‘It’s the name of the server node,’ Nia replies. ‘This is mine. Yours would have a different number at the end.’
‘That’s something. Bell Server? What could that mean?’
Nia rolls her eyes. ‘That it’s made by the largest software company in the world?’
I stare at her, uncomprehending.
‘Bell Industries?’ she says.
‘Never heard of it.’
Nia shakes her head in disbelief.
‘Whatever,’ I tell her. ‘The Erasure Initiative, then. That’s definitely a clue. Because we have had our memories erased.’
Nia gazes at the display for a moment, thinking. ‘It’s not much of a clue.’
I hesitate, not wanting to piss her off again. ‘Remember how I said before that the red shirts might be criminals? Maybe this is some kind of experiment. One of those TV specials designed to make us rethink the way we behave, or to prove some kind of pseudoscientific theory about nature versus nurture.’
Nia’s eyes narrow. ‘So you think I’m a criminal.’
‘You literally hacked into a computer. Just now. Right in front of me.’
She ignores me and taps out a new command.
echo$$ kill -9processid
Her seatback glows white for a moment, then returns to the same text as the other displays.
‘So what now?’ I ask.
Nia shrugs. ‘We do what it says, I guess. Await further instructions.’
I don’t like waiting. That’s something I know about whoever I might be. Waiting sucks.
‘Are you hungry?’ I ask Nia. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘I wasn’t until you mentioned it. Why don’t you go and gnaw on the beefcake back there?’ She jerks her head behind her at Paxton.
I clap my hands. ‘You are jealous!’
I can definitely see the faintest haze of pink on her cheeks. ‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘I just don’t want to have to witness you and Mister Likeable trying to eat each other’s faces off. It’s gross. Together, you two make the most disgusting portrait of straight white vanilladom. It’s so wholesome I could throw up.’
‘You love it.’
‘You know what I love? Silence. Solitude.’
Something occurs to me. ‘Nia?’
‘A total absence of sound. A vacuum, even.’
I’m surprised that she doesn’t have a constant headache, with the amount of eye-rolling she does. ‘Stop trying to be cute,’ I tell her. ‘I have a question. You said that most touchscreens have a sequence of secret gestures, right? To reveal hidden menus?’
‘Yeah. But I already found the way in. I can’t crack the encryption.’
‘I wasn’t talking about your display.’
Nia looks at me, confused. ‘What, then?’
I glance down at her lap. ‘What if lighting up isn’t the only cool thing that your leg does?’
She stares at me for a moment, then rolls the leg of her jeans up again, higher than before, revealing a flexible silicone sleeve that runs up her thigh, with bare skin above. She passes her hands over the willow pattern, trying combinations of fingers, just like with the seatback display. I glimpse a tiny tattoo high on her inner thigh – a fairy in a blue dress with blue wings and yellow hair.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Did you know you have—’
‘Look!’ It’s Sandra.
I glance back up at my seatback.
You are in a moving vehicle. Before you the road forks. Ahead, there are five pedestrians. On the side road there is one pedestrian. You can press a button and the bus will turn off onto the side road. The bus will not stop.
Do you press the button?
YESNO
0/7 responses logged.
I stare at the words. I’ve seen them before, although I don’t remember where or when.
A fizz of adrenaline passes through the bus. People stand up in their seats to check that we all have the same message. We do.
‘Is it some kind of a puzzle?’ Paxton asks, yawning and stretching. His shirt rides up when he raises his arms, and I am momentarily distracted by a sliver of taut, tanned flesh.
‘It’s the Trolley Problem,’ Edwin says. ‘An ethical and psychological thought experiment.’
‘How do you know that?’ asks Riley.
Edwin flinches, although Riley’s tone wasn’t aggressive. ‘My lack of episodic memory means I can’t recall where I obtained this information,’ he says. ‘But I do remember that the Trolley Problem has been largely discounted by psychologists for being too extreme, too far from any actual moral decision-making. The argument goes that because people are never actually faced with a situation as high-drama and contrived as this one, where the options are so limited and there are no other factors at play, it’s not a particularly useful or educational tool.’
This speech is met with a fair amount of surprise. It’s the most Edwin has spoken since we all woke up.
‘Dude,’ says Riley. ‘You’re like a walking dictionary.’
The Trolley Problem. I’ve heard of it too, I think.
‘So what’s the answer?’ Paxton asks.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Nia responds. ‘You divert the bus. Only one person dies, instead of five.’
She presses YES on her display with total confidence. I stare at her, my mouth falling open.
Riley nods, and follows suit.
Edwin’s forehead creases in a deep frown, but after a moment’s hesitation, he does too.
5/7 responses logged.
‘Is this a game?’ I hear the wavering voice of Catherine. ‘Like bingo?’
6/7 responses logged.
I shake my head and fold my arms.
‘Aren’t you going to press the button?’ Nia asks me.
‘I’m a conscientious objector,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not participating until someone tells me what’s going on.’
‘Fine,’ says Sandra. ‘You don’t have to join in.’
There’s a long pause, but nothing changes on the display.
‘The experiment probably requires full participation to proceed,’ Edwin says.
‘And what if I don’t?’ I ask. ‘Does it not happen at all?’
‘Maybe the bus keeps going and hits the five people,’ Paxton suggests.
‘But there are no actual people,’ I say. ‘It’s only a hypothetical. So who cares?’
‘Come on,’ says Nia. ‘Just press it. Maybe we’ll get a sandwich as a reward.’
‘Are you serious?’ I say. ‘We’re being treated like lab rats, and you’re going to go along with it? What happened to resistance?’
Nia’s expression falters.
‘Hey.’ It’s Paxton, leaning over the seatback towards me, his eyes soft. ‘I get it. I feel that way too. But … maybe there’s some information that we can find out if we play along? Help us figure out where we are, and how to get out of here.’
He makes a reasonable point. But I’ve made my decision, and as well as being bad at waiting and good at flirting, it turns out that I am also very stubborn.
‘Nope.’
Nia frowns and doubles down. ‘We need food more than we need answers,’ she says, leaning over and tapping my display, trying to answer for me.
‘Hey!’ I protest.
But nothing happens. She jabs the seatback again, but there is no response. Then she glares down at her white wristband. ‘I see what you did there,’ she mutters.
‘Cecily.’ It’s Sandra, looking authoritative. ‘Paxton’s right. We need more information, and it looks like this is the only way to get it. I need you to be a team player.’
I waver.
‘Look!’ Nia points to the front windscreen of the bus. There is a group of people up ahead, standing on the road. In between us and the people, the road splits, a narrower lane leading up a steep hill into the jungle. Halfway up the hill is a single figure, right in the middle of the road.
‘They’re real,’ Riley says.
‘No, they’re not,’ Edwin res
ponds. He sounds strangely calm.
They certainly look real. I’m hugely relieved to see them – other human beings, out in the world. It proves that we’re not the only people in this strange place. A small, weird part of me was afraid we were the last people left in the world.
They have their backs to us. They look like a family – two parents, a teenager and two younger kids holding hands. They don’t seem to notice the approaching bus, which seems odd.
The fork in the road is getting closer. If I’m going to make a decision, I’d better make it now. Surely the bus won’t hit them. It’ll stop at the last minute. And maybe they can help us. Or at the very least explain what’s going on. Maybe I should press the button. I hate this feeling, like I’m a puppet being jerked around on a string. Whoever plonked us in the middle of this sick experiment wants me to press the button. It’s obvious. Pressing the button is what everyone would do, right? Kill one person but save five? Who wouldn’t press it?
The bus is definitely going to stop.
Right?
‘Cecily.’ Sandra again. Her voice is calm and commanding. ‘Divert the bus.’
I’ve obeyed before I even realise. Damn, she’s good.
7/7 responses logged.
With a squeal of tyres, the bus swerves onto the side road, charging up the hill towards the one figure, who turns around to face us.
The bus will stop before we hit her. There’s no way we’re going to kill some random stranger. This is a controlled situation. Everyone is safe.
She’s a woman. In her thirties. Brown-skinned, wearing a simple yellow sundress. She stares, unmoving, as we bear down on her.
‘Get off the road!’ Riley bellows, pounding his fist on the windscreen, veins standing out on his neck.
‘She’s not real,’ Edwin insists. ‘It’s merely a simulation.’
The others are screaming too, all except me, Edwin and Catherine, who barely seems to have registered what’s going on.
The woman grows clearer as we approach. Her face is calm.
The bus isn’t going to stop. This isn’t a test. There’s a real person out there, and we’re about to mow her down. And I pressed the button that made it happen.
Nia screams.
I brace for the impact as we hit the woman, but there’s nothing. No jolt. No blood and brains flying everywhere. Instead she sort of … breaks apart, into scattered pixels of light, and then vanishes completely.
What are the top 20 schools worldwide?
14. The Westbridge Academy
Westbridge is one of the world’s most elite boarding schools, with fees to match.
Children of politicians, celebrities and billionaires rub shoulders in its impressive sporting and theatre facilities, virtual reality learning hub, equestrian centre, or in the new $120 million wellness centre which, along with its day spa and floatation tanks, offers state-of-the-art biometric monitoring to track student wellbeing in real time.
Student accommodation features bespoke luxury furnishings, expansive balcony views, and all the latest in smart technology to optimise every aspect of daily life, from immersive entertainment to virtual homework tutoring to meals tailored to each student’s own unique gut microbiome.
Westbridge students are renowned for being fiercely competitive, the school’s motto being Winner takes all. Westbridge alumni feature prominently on every list of rich and powerful people.
Recently Westbridge has been the subject of increased media attention, as it is home to internet sensation the Blue Fairy – the anonymous wish-granting fairy godmother and all-round trickster.
4
DAY 1
14:36
‘How did you know?’ Sandra turns to Edwin, a frown deepening the lines on her forehead.
‘No shadows,’ he says, blinking three times then nodding out the window towards the sky. ‘Consider the shadows cast from the coconut palms. If a real person had been standing on that road, she would have cast a shadow.’
He’s right. The sun is high, but the trees are still casting short shadows onto the road.
‘So it was just a …’ Sandra spreads her hands.
‘A simulation,’ Edwin replies. ‘Projected onto the windscreen, and the side windows as well. It was rather convincing.’
‘They looked so real,’ says Nia in a small voice.
We sit in silence for a moment. I feel my racing heart start to slow. We didn’t kill anyone. It’s a relief, but not much of one.
I close my eyes, and reach into the fog for something comforting, but all I see is that woman exploding into pixels, over and over again. I get the weirdest feeling that I’ve been here before.
‘This is really fucked up,’ says Riley, echoing my thoughts.
‘So is that it?’ Paxton looks at the door, as if he’s expecting it to spring open. ‘Is it over?’
Nobody responds to this.
We all know it isn’t over.
The bus continues to charge up the hill, and through the tangle of green I can see the ocean, stretching out in all directions, unbroken by jetties or boats or marinas. Wherever it is we’re going, we’re not there yet. I shiver and start to feel very, very alone. I can’t shake the feeling of déjà vu.
Is it possible that this has all happened before?
The road curves around and we descend into the greenery again, until we rejoin the coast road.
‘We need answers,’ says Sandra. ‘There has to be something. Some clue as to where we are.’
I glance at Nia, who is bent over her leg once more, her fingers running up and down the smooth imitation porcelain.
‘Sandra’s right,’ says Paxton. ‘We need to go over every inch of the bus. Surely there’s something.’
I leave Nia to it and clamber into the aisle.
We scrutinise everything. The windowpanes, the upholstery, the plastic moulding. The air conditioning vents and the lights.
Nothing. Not so much as a logo.
I head down to the front of the bus. There are plastic panels on the front dashboard that look like they might open. I scrabble at one, but there’s no handle or keyhole. The windows don’t look special – I can’t see how the simulation was projected onto them, but then again I don’t think I’m the kind of person who would know much about that sort of thing. Maybe Nia can figure it out.
Could everything out there be a projection? Could we not even be outside? Could this be one of those virtual rides where we’re just in a locked room, and the floor is rumbling to simulate a moving vehicle?
The uneasy feeling is growing stronger, the clawing, flapping thing in my chest starting up again. What if the fog has swallowed me before? What if it swallows me again?
I take a deep breath and head over to where Paxton is examining the bus’s door, and present my back to him. ‘Check my shirt for a label,’ I say, hoping that his touch will pull me out of this spiral of panic.
‘Good thinking.’
Paxton turns the collar of my T-shirt, looking for a tag. There’s nothing. I check the inside side seams of the shirt too, and the waistband of my jeans. I want to check my bra and undies, but not in front of everyone. I hesitate, thinking about the fairy tattoo on Nia’s thigh. ‘What about our own bodies?’ I suggest. ‘Scars, sunburn, tattoos … maybe they can tell us something about who we are or how we got here?
Paxton grins. ‘I’d like to volunteer for inspection duty.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think we’d both fit in the bathroom, and this isn’t exactly something I want to do right here.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Good idea, Cecily,’ Sandra says. ‘We should take it in turns to go into the bathroom and see what we can find out about ourselves.’
Paxton goes first. We wait, leaning over the backs of seats so we can see him when he emerges, all except for Nia, who is bent over her leg once more, and Catherine, who has nodded off to sleep.
‘Nothing of note,’ Paxton reports as he comes out. ‘No logos or tags on
my clothes. No scars or tattoos. Everything seems to be present and as expected.’
He winks at me. ‘You next.’
I go in and strip off. There are no tags or logos on my bra or undies. They’re plain white, nothing fancy. The bra is elastic, no underwire.
I can’t take the wristband off.
14:48
I don’t care what the time is. I just want it to tell me its secrets.
My legs are hairless – laser, I assume. My pubic hair is minimal and as neat as a topiary hedge. I have no underarm hair. No tan lines. Some freckles on my arms and shoulders. Coral pink toenail polish – professionally done, by the look of it.
I wish there was a mirror.
I run my fingers through my hair, and down my body, searching for any unusual lumps or bumps. My fingers are light, and for a moment I imagine they are Paxton’s fingers, and things get a little tingly. But this isn’t the time.
I pull my clothes on again, and get a sudden flash of inspiration. I pull the blue knotted thread from my jeans pocket. It’s not as good as a pen, but maybe I can still leave some secret proof of myself, of my existence. If this has happened before, then it could happen again. I want to leave something for the next Cecily.
I look around the little room. I can’t leave it anywhere obvious. It has to be hidden. I crouch down and reach around to the back of the toilet.
My fingers tangle around something already there, and I pull it out.
Blue thread. Knotted.
I hold it up next to the thread I just pulled from my pocket. It’s not exactly the same – my strand is longer. But the knots are identical, each one small, precise and evenly spaced.
Could one of the others have had the same thought as me?
Or … did I put it there?
…
Nia’s standing in the aisle when I emerge. She squeezes past me and goes into the bathroom, contorting like a gymnast to make sure her body doesn’t press against mine.
‘Anything?’ Sandra asks.
I shake my head. I don’t tell them about the knotted thread.
Nia emerges from the bathroom after only a minute or two. She couldn’t possibly have stripped down and gotten dressed again in that time.
The Erasure Initiative Page 4