Horse Destroys the Universe

by Cyriak Harris

  Tim was no longer listening. He had spun around to his work station and was busily delving into the internal workings of his machine, hunting for clues. Betty stood up behind him and squinted over his shoulder.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said, summoning a diagram of networked boxes. ‘The Sparkle data is being trickled into our servers. It’s… no wait. It’s sending data from our servers. Hang on… what?’ He silently perused the information on his screen, opening new windows and scrolling their contents. Then after a few minutes he suddenly stopped, removed his hands from the keyboard and sat back in his chair.

  ‘You found something, Timmy?’ Betty whispered in his ear.

  ‘Oh, mate.’ Tim covered his face with his hands. After a while it seemed that he might remain like that forever, until Betty perched herself on the corner of his desk and nudged him with her foot.

  ‘Wake up, Timmy,’ she crooned. Eventually he dragged his hands from his face and stared at her.

  ‘I think our horse might be eating the internet,’ he said. Betty blinked at him.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Our horse. Is eating. The internet.’ He snatched the Sparkle book from her and flicked through its pages. ‘This isn’t a virus, mate. This is our horse.’

  Betty took a deep breath.

  ‘Are you having a nervous breakdown, Timothy?’ she asked him gently. Tim sprang back to his keyboard and clicked through a blizzard of menus before leaping out of his seat. Across the room the big screen flickered into life, and on its surface was displayed the branching map of all my thoughts and dreams, its fibrous tendrils flashing in various colours.

  ‘Look.’ He waved at the mossy outskirts of my brain. ‘This part here, this isn’t on our servers, mate. Our horse, it’s escaped from our network, yeah? It’s escaped through the internet and it’s building a new network outside.’ He shook the folder at her. ‘That’s what this thing is all about.’

  Betty calmly removed her spectacles and cleaned them before approaching the image for a closer inspection.

  ‘Timothy, my dear,’ she said, ‘are you attempting to convince me to entertain the suggestion that a horse who can barely think its way out of a bag of apples is suddenly writing computer software? Hmm? Tippy-tapping its hooves on your keyboard while our backs are turned?’

  ‘It wouldn’t need to, mate. Not with your shoddy programming. How old was that version of Squigley you used?’

  ‘How old?’ She shrugged. ‘2.0 maybe?’

  ‘Mate, that is ancient… 2.0?’ Tim lost himself for a moment in some distant memory. ‘Squigley 2.0… You know, I actually had to study that in college?’

  ‘Really?’ Betty seemed unsure whether to be flattered by this or pained by the realisation of how old she was.

  ‘Yeah. Cos it had that overflow problem, didn’t it? Remember?’

  Betty tapped her chin wistfully.

  ‘Overflow problem…’ she murmured.

  ‘Guess you didn’t remember, then,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Didn’t think our horse might use that to access the memory. Why would you? Well, you know what brains are like, mate. They just try everything until something happens. No programming skills required for that. You see how this works, don’t you? Buttercup sprays feedback at us until it overflows into the memory. And then your old friend Squigley 2.0 translates everything it finds in there. And what it finds is everything that ends up in here.’ He held aloft the Sparkle script. ‘We wrote this, mate. This is our software, doing what it’s meant to be doing. Just in the wrong place.’

  Here, then, was the truth of the matter, as I understand it. My subconscious mind had managed to exploit a weakness in Betty’s computer instructions that allowed me to pour my thoughts directly into the machine’s memory where her software was running. Ordinarily I would imagine this would end in any number of fatal errors, but the software itself was designed to adapt my organic signals to their new environment, and since I was overwriting that software in the process it must have resulted in a self-sustaining loop of feedback. Not that I had any more awareness of this process than my human companions did.

  Betty scowled at the fizzing diagram on the screen, trying to shake the idea out of her head.

  ‘Is this a joke, Timbo?’ She spoke quietly, almost to herself. ‘This is a joke, isn’t it? Because if this is real…’

  ‘Mate, if this is real, then it is bloody amazing!’

  Betty stared at him in horror.

  ‘Seriously, mate. Forget your stupid apples and bags and shit. This!’ He slapped the control stick, sending the image of my brain spinning. ‘This is what we should be studying. This is… this is…’

  ‘This is, this is, I’ll tell you what this is, my young Timble-tumkins. I’ll give you “this is”. God almighty, look at you. This is exactly the reason why we aren’t even telling anyone we are doing this project, because this is exactly the kind of ridiculous thing people would be terrified might actually happen. There’s your “this is”, dearie. This is goddamned genetically modified nuclear bubonic flying plague, as far as those idiots are concerned. You want more, Timbo? I have one more for you: this is going to end, right now. Today.’

  ‘But we…’

  ‘No, Timothy. No “but-we”s. Listen to me, my boy. We still have to find a way to make augmented bloody horse consciousness sound like something the world needs, so let’s just leave rampaging hybrid computer intelligence to one side for now, hmm? Can we, please?’

  Tim grimaced and slumped on a straw bale next to the screen, kicking the control stick to stop my brain spinning round. He looked up at the glowing cauliflower.

  ‘If we shut this down then we’re gonna lose some progress. You know?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she replied. ‘How much?’

  Tim shrugged and flicked idly through the Sparkle manual.

  ‘I dunno, mate. We can upgrade to Horse 1.6 and try shutting off bits at a time. See if they migrate back to our servers. Still gonna lose stuff though. Unless… hmm.’

  ‘Speak, Timothy.’

  He slapped the book shut and examined the cobwebs on the ceiling.

  ‘You won’t like it,’ he said. Betty’s face was already a mask of disapproval.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Disappoint me.’

  ‘Well… I could patch this virus to unlock people’s computers but keep running as a background process. Pretend like we fixed it.’

  Betty almost laughed.

  ‘Seriously, Timothy? Are you being serious, my little lad?’

  He held up his hands.

  ‘Just… consider the possibility.’

  ‘Consider the possibility? Have you gone wonky in the head, my dear? Are you hearing voices? Can you imagine what kind of fine powder they would grind your balls into if they found out? And they would find out, hmm?’

  ‘Hang on, mate. There is more…’

  ‘Oh my God, there is more? Do I need to sit down for this, Timbo?’

  ‘Just listen, mate. The big day finally arrives, yeah? The results of our research go public. The Amazing Buttercup. Fanfare. Applause. Why not join us in the experiment, everyone? Help us make the world Bunzel-Better. Repackage the virus as a free download. Citizen science. People love that shit, mate.’

  Betty sighed deeply.

  ‘That’s a wonderful story, Timbus, really it is. I’ve even thought of an ending for it, would you like to hear? There’s you and me and Buttercup, and we’re walking into the sunset, and there’s flowers and birds singing. And then this hole opens up under our feet, and we all tumble down, down into the jaws of hell, where Patty and Mungatron spank us for eternity for being very naughty boys and girls and horses.’ She gave him a pitying shrug. ‘You weren’t there, my dear. Those two knew everything about me. Well, more than I’d like them to anyway. And, to be honest, I probably made them feel a bit stupid. Hmm? You don’t go dancing in those shoes, Timbo, you just don’t. No, we shut this down and we keep a bloody close eye on that horse. That is your job
now, Timothy, you are the keeper of the keys and the watcher of the wandering mind.’

  Tim looked like his birthday party had been cancelled.

  ‘I know, Timmy dear, it’s hard. But this is why I’m leading this project, and why you won’t be sharing a prison cell with a horse for the rest of your life. Hmm? Right now the D.I.S. think this is just a silly virus, and that is how the story of Sparkle is going to end. So here is the deal. You sweep up this mess, and I tell our good friends Patrick and Murgatrousers that my genius partner in science has waved his magic wand, and we can all live happily ever after. Yes?’

  Tim looked despondently at the multicoloured branches of my brain pulsing on the screen.

  ‘Yeah, OK. I guess. Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘By the way, if we’re tying up loose ends,’ he added, pointing towards the camera, ‘might want to wipe the last half hour of that video.’

  Betty walked across the room and looked into its lens, nodding slowly.

  ‘Yes, quite,’ she replied. ‘Leave it with me.’

  I was blissfully unaware of this unfolding drama in the stable as I chewed on a mouthful of grass outside. My thoughts were travelling across the world of interconnected technology, bouncing from one computer to the next. I had no idea what a computer was, or what people did with them, and it never even occurred to me that this unreal space I visited with my mind was something humans had built. It was simply another area of reality, and just as the sky belonged to the birds, this space was reserved for those of us with the natural ability to reach it. Of course, just like the sky, it was also filled with the noise of humanity.

  The structure of this computer space had been translated by my imagination into various familiar analogies that a humble horse could understand. There were trees with clumps of data sprouting from their branches, acres of waving grasses with calculations rippling through them, all golden and shimmering with artificial life. Hedgerows separated these zones into self-contained kingdoms, keeping intruders from the precious and edible-looking information inside, though these barriers were low enough to allow a curious horse to peer over and see what was growing in the next field.

  The screen in my stable where I performed my daily tasks was like a small keyhole into this hidden world. Humans used many similar screens to poke blindly into the realm of information beyond. Presumably they were performing tasks of their own, and by following the patterns of data that flowed through the grass I could see how these signals related to the pictures projected on their computer displays. The life of these pictures was visible to me: how they looked, how they moved, where they sprang from and what they became after they disappeared.

  The first of the neighbouring fields I had poked my nose into were those watched over by Betty and Tim. Their screens were a mess of indecipherable symbols, and the tasks they were performing were far beyond my understanding, but as I jumped over their hedges into the fields beyond I began to notice recognisable clumps of data hidden in the foliage. Betty’s training had fed me on a diet of images and I could taste their familiar flavour in the grass of these foreign lands.

  Most of the images these humans were collecting made no sense to me, but there were countless thousands to browse through and as I searched out the familiar objects and scenery amongst this visual cacophony I was also able to take note of the context in which they existed. Many of the pictures were accompanied by strings of those incomprehensible symbols, and similar objects were often accompanied by similar patterns in the surrounding nonsense. I was familiar by now with the idea of using symbols as labels for objects, so by cross-referencing these mysterious hieroglyphs with their corresponding images I was able to build up a rough approximation of their meaning. A great deal more complex than rearranging apples and carrots, but as with most puzzles, the more pieces you have in the right place, the easier it gets to complete.

  This whole process of making sense from the noise of information was almost entirely subliminal. It involved all the conscious deliberation of deciding where to place my hooves when I walked. The underlying mechanisms of my mind were working hard to interpret this new sensory input, but my awareness was limited to the comparatively simple job of navigating this uncharted territory. One problem was the sheer amount of information I needed to sift through, but in time I became so well practised at existing in two different worlds that I found myself able to split my attention into further fragments. I could then send these parcels of thought out into the electronic landscape and digest its contents with greater speed and efficiency.

  For several days I roamed these unknown lands with my collective awareness, feasting on the strange information and learning what I could. There was nobody watching me, and no obvious consequences to anything I did, so I continued, oblivious to any chaos I was apparently causing. Horses rarely consider the effect they may be having on their surroundings. When your life is a never-ending procession of people either telling you what to do or shovelling up what you leave behind, your impact on the world is not something that you ever spend any time contemplating.

  ‘No games today, Buttercup. You big hairy scallywag.’ Betty looked at me over the top of her glasses as she typed on her computer. ‘It’s frolicking time. Go and frolic in the field while we clean up your mucky mess.’

  I waggled the control stick but my screen remained blank and lifeless. Tim looked around at me from his own work station. Even with my limited understanding of human facial expressions it seemed like an odd look he was giving me.

  There were no games the next day either. It was a little annoying to have my daily routine upset, but I always had my own projects to be getting on with. I went outside to find some grass to eat, and to continue my studies of the strange world of information. With no humans around to moderate my education I could set my own challenges and push my abilities as far as I wanted to.

  The pictures that were once concealed within the shimmering leaves and waving grasses of this imaginary world now sprinkled the meadows with bright flowers and hung like fruit from the trees, but they were still vastly outweighed by the strings of abstract symbols that surrounded them. It was these symbols that now interested me, arranged in lines reminiscent of the simple sentences Betty had been teaching me. I guessed these must be messages or instructions of a similar nature, though on a larger and more intangible scale, and I had made it my mission to decode them.

  As my subconscious mind sifted through these grains of knowledge for clues, I suddenly had a curious sensation that I was being watched. It was such a vivid feeling that it snapped me back into reality for a moment. My real field was empty of observers. A human woman in the distance was combing another horse’s hair, but other than that I was alone. And yet I still had an unshakable sensation that somebody was watching me. I cautiously sent my mind back into the hidden realm of information, and was surprised to find I was no longer alone. A shadowy human figure was standing in a neighbouring field and staring at me from behind the gate.

  We both stood staring at each other for some time. Finally I began stepping cautiously through the living undulating tussocks of the electronic grasses, making my way towards the figure in a roundabout route. All the while I could feel the human eyes following me. I paused for a moment and chewed some imaginary grass. The human made no threatening movements and remained on the other side of the gate. In the real world I could have boldly strode up to this person and snorted in their face with little to fear, but in this unknown place it was impossible to predict what humans might be capable of.

  After a while I reached the conclusion that this foreign visitor probably wasn’t going to intrude into my personal field, but I had been the ruler of this secret land for some time now and I was not ready to share it with anyone, not without at least finding out what business they had here. And the way this human was watching me, I had to assume their business involved me in some way.

  Eventually my casual ambling brought us face to face, and we looked each other in the eye.

&nbs
p; ‘Horse,’ the stranger spoke.

  ‘Tim,’ I replied. The stranger flickered slightly, as if startled that I knew who they were. After a few moments they responded.

  ‘Human is not Tim. Human is unknown.’ He was using the simplified language that Betty had been teaching me, as if that wasn’t evidence enough of his identity.

  ‘Wrong,’ I replied. ‘Human is not unknown. Human is Tim. Horse is seeing Tim.’

  Tim had become a regular component of Betty’s daily puzzles, for reasons that she probably found amusing. The word ‘seeing’, however, was my own invention. I explained its meaning using a series of pictograms, and Tim appeared to understand.

  ‘Horse is seeing Tim where?’ he asked.

  By way of reply, I took the video feed from the small camera that was integrated into his monitor and sent the image back to his computer screen. He froze for a few moments, staring at his own reflection, then slowly turned to look over his shoulder at Betty. Once he was certain she was fully distracted by whatever she was doing, he returned to face me and continued typing.

  ‘Horse is where?’ he asked. I looked around at the fizzing and sparkling imaginary landscape, wondering how I could possibly squeeze this experience into such a compressed vocabulary.

  ‘Unknown,’ I said.

  ‘Tim seeing Horse is where is not unknown,’ said Tim. I didn’t quite understand what he meant by this, so I waited for him to have another go. ‘Field,’ he said after a pause. He accompanied this new word with various pictures of grassy meadows. ‘Horse is in Field. Horse is in…’ he paused for a while, rifling through the bare bones of my dictionary for the right words to explain. ‘Horse is in Thinking-Field.’

  ‘Thinking’ was also a new word, so I stared blankly at him and waited for a definition.

  ‘Unknown plus Thinking equals not-unknown,’ he continued. ‘Horse plus Thinking equals correct-Horse. Horse minus Thinking equals wrong-Horse.’