Before We Die Alone

by Ike Hamill

  “Sure,” I say.

  “That’s potential energy,” Crunchy says. “That delta can be mined.”

  “Huh?”

  Bryce and Crunchy exchange a glance.

  Janice begins to stand. “I’ll leave you guys to get him up to speed. Please find me when you’re done. I’ll have your room assignment waiting for you. You can get cleaned up before you start your first shift.”

  “Whoa, wait,” I say. “I’m not coming to work for you. I came here to warn you of the danger of what you’re doing. I know you think you have it figured out, but there must be more precautions you can take. These other creatures are much more advanced than we are. They can travel between worlds. Surely they know something about how everything works.”

  “You didn’t just come here,” Janice says. “You were captured. I’m afraid you have no choice. We can’t make you be brilliant, but we can make you work.”

  I’ve escaped from her before. For now, I’ll keep my mouth shut.

  “This is for you,” she says. She pushes her laptop in my direction before she sweeps out of the room.

  I’m left sitting there with Bryce and Crunchy. Programmers hate face to face conflict. They’re both looking at the table.

  “Okay,” I say. “Tell me more about this crazy scheme.”

  ---- * ----

  Life passes quickly in the underground lair. This place is just like the puzzleBox office. In fact, some of the staff were relocated from there. Life centers around the project. At meals, people talk about movies, TV, and games, but their references are dated. And the conversation always seems to drift back to some development problem. Meals are offered six times a day. I can go to whichever seating I want, but we have a calorie budget. Exercise is compulsory, but it’s not very difficult. I exceed my quota by opting for a walking station. My computer is mounted above a treadmill, and I code while I walk.

  At any given time, half the people are working on software, and half on hardware. People like me, who have experience in both worlds, are allowed to move back and forth. Specifications are developed by small committees. The design is collaborative. I’m seated on three design teams my first day. That role expands as I prove my skill.

  This is a perfect factory. We’re dairy cows, penned into a perfect line and hooked to milking machines for twelve hours a day. We’re allowed to work more if we want, but eating, hygiene, and sleeping are also compulsory. In the beginning, I petition Janice to raise the hygiene standards. I lived in the woods for weeks, but I never smelled anything as ripe as some of these people.

  My goal is simple—if I can’t convince these people that what they’re doing is dangerous, I will disarm their system from the inside.

  It’s not easy. Every line of code is reviewed by my peers before it’s compiled into the product. Every circuit I design is unit tested by two separate teams to be sure that it follows the specifications. I contribute to the project for a week before I hatch a plan.

  My inspiration comes from a conversation that I had with Adam once. At the time, I was convinced that I had just killed a guy. Rather, I was convinced that my device, the Bradfield Bumble Six, had contributed to the death of a patient. If I can reproduce those error conditions in this project, I can bring this machine down at will. I will become a human watchdog timer for the machine. If I don’t execute a set of secret steps, every hour, then the thing will automatically shut down.

  One major problem faces me. I don’t know how close the project is to being finished. We’re all kept in the dark about the overall status. Rumors float around—another week, another month—but nobody knows for sure. All we have is the next item on the list. Somewhere else the grand scheme is being concocted. I’ve lost track of how many weeks I’ve been working. Time is reduced to three components—what I just did, what I’m doing now, and what I’m about to do. If there’s a group of people who live more in the moment, I can’t envision them.

  If I don’t implement my timer before the thing goes live, I’ll never get the chance. However, as soon as I put it in, I’ll be tied to a strict, every-hour schedule. At that point I can kiss goodbye the notion of sleeping through the night. New parents have dealt with worse, I’m sure.

  I’m debating committing the change. The support components are all in place. I had a sketchy moment or two where other developers scrutinized chunks of code that were intended to modify sister modules. Instead of putting my functionality directly in the executable, I had to create my instructions as a side effect of other systems. It’s like working the world’s hardest crossword puzzle in four dimensions. I have to make my code produce the proper answers, and also change other modules to produce improper ones.

  My finger hovers over the mouse button. I’m running the lines in my head one last time to be sure that I’m correct.

  My nose alerts me to a visitor.

  It’s the musky smell of body odor, wet hair, and a hint of urine. I know what I’ll see when I turn. I’ll see the bear looking over my shoulder, scrutinizing my work. I’m certain that if anyone will catch me, it will be him. Of course, I have no evidence that he even knows how to read code. Still, I turn.

  There’s nobody there.

  I glance around at the other stations. Everyone is still hard at work.

  I turn so far that I nearly fall off the treadmill. Blood rushes to my face when I realize that the smell was coming from me. I look down at my statistics. I’m green on coding and exercising, but I’m red on hygiene, sleep, and eating. How long has it been since I’ve done anything but walk and code?

  I freeze my workstation and step off the treadmill. I need to clear my head before I commit this change.

  ---- * ----

  It’s silly, but I do everything out of order. I blame it on fatigue. I shower first, change my clothes, and then head for the cafeteria. They’re not serving a meal, but I cobble together some breakfast food from the vending machines. I stand there, eating prefab pancakes from a styrofoam box between sips of coffee. Now I’m clean, wide awake, and I have sleep next on my list.

  I toss and turn on top of my covers for fifteen minutes before my alarm goes off.

  I’m confused—since I didn’t commit the changes, I shouldn’t have to reset the watchdog timer yet. The display on my wall pops up a notification box that I coded. It’s counting down from five minutes. That’s how long I have to reset everything.

  Fortunately, I’m still dressed. I rush for the lab.

  That’s where I find the bear.

  He looks like a circus bear, waddling on my treadmill as he tries to use his claw to hit a button on the keyboard.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  He turns and stumbles as he tries to keep up with the treadmill.

  “How do you turn this thing off?” he asks, gesturing down with a paw.

  “You can’t,” I say. “Not if you want to use that computer. It’s set to require mandatory motion.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Then get up here and disable your kill switch.”

  Shit. I was so careful. I thought my machinations had gone undetected.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You can’t lie to me,” he says. “Now do your thing.”

  He must realize that I could put in any code. Assuming that I screwed up and accidentally committed the change, the system will destroy itself if I don’t enter my code. However, the system will also destroy itself if I put in the wrong code. I’ve thought about this moment. When I started this plan, I decided that if my sabotage was ever detected, I would simply enter the wrong sequence and let the thing fry.

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  The bear steps off the treadmill and seems relieved to find himself on a nice stable floor again.

  Some of the other programmers in the room have turned to watch the drama.

  I take my place at the keyboard. The treadmill starts rolling at an even pace as the monitor lights up. First, I scan the logs. Sure enough, it says that I s
ubmitted the changes two hours ago, and they were approved and compiled into the core about fifty-seven minutes later.

  Strange that I don’t remember that. Oh well. Time to set it on fire.

  I bring up my secret input box and read the challenge code presented there. I calculate the response and move my fingers to the keyboard to start typing.

  “Wait,” the bear says.

  I foresaw this. He’s going to threaten my life if the system crashes. I figured someone would do that eventually.

  “I can’t wait too long. I’ve only got eighty seconds to respond.”

  “Then consider this for forty,” he says. He points to the wall. There’s a whiteboard there that reads, “This is not a dream.” Next to it, a monitor shows a video feed of a man on his knees. A hooded person in baggy black clothes is holding a long blade to the man’s neck. The implication is clear—this kneeling man is about to be beheaded.

  The kneeling man is my brother.

  My feet stop moving and the treadmill carries me backwards. The workstation senses that I’ve disengaged. The display blanks and the treadmill brakes to a stop. My heels are hanging off the back of the treadmill.

  “Time’s up,” the bear says. “Put in the code.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  * Brother *

  THE LAST TIME I saw my brother, he was bleeding.

  I was an adult, in a legal sense, and he was still a minor. My father was just beginning to show signs of the dementia that would eventually lead to him nearly killing me at a convenience store. We were three strangers living under the same roof and occasionally sharing a meal.

  I found him reading the paper and eating breakfast at the kitchen table.

  “It’s your turn to clean the bathroom,” I said.

  “Fuff hiff,” he said through a mouthful of toast.

  I threw up my hands and went to the refrigerator. There was an empty jug of milk on the shelf. On top of the refrigerator was an empty box of cereal.

  “If you just put the things on the list, I will get them on my way home,” I said. “I mean, what the fuck?”

  “I work too,” he said.

  That was true. We both had summer jobs. I worked at an office and he worked for a drug store. My job mostly consisted of entering numbers into a terminal and fixing the copy machine while he was hefting boxes around. I came home with eyestrain and paper cuts. He came home with ever bulging muscles and growing confidence.

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything? I’m happy to do the shopping, but I’m not a psychic. I don’t know we’re out of something if you leave the empty box on top of the fridge,” I said.

  “You could check.”

  “Why the hell would I check? If something is getting low, just put it on the list. It takes one second.”

  “What you’re describing is a non-problem,” he said. “If you’re going to the store, just buy more of everything. We’ll use it eventually.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “And the bathroom. I cleaned it last week, so you clean it this week. How is that difficult to understand?”

  “It’s not my mess.”

  “Well, it’s not mine,” I said.

  “The problem is Dad,” he said. “He shits all over his bathroom until it’s too disgusting to use. Then he comes and shits all over our bathroom. I can’t be expected to clean up after him."

  “We both live here. We both have to deal with it. There are unpleasant things in life. The least we can do is share the burden since we’re living together.”

  “I’m moving out,” he said. “I have enough money saved for a van. I can live in that in my friend Ernie’s driveway.” His friend Ernie was older than me, and he also worked at the drug store. He had a shitty trailer at the back of the trailer park over by the DMV. The neighborhood was known as Stabville, because of the frequent gunplay.

  “Great. So you’re just going to run away. Meanwhile, I have to go back to college and Dad is here alone.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “I was going to move out at the end of next school year anyway. What’s the difference?”

  “Family is supposed to be there for each other. You’re being an asshole, and someday you’ll want to take it back but it will be too late.”

  “Don’t lecture me,” he said. “You pretend to care about us when it benefits you.”

  “I’m talking about Dad. How long do you think he would last here on his own?”

  “And if he has to go live in one of those assisted places, there goes your college money. I understand what your motivation is. You’re all about family.”

  The nugget of truth in the bottom of his statement was what got me. My motivation might have been ninety-percent altruistic. Deep inside, his comment hit bedrock and I lost control of my anger.

  “You couldn’t be bothered to go to Mom’s funeral, and the way you’re acting, you won’t even be invited to Dad’s. Good job at being a human being. Why don’t you go beat off your friend Ernie in his shitty trailer?”

  Like I said, my brother had been working on his muscles. He was a lean, taut teenage boy. When he stood up, the table skidded away from him, like it was repelled by his fury. His chair went the opposite direction. My anger made my face hot. His anger lit up the room.

  He rushed towards me with his hands raised. I knew he meant to choke me with those sinewy talons.

  The big brother is supposed to have some innate authority. He is supposed to go unchallenged. He’s not supposed to be outperformed intellectually and athletically by his younger brother, who sails through all the high school obstacles with charismatic ease. The one thing the big brother has is primacy in the house.

  For the first time, my younger brother was about to kick my ass. I could see it in his eyes, and I knew there was nothing I could do to stop him.

  I caused this. My brother had no fuse at all when it came to my mother. He had never wished her dead. He couldn’t even look at a photo of her without falling apart. He still sobbed with regret whenever he thought about how he had avoided her funeral. He had still been in denial that day. I sparked this attack.

  There was only one way for me to win.

  As he rushed for me, I grabbed the big knife from the butcher block. I swung it into a defensive position, clipping his forearm on the way. He ignored the slice and grabbed for my throat. As his thumbs pressed into my windpipe, I slid the knife up and put it to his throat. I pressed it into his skin.

  He gripped tighter.

  I let the knife bite. His blood trickled down onto my hand.

  He gripped tighter. I should have taken a deep breath before he started choking me. My vision was already starting to swim. With the last of my strength I pressed harder. I must have sliced through a tendon or muscle because the blade slipped forward with sickening ease. I don’t know if it was disgust at what I had just done, or the loss of blood and oxygen. The world faded away.

  I woke up on the kitchen floor.

  The knife was by my hand. A little trail of blood, dots of deep maroon, led to the door.

  In the bathroom mirror, I found purple bruises already forming like thunderheads on my throat. My eyes were dry and bloodshot.

  I wheezed theatrically as I grabbed armloads of his stuff and threw it out the front door.

  I don’t know if he collected his things, or if they were carted off by opportunistic thieves, but his possessions were gone by the next day.

  ---- * ----

  “Twenty seconds,” the bear says.

  This is the first time I’ve seen my brother since that day in the kitchen. I can’t help but think—somewhere under that blade pressed to his neck he probably still has a scar from when he was a teenager.

  I step back on the treadmill and it starts rolling again. The display takes two seconds to flash back to life. When my fingers hit the keyboard, the timer is counting down from sixteen. I have seven more characters to enter before normal operations will resume. I can’t help but wonder—if the b
ear knew about my self-destruct algorithm, why didn’t he prevent me from submitting the code.

  With one character left to type, I look at my brother.

  Sweat is rolling down his face. Time has been kind to him. He still has that same hairline, with a wave of shiny black hair. His eyes have softened with little lines, but they’re still fierce and strong. His jaw is clenched. He’s defiant to the last. The hooded person presses the blade until it forms a crease in my brother’s skin.

  I type the last character and hit enter.

  The timer stops at two.

  My dialogs disappear from the screen, as if nothing had ever happened.

  “Very good,” the bear says.

  The video monitor showing my brother goes blank.

  “Generation coming online,” one of the developers shouts. His voice cracks with excitement. “We’re at forty percent.”

  “Free power for the world,” the bear says.

  “Fifty-two percent,” the kid shouts.

  They don’t realize it yet. Deep inside their core system, my code is replicating and taking over. Within a minute or two, the system will begin to destroy itself. My software gremlins will over-rev the control motors, disable the safety interlocks, and unbalance the feedback loops. All their work will be destroyed while my software rips through the source code and purges the backup files.

  I’ve typed in the wrong code. My life and my brother’s life combined aren’t worth risking the universe. Instead of tracking down my brother, the bear should have realized that I won’t be held hostage by threats.

  “Sixty-seven percent,” he shouts with glee. Once the system gets to seventy-one percent, it’s self-sustaining. No more input power is required to achieve positive gain.

  “We have a problem on number three,” another voice says. This voice has no glee.

  Number three—that’s the shaft that would be first impacted by my malicious code. They’re never going to make it to seventy-one percent. The shutdown will begin soon.