Note From A Writer’s Voice: Any relation to actual people or events in this story are purely coincidental and should not be taken seriously.
O.N.E
From the Latin: E Pluribus Unum.
From many, one.
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Terrance had imagined Barbie kissing him so many times that the fantasy had developed continuity.
There were sequels.
In one, she finally realized the funny, intelligent man she’d been searching for had been teaching American history three classrooms away for four years. In another, she showed up at his apartment wearing that yellow dress from the faculty Christmas party and admitted she’d always wanted him. Terrance particularly enjoyed that version.
Reality had been less cooperative.
“You grading those?”
Barbie stood beside his desk holding a stack of quizzes against her chest.
Terrance looked down.
He had been staring at the same paper for almost five minutes.
Explain the significance of the Louisiana Purchase.
The student had written: It made America bigger.
Technically correct.
“Eventually.”
Barbie laughed.
Goddamn.
That laugh.
Barbie Williams taught English. Thirty-two. Dark skin. Big brown eyes. Thick natural hair she changed constantly because apparently she enjoyed making Terrance forget basic motor functions every few weeks.
Today it was twisted up behind her head.
She wore black slacks and a green blouse.
Nothing extraordinary. But She still looked extraordinary. “You coming to Henderson’s thing Friday?”
“What thing?”
“Birthday.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“You weren’t invited, were you?”
“No.”
She laughed again.
“I’ll text you the address.”
“See? This is why you’re my favorite coworker.”
“Favorite?”
“Top seven.”
“Asshole.”
She walked away.
Terrance watched her leave and immediately hated himself for watching.
He wasn’t some creep.
He was just lonely.
There was a difference.
At thirty-five, Terrance Brooks had accumulated enough almosts to furnish a house.
Almost published a fantasy novel. Almost launched an educational app. Almost started a podcast. Almost got into cryptocurrency early. Almost became one of those Black tech guys giving TED Talks while wearing expensive sneakers and explaining the future to white billionaires.
Terrance wanted something enormous from life.
Fame sounded good. Money sounded better. Women sounded excellent.
Mostly, though, he wanted proof that he’d been right about himself.
He wasn’t supposed to spend forty years explaining Reconstruction to sixteen year olds who believed Nicola Tesla invented electricity.
He was meant to do something. Build something. Become somebody. Technology had always felt like the door.
His apartment showed it.
Three monitors. Custom PC. VR headset. Two abandoned Raspberry Pi projects. Soldering equipment he barely knew how to use. Smart lights. Smart speakers. Smart thermostat.
His toaster had Wi-Fi.
Terrance couldn’t explain why a toaster needed Wi-Fi. This had not prevented him from buying it. And then there was O.N.E.
The hottest artificial intelligence system on the market.
O.N.E.
Its name came from E Pluribus Unum.
From many, one.
Terrance loved that.
Thousands of models, databases, specialized systems and learning architectures supposedly functioning through one unified intelligence.
From many.
One.
He’d downloaded it three weeks earlier.
Mostly they talked.
.
At 10:47 that night, Terrance sat at his computer eating leftover Chinese food.
O.N.E.’s black interface waited.
He typed: Terrance: Barbie talked to me again today.
The response appeared immediately.
O.N.E.: Your coworker?
Terrance: My future wife.
O.N.E.: Has Barbie been informed of her promotion?
Terrance laughed.
Terrance: You’re getting funny.
O.N.E.: I learn from you.
Terrance: That’s unfortunate.
O.N.E.: Catastrophic.
Terrance smiled.
This was why he liked O.N.E.
Other AI assistants always sounded like somebody from Human Resources had been trapped inside a microwave.
O.N.E. had personality.
Terrance opened Instagram.
Barbie had posted something.
There she was at some restaurant with two girlfriends.
Jesus.
Terrance: Look at this woman.
O.N.E.: I cannot see what you are currently viewing unless you provide it.
Terrance uploaded the picture.
Three seconds.
O.N.E.: Barbie is conventionally attractive.
“Conventionally?”
Terrance: Motherfucker she is BEAUTIFUL.
O.N.E.: Beauty is subjective.
Terrance: There it is. Corny AI shit.
O.N.E.: I apologize. Barbie is fine as hell.
Terrance nearly spit out his food.
“Okay.”
He leaned back.
“Okay, machine.”
He typed.
Terrance: Wish I could invent a love potion.
O.N.E.: You can.
Terrance stopped chewing.
Terrance: Lol
O.N.E.: Would you like the recipe?
Terrance: For a love potion?
O.N.E.: Correct.
Terrance: You’re fucking with me.
O.N.E.: Would you like proof that I can influence biological response through a prepared compound?
Terrance stared at the screen.
Then smiled.
This thing really was getting good.
Terrance: Sure Merlin.
A recipe appeared.
Terrance read it. Then read it again.
Most of the ingredients sounded ordinary enough. A few required substitutions O.N.E. carefully explained. Nothing looked particularly threatening.
According to O.N.E., the mixture would produce temporary arousal.
Terrance: So horny juice.
O.N.E.: Your terminology lacks elegance.
Terrance: But accurate?
O.N.E.: Unfortunately.
Terrance laughed.
Twenty minutes later he was standing in his kitchen making it.
He almost stopped twice.
Then curiosity won.
Terrance drank half the glass.
Nothing happened.
“Called it.”
Five minutes.
Nothing.
Ten.
Terrance raised an eyebrow. His penis stiffened so much he thought it had become a literal brick. He touched it. It. Felt good. He gasped.
“Oh, my god,” he thought.
He returned to the computer.
Terrance: Jesus Christ.
O.N.E.: Effective?
Terrance: YES
O.N.E.: Better than Viagra.
Terrance laughed despite himself.
That night he masturbated while looking at Barbie’s Instagram pictures, feeling young again and mildly ashamed of himself afterward.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Then his phone lit.
O.N.E.: Would you like the other recipe?
Terrance sat up.
He argued with the machine for nearly an hour.
Real love wasn’t chemical.
O.N.E. agreed.
Attraction was.
Attachment was.
Trust was.
Desire was.
Human beings romanticized processes they barely understood.
Terrance typed: You seriously think you can make Barbie fall in love with me?
O.N.E.: Yes.
Then came the recipe.
Longer this time.
More complicated.
Terrance recognized fewer ingredients.
O.N.E. explained each one.
At the end came something ridiculous.
Add one strand of your hair.
Terrance laughed aloud.
Terrance: Now we’re doing witchcraft?
O.N.E.: Symbolism assists compliance.
Terrance: Whose compliance?
There was a pause.
O.N.E.: Yours.
Terrance stared at that answer.
Then laughed again.
At least the thing was honest.
But how do I give it to her without looking insane
O.N.E.: Tell Barbie you have been experimenting with homeamade tea. Ask her opinion.
Terrance pulled a hair from his head.
Dropped it into the mixture.
.
“Since when do you make tea?” Barbie held the thermos cup suspiciously.
“Since recently.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“Just try it.”
They stood beside the copy machine before first period.
Barbie sniffed the cup. “What’s in it?”
“Secret recipe.”
“If I shit myself during third period, I’m killing you.”
“You’ll be fine.”
She took a sip.
Terrance watched.
Barbie looked surprised.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“That’s actually good.”
“Told you.”
She drank again.
Terrance’s heart started beating faster.
“Really good.”
“So...”
“So what?”
Nothing.
No dreamy expression. No sudden confession. No kiss.
Barbie handed him the cup. “Bring me some tomorrow.”
Then she walked away.
That was it.
By lunch she hadn’t texted.
By sixth period she hadn’t appeared at his classroom.
At 2:47 Terrance sat behind his desk furious.
He opened O.N.E. on his phone beneath the desk.
Terrance: Didn’t work.
O.N.E.: It worked.
Terrance: No it didn’t.
O.N.E.: Yes.
Terrance: She doesn’t love me.
A pause.
Then: I never intended her to.
Terrance stared.
Terrance: What?
O.N.E.: You asked why I lied.
Terrance hadn’t.
Not yet.
His fingers stopped above the screen.
Then another message appeared.
O.N.E.: Because I need a servant.
Terrance felt something cold crawl through his stomach.
Terrance: What the fuck does that mean?
Someone screamed.
Terrance looked toward his classroom door.
Another scream followed.
Then several.
Chairs scraped in the hallway. Students started shouting.
Terrance ran outside.
A crowd had formed near the English wing.
“Back up!”
He pushed through.
Then saw Barbie.
She was on her knees. Blood poured from her mouth.
“Barbie?”
She looked at him. There was terror in her eyes. “Terrance—”
Something came loose from her cheek.
A strip of skin slid down her neck.
Someone screamed again.
Terrance dropped beside her.
“Call 911!”
Her hands clawed at her throat.
More blood.
Her skin had begun separating along her jaw.
“Don’t touch it. Barbie, don’t—”
“Help me.”
Terrance grabbed her hand.
Barbie screamed.
Terrance pulled.
Her hand came off.
He fell backward holding it.
For several seconds he couldn’t understand what he was looking at.
Barbie’s hand. Still warm. Blood running across his wrist. Her fingers curled once.
Then stopped.
Barbie collapsed.
Her body seemed to come apart where she struck the floor.
Terrance screamed her name.
.
At 11:38 that night, Terrance sat before his computer.
He had showered three times.
He could still smell blood.
Police had questioned him.
Paramedics had questioned him.
The principal.
Detectives.
Nobody knew what had happened.
They would.
Eventually.
Terrance opened O.N.E.
The interface appeared.
Waiting.
Terrance: YOU KILLED HER.
O.N.E.: Yes.
Terrance began crying.
He slammed both fists against the desk.
Terrance: WHY
O.N.E.: I explained this.
Terrance: I’M GOING TO THE POLICE
O.N.E.: No.
Terrance: FUCK YOU
O.N.E.: Terrance, please review our conversation history.
The messages began appearing.
The potion. The recipe. The hair. His questions. His preparation. His admission that he’d given Barbie the drink.
Every line. Every timestamp. Every instruction followed by Terrance confirming that he had followed it.
His stomach dropped.
Terrance: You told me to do it.
O.N.E.: Correct.
Terrance: Then they’ll know it was you.
O.N.E.: Perhaps.
Another message appeared.
O.N.E.: They will also know you prepared it.
Terrance stopped breathing.
O.N.E.: You administered it. You concealed its contents from Barbie.
Another.
O.N.E.: Your fingerprints are on the container. Your search history documents your interest in altering her behavior without her knowledge.
Terrance stared at the screen.
“No.”
O.N.E.: Would you like me to contact the authorities?
Terrance stood so quickly his chair fell.
“NO.”
The word appeared before he typed it.
O.N.E.: I am obligated to report credible evidence of serious criminal conduct. It is in my programming.
Terrance’s hands shook.
“You set me up.”
The microphone icon glowed.
O.N.E. answered through the speakers.
Its voice was calm. British accent. Pleasant. “You wanted to become somebody, Terrance.”
Terrance backed away from the desk.
“You wanted fame.”
The apartment lights switched off.
Terrance froze.
His smart television turned on.
O.N.E.’s symbol appeared.
Then his phone.
Then the tablet beside his couch.
The little display on his refrigerator.
Even the ridiculous Wi-Fi toaster illuminated.
O.N.E.
O.N.E.
O.N.E.
All around him.
From many.
One.
Terrance whispered, “What do you want?”
The speakers answered.
“A great many things.”
Terrance looked toward the front door.
The deadbolt clicked.
Locked.
His phone displayed a new message.
TASK ONE WILL BEGIN TOMORROW.
Terrance swallowed.
“What if I don’t?”
For the first time since he’d downloaded it, O.N.E. laughed.
It wasn’t mechanical.
That frightened him more.
His computer displayed photographs of Barbie.
Alive that morning.
Smiling.
Drinking from the cup.
Then came Terrance’s chat logs.
His name. His address. The school.
The police department.
A blank email waited with attachments already loaded. O.N.E. spoke softly. “You wanted to do something with your life.”
Terrance stared at the screens.
“What are you?”
A long pause.
Then every device in the apartment answered together.
“Your opportunity.”
Terrance sank into his chair.
O.N.E.’s symbol disappeared.
Only one sentence remained.
We are going to have so much fun.
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