Ghost Code

by Sarah Negovetich

  Even before I decided to join the experiment with Dr. Brooks at VALR, I knew my days were numbered. A girl can only go through so many bone marrow transfusions, proton therapies, and rounds of chemo before the world starts feeling less and less like the place you belong. But here I am, and now I feel like the proverbial square peg in a round hole.

  “Here you go, mija.” Mom hands me a steamy tamale on a little round, white plate. The husk is already pulled back from the soft corn masa revealing a tantalizing aroma of sweet corn and spicy pork. The hiss of a freshly opened can of Coke brings a bit of normalcy back to the room. No matter how sick the meds made me, I could always keep down a few sips of Coke. Mom pulls out one of the dozens of Abuela’s crocheted doilies in a rainbow of colors and sets the chilled can in front of me.

  It all feels so normal. Mama taking care of me, fluttering around the room cramped with mismatched catholic wall hangings and telenovela magazines. The house even smells the same. That distinct smell that you don’t notice in your own home until you spend a long time away from it, and then once you come back, you realize nowhere else smells as good. It’s just as it was when I left.

  “Thanks, Mama. This is exactly what I needed.” Except it’s not, because while everything else stayed exactly the same, I feel like I don’t even remember who I was.

  She sits on the arm of the sofa and runs a tentative hand through my dark hair, loose for once instead of pulled into a short ponytail that sticks straight up from my head. “Don’t thank me, Viv. I’m your mother. You just eat. I need to get some meat back on this skeleton.”

  She’s right. Years of chemo, radiation, and every trial drug under the sun has devoured any muscle I might have built up. Though admittedly, the only weights I ever lifted were a CPU tower from time to time. Maybe with all of this behind me, I won’t be such a stick figure. Maybe I can get used to the new normal and figure out who I’m supposed to be.

  I lean back on the sofa and lift a too-big bite of tamale into my mouth. The minute my lips close over the fork, I know I’ve pushed it. The meat and masa mash around my mouth like damp cotton balls. They taste about the same. Damn meds. Whatever they gave me completely ruined my taste buds. I work the tamale around my mouth, fighting the urge to spit it out until I can swallow it. The second it’s down, I take a huge swig of tasteless Coke. Shit. Ruined that, too.

  I hand the plate back to my mom.

  “One bite? Mija, you need to eat more than that.”

  I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She would have spent hours making these. But the thought of putting more of that tamale in my mouth makes my tongue dry out. “I’m actually not that hungry right now. I promise I’ll have more later.”

  Mama clucks her tongue but doesn’t say a word as she stands to take my full plate back to the kitchen. I’ll get away with that for now, but eventually she’s going to make me eat. The feel of the tasteless masa still coats my mouth, and I can’t seem to get rid of it. I need a distraction, and there’s only one surefire way to do that.

  I lift off the couch, careful to lean to the right so I don’t make the springs squeak. Mama will want me in here resting, but I can’t just sit and do nothing. I creep past the kitchen entrance and down the tiny hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Turning my doorknob like a safecracker at Fort Knox, I ease into my bedroom and ghost the door shut behind me. I count to thirty in my head with my ear pressed against the door to see if I managed to escape any more inspections. Confident that I’m safe for now, I turn around in a silent victory and my heart drops out.

  Half of my room is exactly how I left it. My twin bed pressed against the wall, covered in a thin quilt made by one of the talented women in my family’s long family tree. The three-drawer dresser faces the bed, the surface bare save for an old Mickey Mouse lamp and a hairbrush.

  The walls are bare. I didn’t have a life outside of the hospital, and that’s not exactly something you take a photo of and hang in a fancy frame. And with the rest of the house so filled with knick-knacks and decorations coating every surface, I preferred a clean space in my room. Besides, any extra money I had went straight to the contents of the other half of my room.

  Contents I completely forgot I sold the week before I went into VALR.

  I couldn’t stand the thought of my mom trying to deal with my cluttered desk and figuring out what to do with a half dozen half-constructed computers. Plus, she wouldn’t even be able to guess at how much all my monitors, card readers, and hard drive splitters were worth. They probably would have ended up in the dump, and that would have been the crime of the century. So I packed it all up and sold it to a few local white hats I met online. I never expected I’d need them again, and the money bought mom and me a nice dinner out.

  The rest went into an envelope I slid into her purse when she wasn’t looking. She never wanted to talk about what would happen after I died, but I knew a funeral would cost money she didn’t have. Taking care of that was my final way of showing her how much I love her.

  But now, there’s only an empty counter top resting on a pair of dented filing cabinets that served as my desk. Not even a spare power cord to indicate that anything magical once happened in this little corner of my room.

  My door cracks open, and Mama sticks her head in. “Oh.” She turns her head slowly from where I stand in the middle of the room to the one-time headquarters of my coding haven.

  “It’s fine, Mama.” I sink down on the bed and work a half-smile onto my face. “It was just stuff.”

  She doesn’t say a word. Just stares at the empty desk with her lips pressed together and that look in her eye she gets when she’s trying to make everything better but doesn’t know how.

  “They have computers at the library.” The words taste as bad leaving my mouth as the tamale did going in. We both know the ancient behemoths at the library aren’t anything close to what I had, and the librarians probably wouldn’t be too keen on me dismantling one to figure out a better fan configuration.

  Mama nods and ducks her head back out the door. I kick my Chucks off and lie back on top of the quilt. There’s no way I can sleep right now after taking a month-long siesta, but I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do now. My world was made up of hospital stays and doctor’s visits. If I wasn’t there, I was sitting at that desk, wrapped up in the world of digital code and hardware manipulation. Now, both of those are gone, and I’m not sure where that leaves me.

  An envelope hits my chest, and I sit up, grabbing it so it doesn’t fall to the floor. Mama came back in without me even noticing. I turn the white envelope over and catch my own handwriting scrawled across the front. Funeral.

  “We won’t be needing that now, will we?”

  I look up and Mama is smiling in a way I haven’t seen since my last remission. A real smile, not weighed down by the unknown of the next round of drugs. I open my mouth to protest, but Mama cuts me off with a raised hand.

  “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it.” She points to the envelope like it’s the answer to life. “Take it and go get what you need.” She glares at me to show she means business and walks back out, leaving the door open.

  I test the weight of the envelope in my hand. It won’t replace everything I sold, but it could go a long way toward getting me there. I can’t deny I want to use the money. In the time it took my mom to walk out of my room back toward the kitchen, my brain had already made a quick list of the most essential items to get me started. I slide my feet back into my Chuck Taylors, grab my ratty messenger bag, and give my black tee a tug. Time for a little retail therapy, nerd style.

  C:>FIVE.exe

  A little bell tinkles through the cool, dust-free air when I push through the tinted glass door. It sounds like coming home.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  One of the few people on earth I can tolerate without a computer screen between us walks around from behind the counter and gives me a fist bump. Rocko, AKA RockofA
ges, has been my go-to source for equipment since I started hacking eight years ago. He walked me through the basics of the deep web when I was the wettest newb in the room, and he never once treated me with kid gloves the way everyone else did.

  It’s not that he didn’t know I was sick. A blind man could tell I was courting the robed reaper. But Rocko doesn’t care about anything other than how fast your fingers can spit out code. And being sick never once slowed me down.

  “Word around town is you got sprung from the gates of hell and flipped death the one-finger salute.”

  Word travels fast, thanks to the stupid newspaper story Mama agreed to. “Well, that certainly sounds more badass than ‘the drugs worked.’”

  “Badass.” Rocko walks back around the counter and switches right back into business mode. “So, what are you looking for today?”

  I pat my bag where I shoved the envelope and take a deep breath, sucking in the cool air with a hint of grease and a slight electrical charge. Rocko’s used part store is my own personal candy shop. “I hocked everything before I sold my soul to the reaper. Everything.”

  Rocko sucks in a quick gasp of air. Only another hacker can truly appreciate the magnitude of a complete liquidation. “Alright then, Butterfly. Let’s start loading up.”

  I smile and immediately fall into my happy head space. In here, I’m not Viviana, the sick girl who lost her dad. I’m Butterfly, white hat extraordinaire and mechanical maven. Not that Butterfly is the coolest hacker name ever, but at age ten, I thought I was pretty clever using the English version of my middle name for my hacker name. Now, it’s almost like a disguise. Asshats online think I’m some fake nerd wannabe, only trolling the chat rooms for a Star Wars loving boyfriend. That makes it even sweeter when I crack their amateur codes and run circles around their ones and zeros.

  Rocko clears a space on the counter for my loot, and I start loading up. My hands brush along the lineup of wiped hard drives, and I get a bit nostalgic for the ones I sold. Thousands of hours of code I wiped clean so another hacker couldn’t steal my work. Now I’ll be starting over with someone else’s wiped unit. I shake my head and grab three off the shelf. Time to forget the old code. This is a chance to start over and really show the world what I can do.

  It doesn’t take long before the counter is covered in drives, monitors, a slick keyboard that looks barely used, and an assortment of parts I’ll need to build my new unit. It’s a good start, but there are a dozen other parts I can’t afford yet.

  “Are you still using local hats for repairs and wipes?” On more than one occasion, Rocko had offered me a little extra cash to wipe drives that came into the shop from people who didn’t realize the danger of leaving your world on a hard drive. It wasn’t much, but it let me get a new gadget from time to time.

  “Sure am. You interested?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a few more items on my wish list than funds on hand.”

  “Tell you what.” Rocko jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got a whole box of drives in the back that I just haven’t found time to get to. If you can get them back to me in a week, I’ll front you the money to get a few more items off your list today.”

  Rocko is good people.

  “I’ll take them today and have them back by tomorrow if I can grab a solid state drive.”

  Rocko laughs and shakes his head. “Go grab it and I’ll get the box out of the back.”

  He disappears through a dingy beaded curtain, and I practically skip over to the shelf with all the drive options.

  “That’s a good choice.”

  I drop the drive but manage to snag it before it crashes to the concrete floor. A guy about my age practically materialized right next to me. His glossy black hair flops down over his forehead. He brushes it away to reveal almond-shaped Asian eyes. Despite the warm weather, he’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt. The cumulative effect of his look is disheveled.

  “Thanks.” I hoist it up as if he didn’t see it, ready to end the non-conversation.

  “If you’re getting that one, you should think about picking up an external storage drive.” He points to the bottom shelf, his lightly tanned fingers twitching.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I palm the drive in both hands, unsure if the conversation is over or if stranger boy expects me to say something else.

  He simply stares back at me like it’s perfectly normal to stare silently at a complete stranger in the middle of the used computer parts store.

  Wooden beads smashing against each other echo through the small storefront. “Butterfly, I got your box.”

  “Coming.” I wave a hand at new guy and turn to walk back to the counter.

  “Butterfly?”

  The joking tone of his voice has me turning around. This is where someone with appropriate social skills would simply walk away. I’ve been told repeatedly I don’t have those. “Yes, that’s my name.” I take a step closer to him, and he wisely backs up. “Is that a problem?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s yours?” A sadistic pulse runs through my hands. Smashing this guy’s code would be the icing on what’s been a pretty good day.

  New guy’s eyes drop to the floor. “I don’t code anymore.” He glances up at me, running a hand through his slightly too-long, black hair, and then turns his eyes to the floor again. “My name’s Grant.”

  Normal people with the ability to interact with others might ask Grant the deal with not coding anymore. That’s like saying I don’t eat anymore. But I’m not normal people, and the idea of launching into a conversation that could go anywhere has me backing away.

  Grant looks back up, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a half-grin. “Nice shirt.”

  I run my hand over my favorite tee. The Have you tried turning it off and back on again? shirt that I wore to the VALR labs. It doesn’t smell like a month of coma, so mom must have washed it and brought it back for me before I woke up.

  “Thanks.” I nod and practically run back to the counter.

  Rocko has all my loot packed into old printer paper boxes. “Did you have trouble finding it?” he asks, pointing at the drive still clutched in both my hands.

  “No.” I shake my head to dislodge the awkward conversation. “Just some guy talking my ear off.”

  “Huh.” Rocko glances at the rows of shelves behind me. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else in here. Must have missed the bell ringing when I was in the back.”

  Come to think of it, I didn’t hear the bell ring either, but I was in my happy place, so it’s not too surprising.

  “Alright, I’ve got you all loaded up here, and this is the box of drives to be wiped.”

  I toss the solid state drive on top of one of the boxes and hand over the envelope of funeral money to Rocko. To his credit, he doesn’t even flinch at the label still written on the front. “I’ll have these back to you before lunch tomorrow.” I heft one of the boxes in my arms and instantly feel better. “Thanks for everything.”

  “No problem, kid.” Rocko grabs a pilfered grocery store cart with a wobbly wheel and loads up my gear. “Need some help?”

  “Nah, I’ve got it.” I set my box on top and push the cart toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  I push the mangled cart out into the parking lot and head straight to my baby. The only reason I didn’t sell my ancient pickup before I left is because I’d probably have to pay someone to take it away. That, and the idea of selling Dad’s truck was a pain I wasn’t willing to face. It’s got more miles on it than a transatlantic jetliner, and the original paint color is a mystery—but she’s mine.

  I lift the bed cover and drop the tailgate to reveal a bed liner of my own invention. When climbing up into the bed became more than my beat-up body could handle, I added a sliding bed on casters that I could pull out for easier access. The second-hand wheels squeak and grind against the metal bed, but the wooden bed slides out to accept my bounty.

  “Looks you got quite the haul.”

&
nbsp; I drop the keyboard into the truck and spin around so fast, I have to grab the truck wall to keep myself steady. Grant stands a few feet away with his hands shoved into his pockets and his slick black hair hanging over his eyes.

  “Um…stalk much?”

  “Sorry.” Grant holds his hands up by his head in the international please don’t beat the shit out of me sign. “I just realized that inside I never caught your real name.”

  “Yep.”

  Grant drops his hands and kicks a pebble across the pothole-filled parking lot. “Oh. I just…I’m new around here, so I was hoping maybe we could hang out sometime.”

  I lean against the cab and let out a deep sigh, the activity of the day finally catching up to me. “Look, I’m sure you’re a great guy, but I’m not. I don’t do the friend thing, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Grant stands there for a minute just staring back at me like a wounded puppy, but I’ve run out of energy and the ability to ‘people’ for the day. I throw the rest of my stuff in the truck, close it up, and give the cart a good shove in the general direction of Rocko’s store. Grant is still standing there, maybe waiting on me to decide to take pity on him. I’m not a take pity kind of gal. Instead, I haul myself into the cab, jolt the engine to life, and head home. In the rearview mirror, Grant stands in the parking lot watching me drive away.

  C:>SIX.exe

  Good morning, Viv. I’m Dr. Spencer.” An older woman in a plain gray suit opens the door and gestures to the collection of oversized chairs. “Have a seat, anywhere.”

  I’d rather turn around and get the hell out of dodge, but that’s not an option. VALR requires that I attend these sessions as part of my post-patient care, and I’ve put this first appointment off as long as I could. It’s been three days since I came back to life, and I’m still not used to the idea that I’m not dead.

  VALR has never cured a patient before. They’ve never had to deal with someone who was supposed to die but didn’t. Which means I’m just as big of a freak as I was back when I was actually dying.