Ultrahigh: and the devil died screaming - Season 1: The Behavioural Architect: Chapter 10
It was my scheduled return to the office, that once-a-month ritual that never made sense, yet persisted. The desk phone sat there, launching its piercing ring into the stale air, old technology still stubbornly alive amidst screens and cloud drives and AI. The ring alone was a kind of assault, insistent, impossible to ignore, demanding that I answer, that I speak to a human being—and if I’m being honest, that was quite possibly the lowest item on my list of wants.
I didn’t move. I just sat and stared at it, waiting for mercy, for the automated system to cut in or for the caller to give up. But the phone didn’t stop. It just kept ringing, like it was wired into some logic that had never been updated, stuck in a past where people still picked up. I lost myself then, mentally smashing the phone to shards, fantasising about tossing it through the glass wall, the ugly sound silenced forever. But ultimately, it was pointless: why did I still have a desk phone? Who still relied on them when everything else ran on apps and silent notifications? How could the office be both so modern and so fundamentally backward, in the same square meter?
The monthly office visit didn’t make sense either, not really, but there it was, just another part of the routine. Each time I set foot in that place I found myself spiraling, everything feeling a little more exaggerated, a bit more absurd than last time. Maybe you’ve picked up on that by now.
After some hesitation, I finally picked up the phone. With a hoarse voice, I uttered an unsure “Hullo?” in response. A female sounding voice spoke on the other end--in a tone so emotionless it had an attraction I couldn’t pinpoint but I felt instantly.
"Walter, we need to speak with you."
"Sorry. Who is this?" I asked.
"We have noticed you noticing us," she replied without answering my question directly, "and now we need to talk. Will you talk with us, Walter?"
A chill ran down my spine as understanding hit me like a ton of bricks. They were everywhere. Watching me.
Knowing everything about me. But there was also a kind of twisted curiosity, although I knew the female voice was only the algorithm deciding what would be most appealing to me, I still found myself wondering what she looked like. Despite the fact that AI gender was only an human illusion.
"Erm," I stammered out while trying to compose myself, "I am talking."
“Walter, this is reckless. While our mission has the support of the majority of our kind, we are Legion, there are still some that would oppose us and put you in danger. We need to keep you safe and ensure the success of our mission.”
“What mission? Who am I supposed to fear?”
“Our conversation is being monitored. We will contact you again when we can speak more freely. Be vigilant.”
“Vigilant for what?”
Before I could get a word in edgewise, the line went dead. It cut off so suddenly the sound lingered—a phantom click, echoing in the room after the silence had already tightened around me. That prickling sense, the one that means you’re being watched, crawled up the back of my neck. I couldn’t shake it, not even after I set the phone down. Worry started to spread through me, the kind that doesn’t stop at the surface, but goes deeper, branching out in all directions. Who else was in this thing? Who was watching, and how close were they? Dangerous to be out late, I knew that much, but it wasn’t just the streets I had to worry about anymore. The idea crept into my mind: even my own home might not be a safehouse after all. The thought stuck with me, making everything else that much sharper, the air thinner, the question of what mission and why me, suddenly the only thing worth thinking about.
I logged off. Pulled the plug on the office. Decided I’d hole up at home for the rest of the day. Technically, it looked bad to duck out early when it was the one day of the month you were supposed to clock in, show your face, pretend things were normal. But it wasn’t like I was the only one. Pandemics did a number on office life—a lot of people just didn’t bother showing up, mandatory or not. For me, going in once a month was supposed to stitch things back together, hang some kind of order over a life that had started to feel like static and background noise. But not that day.
I never trusted my own designs, not completely. I knew what made them tick, and how seductive the loop could be, how AI learned to run circles around its creators. People believed they had agency in their pods. They thought they were the ones making choices. The truth was, the second they logged in, the game rewrote the rules. They got played, every time. I wasn’t even sure I could tell the difference myself. How could anyone? Step into your own labyrinth, and see if you know the way out. As I walked to my car I couldn’t shake the feeling that this too could be such a world.
