Ghost Code

by Sarah Negovetich

  “Then why did you?” I don’t want to be mad at him. If he hadn’t done it, I’d be in here by myself. But it was all such a waste. I need to understand.

  “I let other people dictate my future. At the time, I didn’t see that. I only saw a never-ending stream of taunts and name calling, people bumping into me or tripping me in the hall. All I could see was a future filled with more of the same, and I wanted out.”

  I nod. I understand staring at your future and not seeing any way to make it better. If it wasn’t for Mama I would have found a way to end it a long time ago.

  There’s not any point in holding on to a grudge in here. Not when I’m facing a potential eternity trapped in an endless cycle of controllers and only Grant to talk to. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” He nods and gives me a small smile. We both understand we don’t need more words than that. “So now what?”

  I walk over to a wooden bench and sit down. “Now I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. They know.”

  Grant hesitates and then joins me on the bench, our friendship sliding back into place.

  “They know that I know this is all just a facade.”

  Grant lets out a low whistle. “How bad was it?”

  “Just the opposite actually. Dr. Spencer was thrilled.” I suck in a slow breath and tell Grant about what Dr. Spencer told me about the program, and then what I saw inside the room.

  “Wait, so the woman controlling the VR Dr. Spencer actually waved at you?”

  I laugh because it’s better than crying. “Yeah, weird right?”

  We sit in mutual silence while the sun sets behind a copse of trees, and the night settles around us much earlier than I would have expected. Even time feels fake here.

  Nothing has changed really. Dr. Spencer’s confirmation wasn’t even a relief.

  “Are you going to do it? Let them integrate you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” I tilt my head back and stare at the stars. It’s tempting. Now that I don’t have to pretend with Dr. Spencer it takes some of the pressure off from pretending. But it’s not like I could stop completely. Everything about this world is make-believe.

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Grant’s voice is a whisper in the darkness. “If someone had told me you can either never see your parents again or you can integrate into this system and stay with them forever, I know exactly what I would pick.”

  “But that’s not my mom. And those aren’t your parents.”

  “And this bench we’re sitting on isn’t real either, but it sure beats squatting in the dirt.”

  I turn my attention from the stars to Grant. He’s right. For a place that isn’t real, it’s remarkably realistic. But people aren’t benches. “I think I need to sleep on it.”

  Grant snorts next to me.

  “Or whatever it is. But I need to figure it out. Dr. Spencer says there isn’t much time left before my body in the real world decides for me.” I stand up and rub my arms against the evening chill. It’s not really home, but what I want now is to go to the little house that was always my safe space and rest my head on a bed covered in familiar quilts. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Viv.” Grant stands but doesn’t follow me. “I just want you to know that whatever you decide, I have your back. You don’t have to do this alone, Butterfly.”

  “Thanks, Grant.” And I mean it. A friend was the absolute last thing I ever wanted. I’m glad I have one now, but I’m not sure it makes any difference. I walk back down the path toward my truck. No matter what Grant says, this is something I have to do on my own.

  C:>TWENTYTHREE.exe

  Mama is in bed by the time I get home, but there’s a covered plate with tamales on the table beside a Coke—still cold, as if it just came out of the fridge. I ignore them both. I don’t need to eat in here anymore than I need to sleep. I only felt hungry before because my brain told me that it had been a long time since I’d eaten. But that’s just a leftover thought process from when I had an actual body. There’s no point in choking down more food that tastes like gritty dirt.

  I flop down on my bed without even bothering to take my clothes off. What’s the point when I’m just going to wake up tomorrow with them back on? I guess there’s a few bugs they need to work out in the system.

  I close my eyes, but sleep refuses to come. As if my brain knows it’s just a scam, that falling asleep is just part of the motions I went through as a human that aren’t needed anymore. It certainly would clear up a lot of free time in my calendar if I never have to stop to eat or sleep again.

  Sitting up, I stare over at my computer system. After getting the parts from Rocko, I only had a chance to get the computer operational before everything went to hell in a hand basket. My fingers itch. Maybe programming some code will help my brain to focus and figure out what I’m supposed to do now.

  I get up and stretch out my arms while my foot kicks at the power strip to bring my setup to life. It’s not nearly as nice as the one I had before VALR, but it’s still passable. Would I even be able to use this computer?

  VALR didn’t know about my hacking hobby since I kept those activities to myself. Not that I’m a black hat or anything, but a girl has to keep a few secrets for herself. If they don’t know what I can do, would they have programmed these units to perform for a hacker? Everything I’m touching is code.

  Unless it’s not. Creating a world this detailed would be nearly impossible to maintain. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. All the little details that I might never notice but when missing create a stark reality that is easily identified as false. So what if not everything is built by code. What if it’s the reality we all know, but just wrapped in code like a shiny veneer?

  It’s like the couch at my grandma’s house. I used to hate going there because every couch, chair, and loveseat was covered in plastic sheeting. The couch still worked, and you could sit on it, but the plastic kept you from fully experiencing the couch. There, but separate. The VR has to be a lot like those couches. Based on the reality that’s actually out there, but kept separate from those of us inside by a thin layer of plastic code.

  If I could just figure out a way to get up under the plastic, I could see what that couch really looks like.

  I pull up the VALR site and hack my way inside in a few minutes. Once I’ve been inside a system, getting back in is like following a trail of breadcrumbs. I go right to the HR system that I used the first time I hacked into the security feed. But that’s a dead end. I can access all the personnel files I want, but who needs that? The security feeds must be built-in, as a way to monitor employees covertly. I’m not surprised by the invasion of privacy based on what VALR has really been up to for the last four decades. So much for testing medicine for future cancer patients.

  I need to get the VR program code, but there isn’t anywhere to go from HR. It’s one big box of files and none of them relevant. I scan through the list of file names hoping something, anything, catches my eye.

  Not surprisingly, there isn’t a file for Dr. Spencer. She only exists here inside the VR. Dr. Brooks has a file, but I really don’t want to read about the man who lied to me about everything VALR stands for.

  I pause when I run across a folder labeled Grant Wong. It feels like an invasion to open it, but it’s not as if there’s anything in there that would surprise me at this point. The file is pretty thin on documents. There’s one that discusses his intake. They thought about declining him for the program, but his parents offered to make a generous donation to the corporation if he would be included. If only they had known.

  A short document outlines his stay in the VR. Dates of entry, vital signs throughout the program…he only made it twenty-eight days. That’s surprising to me. The Grant I know today would have held on for the full thirty. He’s grown from his time as a computer ghost.

  I guess that only makes sense. He’s spent sixteen years trapped inside the system, living through countless controllers, each time ho
ping they’ll be the one to end the cycle of non-existence. He’s been on a never-ending roller coaster. Of course, he’s ready to get off the ride.

  I close out his file and close my eyes. Does it matter? Even if I find something useful, what am I going to do with it? Could I really destroy the code and give up the chance to keep living? Not a real life, but it will seem real enough.

  My curiosity wins out. Even if I never touch the code, I need to see it. I need to run my hands across the screen and feel it. It’s a part of me.

  I roll through the folder until I find the file with my name on it. Viviana Mariposa Maria Quiroga. They used the whole damn thing, like they knew I’d be trouble from the get go.

  Inside it looks almost identical to Grant’s. Intake papers, files of my vital stats while I’ve been in the coma, notes from Dr. Brooks, my initial application packet. It’s all there as proof that somewhere in the vast world I existed, if only for a little bit.

  I stare at them, these little mementos of a real life, and that’s when I notice the odd man out. A bit of code in the corner that doesn’t match. I recognize it right away. It’s a method of hiding folders in plain sight so people who shouldn’t know they are there don’t stumble across them while they are still easily accessed by those who need to know. Like a little, almost invisible Easter egg.

  My fingers fly across the keys, and I’ve got the folder open before I can even decide if I should. But then it’s too late, and my screen is filled with beautiful strands of elegant code. Layered code that bends and shapes in ways I’ve never thought to use it. It practically sings with power and possibility.

  I suck in a deep breath and hold it tight in my lungs, letting the air burn in its desire for release. This is the VR.

  Hidden inside an invisible file, tucked deep into my HR file. It’s the perfect place to hide something in plain sight. I run my fingers over the screen, soaking in the level of mastery it took to put this behemoth into place. I picture a room full of coders hunched over their monitors day and night for years to make all these strings of code work together in harmony.

  Even though I know what it is, and despite feeling like the code itself is a personal prison, I’m still drawn to it. I want to wrap myself in it until I’ve interpreted every key stroke.

  They shouldn’t have done this. It was wrong to make me think I was helping test new trial drugs and then suck my consciousness into a virtual reality. They should never be allowed to do this again. And yet…I want it. I want to swim inside the code and let it coat me from the inside out. I want to spend the next forever analyzing every key stroke, adding changes and improving on the genius. I want to figure out why the sun is so overly bright and fix it. I want to make food tasty again. I want to make my mom talk to me about something other than tamales.

  I could have this. All of it. But it means I have to integrate. I have to give up the idea of reality and agree to live in what I know is a fabrication for the rest of who knows how long. Probably forever.

  My eyelids finally droop with the enormity of the decision I have to make. I flip off the lights, but leave my monitor on the strings of code serving as a pale green nightlight to ward off the bad dreams calling for me.

  C:>TWENTYFOUR.exe

  I open my eyes to sunlight streaming in through my discount store blinds and a loud pounding on my bedroom door. It bursts open into the room before I can even sit up and orient myself to what’s going on.

  “Viviana.” Dr. Brooks stands in the doorway, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white lab coat. “I’m so disappointed in you.”

  A team of unfamiliar faces stream around him into the room. They ignore me and head straight to my computer, unplugging cords and disconnecting units.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” I jump out of bed and try to push them away from my desk, but Dr. Brooks grabs my arm and pulls me out of the bedroom and into the stuffy hallway.

  “We trusted you, Viviana. We were straight with you about what this all is and what it could mean for you. I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought you could handle it.”

  “It was.” I spin on Dr. Brooks and wrestle my arm away from him. “Dr. Spencer told me to go home and think it over. That’s exactly what I did.”

  “No. You decided to hack the VALR system, access private files, and infiltrate the security system in order to do who knows what to the code. Do you have any idea what you found last night?”

  I nod. “I found me. Or at least I found what could be me. Kinda. It’s all a bit convoluted by the fact that we’re here, but not actually here.”

  “Why? Why did you go looking for the code?” His voice is stern without being angry.

  “I just wanted to see it. I wanted to know what it would be like to fully integrate with the system. That’s what Dr. Spencer told me you want.” I don’t understand why he’s so upset. I mean, I guess I could have done something to the code. Even deleted it, but with something that important they wouldn’t have a single point of deletion. Plus why would he think I would do that?

  Dr. Brooks grabs me by the shoulders. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm. “I don’t know how you got in there, but you almost destroyed years of work. You could have created enough damage that you wouldn’t be able to integrate. Is that what you want? To die in here?”

  I shake my head. It’s an honest answer. No matter what I decide to do, I really don’t want to die. It’s the least ideal solution among a whole host of bad options.

  The team of people I don’t know file out past us, holding pieces of the system I just got done putting together. I’m not emotionally attached to those parts yet, but it still hurts to watch them go. My computer was always my pipeline to the outside world, no matter how sick I was.

  And one of my options just disappeared. That code was magnificent…and fiercely protected with a unique self-replicated system. It’s why I’m always wearing the same shirt, but it keeps the code from breaking down under the countless variables that my autonomous interactions create. It wouldn’t be a simple select all-delete to erase it. Despite Dr. Brooks’ threats, nothing short of a sophisticated virus could take it down.

  I could do it, but only with enough time to study the code up close and find its weaknesses.

  “Your internship has been terminated, Viviana.” Dr. Brooks’ words resonate around the room. “Your time is up. You need to integrate.”

  “No, I still have a few more days.” Sharp pain blossoms across the bridge of my nose. Another headache. “I still need to decide what I want to do.”

  “That headache isn’t going away. It’s only going to get worse as your real world body shuts down.” He pauses and lets the weight of his words shift down on my shoulders. “I can’t force you to integrate. It won’t work that way. But you’re running out of time. If you don’t do this, you’ll lose that option as well.”

  I nod. “I understand. Tomorrow. I promise I’ll decide by tomorrow.”

  I don’t know why I’m putting it off. He’s right. It’s like I can feel my body dying out there. I can integrate or turn into Grant. It shouldn’t even be a slightly difficult decision. But it is.

  He grunts in acknowledgement of my words and turns to follow his team out the door, loaded down with all the equipment they hauled out of my room.

  Tomorrow. Given the weirdly short days in here, I have less than twenty-four hours to decide if I want to live a lie where everyone can see me or live truthfully in the shadows.

  C:>TWENTYFIVE.exe

  Do you want to talk about it?”

  I spin in the hallway to find my mother, or my virtual mother, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She looks the same as the last time I saw her. When was that? Yesterday? The day before? Regardless, it’s the same carbon copy that’s been here since I “woke up.” Except, not quite.

  This mother isn’t trying as hard. There’s no plate of food or cold drink in her hands. She’s smiling, but not the deep crinkly-eyed, ear to ear smile that my mom would gi
ve me. It’s as if this version of my mother knows the charade is over.

  “I know you have a lot on your mind and all of this is almost too much to take in. But you don’t have to figure it out alone. I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you.”

  She reaches for my hand and pulls me to the couch in our small but tidy living room. The motion is so familiar it hurts my heart. How many times have we sat on this couch and talked through the options? Should we apply for a new drug trial, do we go in for another surgery, is the benefit of this medicine worth the side-effects? After Dad died, Mama was my everything. She’s held me together more times than I can count, and every major decision I’ve ever made has been done right here on this couch with her love surrounding me.

  I squeeze her hand and imagine what it would be like to have this every day. It wouldn’t be the same as actually waking up from the coma and living with my mom, but it’s as close as I have any right to ask for. Even these moments of time, with the woman who is so close to being my mom, feel like stolen diamonds.

  I sit in my usual spot, but Mama moves over a bit. She doesn’t sit on her worn seat that fits her body perfectly. She slides over and sits in Dad’s spot.

  The muscles in my back stiffen. This isn’t real. This isn’t our couch in our house on the street I’ve always lived. But that simple act of sitting in the wrong place on the couch feels like the worst kind of betrayal. As if this new fake life would mean losing the me I really am.

  I wish I could go to her. It would be so easy to pour myself into her arms and let out all my darkest fears about what happens next. And this version of my mom would say all the right things, stroke my hair, and call me “mija.”

  But she’s not my mom. She’s a simulated version of her controlled by some stranger in a room of coders programming the world around me as it happens.

  “I need to go.”

  I push off the couch and walk out to my truck. She’s right about one thing. I don’t have to do this alone.