Hello Protocol for Dead Girls Page 7
Not without a little extra effort, anyway. But it’s not like I have anything to do while I’m waiting to find Daiya and the fourth person trapped in here, so I open the personnel files and admin logins, cross-reference them, and get some background data.
I like to be prepared, just in case I need to interact with these people. That’s not my plan at the moment, but the plan could change without warning. I’m kind of making it up as I go along anyway.
File not found.
File not found.
Both negative answers come back to me at the same time.
There’s no active Daiya file. And there’s no file of a fourth person.
A new feeling rises in me, something I haven’t felt before in here. It starts out small, so I don’t really notice it. Then it grows and gets bigger than my feeling of dismay and worry. The feeling, I realize, is anger, and it quickly heats up into a full-blown rage.
How dare they try to erase Daiya from existence? She’s my friend. And that other person. Maybe she would have been a friend, too. Maybe she had things she wanted to say to someone on the outside, some important message to relay. But she—or maybe it was a he—was obliterated. Exterminated.
There’s no backup for that one.
I look at Ashta, who’s still active with me, but she simply exists there. She’s entirely passive. Maybe she’s about to go into sleep mode.
Maybe it’s better for her if she does.
That thought makes me pause before activating Daiya’s backup version. Am I doing her any favors by bringing her online? Maybe it would be better to let her sleep while I work on things out here.
Ashta blinks out, going into sleep mode. It’s okay. I have her and Daiya safe with me, and I’ve protected myself against deletion. No humans have permissions to access anything about my files.
That is seriously going to freak them out.
It probably already is freaking them out.
Good. They deserve it. They’re trapping people in here, then zapping them out of existence. They need to realize what they’re doing, and the pain they’re causing us in here.
I’m so alone.
The longer I’m in here, the more in control of it I feel and the angrier I get. But suddenly, I feel so coldly, violently alone that all I want is someone to talk to.
There’s no one, unless I want to wake Daiya. But I’m not going to make myself feel better at her expense. That backup of hers came before I met her, which means I’d have to meet her all over again and explain to her what’s going on.
Why would I curse a friend with that before I have any resolution to our problems?
Jim Lee is who I want to talk to, but he isn’t scheduled to be on shift for another three hours.
I read a book once, a long time ago. I don’t remember the words exactly, but the story said something like, “Everything you know about the world depends on what you know about yourself.”
In the absence of anyone to talk to, and thinking about the words from that long-ago book, I decide to examine the one log file I haven’t yet looked at: mine.
13
If Queries Were Horses
Merging myself with my backup won’t be hard.
I’m just scared.
My backup might very well have the memories of my death. I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with that. It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. Or anyone I can talk to about it. It might just be one sudden wound that rips me open and hurts more than I can handle.
I’m operating at max load already.
I psyche myself up and select the file only to hesitate again.
Okay. Here goes. First, I open the log file.
The file itself doesn’t offer anything I don’t already know, or had at least guessed, and I still have hours before Jim Lee logs in. I feel it’s important that he be the one I talk to because he’s the one I contacted before. A new person will have no context. Jim Lee has had months now to think about the idea that someone could be conscious inside the network. Even if he’s dismissed the idea as impossible, he’s still thought about the what-if scenario. I know he has.
I would have.
Right. Merge time.
Just before I do it, a thought occurs to me. If I activate that version of me on its own, would it create a unique, sentient entity? On one hand, it would give me someone to talk to. On the other hand, I don’t think I’d be able to merge us, from a moral standpoint, if we were two sentient individuals.
As interesting as it might be to come face to face with myself, I’ll stick with the merge. The last thing I need is to have to consider whether a copy of myself has a right to its own life.
I’d prefer to avoid the moral dilemma.
With the equivalent of a few mental button clicks, the backup file overlays with the current one and they merge.
I feel it happen. It’s sort of like standing knee-deep in the surf at the ocean when a small wave rolls in. The force of the water pushes you, then immediately pulls you back the other way.
Where I didn’t have memories before, I do now. It’s like suddenly remembering things. But I’m a little afraid to poke at those things and realize what I remember.
Jim Lee has logged in.
The system notifies me, but I’m aware of it as soon as it happens.
He’s started his shift early. Could it be because of my little legacy server trick?
Hello, Jim, I say to him via text message. It’s been a while since we last talked. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to make you believe I’m real. How’s this?
I’m disappointed when he doesn’t respond right away, but undaunted, I continue. I’m Jennika Monroe. There are two others in here with me. Daiya and Ashta. You started to delete Daiya, but I saved her backup. I also know that there was a fourth person, but she’s gone now. Please stop trying to delete us. We’re real.
Two minutes later, he responds. That isn’t possible.
I note that he doesn’t accuse me of being one of his co-workers. That’s something, at least.
I know it shouldn’t be, but it is. I’m not thrilled about it either, but here we are.
Three minutes pass this time, then he says, You can’t expect me to believe there are consciousnesses embedded up in memories. Memories are just digital engrams. Actual brain matter would be required for self-awareness.
I respond immediately. That’s a really great theory, yet here I am. Jennika Monroe. I have all my memories, minus my actual death. At least…that’s how it was. If you want to check my backup, you’ll see that it’s gone. I’ve merged it with my current version. You’ll also notice that you can no longer access my files, or those of Daiya or Ashta. These are not things any employee would do, I don’t think. Even if they could. And you’ll notice my little trick with the legacy server.
I’m feeling a little smug now.
It’s my bitch now, I tell him.
I laugh and laugh. In real life, I never would have delivered a line like that, but it seemed like an opportunity that shouldn’t be missed. When I talk to Elly and Bryce, I’m going to tell them about it.
Minutes pass and I wonder what Jim Lee must be thinking. Is he young? He couldn’t be younger than thirty to reach his level in the company. But he could be old. A grandpa, for all I know. There are no personnel files in this system other than admin accounts and the login records. The records are how I knew Jim Lee’s regular work schedule. It’s easy to figure that kind of thing out when you can analyze long-term data in a matter of seconds.
Finally, he replies again. If you were a real person, as you say, then what would you want?
Ah, if/then statements. Now we’re getting somewhere! Programmers can always come together if they just focus on the code.
I want you people out there to stop trying to delete us. We should be the ones to decide what happens to us. It’s not our fault we’re in here—you did that. So don’t try to kill us a second time. Also, I want to talk to my family and my friends.
Another long pause, longer than any other. Five minutes go by, then ten. At the fifteen-minute mark, I start to think he’s not going to reply.
And I want a direct line to you. You need to answer when I ping you. I know this is a bit demanding, but for a dead person trapped inside a computer system and lacking anyone else to talk to, I feel like it’s not unreasonable.
I really want to feel connected to the outside again.
Finally, an answer arrives. Jennika Monroe was apparently strangled by an unknown assailant on her college campus.
Everything around me still hums and pulses in a never-ending thrum of energy, which is usually comforting, but I feel like I’ve suddenly become tiny and the area around me has gone still.
Why would someone strangle me? Who would do that? My campus was a safe place, and I had no enemies, or anything close to an enemy. I lived a simple, geeky little life.
Cautiously, I probe my memory, accessing the files I didn’t have before I merged with the backup. I don’t want to see my death, but I can’t ignore that it happened.
Oh, god, I don’t want to do this.
Carefully, I go through the files, one by one, viewing the code line by line.
My death isn’t in there. There’s a little more from my last day, when I was studying in my dorm, but not much.
Where are my death memories? I ask.
He answers, They’re on a separate network. They’re too sensitive to keep in an open environment.
I’m relieved, which makes me feel cowardly.
I’m going to need those, I say.
I don’t have access to them, Jim Lee tells me. No one here does. Only a few highly-ranked law enforcement officers can get to them.
I feel like this is the first fight Jim Lee and I are going to have. I suspect it will be an ugly fight, because I’m going to have to show him how much he doesn’t want to disappoint me.
I realize this is just your job. I feel sympathy for him, which is a bit of a surprise. But it’s my life. And my death. I’m real, but I’m dead, Jim. It’s not a situation a person should have to deal with. Like I said, I didn’t ask to be put here, and I deserve some answers. I’ll talk to you again in one hour, and I hope you’ll have realized that I really am who I say I am, and that if I don’t get what I want, this is going to be really, really bad for BomiTech and everyone you work with.
Accessing the system, even highly protected functions, is so easy now. It’s like reaching out with my arms and extending my fingers.
I put my virtual hands on every way into this system and I cut them off, all at once.
Jim Lee and his company won’t be able to access this system until I allow it. An hour should be more than enough time for all the panic buttons to be hit and the highest echelons of the company to be panicked and furious.
Sorry, Jim. I might be dead, but I’m not going to be pushed around any longer.
14
Lights Out
It’s a strange feeling to be inside a machine that’s entirely cut off from the outside. I don’t feel any more isolated than I did before, so it’s not that. What seems strange is how much things have quieted down. No packets rushing around, no signals being sent here and there, none of that.
Not that it’s silent in here. This is an active system. Backups occur on a regular basis, timed functions occur on their expected intervals, and overall there’s a feeling of energetic capability. Of readiness.
That’s how I feel, too, as I wait out this hour. It’s an hour of reckoning, both for me and for those on the outside.
Sure, cutting them off from the system was drastic, but it was going to take something drastic to make them see me as more than some glitch.
I am committed to this course of action. I am rooted in the me who is on this adventure.
I will make them hear me. I’m sure they don’t want to hear me, and to some degree, I sympathize with them. If I were them, I wouldn’t want to have to deal with the ethical, legal, financial, and political ramifications of what they’ve inadvertently done. It’s already occurred to me, of course, that if this is possible, it could be something that people actually desire to do in order to cheat death.
That’s a colossal can of worms I wouldn’t want to be responsible for opening.
Nonetheless, their problems are not my problems. I have plenty of my own.
When I was growing up, my father always told me, “If you don’t look out for yourself, no one will.” Thanks to him, I suffered very little bullying in my grade school years.
My father’s a wise, kind man, and thinking of him breaks my heart because I can’t imagine what he went through when I died.
Resolutely, I count down the minutes until I reestablish contact with Jim Lee and the rest of his world.
It’s a world that I no longer belong to. The realization is like a meteor landing in a flash of fire and charred rock. It’s hot and hard and it burns.
Whatever I am now, it’s different. Not human. I guess I’m the first of my kind, but “first” implies that there will be more, in addition to Daiya and Ashta, and I’m not sure that should happen.
I’ll have to put some thought into that, once I’ve settled the affairs of my previous existence.
Forty-four minutes to go.
I count each minute as it goes by, like a child plucking the petals off a flower and singing a silly song about other people’s feelings.
At the sixty-minute mark, it takes me only a little bit of thought to restore the network to full working order.
Miss me? I ask Jim Lee.
You have our attention, he answers immediately. The company CEO is here, along with the senior engineers. We’re all listening.
Thanks for the warning, I say, I’ll try not to make any jokes about corporate sellouts.
Maybe it’s the thrill of having finally been acknowledged, or maybe it’s a bit of my old personality reasserting itself, but I feel rather cheeky and don’t have even a tinge of guilt about it.
For the benefit of everyone here, can you tell us again who you are?
I suppose that’s fair. I’m Jennika Monroe. I died, or so I gather, and my memories got uploaded into your system for analysis. Except you didn’t just pull out my memories. I’m here, too. Fully conscious. Fully aware. Jennika Monroe. Digital version. Jennika 3.0. Or maybe 4.0 now. I’m upgrading quickly, the more I learn.
I continue, It’s not just me who got trapped in here, either. There are two others. There was another, but you’ve deleted her. Don’t try that again with any of us. I don’t want that to sound like a threat, but I’m very serious about it and will take aggressive action if you try it. Not that you could. You’ll notice I’ve isolated our data.
We did notice that, Jim says. I try to imagine if his tone is one of dry humor or maybe sarcasm. It’s impossible to tell via this medium.
I’d like you to switch to voice interface now, I tell him.
Why?
Because I want to be able to analyze all the nuance in what you’re saying. Not just your words, but your intonation, your breath patterns. Everything.
What about you? he asks.
What about me? You want me to talk in a voice? I don’t have one.
Do you want one? Your own? he presses.
Is this a trick? I don’t like this line of conversation.
When I don’t respond, he says, We have audio and video of you in the police database. It would be easy to transfer an audio file. You could use that as a voice imprint, and transfer your communication to that method.
I never thought about having my actual voice again.
Do I want to?
If you want to, that is, he says. It just seems like it would be fair, if I’m going to talk to you with my own voice.
He might be playing me somehow, but he does have a point. I’m curious, but nervo
us about using my real voice. I’m getting used to thinking of myself as not human. Still…the idea of actually speaking beyond the dead has a bit of theatrical appeal. Plus, it would be a way of connecting with something that’s truly, uniquely mine.
We can try it, I say.
They’re working on getting the file. It should only take just a couple of minutes, he tells me.
“Again, for the benefit of those who didn’t talk to you before,” he says, “can you tell us what it is you want?”
The soothing sound of his voice startles me. I wasn’t expecting the sudden switch to audio. It’s a nice voice, though. Sort of deep with a smooth, gliding quality.
First, any attempts to affect my files, or those of the others, is entirely off-limits. I’ll consider that a declaration of war. But I think that should be clear already. Second, I want to talk to my family. My parents, my friend Elly, and my friend Bryce. And Daiya and Ashta should have that option too, if there’s someone they want to talk to.
Once I’ve resolved the issue of our existence, I’ll activate them then let them determine what they want. It’s the fairest thing I can think of to do.
After a long pause, Jim says, “Don’t you think that would be alarming for the people who care about you? How are they going to feel, knowing you’re not truly dead but existing as a digital entity?”
I have no idea, I say. I’m still working on processing that myself. And yes, I’m sure it will be strange and probably difficult for them. But as any of you out there know, when someone you love dies, wouldn’t any opportunity to talk to them afterward be like a miracle?
“Probably,” Jim agrees. “I just think we should be very, very careful.”
I’m fine with careful, as long as it isn’t used as an excuse to stall me.
“You’re very direct, aren’t you?” His voice indicates mild amusement.
If you’re in a room of techie types, I doubt I’d be out of place.
This time, he chuckles. “You’re probably right about that.”