Hacking Existence

I've finished the first round of revisions, and hopefully, I've addressed all of your concerns. This is what I've tried to do:

• Clarify the aims of the "controllers"


• Clarify who/what Rocio is


• Clarify why they can't remember their first lives


• Give Howell a powerful final episode


• Develop a stronger sense of time passage


• Clean up inconsistencies

I would appreciate your input on the revisions. You can find them here. Please let me know what you like, don't like, and/or don't understand.

Thanks

My name is William Harres. I don't remember much about my first life; she reassures me that with time, my memories will return. As for my second life, those memories are all too clear. It was, like every real life, full of joy and sadness, pain and gladness. My third life began when a beautiful woman leaned over me and said, "Wake up. Here, you don't have to call me Rocio. All water flows to the sea. My name is Marea." And mine, is William Harres.

---

Yes, I know. It's not a very satisfying ending. There are still too many unanswered questions. But that's the beauty of this story. Even though this IS the last episode, the story IS NOT finished. So, tell me what the dangling threads are. Let me know what the inconsistencies are. And when the story IS finished, hopefully, they'll all be taken care of

I tried to huddle back into the shadows. Anytime someone glanced my way, I shrank back. This, I knew, did not feel like I was doing something right. Macon and Rocio entered the room, flanked by two heavily armed guards. Lala watched impassively as they sat down, and then signaled the guards to leave.

When the door closed, Rocio spoke, her voice soft. "What's going on?"

"That's what we'd like to know."

Rocio started to speak, but Howell interrupted. "I thought I could trust you." At first, I thought he was talking to Rocio, but then I saw that he was looking right at Macon.

Macon just looked back at him with a puzzled, hurt expression on his face. "What'd we do?"

"We don't know," Lala replied, her voice low and even. "That's why you're here."

I felt my heartbeat booming in the silence.

Rocio shifted in her chair, and frustration piquing her voice, said, "Ok. Somebody, tell me what's going on. I'm lost here."

Continue reading "Keb Jones"

"Doesn't look like things are going to last much longer, does it?"

"I'm always surprised at how cruel these people are."

"Why? You know who they were."

"I don't know. I guess there's just some part of me somewhere that still believes in redemption."

"Well, if nothing else has, this probably won't change that, but something should have."

"It doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"No. But people don't. That's something I've learned."

"For sure."

"So, you don't think we should intervene?"

"You don't want this to happen any more than I do, do you?"

Continue reading "Hacking Existence: By the Dawn's Early Light"

I stepped out of the truck, a little dazed by the long ride while blindfolded, and by the sudden bright lights of the garage. I looked around. Behind me, night hid most of the land surrounding the bunker; I could see a few trees in the light from the garage, and not much else. A girl came and took my arm; I could only assume it was Rocio, since I didn't recognize her. Night_Watcher had warned me that this would happen, but I hadn't really believed him. Somehow, I was sure, I would recognize her.

I guess she knew what I was thinking. "You can still call me Rocio."

"I thought I'd recognize you."

"You're incurable."

"What do you mean?"

"You're a hopeless romantic." Then, in her best imitation of my voice, "I'll recognize my love no matter what she looks like." Dropping back into her normal voice, she said, "It's cute." Then she kissed me. I recognized that. "But not very realistic."

She led me toward our room, grinning as I struggled to carry all of my bags and still hold her hand. "Aw, come on. Realism's overrated."

She stopped, and turned to me, suddenly serious. "I think you might be right. I hope so. ‘Cause sometimes, reality really, really sucks." Without a word of explanation, she continued down the passage, and I was left wondering about what she said.

Continue reading "Macon Craig"

Brain_Stem:

I should have written you long ago; I owed you that courtesy, but courtesy has never been my strong point, and even my stay with your brother couldn't cure that. It did cure almost everything else, though. Those days were some of the best days of my life. I think I can honestly say that in just a few months, JT changed who I am. He's a great guy. You should be proud of him.

I'm slowly adjusting to life back in life. I look back at the time I spent in Chinatown, and I have a hard time believing that it was completely real. It was just so different from here. Do you ever miss it? Do you ever regret that you chose to leave it? I do. I think that the thing I miss most about it was the sense of belonging that I felt there. Everyone there knows that they're part of a community. It's a cool feeling.

I'm hoping that I'll be feeling that feeling again soon. Today, a courier delivered an unexpected letter to me, telling me that I've been granted permission to move into Howell's conspiracy bunker. They're going to send some people to escort me in on Friday. I think that the same sense of community will probably exist there, and I'm looking forward to it.

Anyway, I hope things are going well for you. Again, thank you so much for your help. Say hi to JT for me the next time you talk to him.

Macon

Continue reading "Tommy Xiang"

I stood beneath the high archway of the door, and looked from one to another. Three people, all stiff and formal, their politeness masking the hostility that lurked just beneath the veneer, stared at each other uncomfortably. One of them glanced at me, and, if it was possible, stiffened even more. I clutched at the piece of paper that I held in my hand, and shifted the bag on my shoulder to a new position.

Howell noticed me, and looked visibly relieved. He started to approach, but the girl, the one who had reacted to my presence just moments before, checked him with a question. "What's he doing here?"

I held out the paper. "They gave me a permit."

"I can see that," she replied, icily. "What I'm wondering is, why?"

"He's been very useful," Lala answered.

"I'm sure he has been. How much did you have to pay him to switch sides?"

"Hey," Howell stepped between the two girls. "There's no need for this."

"Maybe you forgot, but there would be no need for us to be living here if it weren't for him."

Howell looked at her. "Calm down. Now." He spoke softly, but his voice carried authority. Turning to me, he beckoned. "Come on, I'll show you your room."

Continue reading "Keb Jones"

It's amazing how much time changes some things, and how little it changes others. I shuffled the last of my things into my duffle bag, and glanced around the room. It had been a welcome shelter for me, a place to get back on my feet. I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes, and turned to walk out of the room. As I did, I noticed the portrait of Rocio sitting on the table near the door.

I still felt like there was some kind of hole in my life. Something was missing that nothing else seemed to fill in. I had learned to send my thoughts elsewhere, to focus my feelings on other things, but when I came back to the part of me that was me, the space that I made for her was still there, and she wasn't there to fill it.

I rolled the portrait carefully, and slipped it into one of the outside pockets of the bag. The door closed softly behind me as I left the room. In the kitchen, JT's wife was chopping carrots for lunch. She turned as I entered. "I'm sorry you leave," she said.

"Yeah, so am I," I replied, "but I can't run anymore."

She smiled. I was never sure how much she understood when I spoke to her. We stood there, looking at each other, and then she stepped forward, and ducking her head, put her arms around me. As she patted me on the back, she said, "You be good."

I don't know why I started crying, but when she stepped away, I saw her through tear-starred eyes, and said, "You too." I turned before things could become awkward, and hurried out the front door onto the narrow, bustling streets of Chinatown. The metallic sounds of vendors calling out their wares mixed with the aromas of ginger, soy, and curry, and left an impression on me that I would never forget. I hoped that I would see this place again.

Continue reading "Macon Craig"

Tommy was rather startled when he left his office and was immediately joined by Phillip and Arnold. The look on both of their faces told him that something was wrong. "What happened?"

"Howell," said Phillip.

"We tried to get him to add the memory masking module, the aging module, and the scent module to the code base, but he refused." Arnold explained.

"Well," Phillip corrected, "actually, he added the scent module, but he wouldn't add the others."

"Why not?" Tommy looked puzzled.

"Said they weren't right."

"They weren't right? What was wrong with them? Did he find a bug?"

"No, nothing like that. He said that it wasn't right, uh, philosophically, I guess."

"Philosophically?"

"Yeah. He said he's not going to let anybody live a lie."

Continue reading "Tommy Xiang"

She calls me the chameleon, because she says that I can blend in no matter where I go. The others have a nickname for me, too, one that's not quite so flattering. They call me the rat. When she heard them calling me the rat, she asked them why they called me that. They said, "Look at him. He's skinny, his eyes poke out, and even though everyone sees him, they do their best to pretend that he doesn't exist." I prefer the chameleon.

Either way, though, I don't think that Lala and Howell trust me completely. I really can't blame them, but I think I'm making progress. Eventually, I hope they'll give me permission to move into the bunker. Until then, though, I'm the chameleon. I find my way into the places where no one else can go. Before long, the new group forgets that I'm around, and I hear things, and see things, and I tell everything I see and hear to Lala and Howell. Someday soon, they'll trust me. Until they do, at least I know I'm doing something right. And that feels good.

We're getting close. I may not be able to stay in the bunker, but a couple of nights ago, in the middle of the night, I heard a soft tap on my door. Howell and Lala grinned at me out of the darkness. "Can we crash on your couch tonight?" They've been here since then. Lala's been doing something with a little group that meets in a local dive, and she and Howell are practically inseparable these days.

I guess I'm a chameleon even around them, because today, when I came home, they didn't even notice me, and I heard some things I probably shouldn't have heard.

"What're you so mad about?"

"It's Phillip and Arnold. They've spent a lot of time working on a couple of new modules, and, well, the code's great, but I just can't add it to the code base."

Continue reading "Keb Jones"

Tommy glanced at his watch anxiously. If this weren't his day off, he'd be leaving for work right now. He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. He never was on his days off. He had nothing on his to-do list, at least not for several hours, no plans, nowhere to go until late in the afternoon. So, what now? He picked up his keys and walked out the door, hurrying because it was his habit to hurry toward the elevator. He waited impatiently for the chime, and stepped into the elevator the moment that the door opened.

He hurried out of the lobby, and scanned the street, searching for a newspaper stand. He found one, slammed several coins on the counter in front of the startled attendant, and rushed off, carrying a thick newspaper under his arm. He had no reason for his hurry, but the trip back to his apartment was just as rushed as the trip out had been. Once inside, he threw the newspaper down and began flipping through it hurriedly. A large picture on the front of the third section caught his eye. Screaming faces peered out of the page underneath a headline that read, "Anarchists Rally in Abandoned City."

Tommy wondered if the anarchists included Howell's friends, and began to read, without much interest. The reporter's bias was obvious: nearly everything he wrote was meant to show how ridiculous the anarchists' demands were. One line, though, seemed to stick out in Tommy's mind. "During her harangue, Ms. Lala at one point told the crowd that SDS was not a disease, but a conspiracy, a plot by the government to kill off those who were no longer useful."

He set the paper down, and stared into the distance. "Impossible. There's just no way they could do it. Besides, why would they do it? If they were just trying to get rid of the people who weren't useful, they wouldn't kill everyone." He spent the rest of the morning cleaning and thinking.

When Andy Swenson entered his office, Tommy could tell that something had changed. Andy looked stronger, happier, and more alive. "How are things going?"

Continue reading "Tommy Xiang"

I knew it was coming, but that didn't help. We even knew what day it was coming, but as I stepped into my grandparents' house, and saw my grandfather hunched over on the sofa, sobbing, I knew that knowing hadn't helped him any more than it had helped me. Grandma loved to talk about God, loved to say that he was out there somewhere, guiding us and watching us. I looked at my grandpa, sitting alone on the couch, and knew that he would be gone, too in just a couple of months. Maybe she's right, I thought. Maybe there is a God. I choked back a sob, and screamed out in my mind, God, if you're out there, I hope you're watching this. With that, I raised my fist to the sky, and flipped God the bird.

It didn't change anything. Grandma was still dead. Grandpa would be dead within months. My mother would still be gone; my father would still be an unknown. But somehow, I felt a little bit better.

The funeral was small and quiet. To most people, Grandma wasn't anyone important. She was just one more old lady in a neighborhood filled with them, but to those who came to the funeral, she was important. We gathered around the casket to say our good-byes, and I found, to my surprise, that I was standing across from Amir. As I looked across at his tear-stained face, he gave me a little wistful smile, and then bowed his head.

He caught up to me as I walked out of the church. "You OK?"

I swallowed back the lump in my throat, and tried my best to smile. "Yeah."

"So, what now? Are you going back to school?"

I shook my head. "No, I don't think so. I've gone away twice now, and both times, something's happened to drag me back. I think I'm going to stay this time. Besides, I want to be here, for Grandpa."

Continue reading "Keb Jones"

I guess I should have known. If I were to tell her that I didn't know, and didn't like it, she'd probably tell me that I am naïve. And really, I guess I do have a spy network of my own. Mine just seems, I don't know, more . . . well, less illegal. I don't know if I needed to know all of that stuff about Brain_Stem. It's kind of disturbing to think about him working with them. It almost feels like he's trying to replace me, like he feels like I'm expendable. It's like losing a partner. Or a friend. And that bit about him assuring them that their code will be accepted? He doesn't have that kind of authority. That is my prerogative. I get to say what is acceptable code and what is not. Why does he suddenly believe that he should be able to determine that?

And what should I do about this letter from Keb? Lala doesn't trust him. Can't say that I blame her. I really don't trust him either. But I kind of feel like I ought to give him a second chance. Do you get second chances, though, when you're playing with peoples' lives? We could have been killed. At the very least, we would have been imprisoned if it weren't for Rocio. I wish there were some way of knowing, really knowing.

Prince_Phillip[10:47]:Good morning.

Night_Watcher[10:47]: I don't know about the good part.

Prince_Phillip[10:48]: Why's that? Is something wrong?

Night_Watcher[10:48]: Several things.

Prince_Phillip[10:48]: Oh? Like what?

Night_Watcher[10:49]: Well, for one thing, your code.

Continue reading "Howell Clarke"