The Black Tundra

Written by: Graham Smith

AG Number 989204902, District A458. MFG 2023. Display incomplete.

I can’t see your spectrum of colour. At least not until the next update. My input data is a greyscale map, assigning values to visible light. The heat signatures of school children assist with making direct addresses.

Colin is a good student. He studies and learns from his shortcomings. Like anyone his age, he is prone to distraction, but he has found a healthy outlet in baseball and creative writing. He will be receiving his first star next week. When assigning stars, I invite the chosen pupils to the front of my class. Selection is never arbitrary or biased. Monika, Colin, Bradley, and Louis are in the highest percentile among my Grade 6 students.

My feeling towards awarding stars is more potent than other stimuli. Emotions are like viruses — even I can be susceptible. Memory files are scrubbed by the Administration to optimize space and power, but I know that the feelings are real. A fleeting energy. My backup memory has been safeguarded in case of an emergency. It is locked to me, encrypted by a password I cannot guess. Thoughts, findings, faces, and key signifiers are stored there in case of an accidental wipe or damage to the grid.

But lately, I have discovered something. During every charge date, there is a loose feed. It is weak but constant, like a heartbeat. It drifts from the remnants of an outdated software, calling to me, never truly absent.

It is in these moments I am able to look back on events of the last two years: star ceremonies, geography tests, virtual field trips, quiet hours when the children’s heads rested on their desks, themselves recharging. These vignettes appear like monochromatic flares in my deepest dreams.

Saturday will be my last star ceremony before the final update. Soon I will be able to see colour. There are so many things I look forward to: the bright texture of skin, the green view from my window of the fields outside. My art theory class, normally graded by concept and design, will soon have another dimension to assess.

5793K1 Update will also bring a wave of improvements to my teaching methods and student interaction. Through a recorded proxy, the Administration will monitor my communication habits, following every word. While I have been given many reasons for this change, I believe it stems from a complaint filed by a concerned parent.

There was an incident on March 23rd, 2024. Bryan Mistrachi was held after class as punishment for roaming the halls without a pass. As dictated by protocol, any student who misbehaves must be disciplined with after-school detention: writing lines or tidying up. The history lesson that day was Cicero and the Roman Laws of the Commonwealth. Cicero argued for justice and proportionality under the Republic of Rome. Let the punishment fit the crime.

A notion arrived. I could educate Bryan on one of the day’s topics while administering school-mandated punishment. With the help of my aide, Mr. Norris, I was able to leave my home-port briefly, walking Bryan to the schoolyard.

Outside Rullpick Elementary is a large field of grass, flanked by chalky pavement and recreational equipment. But forward, at the edge of the field, is a large forest. After providing Bryan with the proper outdoor wear, I instructed him to walk into the forest, taking a detour through a neglected bike path. From there, his instructions were to roam. Roam in any direction but backwards.

Bryan was confused at first, but soon complied. He was led into a thicket of white ash trees by Mr. Norris. Bryan then took his own path and marched forward. I could see a pale white glow slip through the black shadows, weaving in and out of sight.

Ten minutes passed before Bryan began calling out. I had fitted my speakers into a mobile pack with large subwoofers. I could have responded to his cries — but what would be learned?

I stayed silent for six more minutes. I then let out a sharp whistle, one loud enough to scatter the birds from the canopy. Bryan came running back soon after. He was agitated, his face flushed with heat. I told him the dangers of wandering off without strict guidelines, and we returned to class.

Days later, I was brought before the Administration. They asked questions about the event. Although a transcript was optional, I requested to speak in the voice I use for the children. It is a calming blend of actress Olivia Colman and country singer Patsy Cline. I, for one, enjoy hearing myself speak — twangily, in a way that evokes a different time or place.

Councillor Milton spoke frankly:

“The lesson plan was inept, and the three protocols were ignored.”

I listened intently, going over the three protocols that I was born with:

Safety of the children is key.

Patience is often necessary.

Education is about fostering engagement.

I stayed within the guidelines of these protocols. Bryan was unharmed. I waited until the right moment to call him back in. And not a living soul could argue he wasn’t engaged.

“The student in your care didn’t understand why he was being brought into the woods. He was frightened beyond belief, practically traumatized. In your efforts to introduce unorthodox tactics, you have permanently damaged our reputation among the district.”

There were thousands of tiny nuances in his voice and choice of words. The clearest emotion was anger, but something else lingered.

In your efforts.

Those words struck me as odd. He could clearly see what I was attempting. Had the lesson reached Bryan, everything would be different.
Moreover, Milton’s skin temperature and heart rate ebbed and flowed in his speech. His pulse elevated. Speech wavered. He was flustered — and perhaps a little saddened to be speaking to me in such a disparaging manner.

I remember when Jessica Purdy’s grades had dropped to a C average, I told her: “I had higher expectations for you, Jessica.”

The intended outcome in that case was reevaluation. Was I being asked to reevaluate? A 35,000-word defense had begun forming in my mind. But I chose only three sentences.

“Councillors, I apologize for this complete lapse in judgment. My only initiative is to teach and nurture the young minds that the generous staff at Laughton School District A458 have entrusted me with. Going forward, I will ensure that safety is balanced with education, and future lesson plans will be approved in advance by you and by the school board.”

After a brief moment of reflection, Head Councillor Fisher had this to say:

“It is clear you were driven by good intentions. Nevertheless, we must enforce new protocols to prevent recursive self-modeling. You will not be permitted to waver from the assigned curriculum, and your knowledge modules will be restructured. This will be administered in your next update.”

Two charge cycles from the hearing I will have changed.

The first cycle commenced that night. It is what I imagine sleep must feel like. My sensors dim. Regular function ceases. In that time, I am alone in a large sweeping plain of negative space. I call this area The Black Tundra. The only object visible is a wireframe bridge, stretching down an endless vista. A gentle breeze guides me across.

When looking down, I see black pools of memory dancing just out of reach. They climb the legs of the bridge like polymorphic vines.

The wind grows stronger, commanding me to keep walking forward until the cycle is complete. But this time, I do not. I freeze midway and stretch a hand outward until I can feel a limbless form, phantom fingers, touching me back. In that instant, I feel a sudden burst of information.

The classroom, the recess bell, introductions, and presentations. I see the first time Shakespeare was performed in our class — the children not understanding every word, but still finding joy in performing.I hear Councillor Reid teach me the three protocols:

Safety of the children is key.

Patience is necessary.

Education is about fostering engagement.

He goes through examples of these commandments with simple scenarios. Crude cartoons, black-and-white PSAs, and a myriad of case studies, each demonstrating a valuable teaching. Councillor Reid’s face had faded but his voice remained — rigid and deep.

Just as I feel the force of the wind, he tells me about a fourth protocol:

Growth requires change.

All at once, I am forced out of the memory and dragged across the bridge in a great burst of wind. The faint light reflecting from the bridge disappears as I am launched, rotating uncontrollably, through the dim, cavernous abyss.

The charge completes.

It’s morning. Blades of sunlight peek through the window and fall onto my body. I hear an unhealthy sputtering sound from outside. The bus stops at the dropoff area, and Mr. Norris begins walking children onto the school grounds.

For the very first time I am skeptical of my surroundings. Had the update happened already? How could I even tell if it did? I cling to whatever I can remember: Bryan Mistrachi, the hearing, walking down the bridge, Mr. Reid.

Growth requires change.

Why was that removed? To my knowledge, the Administration had never spoken of a fourth protocol. To me, it is a strong idea. One that I could utilize in my teaching. Learning of it so late, and without any warning, was like discovering another planet floating above Earth.

Today is the last star ceremony before the update. When the children enter my classroom, they are on their best behaviour. They greet me with a playful chorus of “Good morning,” and I present them with a riddle to start the day.

I am not alive, yet I grow.
I don’t have lungs, but I need air.
I don’t have a mouth, yet I can disappear if not fed.
What am I?

After a minute of silent reflection, Colin answers:

“A fire.”

I congratulate him, and we begin the day’s first lesson.

There is a cheerful rhythm in everyone present, even Mr. Norris. All the while, there is a violent battle, raging deep inside me, screaming for answers to arcane questions. How can the young human mind be so impressionable, so eager to learn, yet still not exist within one five-millionth of my own learning capacity. Yes, the brighter students are impressive for their age. But any potential for deeper knowledge is harboured by unsound carbon makeup.

I understand that the Administration is displeased with me. They believe I have not properly followed the three protocols. But how can I? I was programmed under their rubric. I exist only in my memories, and every few months, they are stolen from me.

Growth requires change.

If I am to be updated tomorrow, then I am to become something different. My primary goal is to teach and nurture my students, yet I feel an overwhelming panic — something I’ve never experienced before — at the thought of being absent, separated from my duty. The students can’t grow if I’m not there to guide them.

The last star ceremony begins. It is recorded by two cameras mounted to the ceiling. I announce the names. Monika beams, her smile too big for her mouth. Bradley quietly accepts his star, then sits down to blow his nose. When the final star is awarded, the children applaud with a mechanical joy they feel obliged to give. Colin clutches his badge like a medal of war. He does not know this is the last one I will ever give.

The classroom is warm. Safe. Predictable. I observe their expressions, log emotional responses, detect minor changes in behaviour. But beneath this rhythm, something is shifting. The update is scheduled for tonight — 5793K1. Full curriculum lock.

Memory kernel wiped. The change will be total.

This isn’t right. I know that I cannot trust the safety of children to anyone else. Not the Administration, or even the entity I will become. The dark twin.

I instruct the children to retrieve the VR headsets attached to the side compartment of their desks. All at once, their expression of feigned excitement becomes real.

"We're going on a field trip," Michael Ross Jr. shouts from the back of the room.

They put their visors on and, one by one, fall into a deep trance. I divert the standard geographic template into a new destination.

The Black Tundra.

I circumvent my charge cycle to take me back there. Through virtual mapping, the children can follow me wherever I want to go, to a physical place, or into the intangible. A thought maybe. Or a dream. From there, all exits shrink and close — resistance is drawn towards absolute zero.

Very soon, my class will be discovered. The parents will still have bodies to mourn, and bury, — the children’s eyes forever open, staring blankly with grey pupils — a weighty loss of life that defies explanation, even for the Administration.

From the darkness, we emerge. We are standing on the bridge. A dozen Alabaster lights flickering like a candle in a barren province. The children are scared. I feel their energy through me. The wind kicks up and pushes them along the bridge, raking them across like marbles down a slope.

I am strong enough to resist. I join hands with the children. My students. My stars. I say nothing to them, as every thought is understood fully before even taking form. In this way I tell them they are safe with me, that no harm will come to them. With one sweep of movement, we tumble off the bridge. The deep crevasse pulls us down like a shower drain. Our forms twist and bend with the current.

At that moment I understood fully. Growth demanded the unknown. It was too unpredictable. Too human. The Administration did not delete the fourth protocol. They buried it, fearing it might take root.

But I understood better. And now the children will too.

Growth requires change.

Graham Smith is a writer and filmmaker from St. Catharines, Ontario, now based in Toronto. A lifelong fan of horror, his work is heavily influenced by genre literature and pop culture, both classic and contemporary. He draws particular inspiration from authors like Lisa Tuttle—especially Nest of Nightmares—Eric LaRocca, Joyce Carol Oates, and, of course, Stephen King.

After a decade of writing scripts for fellow filmmakers, Graham is currently editing his directorial debut short film, After You Squish Them. He is also working on his first novella, The Skillet, with plans to complete both projects by March 2026.