text: The Instructor went about setting up the classroom, knowing that, without fail, the morning bell would ring long before she was truly ready to begin the day. It didn’t seem to matter when she arrived at work each morning, there was always too little time and too much to do. She distributed the day’s lessons discs among the student groupings, one for each of her pupils. Humming a tune, she cheerily went about her work. The task completed, she went back to her notes, adamant that she had probably forgotten something. This worried her, knowing that even the smallest detail out of place would ruin the well-laid plans. Triple checking the preparations for the day against her list, she straightened her hair, put on her coat, and made her way to the schoolyard. The students had just begun to arrive for the day, and were playing in the grassy field adjacent. She stood and watched, thinking to herself how the gender roles were already becoming apparent. The boys kicking a ball among themselves as the girls stood, clustered, looking on. Old habits died hard, she mused, even in 2013. For seventh graders, hormones had begun their playful dance. The Instructor knew that, given other circumstances, she’d soon be having ‘that talk’ with her students. As she stood watching in the cold, the school’s bell rang out in cacophony. Another day had begun, though the Instructor alone knew that this one would be different. The students filed in, taking their desks. Some were loading up homework assignments to be handed in, while others rushed frantically to complete them before the operating system discovered the work was not done. The Instructor stood, as she always did, at the front of the class; a cup of tea in one hand, a pen in the other. Though the archaic item has little to do in a classroom so filed with the technology of modernity, old habits died hard. The Instructor had always played with a pen while teaching, and always would regardless of how old fashioned the students may say it looked. The call came over the announcement system and the class came to order, rising for the O Canada and the school’s morning messages. The Instructor mouthed along the words while her students sang. She had never felt the same pride at singing the national anthem as others had, even as a child she had thought it silly. Maybe, she mused, that was why they had recruited her so many years ago. A phone buzzed in the Instructor’s pocket, and she spared it a glance while the students took their seats and listened to the voice in the wall welcome students. A simple message; a single word: “Go”. As the morning messages droned on she walked among her students, ensuring that everyone had a lesson disc. She fingered the phone in her pocket, feeling its smooth glass. Feeling where the message had appeared. Feeling the future change. The Instructor smiled. Calling the class to order, she instructed the Operating System to collect homework for the day. There was a groan as the students still frantically attempting to write answers were cut off from their work and demerit points issued. The students plugged themselves into their desks, their neural ports interfacing with the long cords running from the center of their groupings; One cord for each student, one neural port for each cord. The students snatched up the lesson discs and inserted them into the hungry mouth of the desk, each humming as it greedily accepted the students’ offering. As each student closed their eyes and began to load the program, the Instructor typed a single word into her own desk: “Go”. One by one the programs shot their payload into the student’s brains. One by one a billion billion synapses fired and burnt out. One by one the students slumped over at their desks, dead in an instant. Their central nervous system fried by the viruses on their lesson discs. The Instructor stood watching, taking a sip of her tea, her fingers twilling the pen. Sitting at her desk she snapped the phone into the computer interface and dialed. A face appeared on the screen in front of her. “Report?” the figure asked, no hint of emotion in his voice. “The future is dead” the Instructor replied. “Glory be to the cause”. “Glory be” the figure agreed. “Connect to the neural net for final instructions”. The figure cut out and the screen grew dark. The Instructor reached forward and removed the long cord from its cradle on the desk. Inserting it into her neural port she entered a string of commands that comprised the access codes to the Organizations’ private secureweb. She closed her eyes waiting for the instructions to download. She smiled, knowing her part was done and her mission had been a success; a mission she had spent years preparing for. The smile never left the Instructor’s lips as she slumped over at her desk, her fate no different from that of her students. In a room far away the figure looked up from his work station and nodded to the Leader. “Mission GJS-930A complete. Glory be to the cause”. “Glory be” the Leader nodded.