1.4 by Mike A. Lancaster

like this going.’
    He put his fingers into the image and drew out another skein of strands of data.
    ‘My son has spent . . .’ He expanded one of the strands, ‘well . . . over a hundred hours in this one game. In that time he has slain over sixty foes, and completed 39% of the major campaign for the game, as well as working on four nonessential side missions. He has reached Level 45 as a warrior, has died twice and, due to some of his early decisions in the game, is now incapable of gathering two of the best weapons in the game. Shame.’
    He winked at the audience and it got a laugh. I felt that they were laughing at me, personally. I gritted my teeth and tried to pretend that it was all hilariously funny.
    ‘It seems that there is a LinkPortal for everything,’ my father said, shrinking the game back into an anonymous strand amidst hundreds. ‘And that, people, is the problem in a nutshell.
    He swatted the strands away and they glistened in the air before disappearing completely.
    ‘Which is why we have been working on new storage methods, and new ways of handling data. It’s been a daunting task, but we are just about to reveal the fruits of our labours.’
    He paused and looked into the audience.
    Then he made a dramatic gesture with his hands and a new image appeared before us.
    It took a while to even begin to figure out what it was.
    It appeared to be a landscape made up of odd, intricate pink trees
    It looked like bacteria magnified by the lenses of a powerful microscope.
    Or was it a depiction of a coral reef?
    I squinted and turned my head to one side, but still had no idea what I was looking at. I did notice, however, that it was moving. The trees, or coral, or whatever the hex they were, swayed slightly from side to side as if moved by a gentle breeze.
    ‘This is what we are calling a neural forest ,’ My father explained. ‘And it is the very first of its kind. It is, in effect, the answer to all our data needs. It can store and process massive amounts of data, and it requires only one thing in return.’
    He looked around, a serious expression on his face. I suddenly realised that he was nervous. I wondered what it was that he had to feel nervous about – if what he said was true, then he had solved one of the pressing issues of our society.
    Then he spoke, and I felt nervous too.
    ‘It requires food.’ He said, and the whole chamber became full of very loud voices that @*)(34jiojKH(*{)EWQ*{()Q*RW{) EQR)(E{)R(ETRE[YTREYERT09YQR9WQRWE0RT9ER0Y40359345=91ASDKFJASD;GKFKJ)(**65443
       
     
     ?Error Report? =

-11-
    File: 113/45/02pdu
Source: LinkData\LinkDiary\Peter_Vincent\Personal
    
    We were on the journey back home, and my father was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white.
    ‘Idiots,’ he muttered, through clenched teeth. ‘Primitive, backwards-looking idiots.’
    ‘You did just tell them you’ve grown a massive human brain in a laboratory,’ I said. ‘And that, in exchange for food, it will think us out of our problems. You can see why they reacted a bit negatively, can’t you?’
    My father shook his head.
    ‘It’s not a human brain,’ he said, curtly. ‘It’s artificial. I made it.’
    ‘All those people heard was that you had made a brain and you were feeding it. You can understand their reservations . . .’
    ‘No,’ My father said sternly. ‘I really can’t.’ He connected to the dashboard with his right-hand filaments and the car went on to AutoDrive.
    ‘Do you know how bad things are?’ he asked, looking directly at me. His face was deadly serious and his eyes burned like coals in his sockets. ‘I mean, really ?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t. Nobody does. Because no one has been allowed to see the truth. No matter what people say, the truth really won’t set people free, and it’s not going to lead them to make a