by JT Kalnay
“Cool. Stacey got me the source code for my birthday. That should give us a head start.”
“You are most awesome. But I will never forgive you for stealing her from me.”
“Stealing her? You could have asked her out. You sat there for months and didn’t do anything. What was she supposed to do, read your pathetic little mind? You know she doesn’t like reading children’s books. I just had a little initiative.”
“Yeah we know you’ve got a little something. But let’s not go into that again. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll get the hardware squared away over here, you get the software, then we’ll hook up. You and I will then interface and kick ass.”
“Sounds good Jack. Can’t wait. While Stacey is away I’ve got megacycles to burn anyway.”
“You are such a geek,” Jack answered.
“Takes one to know one,” Craig answered.
“You and her are really getting along okay?” Jack asked.
“She’s the one Jack. Since we moved in together I’ve been the happiest man in the world.”
“Now you’re making me sick.”
“You asked.”
“She make you go climbing yet?
“We’re going in a couple of weeks. I’m in the best shape of my life. She’s been running me hard. I really hope she knows what she’s doing up there.”
“She does. Rakesh told me she was amazing. At climbing too.”
“Bastard.”
“Later dude.”
Craig let the lines idle for a second before he closed his chat session. He leaned his head back on his chair and thought again about Stacey. As he returned to coding he quietly sang a song he’d heard earlier in the day:
Nothing’s going to change my love for you,
You ought to know by now how much I love you,
One thing you can be sure of,
I’ll never ask for more than your love.
Chapter
February 20th, 1994
San Francisco, California
“Did you hear from Stacey?” Stan Maxwell asked. His breath carried the smell of his daily six o’clock Scotch. Craig wondered if that smell permeated Stan’s clothes, or even all his belongings.
“Yeah. She called. She got in okay. No problems,” Craig answered.
Stan edged closer to Craig’s computer, trying to get a look at the code on his screen.
“Working late again?” Stan asked, the answer obvious since it was after eight. Craig tried to move out of the line of Stan’s breath.
“Yeah,” Craig said. He smiled at Stan’s sideways compliment.
“What are you doing?” Stan asked.
“Fixing the last bugs in the new beta.”
“Are you using your neural net research?”
“Yeah. On the wind shear problem.”
“Are you sure that’s going to work?” Stan asked, reverting to his skeptical self.
Craig turned to look directly at his boss. “No,” Craig answered.
Stan’s whiskey stained lips pursed in a tight smile as he tried to decide whether Craig was joking. “Well, try to keep it under twelve hours today. Can’t have you burning out.”
“Sure,” Craig said. His fingers began to practically dance over the keyboard at the second compliment in less than a minute. Stan moved toward the door, wobbling like a weeble who just wouldn’t fall down. Just as Craig opened another window in which to work Stan re-appeared at the door.
“Forget something Stan?” Craig said.
“While Stacey’s away, if you want to get in a few hours on that game you like so much, go ahead. Just don’t let the others see you.” Stan smirked and left, still weeble wobbling. Craig’s fingers froze on the keyboard.
“How the hell does he know about that?” Craig muttered.
#
Sitting in front of his workstation, Craig had five windows open. He was coding in one, compiling in a second, linking in a third and executing a code debugger in a fourth. His programmer buddies labeled it the “all powerful Craig configuration.” But right at that moment Craig’s attention was focused in the fifth window, located at the bottom left of the screen. Craig was logged onto the Internet, reading news on his second favorite subject, the Marauder. The compile window flashed dark and bright, dark and bright, capturing his attention.
YOU HAVE 81 COMPILE AND LINT ERRORS the compiler displayed.
“Shit,” Craig said. He rubbed his eyes then got up and walked to the little kitchen down the hall. He pulled a two liter Diet Coke from the fridge and twisted open the white lid. He downed a long pull. Craig stretched his neck and back, groaning aloud as his neck popped in three places. He took a smaller sip and started back to his desk. When he returned, the email icon at the bottom of the screen was signaling another incoming message had arrived. An animation of a letter falling out of the box repeated. Craig double clicked the icon and the email interface popped up, including an indicator that a file was attached to the message.
FROM: ICOSAHEDRAL_CODER
TO: [email protected]
DATE: FEBRUARY 20, 1994
RE: YOUR PURCHASE
Attached to this email please find your source code purchase. This code accounts for 98% of the Marauder program. This code is for your entertainment and instruction only. It is not be to be resold or redistributed in any manner without the express written consent of Icosahedral Inc. Good luck. But you’ll never kill her.
“All right,” Craig said. “Happy Birthday to me.”
Craig opened another window and began to decompress the attached code. A small bar graph began tracking the percent completion of the task. Craig watched as it displayed 0% for thirty seconds then finally clicked over to 1%. “Wow, that file must be huge,” Craig said aloud. “Now about those 81 errors,” he murmured.
He found the first error in his C++ code.
WHILE (X = 10) { x = aptr->FUNC1( ); }
Craig changed it to:
WHILE (X==10){ x = aptr->FUNC1( ); }
“I’ve been coding for ten years and still make that frickin’ mistake,” Craig muttered. He took another big hit on his Diet Coke. “Ah, Caffeine and NutraSweet. The neurotoxin nectar of the software Gods.” He found and fixed a few more errors then saved his file and started to compile again.
“Now how is that decompression coming?” he asked the computer. New employees often wondered who he was talking to in his office. The veterans knew he talked to himself all the time. On his good days, they said he was multi-tasking. On his bad days they said he was schizophrenic.
The bar graph displayed 11% done. “Not done yet,” he answered his own question. He rubbed his nose, scratched his ear and then yawned loudly. He rolled his tired neck around to the left and the right. The bones popped even louder.
“Time to schedule another trip to the chiroquack,” Craig quipped. The compile window started flashing again.
YOU HAVE 42 COMPILE AND LINT ERRORS
“Shit,” Craig said.
The phone rang. “This is Craig Walsh, APSoft,” Craig answered.
“This is Stacey Horner, Craig Walsh’s girlfriend,” came the reply.
“Stacey. How are you? It must be late there,” Craig said. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes yawned beside the phone.
“It is. But I’m still on West Coast time,” Stacey said.
“I miss you,” Craig yawned.
“I miss you too. What are you doing still at work?” Stacey asked.
“Working, sort of. I got my source code.”
“You call that working?”
“No. But I am working. I’m doing those long compiles so I’ve got some time in between. Right now I’m decompressing the code. At first I thought it was going to be huge, but now it doesn’t look like it’s going to be that big.”
“I’ve experienced that feeling,” Stacey said.
“Jerk,” Craig answered.
“Have you learned how to beat it yet?” Stacey asked.
Craig managed a tir
ed laugh. “Not yet. Maybe when you come back you’ll help me go through the code?”
“Sure. That sounds like the best date ever doesn’t it? Geek-boy programmer and sultry mountain climber girlfriend dissect video game code. Rated E for Everyone.”
Craig opened his eyes and thought for a second. “Okay, maybe we’ll look at the code after a jog by the Bay and a nice dinner and a sunset. Better?”
“Now you’re talking. What’d you do for lunch?”
“Pizza,” Craig answered.
“Figures,” Stacey said. “You know you’re going to be hauling that pizza up the mountain with you.”
“I know. I’ll be good tomorrow.”
“I got you something for your birthday.”
“You already got me the code, that’s enough.”
“It’s just something small. But I’m not going to give it to you right away. I’m going to carry it up the mountain and give it to you there.”
“Sheer torture babe.”
“Love hurts.”
t="3" w7Okay, gotta go. Thanks for calling Stacey. Love you,” Craig said.
“Bye. Love you too,” Stacey answered.
Craig put the phone back in its cradle. He looked at the eight by ten graduation photo of Stacey that stood beside his phone. The camera had done a masterful job of capturing her playfulness, her intelligence and her beauty. Once again he drifted back, thinking about her. The calm happy grin that only a man so deeply in love can display lit up his face. Tearing himself away from the picture he yawned one more time then turned back to the machine after setting his alarm watch for one hour later than it was right then.
#
The beeper was sounding on Craig’s runner’s watch as his fingers scanned down line after line after computer code on his monitor. As his finger reached the bottom of the large gray screen he noticed the code compression was complete.
“Perfect timing,” Craig said as he punched enter in his compile window.
YOU HAVE 0 COMPILE AND LINT ERRORS was the response.
“Starting test run now,” Craig said to the screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard. A “Working” icon appeared on his screen, it was an animation of a plane taking off and landing. Then a “Locked” icon joined it. Craig moved the cursor over the decompression window and was about to double click on the Marauder code when a massive belch erupted from the depths of his belly.
“Arghh. Too much Diet Coke, not enough food,” he said. He took one last look at the code then succumbed to his hunger. “Tomorrow my friend, you and I tango.” He pushed away from his desk and in a minute was on his way out of the building.
“Time for pizza,” Craig said to the guard as he was buzzed out of the building.
“You hear from your girlfriend, gone on her trip?” the guard asked.
“From who?” Craig asked.
“I asked you if you heard from Miss Horner?”
“Yes I did Rufus,” Craig answered.
“That’s nice. Now you go straight on home then,” Rufus said, fixing Craig with an elderly steely gaze.
“Yessir,” Craig answered, scurrying out the front door under Rufus’ watchful eyes.
“And happy birthday sir,” Rufus added.
“Thirteen and a half hours today,” Rufus said to himself as he entered a note in the log book.
Chapter
February 20th, 1994
Washington, D.C.
Stacey set down the phone and leaned back on the bed. She picked up the remote control and flipped channels for a while. After a minute or so her boredom overcame her and she headed down to the hotel gym.
#
Her light footfalls repeated over and over on the treadmill. The digital display showed fourteen miles in just under two hours. Her drenched blonde hair bounced gently against the back of her glistening, long neck.
“One more mile,” she said, and pressed the buttons to make the machine go faster.
#
Stacey lay a fluffy white towel down on the leather covered bench she’d positioned under the bench press rack.
“Need a spot?” an overweight, middle-aged man who was barely moving on the Stairmaster asked.
“No thanks. I got it,” Stacey answered.
She added a few small plates to the bar, took up her position under the bar and started pumping out the reps. The middle-aged man admired the view. Even sweat-soaked from fifteen miles on the treadmill and in her nastiest old workout clothes Stacey still turned most heads.
She finished her set, jumped up, and moved to the chin up bar. After taking a few deep breaths she reached up and started cranking out chin ups.
“Damn girl, I can’t do half that many,” the man admired.
Stacey just smiled. I’ll bet he can’t do any, she thought to herself.
#
“Want to get a drink?” the man asked when Stacey appeared to be finished.
She looked at him and smiled her best “no-thank you but thanks for asking” smile. “Thank you very much for the offer. But I have to get up real early to work tomorrow, and I promised my husband I’d call him after my workout. But thanks again. And good luck with your workout. You’re really getting after it.” And with that she grabbed her towel and headed back to her room.
The middle-aged man picked up the pace on the Stairmaster and smiled. If she wasn’t married, she’d be all over me, he thought, then picked up the pace even more.
Chapter
February 20th, 1994
San Francisco, California
Craig walked wearily into the nearly empty bar. Rufus’ order echoed in his head, but the prospect of an empty home was too much. Especially on his birthday. “One beer won’t kill me,” Craig said to himself.
“Gimme a Bud please,” Craig ordered.
A tall glass of cold boldness drawn from a glinting brass tap behind the long lacquered bar appeared in Craig’s hand. He sipped, smacked his lips and took a good hit.
“Got some quarters?” he asked the burly man behind the bar.
Two dollars worth of change materialized in the barkeep’s paw and slid across the polished bar. Craig walked across the well worn pine floor to the vintage fifties jukebox, poured the quarters into the neon framed machine, and carefully selected several tunes. Otis Redding, Coltrane, the Yard Birds, and others. Stacey would love this, he thought.
“Nice selection,” he said to the bartender.
“Thanks,” was the monosyllabic reply.
“Got any food?” Craig asked.
“Peanuts and Doritos,” came the reply, the barman’s voice sounding like it had been dragged through a yard of gravel.
“Can I get a pizza delivered?” Craig asked.
“If you can, you may.”
Craig took another hit on his beer, and eyed the cagey behemoth behind the bar.
“Got a phone?”
A battered black rotary with duct tape on the handset emerged from under the bar and clumped down in front of him.
“Local calls only,” the barkeep said, his beefy paw holding the duct taped handset down for an extra second.
“Yes sir,” Craig said. He dialed from memory and ordered. “That’s right, triple cheese, triple pepperoni, triple sausage,” Craig repeated into the phone. The bartender rolled his puffy eyes and retreated to the end of the bar.
#
“Fourteen fifty? Here’s twenty. Keep it.”
“Thanks mister,” the pimpled delivery kid answered. A broad smile lit his face as he pocketed the cash.
Craig opened the box and started to eat while the bartender and the only other person in the bar pretended not to watch the gobs of greasy meat and cheese being hoovered.
“Want a piece?” Craig offered.
The bartender slid down, looked over the pie, and accepted a piece. The other man also walked over and considered the pizza.
“No thanks. I already got my cholesterol quota for the month,” the older man said.
“Well I never get mine, so
don’t mind me.” Craig dove back into the steaming goo with the gusto of a man who’d eaten nothing but MREs for a month in the Gulf.
“Wife out of town?” the man asked.
“Girlfriend.”
“Makes you eat healthy?”
“Broccoli for cryin’ out loud,” Craig answered.
“Well. In that case…” the man said. He reached in and toasted Craig with a folded slice. “To a broccoli free day.”
“Here, here.”
The three men chewed away on the thick cheesy queasy.
“We’re going mountain climbing in a few weeks and I’m supposed to eat healthy and get a little lighter and everything,” Craig offered.
“Climbing? Good luck. Don’t find much time for that these days.”
“Why? What do you do?” Craig asked.
“Consultant. You?”
“Work with computers,” Craig answered.
“Programmer?”
“Kind of. Senior Systems Architect now.”
“What’s that? A super programmer?”
The man and the barkeep exchanged a hidden glance. The barkeep turned and slowly started drawing another beer.
Craig laughed a little self-impressed chuckle. “Yeah. I guess when you cut through the macho turbo stud male title crap I’m just a programmer with a few years experience.”
The man nodded.
The barkeep slid the fresh beer to Craig. “On the house. Thanks for the slice.”
Craig motioned to the pizza box. “Help yourself. There’s no way I’ll finish this.”
The barkeep helped himself to the smallest slice left in the box.
“I used to do a little programming in another life,” the man offered. “So what’s your favorite sort?” the man asked Craig.
“Sort of what?” Craig asked.
“Favorite sorting algorithm.”
“Depends on what I’m sorting, what I know about the data, how much memory I’ve got, how many times I’m going to sort the data, you know.”
“Yeah,” the man said.
“But nobody learns about sorts anymore, they just set up a remote call through an ORB, that’s an Object Request Broker, to hit against a sort server and let the server figure it out.”