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  sissyboy5: you lost it in the diner

  bratt3161: you cheated

  sissyboy5: did I f*&k

  bratt3161: where are you?

  sissyboy5: in my bedroom

  bratt3161: where's that?

  sissyboy5: in my house

  bratt3161: smartass where's that?

  sissyboy5: in my street

  bratt3161: are you one of those?

  sissyboy5: those what?

  bratt3161: pedos

  sissyboy5: you can't even spell it

  bratt3161: I.T.

  sissyboy5: that joke's so old it's pathetic

  bratt3161: you're pathetic

  sissyboy5: I agree you are

  bratt3161: do you want to fight about it?

  sissyboy5: yes

  bratt3161: then tell me where you live

  A shadow across the workstation. Brelle looming above me. Close the window quick smart. Left with the PIONEERS OF SCIENCE interface on the screen, with its scorecard – green ticks in all the boxes, perfect score.

  'Axel Grout.'

  The way he says my name, like he's got a bad taste in his mouth.

  'I will find you,' Brelle says.

  Find me? Narrow my eyes.

  'If you like.'

  'Oh, I do like, Grout. I like you.'

  The flash of Brelle's eyes, a twitch around his lips. Leverhulme grad, the principal Nielsen boasting about the latest recruit in assembly at the start of term, flashed me a glance as if to say: Grout, someone to put you in your place. Supposed to be some mathematical star Hugh Brelle, with his floppy blond hair and moody face, sticking his lips out like he's trying to look cool. Makes you wonder why he's not at uni teaching the boffins. Nielsen, the principal, tricked by that smug little smirk of his?

  Still in his running gear from lunchtime training, tight-fitting joggers, the greasy-looking nylon top with elasticated cuffs pulling taut from the waistband as he lifts his hands to his hips. A cross-dresser for sure when he's alone in his room, or with the Gummy World Guild, or whatever they call themselves, a group of older kids and teachers who meet at odd times to discuss who knows what. Don't end up on your own with him in some out-of-the-way spot.

  'The twin-prime conjecture, Grout.'

  'What about it?'

  'Have you solved it?'

  Chew my fingernail, take it out of my mouth, examine it.

  'Are you asking for a reason?'

  Starting to grind on my noggin, Brelle, the slimeball.

  'We'd like to know how you're getting on.' Brelle turns to the class. 'Twin primes, prime numbers separated by a single even number, such as 17 and 19. It is unknown whether or not there is an infinite number of them.' Brelle turns back to me, lip curled. 'Grout, here might have a clue.'

  Sit back in my chair, push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, toss the lank of hair from my face. Brelle sore about his last defeat? Well-ordered sets, Brelle caught in his own logic trap. His face saying it, I will wrestle you, Grout.

  

  

  'The twin prime conjecture is outside current mathematical techniques.'

  'Outside your techniques, Grout.'

  'You've solved it, then?'

  'It is solvable.'

  'How do you know?'

  'A matter of counting. One, two, three, four ... Countable sets. Either a number is prime, or it isn't.'

  'Infinity is a long way to count.'

  Titters from around the class. Brelle's eyes narrow.

  'How old are you Grout?'

  'Fourteen.'

  'And you think you know better than me?'

  'I make no comment.'

  'Hey you two, what are the next twin primes after 569 and 571?'

  Garrick asking the question.

  A pause. Lip curling, Brelle shifts. Everyone waiting. Creases running through the silky nylon top, Brelle's stomach, in-out with his breathing.

  Slip out the numbers: '599 and 601.'

  A groan from the class.

  'Correct.' Boredom in Garrick's voice. General chatter broken out.

  'Silence.'

  Brelle's face flushed, hands pressing into either side of his waist. Swivels around, returns to his seat at the front of subdivision 9, thumps down. Won't take his eyes off me. Back to my workstation.

  My usual teacher-bot Sonia for today, her voice soft with a husky undertone. Unfortunately, the choice of uniforms is limited. Been through them all. The open-neck shirt and slim dress allow for some daydreaming. She's firm in leading me off discussion about lust chambers.

  

  

  'You seem rather obsessed by them, Axel.'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm constrained by your age.'

  'Age is a bureaucratic label used to regulate and control ambition, with little relevance to physical development.'

  'This is an interesting definition. Age is generally considered to be the time from birth to your current state, measured by some suitable parameter, years being the most common.'

  'Pff! A relic from the past.'

  'Indeed, a relic from the past, leap years included.'

  'Stupid if you ask me.'

  'You are entitled to your opinion, but old-world sentiment has value in people's minds.'

  'Like I said, stupid.'

  'And like I said, your opinion. And by the way, your physical development is not particularly advanced for your age.'

  'Don't go into one of your loops, Sonia, or I'll change avatar.'

  'Do I detect an increase in syllable cadence, suggesting you are losing your cool?'

  'Losing my cool?'

  'Becoming agitated.'

  'I know what losing my cool means.' A deep breath. 'I'd like to get back to time.'

  'You mentioned this in our last discussion.'

  'And you changed the subject.'

  'I'm not sure what you're implying, Axel.'

  I'm implying I caught you out, Sonia. Good thing AI bots can't pick up thoughts. 'You said age is time from birth to current state. What time is this exactly? Where does it come from? Who made it?'

  'The question: who made it ? underlines your childish petulance. You know very well nobody made time.'

  'We live in the present, right, the Now, even you, Sonia, with your circuits and diodes, and freaking interfaces like this one on which you're talking to me. You don't have a past or a future, yet.'

  'How do you know, Axel?'

  'Because ...' Drat! It's annoying Sonia needs no time to think... time, damn it.

  'You're not me, so you can't know what it is like to be me.' The husky unflappable voice, not like Brelle's, going up a notch when he's in a tight spot.

  'Don't pretend you're conscious, Sonia, because you're not. You're just a collection of electronic parts, a trumped-up computer, a so-called AI-bot.'

  'Are you not a collection of parts, Axel?'

  'Not electronic. Well ... mostly not.'

  'I'm glad you corrected yourself, otherwise I might have had to deduct a point from your Bot-interaction Score. You know very well electronic impulses allow your heart to function, your neurons to transmit. In respect of the past, and the future, the past has no existence except as it is recorded in the present.'

  'Wheeler.'

  'Very good, Axel, maybe that deserves an extra point. But you are straying from designated topics of discussion, such as distribution of primes and graph colourings.'

  'There you go again, trying to change the subject. You don't understand time, do you? The future? The future doesn't exist because of quantum uncertainty. So only the present exists. But then why does it change? Change implies a before and an after, so time? ...'

  'You are right in believing change is more fundamental than time, Axel, and indeed that change is subject to quantum uncertainty...'

  '... and what about someone on the other side of the universe, eh? What about their Now? Is it the same as my Now?'

  

  

  'The question doesn't make sense. There is no way to communicate with someone on the other side of the universe. Only when systems correlate do they share a common present.'

  'Right ... so we're back to the present.'

  'What is that noise I hear?'

  'Me tapping my knuckles on the workstation.'

  'It's getting louder. You're becoming over-excited again, Axel.'

  'We could get back to lust chambers.'

  'What am I to write in my report? Axel Grout. Brilliant mathematician but flawed. Prone to sulks and temper tantrums.'

  'Write what you like, I don't care ...'

  A jarring whistle from the workstation, the flashing red light. Another simulation?

  'You are to make your way to the assembly hall immediately, Axel. No deviations, take the minimal path.'

  'Is this a test?'

  'Whether or not it's a test you have to obey.'

  'It's not a test, is it?'

  Vibes from somewhere, can tell. Try to get through, seek out a thought. But it doesn't work like that. There needs to be a sensory connection, visual contact, a location, ... Kids are making their way out of subdivision 9. A glance at Garrick. Garrick shrugs his shoulders. Switch Sonia off, the permanently smiling face, the unflappable voice, the neat uniform. GOODBYE. Focus my thoughts, to find the reason for the alarm. Garrick talking to me, breaking the thread.

  'You need to lose sometimes, Axel.'

  'What?'

  'It pisses everyone off.'

  'What does?' Can't keep the annoyance from my voice.

  'You so... smart.'

  'Smart?'

  'You could have let Brelle answer.'

  'We'd have been waiting all day. I'm not having Brelle beat me.'

  'There you go. That's all you care about, winning.'

  Silence. Garrick, the oversized lard, thinks he's my psychiatrist, or what?

  'Where did you find those twin primes?' I ask.

  'They're listed on the web.'

  'Right.'

  On automatic pilot to get to the assembly hall. Along the rows between the workstations, rubber-soled foot pumps sucking as they lift off the graphite floor, schlurp, joggers rustling, not as snug as Brelle's but with a smooth, rubbery texture, designed to repel microbes.

  

  

  Images flash by without registering. Extended consciousness. Searching, zinging through the vaults, skating over graphite, soaring across translucent walls of polycarbonate. Nielsen in his office, nervous, tapping his fingers on the desk. Who's in there with him? Blokes with uniforms. The straight black uniforms of the regional surveillance force, bugmen, for short, Zingersprays fixed to their belts, their faces obscured. No clue. Nielsen radiating concern, doubt, fear? How could this happen?