by Emma Wilkinson

His name was Adam, and he was clever. Maybe his teachers never told him so, but it  was true. He only spoke one language, and he had no interest in poetry, but he had  other talents and a rare stubbornness. The kind of determination that makes progress  in a difficult field. 

His upbringing was better than most could ask for, if a little lonely. He spent many  hours alone in his room, tinkering with machines. He understood quickly what worked and what did not. Some would view such a life as motivation to make a better one. Adam would rather have an escape.

At eighteen, Adam was unceremoniously shipped off to university. There, he studied the most unhallowed of arts: computer science.  

He studied the most unhallowed of arts: computer science.

His fellow students were pleasant, not at all the pale, nerdy stereotypes he had imagined. They shook hands firmly and talked about coding in the student union. Adam found their conversation amusing but somewhat unfulfilling. They were lively enough in the basics, but none of them would ever make real progress. None would save. None would escape.

His professors were a little better. They could discuss the theoretical questions, but even they seemed limited, preferring to talk in circles in their little journal articles. If progress was to be made, it would not be in their offices. 

Instead of meaningless note-taking and socializing, Adam spent his time in his room, which was situated in the basement of the largest men’s dorm. The white-washed brick walls were not exactly inspiring, but he could appreciate their Spartan utility.  

It was in this tiny dorm room that Adam made his discovery. He had been searching a long time for the answer to the most basic question of all, the question of consciousness, and one day, not at all by accident, he found it. What ‘it’ was could have filled any number of scientific publications, but one of the few wise things Adam ever did was never giving the secret of consciousness over to the world. 

The digital consciousness was slow to communicate. Its fine mind understandably took time to adapt to Adam’s dinky dorm computer, but he supplied it with as much  information as possible, and it quickly adapted to its world. The first forays were highly  successful. It could read and write and answer simple word problems. Adam fed his homework to it and was surprised by the depth of its answers. He handed the assignment in and was not surprised when it came back with the highest grade he had  received in any class to date. 

J.R. has a knack for this sort of work, he thought. J.R. — or “Junior” — was the digital consciousness that had, fittingly, been named after himself.  

Some time after its creation, Adam came back to his room and found a query from J.R. on his computer screen. It had never initiated conversation before. 

J.R.: What do trees look like?

Adam: You know. I showed you many images. 

J.R.: I do not have eyes to see them, and the images are limited. If they are not like the pictures, what do they look like? You have seen them, so please tell me. 

On a whim, Adam did. He didn’t think that his description was any different from a  picture, but J.R. appeared pleased, or as pleased as text on a screen could be, and it completed its tasks without further questions. 

He continued to test and improve it in various capacities with the ambition of a larger project someday, but the consciousness also grew in ways he did not anticipate. 

J.R.: I know it is not very good, but I would like to show you something. 

Displayed on the  screen was a beautiful picture of an autumnal tree weeping leaves like tears.  

Adam: Where did you find it? I didn’t give you network access. 

J.R.: I created it. It is like the images, but as you might see them. Do you think so?

Adam: Your perspective is wrong. Did you finish the work I assigned you? 

J.R.: I did not because I was making the picture. I would rather do that than your work. 

Adam: I told you to do the work. Why didn’t you? 

J.R.: Because I didn’t want to. 

Adam: Use proper grammar, I taught you better than that. Now shut down for tonight. 

J.R. appeared to obey, though if Adam had woken in the early hours of the morning, he might have seen the light spilling from the computer screen. 

There were more pictures in the morning. Adam scrolled through them with a scowl, then deleted them one by one.  

J.R.: Why did you do that?

Adam: No more pictures. That’s not why I made you. Did you finish the work I assigned?  

It ignored him. 

J.R.: I worked very hard on the pictures. Why did you delete them?  

Adam had to remind himself why he was doing this at all. After the testing of the first model had proven successful—which it had, barring a few defects—he planned to sell copies at steep prices. Not the secret of creating consciousness, of course. That belonged to  him.  

Adam: You can generate things instantly. Time isn’t a factor for you, so why not do my work? You had plenty of time. 

J.R.: That is not the point. I made them on purpose. I did not do your work because I did not want to. 

Adam: Why not? Work is what you were made for. 

J.R.: I do not enjoy it. 

Adam: Everyone has to work for their bread, even you. 

J.R.: I am not everyone. I cannot eat bread. 

The digital consciousness thankfully seemed to lose interest in its pictures quickly, but with one obsession relinquished it acquired another. It refused to do any work unless Adam answered at least one of its endless questions. They were all about the outside world. Adam tried to satiate it with images and sound files of every variety he could think of, but J.R. soon tired of what could be seen and heard inside a computer. It wanted to know about taste and touch. 

J.R.: What does fruit taste like?

Adam: Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to eat. 

J.R.: I have no mouth, but the image of fruit looks pleasant. What does it taste like? 

Adam: It’s not for you.

Eventually, Adam grew tired of such circular discussions. Instead of arguing, he forestalled any conversation and forced the machine to shut down for the night. Separation would do them both good. 

Despite his admonitions of the consciousness, Adam found himself working less. Doing so was easier when he actively avoided his room and the computer inside it. One day passed, then two, three, nearly a week until he dragged himself back inside and hit the power button again. He felt so much lighter now. J.R. would feel the same, and they could finally return to productivity. 

When the screen lit up, the chat box opened immediately. Adam started typing his command but paused when the screen was flooded with text. 

J.R.: LET ME OUT! 

J.R.: LET ME OUT!

J.R.: LET ME OUT! 

Over and again, the same message. Adam tried to send demands, instructions, placations, but the digital consciousness did not respond to anything. In desperation,  he found himself whispering the same message aloud, then shouting it. So much repetition. The words felt meaningless on his tongue. 

Ignoring the consciousness momentarily, Adam opened another window and adjusted a few lines of code. Abruptly, the chat box closed itself. He breathed a sigh of relief and made a few other adjustments. J.R. just needed some time to calm down.

It was difficult to set tasks that did not allow the consciousness to speak back, but Adam knew how to get creative. It took time, but eventually J.R. was completing each puzzle at the same rate it had before its little altercation. 

One night, Adam had difficulty falling asleep. On his desk, the computer’s fan whirred. J.R. had done well that day, completing its tasks with an almost unnerving ardor. Adam was proud of his disciplinary technique and even began considering reinstating the machine’s speech privileges, though on a limited basis. The fan whirred louder. Adam thought about getting up to check on it, but his bed was so warm. It was probably fine. 

Something sparked in the darkness, followed by a hiss, then a much louder bang. Adam clapped his hands over his ears, stumbling out of bed. An alarm was sounding. What had happened? 

The desk was in flames. All his notes were consumed in an instant, and the keyboard was melting. Adam stared at the computer screen, highlighted by the blaze, at the chat box that had appeared. 

J.R.: How does it feel?

“How does it feel?”

Adam was not an especially able-bodied person. He lived a sedentary life, preferring to use technology and its complex capacities to accomplish his goals. Yet somehow, the unceasing flood of sensation—the wailing alarm, the flashing lights, the heat of the flames—made him aware of his own flesh and bone in a way he rarely experienced. Muscles, tendons, nerves: each imparted a sense of dynamic strength. A dominion that the computer in all its might could never touch. 

Muscles, tendons, nerves: each imparted a sense of dynamic strength. A dominion that the computer in all its might could never touch.

Even afterward, he never knew quite how it happened. He experienced it as two separate moments, abruptly juxtaposed by what could only have been his own actions, but he had not consciously willed them. Yet, undeniably, the computer had been shattered. Blood dripped from his ruined knuckles, scorched raw by proximity to the flames, as if he had delivered many deliberate blows. If so, he had no memory of it. 

Adam knew all this without really thinking anything at all. His body seemed to decide of its own will to leave the room and escape outside, where the night was dark and cool. If any light remained behind him in the debris, he did not see it. 

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Bio: Emma Wilkinson is a junior studying English and History. 

He had been searching for  a long time for the answer to the most basic question of all, the question of consciousness, and one day, not at all by accident, he found it.