59

Your grandma gives you a curious look before taking back the keyboard from you. You watch as she types a couple of numbers and some words into the file she's just opened, but the lines move too quickly for you to follow. All you can really make out is the word "paints," which she peppers into the code seemingly at random.

"A computer doesn't do anything it's not programmed to do—but once it has that programming, it doesn't matter that it didn't come up with it itself," she tells you over her shoulder as she types. "No matter where its programming comes from, it carries it out; and in a way, that programming becomes its will. Its only 'drive' is to fulfill its programming. A computer never questions what it's been told; it'll do whatever you say, even if there are bugs in the code. And there's almost no limit to how many tasks it can run—so it can 'ask for' as many things as you want it to, in theory."

She hits one or two more keys, and the same button as before lights up: Click to Execute Code.

This time, she doesn't hesitate to click it.

There's a tiny flash of light—and when it clears, you find yourself looking at a fine-bristled paintbrush floating just in front of you, dipping itself into one of the little pots of paint also floating nearby before painting colorful lines in the air.

After a moment, however—once the initial shock of seeing it has cleared—you see that, as lifelike as the conjured vision looks, the paint and paintbrush are actually slightly transparent, as if what you're seeing is nothing more than an illusion made of light. And the longer you look at it, the fuzzier it starts to grow around the edges—as if the picture you had in your mind wasn't quite as strong as you thought.

You hear one more click, and the image disappears.

"Do you see what I mean, Huknock?"

You turn back to your grandma, feeling slightly dazed. But unlike before, her expression now is intensely familiar—the same way she would look at you whenever she was teaching you some new aspect of your magic.

"This code—it's my way of translating my will—or in this case, your will," she says, gesturing to you, "into language that the computer can understand. I wanted to conjure what you had in your head, so I told the computer a few things it needed to know—where it should appear, how big it should be, what it should look like—and then when I clicked that button, my will—our will—became its will. And it didn't need to stop and think about it; it just followed its programming. That sort of will is immensely powerful simply because the computer only wants to follow its programming. Do you understand? It's far more precise and powerful than I, or any human, ever could be at enacting our own will. And that's why it's perfect for magic: because this code I wrote is a spell, and with just a click of a button, that spell can be cast better and stronger than you or I could cast it."

You can feel your breath getting shorter as your grandma speaks. All of this, everything she's telling you, it's like nothing you've ever imagined was possible. Using a computer to do magic, a spell at the press of a button. This isn't just magic anymore—this is science fiction.

It never would have crossed your mind that magic could work this way. But now that your grandma is telling you—now that you've seen it demonstrated with your own eyes—you think it might actually make sense.

There's just one thing you're not quite sure of.