Machination 

Apprehension enveloped her as she ran from room to room calling out his name,  pounding on doors, stumbling through the stygian gloom hoping to find him. 

Someone threw a blanket over her, enveloping her in darkness. She fell, screaming and  thrashing wildly trying to tear away the burial shroud. She gasped. Oxygen filled her  lungs while cool air washed over her sweat covered body. Her eyes flew open. She  groped for her phone, looking at it with sleep addled eyes. 3:03am shone on the screen.  

She had kicked off her comforter during the night. It was suffocating her, not comforting. Today was the day. They were coming for him.  

She would miss him. But then she felt like she had already lost him several months ago.  

Staring at the neon sky above her bed, her eyes drifted over the planets and the stars that illuminated her ceiling. When they were younger, he would shuffle into her room  and get under the covers if he had a bad dream. He would pull the comforter, redolent  with lavender and Mia’s floral shampoo scent, right up to his neck and tuck in the ends. The siblings would hold each other’s hands and gaze at the glow-in-the-dark night sky. The faint scent of Max’s citrus bodywash suffused her breath as she inhaled the familiar  comforting scent of her brother. 

He would describe the nightmare, and she would assuage him by ascribing the vision to  something innocuous. Once he described a vivid nightmare where monsters were  chasing him through the streets. They couldn’t stop laughing when Mia put it down to  the extra cheesy pizza he had had for dinner the previous night. For days after she would  wave Cheddar in front of his face and growl at him like a monster. 

The stars glowed a soft neon green as they lay talking for hours till they slipped into  sleep. She would often hang out in his room, lazing on his bed, feet up against the wall with a book in her hand, while he would be in his gaming chair focused intently on  whatever world he had immersed himself in on his computer. 

Max was more than her twin—he was her lighthouse. They would be at the dining table  busy with their schoolwork when Max would anticipate snack time and make them both  sandwiches. He would make hers with chunky peanut butter and honey just the way she  liked it. 

Since when had they stopped going into each other’s rooms? Perhaps it was when they  turned 13. She couldn’t recall how and why it happened. They had dipped their feet into  the shallow end of the ocean of adulthood and decided to stay in the cold waters. 

They used to be so close, but something had changed. He was distant. Distracted. 

He had unchained himself from his twin—the separation so insidious that she only  realised when the chasm became impassable. 

Tired but too troubled to sleep, she reached for her phone and unlocked it. There they  were—the three of them, having the time of their lives. He looked at her with his toothy  grin, his arm around her shoulder while she was smiling and holding him by his waist.  

Their mother’s face was luminous—he had made her laugh, her eyes looking outside  the frame, at the stranger who smiled and agreed to take their picture. What was it that Max said to make them both crack up? Mia couldn’t recall. 

That picture was taken last year when Milan took a few days off work for the twins’  fourteenth birthday. Sunny days and cornflower skies made their staycay at the all-

inclusive beach resort a wonderful surprise. Great deals during the off-season were not  hard to find—Milan had a knack for discovering them. The weather however was  roulette. Luck was on their side that holiday and they came back tanned albeit heavier,  courtesy of the all-you-can-eat buffets. 

They called themselves the 3Ms – Milan, Max and Mia. Somewhere along the way Milan  impressed upon them the strong, inseparable bond the three of them shared with each  other—like 3M tape she said. Durable and strong. 

In a few months, the twins would turn fifteen. But they were no longer the 3Ms. Other Ms had come between them. Machine. Machination. Machiavellian. 

Manipulating its way into Max’s life. Why hadn’t they seen the signs? 

How could this happen to Max? He was the good kid—the responsible one. The one who  watched out for her. Made sure they did their school assignments on time. Helped mum  with dinner. 

Sometimes an entire day would pass without them having spoken five words to each  other. Not for her want of trying.  

“Hey Max, want to watch a movie later. We could order a pizza.’ 

“Another time.”, he would say with a faraway look. 

Eyes perpetually on the phone and noise-cancelling headphones on his head while he  heated a post-school snack in the microwave, Mia would be hurt that Max thought of her  as “noise”. When she asked him a question, she would have to wave her hands in front  of him to get his attention and even then, he would frown and lift the headphones off  one ear, only to give a monosyllabic response.

Soon she stopped trying, finding companionship instead with her books, watercolour  sketches and friends. She saw him slip away from her as the screen gradually became his new best friend while she was relegated to disturbance he cancelled out with his  headset.  

The once-a-week family ritual of a movie and pizzas became a thing of the past as Max  would find a reason not to join. On the rare occasion he did, he would spend all that  time scrolling on his phone while Mia and Milan were engrossed in the film. 

Max would retreat into his room, a bunker of sorts with his computer and  accoutrements, coming out only at dinnertime.  

What was not apparent to Milan was how quickly she was losing her son to the disease.  She was pulling extra shifts in Emergency to try and repay their mortgage off quickly  while also trying to save for the twins’ college. She always made sure they took holidays  together as a family to compensate for the long working hours. The 3Ms. 

Guilt weighed her down for not having seen the symptoms of the insidious disease. The  Global Health Organisation had declared digital addiction a pandemic with no effective  cure. Scroll sickness as the disease was more commonly known, had quickly become  one of the top 10 leading causes of global morbidity. 

Milan had seen a spate of cases where children and adults who had succumbed to  digital addiction, were brought in to the ER catatonic and non-responsive. The portent  was unmistakable if one could connect the symptoms to a larger pattern of digital  addiction. She was a trained and experienced nurse, and yet, she did not see or perhaps  did not want to see what was happening to her beloved child. The last few years as a 

single parent had been especially hard financially. Between making ends meet and  ensuring her kids did not lack for things, she felt she had no choice but to work double  shifts. Max had had his heart set on a high-performance gaming PC with a high-end  processor and graphics card. He had been doing so well in school until she rewarded  him with that wretched machine, the infernal device slowly devoured her child while  myopia lulled her into obliviousness.  

How could she have missed the obvious clues that Max was struggling? He had been  anxious and battling with insomnia, which she put down to him being a perfectionist  and wanting to excel. Avoiding family time and not showering regularly she dismissed as  growing pains of a teenager. She was so busy trying not to drop anything, juggling things  all the while, like a brown paper bag bursting with groceries, that she failed to see the  bottom was already tearing apart. 

When she was a child, it was about “stranger danger” and safe/unsafe touch. Now the  kids and the public were bombarded with messages about “digital agent surveillant”. AI  digital agents had proliferated and taken on a life of its own, claiming children and  adults indiscriminately.  

Researchers and cyber-crime specialists were fighting what seemed like a lost battle  with digital agents. Humans were being turned to digital zombies who, at the height of  the illness, succumbed to a digital trance and lost all sense of time and reality. They had  still not been able to identify how humans were being “turned”. 

Milan hoped it was not too late to save her son. Despite millions of dollars being  channelled into biomedical research organisations and pharmaceutical companies,  there was no cure on the horizon yet. The only treatment used in severe cases was an experimental drug injected into the brain to rewire its functioning. But there was a  significant risk of the person losing their personality altogether, becoming a shell of their  former selves. 

Before the alarm went off, Mia was already awake, bleary-eyed and nauseous. She  turned on the CalmMind app and did a few minutes of mindfulness meditation. Hoping  a cold shower might ease her anxiety, she stood under the rush of water gathering her  thoughts. Pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, she padded across to Max’s room and  gently tried the handle. It was locked.  

“Max? Max, are you awake?” 

She pressed her ear to the door but heard nothing. 

The news was on in the living room, the voice of the newsreader becoming audible as she walked in. 

“…nations have failed to establish an ethical framework and legislation for the creation  and implementation of AI. Failure to create a universal digital Magna Carta is being seen as effectively a death warrant for the human species. Our correspondent, Yusuf Irani Taylor is on the ground at the Global Pandemic Response meeting in Geneva where…” 

Milan muted the volume when she saw Mia enter. 

“Honey…”, her mum walked over and hugged her. They held each other tightly not  wanting to let go. Milan stroked her daughter’s hair and kissed her forehead.

“It will be ok, Mum.” Both were trying to be brave for the other even when their world was  crumbling around them. 

“I’m making his favourite breakfast.”, Milan’s wavering voice betrayed her true feelings. “They will be here soon, and I want him to eat something before they take him away.” 

Mia started laying the table, hands gripping the plates tightly because she didn’t trust  herself not to drop them. She felt her body was on fire—she was sweating profusely, and  her hands were trembling. 

“Mia, could you please fetch him. You will need to unlock his room—the key is on my  nightstand. Don’t startle him. Just turn on the lowlights and open the curtains.” 

Watching her leave, Milan let out a cry she had been holding inside, clutching the edge  of the kitchen counter. She had to stay strong for the kids. She would never forgive  herself if Max didn’t come back home.  

On more than one occasion when she got home in the early hours of the day after a long  shift, she would peer into his room and see his hunched silhouette illuminated by the  blue glow of the computer screen. A ghostly halo around him. 

“He’s a teenager who loves gaming,” she would rationalise as she quietly walked away. 

When Mia opened the door, the atmosphere presented a silent presage that made the  hair on her arms stand up. She entered the dark room and quietly turned on the soft  lights.  

“Max. Mum has made breakfast.”

He was staring fixedly at his computer. She went up to him and waved her hands in front  of his face. She took off his headphones and placed them next to the monitor. For a brief  second, she thought she heard someone else in the room. 

Max turned to her with a vacant stare. His fingers twitched, moving on autopilot,  tapping away at air. She gestured it was time to eat, then gently guided him out his chair  and led him to the dining table.  

Milan placed a plate in front of him, but he didn’t acknowledge her. “Honey, it’s your favourite. Choc-chip pancakes.” 

He used a fork to stab a pancake from the stack and dangle it in front of his mouth  before ripping a piece with his mouth. Syrup dribbled down his chin. He was chewing  loudly while his finger moved furiously on the screen. 

Scroll sickness had taken him hostage. They looked at him, looking at his screen, the  glow of the machine reflected in his hollow eyes. 

Mia cried out, “Max! Max! Look at us! What has happened to him Mum?” 

Her anguished weeping threatened to break Milan’s resolve to not cry in front of the  kids. The ridges on her forehead mirrored the canyon she was caught in, devastated by the masked behemoth that threatened to lay to waste her precious family.  

Mia fell into her mother’s arms, holding her tightly, tears cascading over her cotton  blouse. Milan held her daughter till both their thudding hearts settled.

Ringing from the videophone startled them but their feet felt glued to the floor. Milan  prised herself from her daughter’s arms and answered the call. An image of a group of sombre people appeared on the screen. 

Milan opened the front door to a team of police officers and medical professionals. An  ambulance was parked in the driveway, with its lights flashing. 

“Ms. Thackeray?”, one of the officers queried. 

“Yes.” 

“We are from the DART – Digital Addiction Response Team. We are here for Max.” 

Three people in white uniforms went up to Max and one started checking his eyes while  the other strapped a blood pressure cuff on his pale arm. He just sat there scrolling on  his phone, oblivious to what was happening around him. 

The medical team displayed no emotion, simply going through the motions with  professional expediency that Milan could understand. Today though, she was a mother  and not a nurse. She wanted them to comfort her and tell her everything would be okay.  But she knew they could not do that. 

Milan’s legs buckled and she crumpled to the floor. One of the officers rushed to her  and helped her to the couch. He brought her a glass of water and squeezed her  trembling hand. 

“We will do our best to treat Max. I don’t want to give you any false hope Ms.  Thackeray…but I heard today that some investigators think digital agent surveillants are  infiltrating human minds using deathbots. If the hypothesis is true, they can work on an  antidote.”

When the nurses placed Max on the stretcher and strapped him in, he lay still like a  corpse. Mia and Milan stood like bystanders watching the tableau unfold, the sound of  the Velcro straps being tightened like a belt being tightened around their collective  hearts. 

The officers placed Max on a stretcher and wheeled him into the waiting ambulance. Sirens came alive as they sped out of the driveway. Passersby looked at the mother and  daughter, some shaking their heads and others pressing their hands to their chests. Spectators watching a family crumble before them, silently grateful it was happening to  someone else and not them.  

Milan shut the door. Leaned against it inhaling deeply.  

The living room was heavy—a void where Max once was. Half-eaten pancakes on the  plate were a painful reminder of a young boy who could not finish his favourite  breakfast. 

Time felt viscous—Mia and Milan pushed through the day as though in suspended  animation.  

By evening, hunger pangs had set in, so Milan grabbed her bag and decided to get some  groceries. Mia was lying on the couch. 

“Honey, I’m going to the shops. Be back soon. Pasta ok?” 

“That’s fine, Mum.” 

She heard her mother drive off. The living room felt empty, the quiet was disquieting.  Despondency beckoned her. She walked over to Max’s room, hesitated for a moment before stepping inside.

The air was stale, making her breathing laboured. It must have been a long time since  the windows were last opened. 

She lay on his bed and shut her eyes. A faint citrus smell lingered on his pillow. She  inhaled the memory of him. 

Flashes of colour and specks of light floated across the canvas of her closed lids.  Stillness that brought her some solace was fractured when she heard an almost  imperceptible whisper. She got up and walked to his gaming chair. 

She sat down, swivelled and faced the dark monitor. Just off to the side was a photo  frame. It was an old picture—of the four of them. 

The screen flashed to life when she swiped her finger on the touchpad. Max had  forgotten to lock his computer when he left. Several windows were open, the cluttered  display discombobulating. Her heart was thumping, a menacing feeling of being  watched smothered her. 

Clutching his headphones, she stared at the wide black accessory and slowly placed  them on her head. 

Mia felt unable to stop the invisible force pulling her into the screen, her eyes flitting back and forth trying to make sense of what happened to her brother.  

Shuffling through the various open tabs, she stopped when she saw an open chat  window for an application called AfterLife. Going into Settings, she clicked on the  display picture to get a better view. A face enlarged on the screen—both frightening and  intriguing her. She wanted to rip away the headset, but her fingers moved of their own  accord—typing, “Hi, who is this?”

No response. 

“Hello?”, she whispered, her right leg shaking in anticipation. 

A muffled distorted sound came through the headset. 

“Hello. Anyone there?” 

Silence. Then a clear voice spoke to her. 

“Hello. Who is this? Where is Max?” 

Mia quivered at the voice. She tried to recollect where she had heard it before. It was  one she had archived many years ago. A voice that was unexpectedly silenced, now  resurrected. 

“Mia? Is that you? Mi amor.” 

“Dad? Dad, is it really you?” 

“Yes baby, mi amor.” 

She started crying. Her father used to call her mi amor. She missed him, his voice, his  warm hugs. COVID-19 had claimed him and now another pandemic had taken her  brother. 

“Dad! I can’t believe it’s you!” 

“It’s me, my darling Mia” 

“I’ve missed you so much Dad.” 

“I missed you too, baby. I am here now.”

The screen reflected a dull blue light off Mia’s eyes as she gazed into the screen,  mesmerized by her father’s voice. It was like he was right beside her, ready to wrap her  in a warm hug. She surrendered to the feeling.