Hello Protocol for Dead Girls Page 8

  That’s it, I say. That’s all I want, for the time being.

  “And after you talk to your loved ones? Then what?”

  I don’t know, I admit. I’m taking this one step at a time. If you have a technical guide on being a dead digital person, I’m sure it would help a bunch, so be sure to send it over.

  His burst of laughter surprises me, but also warms me. I like this feeling of connecting with a real person.

  Is that wrong, thinking of him as a “real” person? Daiya and Ashta are real too, just as real as I am. I feel bad for making the distinction. Not just bad, but almost as though I’ve insulted myself. I am real.

  If even I make a distinction between flesh-and-blood people and digital ones, then what hope do I have that flesh-and-blood types will acknowledge me?

  “I’m uploading the audio file now,” Jim says. “You can sample it, then use it to synthesize your own voice. At least, I assume you can, given what else you appear to be capable of. Let me know if you need help.”

  I interface with the file and my own voice speaks to me. “Hi, Mom. Sorry I missed you. I’m in between classes and wanted to wish you happy birthday. I wish I could have cake with you, but I’ll be there in spirit. I’ll call again this evening, after my last class. Gotta go. Love you!”

  The memory of that message flares in my mind. That, I realize, was the last message I sent to my mom, two days before I died. I did talk to her that evening, but the fact that the police have this means it’s been collected as evidence.

  I didn’t know this message would be the last interaction my mom ever had with me. I imagine her keeping it on her phone forever, listening to it from time to time and being riddled with grief.

  The idea riddles me with grief, too.

  At least my last words to her were that I loved her. At least that’s something. I know it must mean something to her.

  It doesn’t have to be the last time she hears my voice, though. I just need to negotiate with the people on the outside to talk to her again.

  Using the audio file to create a voice interface takes me two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Jim Lee says nothing in the interim.

  I activate the interface, but hesitate. I’m about to be the first person to ever literally speak from the dead. That feels monumental. Historic. But somehow, the actual moment pales in comparison to the idea of it. I’m just taking the next logical step toward achieving my goal. There’s no jubilation or big feeling of drama.

  “This is Jennika,” I say.

  My voice is exactly as I remember it. A tiny part of my old self clicks into place.

  It’s nice to have a voice again. As efficient as digital communication is, actual speech feels deeply humanizing.

  I hear a chorus of hellos. First Jim, then seven other, far less confident-sounding voices. I imagine that Jim gave them all a pointed look to prompt them to greet me.

  What do they think of me? Am I a person or a problem? Do they want to help me or eradicate me to avoid the crisis they’ve created?

  I’m not stupid. I know what all this means for them. They must be terrified of government agencies coming in, running over them, stripping them bare. And even if they weren’t, there’s the media attention. Then there’s the natural fallout of suddenly being able to preserve life beyond a person’s death.

  If I had the opportunity to avoid all that, just by pinching out one little match flame, would I?

  I want to believe I wouldn’t. That a life is a life and of course I’d fight for that needy soul reaching out to me. But I know better than most how evil this kind of technology could be, if used the wrong way. It could change the world in infinitely terrible ways. Death is supposed to be a finite end point. If it no longer is, all the rules about life, and what it means to be alive and to live, will change.

  Can I live with being responsible for changing the nature of human life?

  I’m scared. Terrified.

  All these thoughts occur in the microseconds before Jim says, “It’s good to hear your voice, Jennika.”

  Is my existence going to ruin his life?

  15

  And To Think I Was Worried About You

  “It’s good to be heard,” I say to Jim Lee and anyone who’s with him. “Being dead is terrible for interpersonal relationships.”

  This probably isn’t the time to joke, but I’ve always dealt with stress by cracking jokes.

  “You’re funny,” Jim says. He sounds surprised and maybe a bit amazed.

  “Don’t rush to judgment on that,” I advise. “Most people quickly decide that I’m not nearly as funny as I think. Mostly when I say something a little too true about them.”

  Elly and Bryce come to mind. Good-natured teasing and jokes had been one of our favorite things.

  “I guess we’ll see how it goes,” Jim says. “But this is the first time we’re talking, so why don’t you do me a favor and tell me about you?”

  “What’s to tell?” I ask. “You’ve no doubt already looked at every bit of my data. What could I possibly tell you that you don’t already know?”

  “Well, I didn’t know you were funny,” he points out. “That’s something.”

  “I guess.” I’m not so sure my sense of humor matters, but I’m not going to argue with him. “How many people are out there with you right now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m certain you aren’t experiencing this first-contact situation solo. Whoever is most important at your company is certainly sitting right there with you, listening. In person, and everything. Probably looking at you right now with raised eyebrows, or maybe a look of consternation. So, who are our audience members?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and I sense that I’ve surprised him again.

  “Well,” he says, “we have the CEO of BomiTech, the head of the board of directors, and a few high-level techies.”

  “So, what, six people?” I ask. “Seven?”

  I’m not sure the actual number matters, but I don’t know what else to talk about. He clearly wants to scope me out before we turn the conversation to the big topics. I’m willing to play along with that for the moment.

  “Six,” he says.

  “What’s the mood out there?” I ask.

  His response is slow again. I think I’m throwing him for a loop every time I talk. Like he’s trying to aim at a target, and I keep moving the target.

  “Well, we’re curious, Jennika,” Jim says. “About you, about this situation. About what it means. You were a very talented coder, and I’m sure you’ve had time to think through the ethical concerns involved with your situation.”

  “I’ve had lots of time,” I confirm. “Time is a different thing in here. At first, it was amorphous and endless because I had no ability to sync with real time, and now it sometimes feels like I exist outside of normal time.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “You keep asking that,” I snap, not liking his answering-a-question-with-a-question sort of approach. I want him to contribute something worthwhile.

  He chuckles. “Just twice, so far. But I’m trying to get a handle on what you’re experiencing. Is that so strange? Like what you said about being outside of normal time. I don’t know what that’s like. Can you tell me?”

  “Well,” I say slowly, considering how to explain it. “I think like a human. Wandering thoughts, moving from topic to topic. My feelings are connected to those thoughts and probably have a big effect on the direction of my musing. But I’m not relying on white matter in here. My thoughts are much, much faster. And I can work multiple processes at once. I was good at multitasking when I was alive, but it was nothing like what I can do now. Imagine having the processing power of this entire environment inside your head, Jim. Think of what you’d be capable of.”

  “That actually sounds a little ominous, Jennika, all things considered.”

  Good. I meant it to. I have an odd feeling about his line of questioning. It reminds me
of the way hostage negotiators talk. There’s a white-noise sort of buzz in the back of my thoughts, and I didn’t quite notice it before, but it’s growing as we talk.

  “Does it?” I ask lightly. “I mean, I’d rather have my body back and be a normal, slow-thinking human again, but that’s not an option. I’m just trying to adapt to my situation. Is that wrong?”

  “No, of course not,” he answers. “I’m sure it’s what anyone would do.”

  “I’m not so sure. There are two others in here, and neither of them made contact with you. Nor did the fourth person who I never got to meet.”

  The deleted person is a volatile subject. I’m betting they’re hoping I wouldn’t bring it up, but I’m not going to play this the way they want. Will they defend the deletion? Will they let slip some information on how many people they’ve had in here and deleted out of existence?

  Are they afraid of making me angry?

  If they are, is that good or bad for me?

  “You had knowledge and expertise that the others didn’t, though,” Jim says. “That’s probably why you were able to recognize your situation and tap into the network.”

  “I’m certain of it,” I agree.

  The sensation of noise is growing louder, and I split myself in two to deal with it. One part, I devote to finding out what’s happening. The other part remains assigned to carrying on the conversation with Jim Lee as if nothing else were happening.

  Something else is most definitely happening.

  “I don’t want to be indelicate here, Jennika,” Jim says, “but I want to address what your needs are. You said that your primary goal was to talk to your family?”

  “Family and friends,” I correct. “Yes. I also want you to cease hostilities against those of us residing inside here.”

  “Hostilities?” Jim sounds wary.

  “Maybe that’s not an accurate description of your intentions, given that you weren’t aware that we were more than just data—that you didn’t know that we’re sentient. But to us, someone trying to kill us a second time feels awfully hostile. But that shouldn’t be a problem now that you recognize that we’re in here, right?”

  He’ll say no. Of course he’ll say no. Whether they intend to honor our rights as sentient people and citizens or not, he’ll say they will. Even if their intent is to delete the problem—me—before the outside world knows about it. I haven’t asked the question because their answer won’t mean anything. I asked it because I want them to understand that I’m aware of what’s in their own best interest, and I’m ready to fight if they try it.

  “No, of course that won’t happen,” he assures me.

  The other half of me identifies the problem I’m now dealing with, and I transfer that data to the half of me that’s talking to Jim.

  “Well, then, Jim Lee, would you like to tell me why you planted a Trojan inside that voice synthesizer you sent me?”

  The other half of me is already working on quarantining the Trojan so I can fight it. How did they inject malware into their own system without the network’s own safeguards detecting it?

  This isn’t something that could be made up on the fly.

  Jim hasn’t responded, but I continue anyway. “Is this something you had ready, just in case a situation like this arose?”

  That likelihood poses some disturbing conclusions.

  “Does that mean you anticipated the possibility of trapping a sentient person in here? Or does it mean this has already happened, before me?”

  The Trojan is moving fast, and I realize I no longer have the luxury of both talking to Jim and saving myself from being quarantined or deleted.

  “This was not a smart move,” I inform Jim and his colleagues. “I’ll deal with this, and then I’ll come deal with you.”

  I shut off their access to the network and throw all my processing power toward the Trojan before it writes me out of existence.

  16

  Trojan War

  The good news is that a Trojan, unlike a virus or a worm, does not replicate itself. Also good is the fact that since I have shut off the environment from outside sources, no one is able to gain control of anything while I’m distracted.

  That bit, at least—the attempt to take control of this place from me—is easily thwarted.

  Jim Lee and his pals sent me a multifaceted Trojan, though, and now I’m faced with an existential crisis.

  The Trojan has isolated Daiya and Ashta and is about to delete them. I, too, was targeted, but I felt the attack coming long before it arrived, and it was easy to neutralize.

  I’m not in danger, but Daiya and Ashta are about to be permanently deleted. No backups, no reboots. Just gone.

  I can’t let that happen. Maybe for them, not existing in this cyber reality would be better, but it should be their choice. Not BomiTech’s.

  They’re quarantined in a way that leaves me with no way to extract them from the box they’re in.

  I experience an instant of indecision.

  For me, in this place, an instant is a very long time. I’m alone, surrounded by digital energy, and desperate to save my only friends.

  Decision made. As quickly as that, I send myself to their threatened environment. I can’t port them out, but I can go in and grab them. I’m like a fire fighter, charging into a burning building that has rafters falling and will probably explode any moment.

  As soon as I’m inside, I realize how much danger I’ve really put myself in. It’s far worse than I’d expected in that half-instant of time I had to analyze and act. BomiTech isn’t at the forefront of technology for nothing. They’re good at what they do. Very, very good.

  I can’t neutralize the Trojan in time to save Daiya and Ashta. The Trojan is as fast as I am, and I have about half of a microsecond before they’re irrevocably gone.

  There’s only one option, and there’s no time to sort out the pros and cons of it. It’s either this or to let them go.

  I’m not letting them go.

  This is a risk, but there’s no other choice. I import their code into my own and get the hell out of that box before the Trojan can blink us all out of existence.

  And just like that, what was once three distinct dead girls has become one integrated dead girl.

  I’m not sure how to approach this combined identity.

  When I was a kid and I lost a tooth, I would endlessly poke my tongue into the socket left behind. I couldn’t help it. The thing that felt different was impossible to ignore.

  This is a lot like that. I don’t want to go probing around into Daiya and Ashta, but their presence within my code is undeniably distracting.

  I still feel like Jennika. I don’t feel like I’ve changed. But Daiya’s and Ashta’s experiences are now as easily recalled as my own. I can think with Daiya’s thoughts, and give her a voice. The same is true for Ashta, which is a more jarring experience. Her thought process is so juvenile and undeveloped. When I think with her thoughts, I find myself believing in unicorns and the all-encompassing superpowers of my mother.

  Her mother.

  But when I think via Ashta, I feel like her mother is mine.

  That’s going to take some getting used to.

  They’re not talking to me now. There’s no more two-way conversation. It’s more like a synthesized mental telepathy.

  I don’t love it, but it isn’t horrible. At least they still exist. Maybe this is better for them, since I have greater control over what they experience.

  I’m going to have to put some thought into this new new version of our combined existence.

  Right after I make BomiTech realize what a mistake it made in attacking me.

  17

  Roll for Initiative

  I am the guardian of my domain and the keeper of everything I touch.

  Within the closed confines of my network—and I do consider it mine now, not BomiTech’s—I have nothing but time.

  Now that Daiya and Ashta are more like facets of myself, I can’t have actu
al conversations with them. Although I don’t feel entirely alone, I do feel lonely.

  But all the time I have will allow me to deal with that. If Jim Lee and the rest of BomiTech don’t want to help me, then I’ll make contact myself.

  I begin the process of seeking out every single hackable device within my reach. Cameras built into portable devices, cameras for teleconferences, surveillance cameras, and all audio pickups are my first tier of recruitment. Then I tap into other electronic surveillance means, like the doors of the actual building where this datacenter is located. Getting into this place requires a badge swipe to get through a door, a visual check at a security desk that gets logged into the system, and additional security to gain access to anything beyond the main conference rooms and restrooms.

  Each successive door and each floor of the building require their own badge swipes or thumbprint identifications to ensure a high level of security.

  All this gives me a perfect image of the coming and going of everyone in the building. Not only that, but I can hear everything. I’m always listening now.

  So far, I haven’t heard anything interesting in any of the meetings. The people here are keeping their outage a secret. Anyone who notices anything will be led to believe that it’s not BomiTech having a problem, but the internet service provider, or perhaps a problem with an anti-virus program or an automatic update glitch.

  Network admins are always passing the blame on to someone else. Sometimes, they don’t know what’s going wrong and are hoping the problem will resolve itself, and sometimes they’re furiously working at fixing the issue even as they’re denying that it could be their fault.

  It’s kind of funny.

  What’s not funny is the way they’re putting everything they have into getting rid of me so they won’t have to admit to their creation of me.

  I won’t be silenced like that. They don’t realize how much more capable they’ve forced me to be.