Version Zero

by David Yoon

  “Fourteen Mezcla Avenue,” said Cal Peers.

  Max glanced up upon hearing these words, and instantly regretted it. It was his parents’ address back home.

  Cal Peers sneered with glee now.

  “Your father must be proud of you,” said Cal Peers. “Ulises. Your mother Penelope, too.”

  Max’s head emptied; his eyes flickered. But he held his gaze with Cal Peers. Brayden would edit that out with the big rewind button upstairs.

  Maintain, thought Max.

  Max continued to stare without a word. Give him nothing.

  “Here is what is going to happen next,” said Cal Peers. “We are going to leave here.”

  “Damn right,” said River Askew.

  “We are going to find that helicopter pilot of yours, and we are going to fly away from this place. This will all blow over, I promise you. People will normalize. I can look into this camera, right here, and order them to normalize, and they will, mark my words. People do not change.”

  Akiko began to say something, but Max stopped her with a touch.

  Give them nothing.

  “Come on,” said Cal Peers to the others.

  “You are no friend of mine,” said Jonas Friend to Pilot. “Not anymore.”

  “You think you know someone,” lamented Hunter Mole.

  The CEOs began ascending the arena stairs.

  “Just one more thing,” said Pilot.

  Everyone turned to him.

  “Miz Linda,” said Pilot. “You knew they were targeting my Noelle, did you not?”

  Linda Belinda wrung her hands.

  “The trolls, Miz Linda.”

  Linda Belinda began to speak, then tamped it down. She smoothed her bob; she draped her camel hair jacket on her forearm. She spoke with care. “Pilot, again: How could I have known what was going on? It could have happened to anyone. You cannot monitor everything that happens on Knowned.”

  “But it did not just happen to anyone,” said Pilot. “It happened to my Noelle. It happened because she was right, and they were wrong, and they could not stand it.”

  Pilot raised his arms in a strange way, as if being controlled by a magical force, and Linda Belinda took an instinctive step back.

  “Is that what this is all about?” she said. She began to flibulate with panic. She glanced at Cal Peers, and Max began wondering himself. Did Pilot set this whole thing up so he could get Linda Belinda to admit she did nothing to stop the death of his daughter?

  Max was confused now. They were done. Version Zero had accomplished what it set out to do. They got the Big Five to expose themselves on video to the entire world, and now they were to release them to the media lion pit. All Max wanted to do was go back up to Control and watch the fireworks.

  So why were they all still standing around?

  “Did you never stop to think,” said Pilot, “that in building Knowned the way you did, as a perfect faceless breeding ground for trolls, you had in effect built the gun? That by your silence and inaction, you had in effect pointed that gun? That all the trolls did was pull the trigger?”

  “So this is about revenge,” said Cal Peers. “Bravo, Pilot. You have your revenge. Shall we?” He climbed, and gestured for the others to do the same.

  “You had access, too, goddammit,” she shrieked. “As a cofounder and board member you had access. You could have seen those monsters coming. You talk about silence? Inaction? Where were you when they doxxed Noelle?”

  Pilot cast his eyes down. “I was asleep.”

  “And you call yourself a father,” said Linda Belinda, just in time for her wrists to explode in twin white garlands of magnesium razor sparks.

  When the acrid ozone smoke cleared Max could see the two red stumps, and the blackened hands resting at her feet.

  “Miz Linda,” said River Askew. He glanced at his own wristbands.

  “No one move,” said Pilot, raising his arms to the room now. “Let her go.”

  Max found himself flung skyward, pinned to the ceiling of the arena, watching himself and the others from up above. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. He looked at his own wristbands and with fingers gone numb tried pressing the tiny crowns on their sides.

  Nothing.

  He dared a look at Pilot. The man had become reptilian and blank. Slowly blinking. Tasting the inside of his own mouth. This was the same man who just days earlier had called Max his legacy.

  It was not the same man.

  Or was it?

  Pilot looked at Max now. He seemed to be looking past him. He seemed to be looking past everything, the arena, the mountains, everything.

  Looking at what?

  “Help me,” said Linda Belinda. She sat. “Help me,” she said to everyone, ten or so times before falling into a slumber. Ribbons of red flowed from her arms. Her body finally relaxed. And the sour earth was released.

  A foghorn sounded in Max’s mind now. It was a foghorn heard in a foreign country, where the customs and rules were strange and such a horn could mean anything at all: tsunami, an air raid, a field goal, nuclear war.

  I am not here to recruit you, Pilot had said. When Max first met him. I am here to convince you to recruit me.

  Mister Max is making the world a better place, Pilot had said.

  Mister Max gets it, Pilot had said.

  This whole time, none of what Pilot had said meant anything. All Pilot needed was a few smart people to help with execution. Because this whole time, Pilot Markham had had a plan of his own.

  Pilot was saying something now, but all Max could hear was the foghorn. Max had embraced this man, called him a friend, a father from another mather, laughed with this man, and oh my God Max had even wished—if but for a fleeting moment—that this man were his own father.

  Pilot’s mouth spoke, but Max heard none of it, because Max passed out.

  3.0

  3.0

  The average college student spends nine hours a day on their smartphones. That’s over half of a waking life! Studies have shown that all this screen time could be keeping us from being as happy as we should be. We at Quartz (QRTZ) think and write a lot about the connected lifestyle, and we’ve found ten simple things you can do to build a healthier relationship with your phone and finally quiet those phantom buzzes in your pants. You’ll be fitter, happier, and more productive.

  1. Buy an egg timer, set it for 5 minutes, and don’t use your phone until that timer rings. Tomorrow, go for 10 minutes. Keep increasing this time period to see how far you can last. The key to using your phone wisely is to not use it.

  2. Turn off data (here’s how) on the weekends. It sounds totally insane, like not eating or drinking for Saturday and Sunday, but trust us: you can do it.

  3. Keep a book in your bag to increase the likelihood that you will actually read it. Bookmarks are a handy way to keep your place.

  4. Carry a notebook made traditionally with sheets of paper, and write ideas down with a pen when they strike. Studies say writing by hand is much more creative, because it uses muscles in your body.

  5. Doodle, again using a pen and ink on paper. Studies show that doodling is fun and relaxing also by use of muscles.

  6. Get bored! Studies show that boredom is not only totally acceptable behavior, it can even be a productive tool to foster creativity.

  7. Do not sleep with your phone.

  8. Don’t forget to breathe. Studies have shown that people tend to hold their breath when scrolling.

  9. Get a cellular-enabled Sparq™ smartwatch and leave the phone at home altogether! We’ve found it incredibly liberating.

  10. Take comfort in the knowledge that the internet will still be waiting for you when you return.

  3.1

  The body of Linda Belinda lay unmoving before them.

  “Control?
” said Pilot.

  Silence.

  “Control?” said Pilot. “Control?”

  Pilot eyed the ceiling and waited for Brayden’s voice. Nothing came.

  “I guess Control is busy,” said Pilot.

  No one said shit. Everyone stood at different levels of the arena steps, frozen in shock.

  Max rose. He checked his forehead, his elbows and knees: no damage. The mask was still on his face, if a bit crooked. He must have crumpled rather than fallen, and only for a moment. When he had opened his eyes again it was all still there: Pilot, the CEOs, Shane and Akiko clinging to each other in their Black Halo masks, and finally the body of Linda Belinda, lying with her face mercifully obscured by a sheet of her bobbed hair.

  It was all still happening.

  Max heaved through his mask.

  He pictured Brayden abandoning his station up in Control, sprinting down some corridor, and banging on the door to Cody’s quarters. He hoped so.

  Brayden was a good kid.

  Max slowly turned his gaze to Pilot. The man was still staring past the walls.

  “Pilot,” said Max. “Whatever it is you think you might be doing here, you know it’s not right, and we have to go now; everyone has to get on the helicopter and go because we’re all done here.”

  Pilot aimed a wristband at the side of the arena and twisted a fist in the air. A portion of the steps retracted to reveal a storage chamber. Pilot reached into the floor panel, unfolded a black tarp, and covered Linda Belinda’s body.

  “You are a monster,” said Cal Peers.

  Pilot sighed. “I know. Now, everyone sit.”

  When no one moved, Pilot shouted. “Everyone sit!” And he pointed at Jonas Friend, whose wristbands began to crackle with electricity.

  “No,” said Jonas Friend.

  “Then sit,” said Pilot.

  They moved back down to the dais and sat.

  “Well, here we are,” said Cal Peers. “Happy?”

  “Pilot,” said Shane. “Can we go? Come on, man.”

  “Please,” said Akiko.

  “One second,” said Pilot. “I wanted you to sit in for this part of the agenda.”

  Akiko choked back a scream, and she buried herself into Shane’s arms.

  “Hey hey hey,” said Pilot. “I am sorry I did not tell you about this part of the agenda beforehand. I just did not want to affect our velocity.”

  “Pilot,” said Max. “We’re done now. Everything’s finished. Let’s just go home.”

  “Oh, it is far from finished,” said Pilot. “It will never be finished unless we take care of things right here once and for all. You know that.”

  Max’s mind reeled. Everywhere his mind looked it found dead ends. How long had Pilot been planning this? He had enough foresight to develop and build his macabre wristbands for this moment. You didn’t just find a place like this in the middle of the snowy nowhere in a few short weeks. You search. You make an untraceable purchase with ex-military brokers, maybe, in cash.

  Goddammit, thought Max. Pilot Markham had been gone for three long years; plenty of time to stew with rage over the death of his daughter. Plenty of time to come up with his plan for all this.

  And what was all this?

  Pilot was going to kill the Big Five.

  Is he going to kill us, too? thought Max. That would make no sense, if the bank transfers were to be believed. Or did he have something else planned for them? Were Max and his friends suddenly blood-bound for life with a sociopath?

  Max wanted to take everyone home, scoop up his family, and bring them all to the safety of another planet.

  But there was no going home. Unless Max could somehow convince Pilot to unlock the wristbands. Unless Max could tackle and restrain him before he could kill anyone else.

  And then what? Drag the man, hog-tied, to the helicopter and stare at him for the six-hour flight back to the small airport? Then board the jet and stare at him some more for the even longer flight back to the United States?

  The hours and days stretched before Max now at a vertiginous pitch. When was the last time he ate? Bacon, Pilot had said that morning by the pool so many days before, and Max had eaten the bacon. Max had eaten all the food he’d been given. The thought sickened him now.

  Make it through this. Stay sharp.

  “Okay,” said Max. “Okay. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “You let us go right now, goddammit,” said Hunter Mole.

  “Hunter Mole, thank you for volunteering,” said Pilot.

  Hunter Mole whimpered.

  “We will start with you,” said Pilot.

  3.2

  Each of you remaining CEOs is a king ruling over its subjects,” said Pilot. “Not in any real country, of course, but in your make-believe land of ones and zeros. As kings, you wield absolute control over your subjects. It is proven. Everyone now has some sort of device with which to receive and carry out your bidding.”

  Pilot turned his wristbands over and over again, as if admiring their sheen.

  “But you have a problem on your hands now, correct?” said Pilot. “Your loyal subjects are holding a revolt as we speak. They will leave your castles in ruin. Unless you make a promise.”

  “Promise?” said Hunter Mole. “Promise for what?”

  “To be better,” said Pilot, irked by such a question.

  “You are insane,” said Hunter Mole.

  “Dude,” said Max. “Just give him an answer.”

  “What is your promise to be better?” said Pilot. “Answer that, each of you, and I will let you all go, you have my word.”

  “That question,” said Hunter Mole, “is stupid.”

  “Goddammit,” said Max.

  Pilot raised his arms. “Stupid?”

  Hunter Mole wiped his eyes again and again, but his face would not stop twitching. The silence stretched far enough that it snapped Pilot’s patience. He stood and did a strange thing: he pointed at a camera along the top edge of the arena and closed a fist three times.

  The camera exploded.

  Glass shattered. Frigid wind came howling in.

  “Is it still stupid?” said Pilot.

  Max glanced with new horror around him. He knew there were dozens of cameras all over the facility. He did not know they could explode.

  Hunter Mole’s mouth moved fast as a rodent’s and babbled a string of silent thoughts only he could possibly hear. Finally, audible words came tumbling out.

  “I do not understand what you want. It is just business. We have shareholders, and we grow our user base with, with, with various customer retention tactics and strategic partnerships, and users are able to purchase things for the lowest possible price, but, but, I do not understand what this has to do with anything, or why you killed Linda. What in the name of God did you kill Linda for?”

  “So,” said Pilot. “The lowest possible price.”

  “Why did you kill her, goddammit?”

  “Hunter,” said Max.

  “What would you price Miz Linda’s life at?” said Pilot.

  “Life is priceless, you sick fuck,” said Hunter Mole.

  Pilot clapped his hands. “Exactly. Life is priceless. That must be why you have never factored life as a cost. Squeeze your retailers, drive down prices, survive on investment cash until all the mom-and-pops are dead. This kind of behavior only works if you believe life is worthless, no?”

  Hunter trembled. “I do not understand.”

  “Again: How much is a life worth?” said Pilot. “This time give me a smart answer.”

  Hunter recited from memory. “Budget officials have it at approximately eight million dollars, taking personal productivity and health costs and so on into consideration, but you cannot be saying that we should factor that amount per user in our business model.”
r />   Pilot rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Hunter just does not get it.”

  Pilot made an X with his arms, and Hunter Mole screamed in a shower of sparks.

  “No one touch him,” said Pilot. “Let him go.”

  Hunter Mole fell to the ground, and the last thing his horrified eyes saw was the sight of his own hands laying atop one another.

  “Fuck,” said Max.

  “You motherfucker,” said Shane, and rose.

  “Calm down,” said Pilot. “I know this is new and unexpected for you. It is all part of a larger plan, trust me.”

  The reclusive J. D. Salinger of tech, in exile for over three years.

  “Baby, please,” said Akiko.

  “We’re gonna figure this out,” said Max. “Okay?”

  But it was not okay, and Max knew he would not figure anything out, because there was nothing to figure out. It was impossible and insane, like debating that Mad Hatter back at his table full of empty chairs, and Max felt his stomach twist at the possibility of dying here. They would not all die at once. Shane would have to watch Akiko die, or vice versa, or Max would have to watch either of them die.

  How could my instincts have been so wrong? thought Max.

  How could I have not seen this coming?

  How could anyone?

  Max thought he heard a noise from above—footsteps, moving fast—but did not dare flinch. What if it was Brayden?

  Come on, Brayden.

  “Mister Max?” said Pilot. He kept a wary eye on the CEOs while pointing at the body of Hunter Mole. With disbelief, Max understood what Pilot wanted. He wanted him to cover the body.

  So Max did.

  The mask was hot. He retched again but managed to hold it in.

  I will let you all go, you have my word.

  Max went over his current theory again: Pilot was not going to let any of the CEOs out of here alive. It was crazy. But there seemed to be no real definition of crazy anymore.

  It is all part of a larger plan.

  Max thought about Pilot’s laptop, and the cryptic list of data servers listed within. Data exchanges, not servers. Whatever. It was not good. He must have some kind of massive cyberattack planned once the CEOs were all dead. Something that could take weeks for the world to recover from.