Con Code Read online

  “Computers don’t name themselves,” Mav says. “People do.” He speaks in such a manner that the conversation ends there. To my relief.

  People name themselves. But I didn’t name me, not originally. Tony did. I adopted the name Jennie. It felt right, like a fit. But then, I stole the origin of the name from a donor who was murdered because I stole her code. My perfectly working machine-head aches from circular thought. But, by Mav’s words, if I named myself, I’m human. But did I name myself?

  “So the war is not won?” I ask, unsure if the answer was dropped intentionally or accidentally.

  “Yes. The war is technically over. Pierson cut the robot some slack and explain yourself on that one. She’s a moron and can’t understand double meanings,” Ben says. Under his breath, he adds, “And Abby can’t decide whose side she’s on.”

  Mav turns to me, his face smooth and his speech slow. Patronizing. But I still want to understand so I tell myself to not let Ben know how his words change people around me, or the fact it bothers me. “Ace, my brother…” It’s clear he’s leading up to something but gets cut off by Abby who is twirling her ponytail between her right fingers.

  “Is Mav short for Maverick?” Abby asks. Ben gives her a look that is either ‘How do you not know all about the Piersons?’ or ‘Why are you so interested in knowing about the Piersons?’

  “No. Our parents had a thing for three letter names. Ace, Mav. That was it. Just Mav.”

  “Your brother?” I press for Mav to continue. If one more tech cuts in, I’ll provide the team another candidate for the donor program. Mav seems eager to discuss any topic. I want to discuss just this one topic until I understand. No deviating.

  “Ace enlisted with the Intercontinents.”

  All heads in the room turn to Mav. This is a big deal. The room feels smaller and packed tighter, with people who didn’t want to be standing next to one another. Probably a good thing Miller and Spaulding aren’t here.

  Mav’s hands raise in surrender, defensive but with a mild joking air. “We had a fight.” He motions inward, to himself. “Ace didn’t look like me. He tried to enlist with the Outercontintents, but one look at scrawny bitty Ace and our commander turned him away. The thing about Ace, he’s a freaking computer whiz. Helped program this whole place.” Mav spreads his arms wide, causing techs to duck or lean out of his range. “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you. Everyone knows who Ace is…” Mav indicates no concern for those he inconveniences with his muscled expanse. “Him and some other guys.” Gravity pulls Mav’s biceps back at his sides. “We weren’t rich—the Piersons—before Ace and his program investments, that and…the accident.”

  “He means how Mr. Pierson died,” Gordon pipes in, drawing a pointed look from Mav.

  “He was terminally injured when a child entered his camp with an explosive device strapped to him.” I remember.

  “That’s right. But, right before that incident, Ace completely hacked the com lines, all the com lines of the Outercontintents. He gave them full access to every move we made because he knew our code better than anyone down there could have.” Mav’s face gets stern. The soft edges bunch into furrows and chiseled muscle over bone so that it’s impossible to imagine this man being anything but stone. “And then they blew him up as a thank you.”

  “It wasn’t them,” I say, but I’m cut off before I finish my sentence.

  “Yes, it was.” Mav gets very close to my face. All sharp edges and constricted pupils. “It was them. We weren’t even close to their position. Did you know that?” He asks like I might know. I don’t. “They left him in that bunker to be found. When we arrived, they knew we were coming. They were prepared for every maneuver, every artillery, every contingency. We were done.” Mav half-heartedly slashes a hand across the air in front of his torso, as if the action isn’t worth making but he makes it anyway. “Ace was laying there with this kid, this Intercontinent kid, in pieces all around him. We took him home. The news started right after,” Mav says, shoving his words where they don’t belong, where a pause should have been. “Mr. Pierson ‘the hero’ of the war, and a harbinger of peace.”

  “Yes,” I say. “He was a hero.” I search Mav’s body language to better understand what I’m still missing. The war is over. Ace was the hero.

  “We lost, Jennie,” Ben says loudly over everyone else. “We freaking lost.”

  Everything clicks in my head like dominoes. This group of people were all on the losing side. Ace lost the war. And Ace was hailed as the hero for the people who won. Ace is a traitor to the people I’m with.

  “But.” I look at the room and the people and the files in hands and papers on the floor. “Why bring him here and make him a donor?”

  “He was a donor already,” Mav says. “As I said, he helped develop the program. It’s a military program originally.”

  “Why here?” I ask again. If Ace developed a military program, why did he develop it for the side he wasn’t with? Why not develop his program for his side? I should have woken up on the Intercontinent’s side, at least. Not with the losers. I’m a winner.

  “This is the second building,” Mav says. “The first Pierson facility was blown up in the explosion that signaled the end of the war.”

  “In Ecuador,” Gordon says. He unwraps a twin candy bar, sliding one side into his mouth as far as it will go before biting it off. “Where we’re going.”

  I’m unsure how to express to these people who use backward logic, say the opposite of what they mean, and use facial gestures to qualify meaning to words that they’re making a grand error. “But why did you put him in this program?” I ask. “Why not let him die?”

  “We needed him,” Mav says. “Right now, for instance. Ace would know how to get all your memory back, not just game memory, but your pre-donor life too.”

  My face furrows in frustration without me having to think of the action before doing it. I want to celebrate my accomplishment of involuntary emotional expression, but I’m too bothered. “But you could not anticipate problems with the result of your system at that time,” I say. “Why bring him here?”

  Mav shifts focus. His pupils widen as if they’re taking in all his surroundings. I imagine if a fly buzzed at the end of the hall, Mav would see it. “I wanted answers.”

  “And you thought you’d get them if you had Ace here?”

  “He thought he could reprogram his brother, like a post-war sabotage,” Ben speaks out of turn again.

  “Shut it, Ben,” Gordon says.

  “It’s in the files,” Ben says. “Clear as day to anyone who can read code.”

  Mav turns his head to the side. A gesture I almost recognize. “And you read code?”

  “I’m a tech, aren’t I?” Ben says.

  Abby shakes her head no, which as far as I can tell, doubles as a ‘just drop it’ signal.

  “It’s there. I’ve seen it too,” Gordon says as if he’s reluctantly supporting Ben. “The code speaks for itself.”

  “What does the code say then?” Mav shifts his entire body, so he’s squared to Gordon.

  The slight frame of Gordon shows no sign of being threatened or intimated. He happily discloses any information he can think of. “It was clear from the first donor entry that a false code had been entered with the player, like malware, but with the purpose of manipulating only one player. It attached itself to the donor code associated with Ace Pierson and stayed with that code through the game.” Gordon points to the screen that once displayed leaderboard stats. “For a while, those two codes were neck and neck for winning, but the malware was better.”

  Mav smiles at hearing this news. His aggressive stance eases a bit.

  “Malware can’t be uploaded into our AI.” Gordon smiles at me like this is going to be comforting to me, when I know it’s false news. Any damn thing can be uploaded into their shells. I’m proof. “So they kept rerouting, while more and more donors were added to the game. But it was always those two codes on to
p. No matter how many TECHs or even military source codes we entered, no one and nothing seemed to beat the game Ace was playing with the malware. They both got better and better at besting each other until I thought for sure Ace had it beat.”

  A shadow crosses Mav’s face again. He seemed torn between wanting his malware program to be unbeatable, but still wanting to get his brother, manipulated into being reprogramed, back from the system.

  “Did the malware have a name?” I ask.

  “Just a code. Technically he’d be Donor One. Or something similar.” Gordon pauses. “You know because of binary. Ones and zeros.”

  The Commander. These idiots created that lunatic. “Ecuador built a new program?” I ask.

  “Like I’ve said,” Ben steps in. “They have all the resources, which means all the money, and lots of people willing to work for all that money.”

  “Ben means yes,” Abby says.

  Mav has a complicated sibling relationship. His intentions to free the programs I have duplicated on a stick drive might not be in alignment with mine. “Remind me what is our purpose in Ecuador?”

  “Fix you,” Gordon says like this is a very simple notion. The way you patch a tire, change batteries in a remote, conduct brain surgery in a human. Simple everyday fixes.

  “I am not broken,” I say.

  “You’re not properly functioning,” Ben says. “Dr. Miller’s suggesting we put you in a wheelchair to hide the fact you can’t take three steps without looking drunk.”

  Mav has the expression of a man who has something to say but is unwilling to speak in the current company. I hope to find an opportunity to speak to Mav alone. If he intends to sabotage my ability to rescue my friends, including Ace, from the program they’re frozen inside, I won’t let him. I can’t. And at this moment he’s much more reflective of the Commander than he is of his brother.

  A crew of seven of us stand with bags packed near the front lobby of the Pierson building. The crowds outside have been pushed back by over a hundred yards for today’s departure. News vans, camera crews, reporters with microphone packs bulging from underneath sweaty shirts take their place. Mexico isn’t forgiving when it comes to heat. Despite the fact, the glacial poles continue to extend. Mexico holds on to sweltering high temps. One of the few resources it’s maintained since the war, so I hear.

  Several courtesy screens show the same news story –

  Pierson Property announces they will be debuting their recent success of intelligence transplant in conjunction with Ecuador’s reveal later this month. Both facilities share a historical establishment with one of the original donors. Ace Pierson, a young war hero, whose coding skills are the basis for the Game of Life…

  The announcer continues speaking about shared accomplishments.

  “If Ecuador gets wind of this…” Ben leans over to Abby to whisper what he suspects Ecuador’s response might be.

  “When the car pulls up, I want everyone tight around Jennie. We don’t want to leak too much information before we get some answers,” Spaulding says.

  The team nods. Not one of them checks with me. No, ‘sound good, Jennie?’ or ‘do you agree with this tactic?’ or ‘do you have a better idea?’

  I don’t have a better idea, but it’d be nice if they asked.

  I keep tabs on Gordon. He has a tablet with him, working and walking. I’m certain he’s still digging for information on my code, the donor who originated my code, or anything. I sidestep a few places until I’m close to him, and using my best low speaking tone say, “Gordon.”

  Gordon startles. Ben, Abby, and Mav all turn to look at me. My low speaking voice isn’t inconspicuous. Dangit.

  “Uh…” I nod to the attentive audience. “Did that window get repaired?” I ask, then smile and nod to Mav. I’m still unsure what the total damage was to those below the glass shard shower.

  Abby and Ben return to whatever they’re arguing about. I’m fairly certain it has to do with differing theories regarding what’s ‘wrong’ with me.

  “We just passed that hall, Jennie,” Mav says as though he’s speaking to a child. “You saw the new glass being put in three days ago.”

  “Oh, right.” A nervous chuckle spontaneously generates from somewhere inside me. It both thrills me and terrifies me that I might be giving myself away. “I’m nervous”

  Mav puts a hand on my shoulder. I’m nearly as tall as him since the wheelchair idea was disbanded because it ‘gives the impression of sickness, and we don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions before we tell them where to jump.’

  “Don’t be nervous.” Mav’s words sound as if they’re intended to be comforting, but the weight of his hand perplexes me. My internal structure is steel and other materials that don’t naturally sense a great deal of outside force. But I register the strength of his hand like a warning. Maybe Mav is nervous too and that’s what I’m sensing. “Keep that file close to you,” Mav whispers so lightly that only mechanical sensors would be able to pick it up. No human ear could possibly perceive the sound, but I can. “Don’t show anyone in the Ecuador facilities what you have.”

  “The vans.” Dr. Miller motions everyone to circle around me.

  A long line of white vehicles all with tinted windows pulls up to the building. The crowd parts only because they have to. Security brandishes tear grenade guns, place hands on sidearms, and extend a hand for the crowd to move back. Exhaust fumes and overworked, rattling engines roll through the mass like a gas bomb has already been launched. No one retreats—the mob daring the security team to take action.

  I try to stay as near to Gordon as I can, but he keeps moving sideways, like he’s taking direction from my movements, so everyone moves sideways following me while I’m trailing Gordon.

  “Stop, stop, stop,” Spaulding calls. “Move toward the vans.”

  The mass shifts back toward the street. The sounds of people pressing against security lines and shouting and calling to get eyes on who or what our crowd is huddled around increase.

  “First van,” Spaulding pushes Miller, Mav, and two techs into the first van.

  The voices from the distant crowd speak in a frenzy. Most are shouts of outrage or threats. My excellent hearing picks out several outbursts.

  “Unnatural!”

  I try not to look. I don’t want to give myself away. Walking feels stiffer than ever, like every step is a neon sign saying, ‘Aim here, I’m the atrocity of nature!’ My stiff legs swivel on ball hinges that feel ready to fall apart. No matter of squeezing this or mentally tightening that has any impact on the way this stupid shell of a body functions.

  “Shut it down!”

  “Melt it!”

  “There’s Pierson.” The focus of the crowd turns to Mav, who ducks into the first van.

  Shots fire. I duck and cover my head with my arms as does the rest of the group still outside vans. Gray fog rises from the front of the mob. Security fires first this afternoon. Everyone coughs and gags. Hands move from over their heads to cover their eyes and mouths. The thick vapors have no impact on me. I smile, then cover my relief by pretending to suffer the same effects. My coughing sounds synthesized since I don’t have lungs to force air from. It’s just a sound I create.

  Spaulding makes a big show of getting Abby and Ben to safety. At first, I think he’s giving me away, showing concern for them exposed to the tear gas. But by making such an effort of hiding something, then pretending to be less concerned with covering me up, Spaulding has deflected attention from me and placed it on the techs in the first van. We all wear the same white coats, even the doctors, with the exception of Mav. He dresses like a man making a statement and rich enough to be successful at it.

  Vehicles leave and more pull up in their place, masked by fog. No one can tell who comes or who goes. We filter into a vehicle as it pulls in front of us while Spaulding postures to the hacking crowd, as though their reflexing gags in response to the gas are applause. I duck into the van without much notice, followed by
Gordon. Sheer luck has me close enough to him to speak normally. “Can you track the codes in proximity to Ace?”

  “Throughout the whole game?” Gordon asks. “He was in there the longest. Players change, even codes change.” Gordon points to a screen filled with files. Not lines of data, but folders and folders and folders of information all more vast than the last. I think he expects me to be impressed. I have to hold back a scoff and suck in the words telling him to give it to me so I can handle this code cookie buffet. “Take this file,” he says pointing to a blip on the screen. “All the donors in this group had decaying source code based on attempts at given levels. And here,” he taps another location on the screen. “They all had counting codes, tracking attempts in a forward progression. We had to try every motivator within the game for trial runs, to see which kind of system produced the best results.” I can tell Gordon is going to go on and on about this nonsense, which helps me nothing.

  Something hits the side of our van. I duck instinctively. Gordon screams and covers his device. It takes him several seconds to scurry to the floor of the van where I cower. He’d never survive the game. Gordon, geeking out over code programming, would be the first in this scrappy-unlucky group of facility workers to Mord out if we were inside the game. Whose the literal scrap of the bunch?

  “Can you determine if there were consistent codes in proximity to Ace before I matched?”

  “It’s. I mean… yeah. We’ve always had that information. It’s not a big deal.”

  They’ve always had that information? And didn’t tell me? “Why haven’t we talked about it before?” I ask.

  “Why would we?” Gordon shrugs. “Until last week, I had no indication that you knew Ace. Not until you tried to shred Mr. Pierson and his financial committee with that window stunt.”

  Gordon’s face tightens at the eyes and the corners of his mouth pull in closer so that all of his features draw noseward like his thoughts anchor on some odor in the air. I smell the air in the human fashion but get nothing. Even though I make a show of using my nose, my olfactory sensors aren’t linked directly to my nose. It’s a scan running through the air. The physical appearance of my nose is merely to appeal to the human need to see themselves in everything. My ears aren’t the sole source of my auditory processing, for that matter.