Kill Process

by William Hertling

  I want to win fair and square, that’s why. If I beat Tomo by reading Lewis’s emails and spying on their plans, then anything I ever achieve with Tapestry will forever be tainted by what amounts to cheating. Though I’ve done much that needs to be accounted for, Tapestry is my chance for a fresh start, untarnished by my history. All my history. The killings, the hacks, the secretiveness. All of it. Leave the past where it is. It’s time to move on.

  I sit for a long time staring at Lewis’s inbox. Then I close the windows, disconnect from the network, and run the script that will wipe the hard drive. When it’s done I close the lid and put it back in my bag. I feel strangely numb, half certain I’m making a bad decision, and half certain I’m doing the right thing.

  I pay and go home, still in some strangely detached mental state. I slip Metallica’s Black Album into the CD player and zone out.

  * * *

  1985, Brooklyn, New York.

  The shaggy-haired blonde guy in combat boots is the only real metal-head in graphic arts shop class. “You listen to Metallica?”

  I nod. “Kill ’Em All is brilliant.”

  “You ever listen to them on ’shrooms?”

  Sean turns every conversation to drugs. Usually he likes to impersonate both sides of a conversation between a person on ’ludes and another person on speed.

  “My roots!”

  We both turn to the only other rocker in the room, the platinum blonde girl whose name I’ve never bothered to learn.

  She’s holding a compact in her hand, and points to her forehead. “My roots are showing.”

  True enough, her dark hair is growing in. I never quite know what to say to her, in part because nothing she says is ever more intelligent than what she’s said just now.

  Sean and I turn back to each other. He silently mouths, “poser.”

  I giggle.

  “Metallica’s playing a secret show in New Jersey next weekend,” Sean says. “Want to go?”

  I tilt my head and look crooked at him, trying to decide if this is him asking me out.

  “How’d you find out about the show?”

  “A post on a BBS.”

  “Bee Bee Ess?”

  “Bulletin Board System. You use a computer and a modem, and you can call all these different places.”

  My cousin has a computer he plays weird games with, but I’ve never used it. “What’s a modem?” I ask.

  “A thing you connect to the computer so it can talk over the phone to other computers.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Anything. Music. Drugs. Mostly I hang out on DDial.”

  I shake my head in puzzlement again. “Dee dial?”

  “Diversi-Dial, a chat system,” Sean says. “You can talk to other people.”

  “A DDial is a BBS?”

  “No. Look, come to my house after school and I’ll show you. It’s cool.”

  Now is he asking me out?

  I have nothing to do after school and my mom won’t return until after five, so I walk home with Sean. He offers me a Marlboro Red, which I accept eagerly. I can’t afford to buy my own. He flips a brass Zippo open to light me. We argue about whether Metallica or Slayer is better, and he tells me stories about doing mushrooms with his ex-girlfriend.

  When we get to his house, he yells that he’s home, and we go up to his room without waiting for a response. There’s a faint yell of his mother’s response, which he ignores. Once in his bedroom, he locks the door. His room is overflowing with dirty clothes, metal posters, and random shit. Other than my cousin’s, I’ve never been in a boy’s bedroom before. He sits in front of his computer at a desk.

  “Grab a seat,” he says, gesturing to his messy bed.

  I tug at his covers to make a flat spot and gingerly sit on the edge.

  He turns on his computer, and opens a drawer to reveal an ashtray overflowing with butts. We light up again, and when the computer is on, he types some stuff. Suddenly there’s a shrieking, warbling noise from the computer, then it goes silent.

  “See, these are all the other people who are online.” He points to scrolling green text, a bunch of lines that are some variation of “Hi Ruger!”

  “Who’s Ruger?”

  “I am,” Sean says. “You need to pick a handle. What handle do you want to use?”

  “How do you pick a handle?”

  He shrugs. “Pick anything you like.”

  I look at other’s people’s handles. Malek Resr0n. BTS. Cyclone. Blue Adept.

  I have no idea what they mean. Choosing a handle? What does it say about me? I watch Sean chat with these other people, most of whom seem to know him. Finally, I’m done with my cigarette, and I stub it out in the ashtray.

  “Angel of Mercy,” I say. “That’s what I want to use for my handle.”

  “Okay,” Sean says. He types a message into the computer.

  #4[T1:Ruger) Hey, my friend is here. This is her first time on DDial. Her name is Angel of Mercy. Say hi to her.

  #3[T1:Blue Adept) Hi Angel!

  #2[T1:BTS!) Welcome AoM!

  #6[T1:Malek Resr0n) Greetings, Angel of Mercy.

  Sean stands up. “Here, you sit and type.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Say hi.”

  I sit in his chair, and because I don’t know how to type, it takes me forever to hunt and peck “hi everyone” A few people ask me questions, which I answer with the shortest responses I can, and then I see a new person suddenly appear.

  #0 (dragon) Welcome, Angel of Mercy. Enjoy sanitarium.

  “Why does his name look different than everyone else?”

  “He’s the sysop, the system operator. He owns this.”

  “Owns it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I keep chatting with people online, while Sean lies on his bed and chain smokes, and calls out comments on what people are saying from the bit of the screen he can read. All of a sudden, I remember to check the time and discover almost two hours have passed. “Holy shit, I have to go. If I’m not home before my mom, I’m gonna be in a heap of trouble.”

  I don’t want to leave. DDial is awesome. It’s talking to other people without judgement of who you are or where you’re from. My mind spins with new ideas, new names, new friends. “Hey, would it be okay if I come over again sometime?” I hold my breath hoping he’ll say yes.

  “Yeah, course.”

  I jog home, narrowly beating my mom there. I lie awake in bed that night, fantasizing about being online.

  The next morning I see Sean in the hallway after first period, and ask if I can come over that afternoon. He says yes, and I end up visiting his house after school every day that week.

  On Saturday morning, my mom wakes me up just before she leaves to go grocery shopping. “Get started on your chores,” she tells me, once I nod to indicate I’m awake.

  I lie there in the bed for a minute, hear the front door slam, and then I race into top gear. By the time she comes home, I’ve vacuumed, dusted, cleaned the kitchen, and I’m starting in on the bathroom.

  “Help me unload,” she yells from the entrance.

  “I’m almost done with the bathtub,” I call back.

  A few seconds later, she appears in the doorway. “Since when do you clean the—”

  I make the mistake of looking at her. She gets one glance at my face, which betrays my hopeful excitement.

  “Uh oh. What do you want? If it’s to go to that CB whatever music place, the answer is still no.”

  “CBGB, and no, that’s not it.”

  “Is it a boy?”

  I inadvertently think about Sean, and when he—

  “Ah, it is a boy. Who is he?”

  “No, mom. It’s not. I want . . .” My stomach is trying to climb into my throat. I’ve never desired anything so much, never felt so much riding on a single decision from my mother. “I want to buy a computer.”

  “A what?”

  “A computer. It�
��s like a typewriter that connects to a television.”

  “I know what a computer is, honey. I’ve seen them at work. Why do you want one?”

  I launch into a mile-a-minute explanation of bulletin board systems and DDial. At some point I become aware I’m still wearing yellow rubber gloves, and take them off. “So I’d also need a modem to be able to dial these BBSes.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Six hundred and fifty dollars.” I’m asking for more than twice what we pay in rent.

  “I’m sorry, honey, that’s out of the question.” She shakes her head and walks out of the bathroom.

  I run after her. “Please, mom. Can I borrow the money and pay you back? I can earn it.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I’ll get a job. I’ll babysit or work at the grocery store. You don’t understand. I really want this.”

  She reaches up and runs her fingers through my hair. “I see you do, but there’s no way we can afford it. You know that. Plus you have to be sixteen to work.”

  “Not to babysit.”

  “You hate babysitting. You sat the Serrano kids once and came home crying.”

  I loathe watching their bratty kids, but I’d do almost anything to afford that computer.

  “Fine, I’ll save up the money on my own.” I cross my arms, and then give up and run off to my room. Even if I babysit several nights a week, and spend absolutely nothing, it’s going to take me most of a year to save the money.

  My mother follows me to my doorway. “Come sit with me at the table and show me how much everything costs.”

  In the end, it takes three months of babysitting almost every night to save up a quarter of the money. My mom buys day-old bread and dented cans, and somehow scrimps up most of the rest. The night before my sixteenth birthday, we count up what’s in the jar and we’re still short.

  There’s a heated argument by phone with my uncle, and the next thing I know, my mom’s taking the subway to my uncle’s house, and returns later that night with the rest of the money.

  The next morning, a Saturday, we take the bus together the computer store, and carry the box back home between us. Sitting on the bus on the way home, the box clutched tight in my lap, I’m nearly bursting with excitement.

  Having my own computer, I spend most of every night online. I type up my school assignments so my mom thinks there’s some educational value. Soon I have dozens of new friends. Most I never meet, yet from behind the safety of the screen, I share my hopes and dreams with them. Others I do hang out with, and Ruger, dragon, and BTS become regular companions on adventures around the city.

  For some reason, my best friend since first grade, Emily, never quite approves of my new computer friends. As I spend more time with them, both online and in endless meet-ups and parties, Emily and I gradually grow apart. During my second year of college, I’ll be back home during a holiday break, and realize I haven’t seen her since before I left for school. When I think back to when I last saw her, I realize we never said goodbye.

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  ON TUESDAY, I receive a text message from Owen, the angel I pitched to last week.

  “Have time to meet again?”

  “Sure, when?” I reply.

  “Tomorrow morning at 11”

  “Let me check my calendar.”

  I’m busy then, with a phone call set up to pitch to another VC. I call Mat for advice, and he urges me to reschedule the other call and meet with Owen instead.

  I go to his office this time, in a building along the park blocks near Portland State University. I peek around the small suite of rooms curiously as one of the employees walks me over to Owen’s office. The windows overlook the park outside, where a group of college students sit on the grass, having what appears to be a serious discussion.

  “Thanks for coming, Angie,” Owen says. He shakes properly, touching his right elbow to mine. “This is Stella, my legal counsel, and Todd, my business manager.”

  Whoa. I thought maybe Owen wanted to learn more, but this is another step up.

  Stella greets me with a warm smile, and Todd waves one hand at me.

  I repeat my dog and pony show, glad to show our progress with the new selective sharing feature.

  Todd comes and leans over to look at my laptop, placing one hand on my shoulder. I freeze mid-sentence, my vision narrows, and I try desperately to remember what to do.

  “Angie?” Owen says.

  Todd’s hand is gone, though I’m still frozen in time. Owen could be a thousand feet away. I’m having a panic attack. At an investor meeting, no less. I’m going to screw it up.

  Then I remember my therapist’s advice. The feeling of being in danger is a symptom, like having spots in my vision. It’s not truly reality, not even useful to me now. I’m afraid. It’s okay to be afraid. I can be afraid and still function, like I could have a toothache and still do what needs to be done, even if I’m uncomfortable and in pain. Panic will not kill me. Todd’s hand will not kill me. Todd is not trying to hit me or control me.

  I can breathe. I take a few deep breaths. I concentrate, move my pinky, then the rest of my fingers, then my arm. The worst is over.

  I swallow and say what Charlotte told me to say in this situation. “I’m sorry. I was totally lost there for a second. What were we talking about?” Act like it was no big deal, Charlotte said.

  Todd repeats his question, and the meeting goes on like nothing happened.

  We had an hour planned, but it’s going on two when Stella grills me on intellectual property.

  “You’re sure there’s no non-compete with Tomo that can affect you?”

  “None. I never signed one.”

  She shakes her head in disbelief. “I know they have them for other employees.”

  I shrug. “Maybe it was after my time.”

  “Some of this is based on published open protocols,” Stella says, looking at Owen. “IndieWeb. It’s going to be hard to lock it up.”

  “The point is not to lock it up,” I say. “We want it to be open. The more participants the better.”

  “Open is good,” Todd says. “You want contributions. On the other hand, you don’t want to be so open that Tomo comes along, replaces your role in the ecosystem, and you disappear.”

  “We’re the accounting backbone in the system. We track which components are involved in which interactions, and credit them with fractional payments. Without us in that role, nobody can process payments. That’s our control point.”

  “That’s a powerful place to be,” Stella says. “Although alternative app stores have sprung up on mobile OSes. If anyone can find a way to insert themselves into your system, and substitute themselves in that role, they’ll do it.”

  A vague ache spreads from the back of my head. I wish I could walk into these meetings and understand what people want. Technical discussions are so much easier. Do they want to invest or don’t they?

  “Don’t worry,” Owen says, catching my expression. “I’m investing. There are still major challenges for you to figure out, though. That’s why, in addition to these terms . . .” He withdraws a sheet of paper from a folder and hands it to me. “I want a seat on your board. I can help you solve these problems.”

  I look over the term sheet. Enough money for four months, including our growth in headcount and the hardware Igloo needs.

  “You’ll want your lawyers to look this over,” Stella says.

  I clear my throat and try not to sound like I’m desperate. “Once we sign, how long until we receive money?”

  “We can cut you a good faith check immediately to cover any short-term expenses, and you’d get the balance once we’ve concluded the legal restructuring.”

  Holy shit. I won’t need to refi my condo. We can hire Kevin. The company can keep going. Someone believes in us!

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  Six months later

>   I SCAN MY badge at the door and step into the office with my bag slung over my shoulder and a coffee in my hand. The door pushes open in both directions, a two-thousand dollar extra the building management company was happy to tack on to our move-in cost. It seems expensive to make a door open two ways, but after an entire career of juggling my coffee cup and badge every time I enter an office building, I’ve earned it.

  The lights are already on, so I’m not the first one here. It’s mostly an open floor plan, with conference rooms and a handful of offices, including mine, around the edges, so it takes only a second to spot Igloo in her corner. All these months later, Igloo’s real name still escapes me. Our finance guy must know her real name.

  I’m shocked to see Igloo in this early. She routinely works late hours. On top of that, she uses a conference room as practice space for her band, so most days she has two or three hours of practice after she finishes work.

  I set down my coffee and wander over. “What’s got you up so early?”

  “Early?” Igloo’s voice cracks, though she doesn’t look up from her screen or take her hands off her keyboard.

  Uh oh. “It’s a little after seven.”

  “Oh shit, seven already?” Igloo glances up at me, her eyes bloodshot. “Microfinance transactions and service records. I’m post-processing the log data to figure out which components are credited for each view. I have to tie the aggregation back to the original records in case of audit or if the service wants detailed usage metrics.”

  “This is related to Kindred?” Our new name for the chatbot, which now has two personalities: Jake and Ada.

  “Yeah, I found discrepancies between Kindred’s built-in usage metrics and the aggregated service records, and there was no way to correlate them.”

  I nod, only half grokking, and look around. “You’ve been here all night?”