I was rolling code – lots of it – and faster than I ever had before. Whole paragraphs of algorithms sprang fully formed across my vision. I was composing symphonies of solutions and feeding them into the system at a blistering pace.
But something felt wrong.
I opened my eyes. I was back in the crèche. This time I was strapped down – and vertical. Harrigan was before me again, and he looked angry.
“What the hell, carto?” he snapped.
“Sir?” I closed my eyes, feeling vertiginous and queasy. I swallowed, my throat dry and scratchy. Someone put a cup to my lips, and I took a couple of sips. It helped.
“I said, what the hell?” Harrigan repeated.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m still not following you.” I opened my eyes again. Slowly.
“This. How are you doing this?” Harrigan stepped aside, revealing a screen on which thousands of lines of code – my code – flashed by.
“Sir?” I repeated, confused.
“The nanosurgeon did stuff to your implants no one’s seen before.” He motioned at the screen. “And now you’re doing this.”