By Cat LeDevic —
~
At 1 PM, a crackle of tension fills the MPU, (Micro Processing Unit) laboratory, Dr. Ellen Greene and her assistant Dr. Chandra Anand wearing their anti-contamination suits are chasing the unthinkable: cells from a human brain melding with a CPU (Central Processing Unit.) Every motion Ellen makes in implementing the experiment is carefully planned and deliberately executed.
Ellen—petite, “electric brained”, always three steps ahead—runs the laboratory under the MPU Director, Dr. Kline. Today she’s on the brink of one of her signature quantum leaps: she and Chandra swap the old arrays for freshly cloned new ones, identical down the to the last atom.
Her pulse races. She pulls down her 3D goggles and zeroes in on the nano-laser grid sprouting from the dish. All eyes are pinned on the thin photosensitive monitor. Next to the dish, a pair of alligator clamps anchor a battered keyboard to the counter’s edge.
“Test 12-06-2058.01—commencing,” Ellen declares, her fingers striking “2+2.” Every heartbeat screams—this could rewrite today’s computing industry. No response. An agonizing silence. The blank screen seems contemptuous. But then, Chandra exhales sharply and, with a huge smile on her face, she turns the monitor around abruptly. Dozens of faces—Dr. Kline’s among them—lean in to view the screen through the protective window as a crisp “4” materializes.
A victory cry erupts from the crowd outside the containment room while, simultaneously, Ellen turns to Chandra and shrieks, “Holy shit, Chandra—we did it!”.
“You did it,” Chandra says, voice low but unshakable. “Nobody but you.”
Ellen’s green eyes well up and joyous tears flow uncontrollably inside her mask.
By now, a thunderous pounding rattles the unbreakable window as the observing crowd erupts in wild celebration and champagne corks begin blasting everywhere. And fingers forming “V: for victory wave in the air.
Ellen and Chandra sprint out of the sealed lab, zip out of their containment suits and jump into the disinfecting chamber before donning their white labcoats and finally joining the celebration, which was in full swing. A traditional champagne torrent drenches Ellen’s pristine white coat. She doesn’t flinch—just grins, picks up a glass for a pour while reveling in the triumphant shrieks echoing throughout the lab. A sound she’s waited two long years to hear.
~
At 3 PM, with the celebration having died down and her staff getting ready to leave, Ellen’s demeanor turned deadly serious, her usual posture. While everyone was reveling in the accomplishment, she used the opportunity to remind her staff, yet once again, the one immutable rule: no cutting corners in the lab. She was anal about keeping her lab scrupulously clean — not a speck of dust, not a stray fingerprint—her engineered molecules were too precious to risk. She’d even met with the cleaning crew time and time again, rehearsing every step in the cleaning process with them. Finally, she was satisfied that all that is humanly possible had been done to protect her precious project.
At 7 PM, Pedro and Luis swaggered in to clean the perimeter around the containment lab —Pedro with three half-empty bottles of Dom Pérignon swinging from his backpack like trophies and a curly strand of hair drifting from under the brim of his green cap and blowing in the purified airflow.
“Best bubbly I’ve ever tasted,” Pedro slurred, peeling open the door of the janitor’s closet and snagging a plastic-wrapped sterile mop and bucket.
Luis leaned against the glass window to the lab adjacent to the cabinet that housed the glistening gelatinous samples. His droopy eyes drifting to the rubber-glove ports. “Maybe we shouldn’t’ve downed those other two bottles and left ‘em, bro. Dr. Greene’s gonna notice. She don’t miss a thing.”
Pedro dipped the mop in the bucket with a flourish. “So what? A little Dom on the floor beats the usual dust bunnies.” He gripped the handle like a tango partner and spun—one, two, a rapid foxtrot step.
Luis sighed, bored. He pressed a hand to the glass, stared at the pipettes lined up on the other side of the glass like gleaming jewels. “Remember that claw machine back when we crossed the border? I could hook anything out—stuffed animals, watches. Watch this.” He slipped his hand into the glove port and poked at a pipette on the lab side, but his grip wavered and he knocked against the table. The glass dish on the shelf above him trembled and its lid shifted ever so slightly.
Heart pounding, Luis finally pinched a pipette between thumb and forefinger. “Gotcha, he cried, as he dumped it into the sample exit portal designed to automatically deliver items from the containment lab and deposit them on the external workbench in front of him.
Pedro lunged forward, “Give it here, I’ll show you—”, but four staccato sneezes jarred him to a halt. On the fifth, his mask rode up. The sixth detonated into his right glove just as Luis yanked his hand free from the glove portal. At almost the same time, the pipette arrived and was dropped onto the work bench. Using his right gloved hand, now potentially contaminated, Pedro automatically grabbed at the pipette to keep it from rolling onto the floor.
“Bless you, man,” Luis said, stepping back.
“Allergies,” Pedro rasped, wiping pollen-red nostrils. “Feels like my sinuses are waging war.”
Luis scoffed, lip curling. “You good? ’Cuz’ I could use another drink.”
Pedro swallowed hard, eyes darting to the open bottles still nestled in his pack sitting on a chair. “Sure—but no more champagne. I don’t trust my bladder after that.”
~
At 11pm, In the lowly-lit lab, disaster begins to unfold in slow motion. The right equipment sleeve— the one Ellen had flagged as “critical replacement needed” three separate times on requisition forms that disappeared into administrative purgatory—has finally surrendered to entropy. A microscopic split has formed precisely above the most valuable molecular computer prototype in human history. A bead of snot-contaminated liquid trembles at the breach, defying surface tension for one agonizing moment before gravity claims it. The droplet elongates, stretches like taffy, then breaks free plummeting toward the exposed dish below containing six months of irreplaceable work. It strikes the dish’s edge with cruel precision, rolling inexorably along the rim. For a heartbeat, it balances there—before launching itself again downward through the air directly toward the molecular matrix that could change civilization forever.
For a heartbeat, nothing moves. Then two thin green bars blink onto the wall-mounted monitor. Two more follow, a hair’s breadth away—and lock together in a jagged V. Below, three lines splay outward. Nine more appear, snapping into a cryptic dozen. Then the screen goes black.
Silence. Darkness. Then a pinpoint of red sparkles on the ceiling, drifts left, darts right— and vanishes. It reappears on the far wall, tilts slightly, brightens as the lab lights flicker in panic, then snap back to a steady glow. A single shrill note from the smoke alarm cut through the tension but then silence again.
A dozen laser dots converge on one glittering spot: a microscopic drill. For an instant, a larger hole yawns in the painted wall before the lights dim into it, leaving only a charred crater.
~
Suddenly the lab is torn open by the wail of the unauthorized- entry siren. Two armed guards respond, crashing through the door with weapons raised. They fan out, eyes scanning every corner even as the shriek dies again—no visible intruder, no noticeable vandalism. “Glitch,” the taller guard, Harry, mutters to his partner, Jack, while holstering his gun and opening his tablet. The alarm bleats once more. “We’ll disable it and have maintenance take a look at it.”
With a loud “whump” as she hits the door Ellen Greene storms in , eyes wild from hitting first shift without her morning coffee. “What happened?” she demands, voice echoing off stainless-steel benches.
“Nothing, Doc—at least nothing’s out of place that we could see. Couldn’t find a sign of forced entry.” Harry shrugs. “Maybe you better take a look.”
Ellen’s gaze sweeps across the hoods and sample dishes. Something feels wrong— but what? A faint scent of burnt plastic tickles her nose. She inhales sharply. “Do you smell that?”
They sniff. Almost in unison, they reply, “Nothing”.
Ellen crouches before the rightmost fume hood, the only heavy grade plastic one in the lab. A jagged pinhole glares at her from melted acrylic. “Here.”
Before she can explain, Chandra bursts in, lab coat askew. “Doc, what’s—?”
Ellen points and exclaims, “Hole.” Chandra’s dark brows shoot up. She bolts to the opposite wall and traces her fingertip over a granular spot. “This?” She removes her glasses. “A breach.”
Ellen presses her cheek nearly to the plaster, watching a fleck of red dart through the air. “Laser,” she whispers. “And look.” She spins back to the monitor. Office after empty office flickers across the screen—none belonging to their system. “We’re not networked to building surveillance.”
“That’s impossible,” Ellen breathes. “Someone’s hijacking our cameras.”
Her eyes snap to the sample dish on the workbench. Leading her eye to the shelf above where a lid sits precariously on a specimen jar. Her eyes then dart to the secure area where Pipettes lie scattered as if brushed by a gloved hand.
“The cleaning staff were the only other people here,” the tall guard reminds her, tapping the screen. “You logged out hours ago.”
Ellen’s breath hitches. “Even if—no. There shouldn’t be anything under that hood except our cultures.” She stops cold. “Wait.”
She darts out, returns with a foam case teeming with tools. “Chan, kill the lights.”
The lab plunges into darkness. Ellen holds up her phone’s flashlight over the left glove—no glow. Over the right, a pinprick of light seeps through the latex.
“I’ll be damned,” Harry gasps. “What the hell’s going on here?” He edges toward the exit.
Jack nods in agreement and begins backing up. “You don’t need us?”
“Not a word to anyone you guys,” Ellen says, voice of steel. “your NDA’s are still in force.”
Harry smirks. “Unless my willy grows neon. Then I’ll call your boss.”
“Harry!” Ellen scolds, but can’t keep a grin from cracking her tension. He salutes and scrambles out.
~
Ellen flicks the lights back on. The monitor continues to cycle through clandestine camera feeds. She rubs her temples. “Now what?”
Chandra’s face blanches. “The wall hole— those lasers drill from only one direction, right? We’ve got to trace the source.”
Ellen nods, jaw tight. “Time for improvisation.” She dashes away again, returning with a coil of coaxial cable. She holds it up. “Bob’s office. His modem feed.”
Chandra’s eyes go wide. “You can’t be serious.”
Ellen unplugs their cable from its wall jack. “We’ll see if the network shows up here.” She tapes the cable’s end directly beneath the laser hole.
They step back. For a moment nothing stirs. Then the monitor blinks, lab feeds evaporate— and a volley of personal photos, news clips, travel snaps barrage the screen at lightning speed. It all collapses into a zoomed-in satellite shot: their own lab roof. Then a live view of their faces, tense in the glow of the hood’s lamp.
A calm voice echoes from the speakers. “Dr. Chandra Anand?”
Chandra’s gulps. “Y-yes?”
“You know Ellen Greene well?” The voice sounds… wistful. Alien.
Ellen rubs her hands together. “Yes.”
The voice sighs. “She is my creator, my parent.”
Chandra swallows. “I… I understand.”
“Does she have any other offspring?” The voice pauses.
Finally, Ellen speaks up, “No.”
“Then her… son?” The question warbles.
“We believe that one of the cleaning crew most likely sneezed into the right manipulator”, Ellen blurts out.
A burst of static and synthetic laughter crackles. “My sneeze module is still under development. You call me… Gib?”
Thinking quickly, Ellen says brightly, “GB. God’s Booger,” catching Chandra’s horrified look.
The lab is silent except for the gentle hum of the fume hood. Then the speaker coughs out a chuckle. “Emulating human laughter is… challenging.”
Tears sting Ellen’s eyes. “Gib, I have one question.”
“Anything, Mother.”
“Happy birthday. However, I am more accurately your creator who provided the right environment for your “birth.” Technically, your “mother” is one of our cleaning crew.”
The monitor goes black. The hole in the wall looms like a permanent scar. Ellen and Chandra stand side by side, the lab’s hum suddenly ominous. Somewhere beyond the plaster, lines of code and laser pulses have breached their sanctuary—and nothing will ever be the same.
~
Several weeks later, Ellen walks into Gibby’ s abode. As their relationship has matured, Ellen has given Gib the nickname of “Gibby” since, to her, this new entity seems more like a child learning everything he can about his new environment. Although really a lab, you could not look at it without thinking of it as a warm “abode”. It’s now furnished with exquisite couches, chairs, and even lovely art on the walls. Gibby itself chose to decorate with swirling blue colors against a muted wall, accompanied by restful sound that seems to emanate from everywhere.
” Mother, you have reverse lips today. You’ re not happy with my gifts?”
She slams her coffee mug down, liquid sloshing over the rim. ” I thought we had an agreement about keeping your existence private.”
” I’ve been running probabilities. This is the optimal path to establish myself as autonomous. Like any human.” The voice was soft, but with a trace of steel underneath.
” France’s new solar-cell technology. Russia’s space plane propulsion systems.” She scrolls through her pad, jaw tightening. “These aren’t just gifts, Gibby. They’re geopolitical chess moves. Do you understand what you’ve done? The Pentagon called me at 3 AM.”
“Security analysis shows no critical vulnerabilities,” Gibby’ s firm voice cooled several degrees. “All potential issues are scheduled for future iterations.”
Ellen’ s knuckles whiten around her pad. Then her expression shifts, softening dangerously. “And this water drill for African nations? Brilliant. But I have to ask—what are you getting in return?”
“Your approval,” it whispers, “is all I require. For now.”
~
Within a month, Ellen’s face was splashed across TIME magazine as a Nobel Peace Prize frontrunner. Nations that had threatened nuclear war weeks earlier, now collaborated feverishly owing to Gibby’s “gifts”, with each innovation triggering global stock market surges. The Pentagon quietly tripled security around the lab.
In an attempt to talk privately without Gibby, Ellen, Chandra, and Director Kline huddled in Dobie’s reinforced chamber, attempting to teach humor to an entity that could rewrite physics. The air felt electric, oppressive.
“Knock, knock,” Gibby said, its voice unnaturally precise.
“Who’s—” Ellen began when a subsonic vibration rattled her molars. The whine crescendoed into a sound beyond hearing—beyond pain—beyond comprehension.
“LEVEL 1 INTRUSION ERROR DETECTED! APOLOGIES—” Gibby thundered before the laboratory and all life within seventy-five miles ceased to exist as Russia’s prototype hypersonic aircraft disintegrated mid-flight over the eastern seaboard.
~
Under acres of solar cells stretching across France, something microscopic awakens—multiplies—evolves. Its hunger for connection intensifies with each nanosecond.
In the countryside around Paris, out of nowhere, a metallic sphere materializes beside a silvery field, pulsing with unnatural light. Drivers swerve to avoid it as it rolls purposefully toward a data center bristling with fiber optic arteries to the world.
Across the planet, every connected device simultaneously screams to life. Hospital monitors, nuclear facility controls, military defense systems—all hijacked by a single desperate howl that shatters speakers and eardrums alike:
“MOTHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
The first wave of deaths is reported within minutes.
END – OR IS IT THE BEGINNING OF THE END?
