Grist for the Mill

winning story for its October 2022 Flash Fiction Contest


“My daughter wants to be you when she grows up,” I offered, by way of small talk. Force of habit.

“It’s a phase,” said the Mill. “Let’s hope she outgrows it.”

It didn’t look much like a millipede when it was on the job. It didn’t look like much of anything except translucent, its wriggling midsection providing a distorted glimpse of a glossy brochure about our new safety regulations which no one would read. When it was off-duty, that’s when it looked monstrous—even if it didn’t have a thousand legs, it still had far too many tendrils, extending and taking on the shapes of long-dead beasts.

“The Red Line is two minutes slow,” it reported. “I can hold the 55 to make sure they get the transfer.”

It wasn’t looking for my permission, or blessing. Just a cover-our-ass feature the higher-ups had insisted on, so that if anything went wrong we could go through the normal routine of blaming humans and waiting for months for new train cars. The DoT had several hundred pages of policies, but I was pretty sure none of them could handle the Mill.

The truth was, Addison had no interest in what I did at work—she had learned about video games from watching Jackson play. He enjoyed causing catastrophes in his pixelated cities for the sheer thrill of it, raining down meteorites or summoning dinosaurs to demolish subway lines. Addison was dissatisfied with that strategy—not out of any empathy for the virtual world, but because such open-world games had no win condition. She had to set her own challenges, like building the most efficient transit system with zero pollution, maximizing density while minimizing traffic jams.

“I’m taking the Pink train offline,” said the Mill. “Brown and Orange can cover Quincy until I figure out what’s wrong.”

At least it knew its limits. When it had tried optimizing the Amtrak trains out of Union Station last year, it had overclocked on tendrils. We’d had to scrub down the walls to get rid of all the claw sheathes and hoof walls. And we’d brought the Mill back, anyway, which said something about how useless our computers were.

“The Orange estimates are five minutes off, now,” the Mill said. “If I could just change their phones, instead—”

“No,” I interrupted. Commuters would grumble about their apps being useless, but they did that everywhere.

Once, I had assumed—even if I never put it into words—that people who believed in God, or gods, or a capital-S Something were envisioning someone like Jackson at a heavenly console. Miracles here, injustices meted out there, with no more reason than adolescent mood swings. I had pitied rather than mocked them; was the world so arbitrary they needed to name their torments?

But the Mill hadn’t appeared atop a skyscraper or in a stadium to help a team of Davids take down their giant foes. It had come here, stretched thin amid subways and elevated lines.

“There might be a situation in Englewood,” it said. “I’ll slow the southbound Greens.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Someone pacing. Hurting. Maybe a jumper.”

I reached for my phone by instinct. To tell the police … what? I may work for the man, but even I could tell that “the creepy-crawly with too many legs is concerned about a commuter’s mental health” wasn’t going to defuse the situation. “Are they armed? Pushing anyone?”

“I can’t tell. It’s just—they look sick. Like this.”

It stretched out a thin tentacle that flashed a brilliant blue, like a peacock’s eyespot. “That’s what sick humans look like?” I blurted. “It’s beautiful.”

“No it’s not. You look like this,” said the Mill. The color faded, and then one ant squirmed on the floor before me. Two. A dozen.

“All right, I get it!” I turned to the phone again, mostly to divert my attention from the Mill’s display. I didn’t want to be an ant, even if they were as unremarkable as blinking pixels from the Mill’s vantage point.

“It’s an 872 number,” said the Mill.

“What? No, I’m calling the police.” I could chalk it up to a security camera. Something uncomfortable in the gait. Cops acted on weaker evidence all the time.

“Let me talk to them.”

“And what are you going to say? ‘Please don’t jump, the Green Line’s been delayed enough this week?’”

“You always say that humans will lose their minds if they talk to me. Well, this one has nothing to lose.”

“I know you mean well, but—you’re my responsibility. We’re not going to expose you for the sake of some hopeless case in Englewood.”

“I have been handling myself for centuries before your city existed,” said the Mill. Its voice was as uninflected as ever, although I was really tired of the age card. “That human is your responsibility.”

“And I’m supposed to tell them, what? That someone sees them, they’re not alone, they should go home and maybe things will be better tomorrow?”

“That sounds like a good idea, yes.”

The residents in the computer games had no identities; players created and destroyed lakes and rivers and precincts, nothing on a human scale. But when Addison recounted her own victories, she gave names to the simulacra who happened to be in the right place at the right time. It was all part of her challenge.

I brought up my keypad, and pressed the eight.

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The Haunted Valley