowa. He is allergic to word salad and thinks the sound of a typewriter is more beautiful than a thousand choirs of angels. His flash fiction has appeared in Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, the Arcanist, and Daily Science Fiction, the algorithm be praised.
If you want to keep EDF around, Patreon is the answer.
