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‘I want to talk about Mark Ocean,’ I say.
Her face freezes rigid. ‘I don’t.’ Her eyes are more vague than I’d like, for us to be having this conversation. But one of us has to be the adult.
‘He emailed me.’
‘What?’
‘He’s offered me an internship.’
She nods. ‘Sounds like something he would do.’
‘He’s seen some weblog posts I’ve written, about AI and stuff. About computers. Said he’s been keeping a casual eye; Dad was one of his best friends—’
‘Don’t—’
‘He’s offered me an internship, Mum.’
’Don’t be ridiculous. What are you going to do, go to live in Reading and—’
‘It’s in California,’ I say. ‘Next year, the whole year.’
‘You’re going to university,’ she says. She slams the glass down on the table. ‘No.’
‘He’ll pay for me to go out there, he says. If the internship turns into a job, and he says that the odds of that are really good, Bow is only growing as a company, and—’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Laura!’ She’s on the verge of tears. I don’t know how much of this is the wine, but I haven’t seen her cry since the months after Dad left. Even then, I’m not sure I’m not just imagining it; tainted memories coming out of sad-looking photographs. ‘Why are you doing this to me? Please, tell me.’
‘I’m not doing anything,’ I say.
There’s nothing I’m not saying to her, now.
‘Your father hated him, you know. He didn’t trust him, said we shouldn’t trust him,’ she says. The flood breaks. Everybody’s crying on me, today.
‘Dad left,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s not the best judge of who we should trust.’ That sets her crying properly. I take the glass out of her hand and move it away from her, in case, and I hold her. Her hands creep up to my arms, holding me, not quite letting me absolutely close; as if she’s ready to push me back as fast as possible, should she discover that she has to.
SATURDAY (#ulink_79d5c9ed-c5f1-547d-ac5a-9e2908042d5e)
The offer from Mark Ocean is pretty persuasive. Bow are developing their own computer language – the email says it’s real next-level stuff like you wouldn’t believe – and there’s a list of the different departments I’d get to work in over the course of the internship. Operating systems, user interfaces, artificial intelligences, data prediction. The things that, he says, will help to drive the future of computing. (And there’s a tacky bit right after that, where he writes, after a semi-colon, and maybe even the world, which could be a slogan torn right out of some marketing brochure.) All I do is go there, try it out. As part of the internship, they’ll pay for me to do my degree out there. That’s four years of study, all paid for. Mark Ocean says he feels like he owes it to my father.
In some weird way, I suppose that this is my inheritance.
I read the email over and over. Not online, because Paul would kill me, but I copy the text and paste it into a different document: sort of because I want to read it more, and sort of because I want to check it’s real, that the words aren’t going to evaporate or degrade or whatever when I do it. You have to make everything as tangible as you can, as real as it can be. But I don’t reply, not yet. I need those words to be right. When Mum wakes up, she makes me breakfast – she never does that any more, and it’s only frozen pain au chocolat, but she bakes one for herself as well, and lets me have a coffee, even though she says that it’s not good for somebody my age to get into the habit of drinking that stuff every morning. She reads the newspaper, and I read Melody Maker, which she got for me from the corner shop, and we don’t say anything, while Paul buzzes around us. It’s nice. She says she’s got to go to the shops, and asks do I want a lift into town, and I say yes, and she lets me have XFM on in the car, doesn’t even complain that they don’t do the traffic. Her car smells a bit of wine, I think, or maybe she does, but I don’t say that, and she doesn’t apologise for it. She asks me if I’m all right making my way home when I’m done, and I say that I am. Am I going out tonight? I’m meant to be seeing Nadine, I say. Don’t know if I’m going or not.
‘You should,’ she says. She doesn’t give me a reason.
I spend the afternoon drifting around clothes shops, around HMV and Our Price. I go to the library, and I get some books about artificial intelligences. More up-to-date ones than Dad’s. I sit and read one of them with a cup of hot chocolate at the café by the fountains. I don’t recognise Organon in it, in what it says that AI will one day do. I’m sort of happy about that.
When I get home, there’s a message on the machine from Mum, telling me that her and Paul are off out tonight. They’re going to the cinema – Paul loves it, Mum hates it, but I can hear her voice now: Give and take, Laura, give and take – and that she hopes I’m out as well. She’s left me twenty pounds in the thing in the kitchen. I take the handset upstairs with me, to call Nadine, tell her – or, hopefully, her crazy mother, if Nadine’s already out – that I’m not going tonight. That Gavin’s going to have to find the prospect of his own company enticing enough. When I’m waiting for her to answer, I picture her seething with me. On her own, and there’ll be other people there, sure, but she wanted me. Even if it’s nothing to do with Gavin, she wanted me. Gavin can fuck off. I don’t like him, and I don’t want him anywhere near me. But that’s not Nadine’s fault. When her machine kicks in, I leave a message telling her that I’ll see her at the Chinese near Finnegan’s first. Maybe we could get some of those sweet and sour chicken balls before we go to the pub. Sit on the steps of the college and eat them out of the bag, dipping them into that pot of red sauce. We’ve done that a lot. It’s always a good night when we do that at some point. And maybe she might even suggest we don’t end up going to the pub. Let Darren and Gavin be there by themselves. What are they even doing with a couple of sixth formers, at their age. she might say. Dirty bastards.
I click my computer on. I read the email again, but still don’t write an answer. I figure they won’t expect one until Monday. I don’t know where I’ll end up, with university. They’re yamming on about UCAS forms now, and I don’t have a clue. I’ve thought about a gap year, and this would be as good a way as any to spend it. Even if I hate working at Bow, they’ll still pay for my education, Ocean says. That’s important. I might not do computers, if I hate working there. I don’t know what I want to do yet. That’s the important thing, understanding exactly what it is that my future looks like. At school, they’re all, You have to pick a path, because you can’t change it after that. I’m not sure about that. I don’t feel like anything’s set in stone, where the future is concerned.
But I’m going to say yes. I’m absolutely going to say yes. Just not yet.
I check the forum, where I asked them to help me trace the IP addresses. One of the users has, finally, come through. They hid their tracks, he writes. (I’m assuming he’s a he.) This was through five proxies before I managed to find out where it was. It’s some server farm in California. San Francisco. Do you know where that is?
I open up Organon’s code, and I look for traces of myself. Signatures. They say that every coder has a signature; that every piece of code is as unique as handwriting.
I wonder how readable mine is, already.
If my handwriting looks anything like my father’s.
Another email pings in, as I’m getting myself ready. I’m not wearing a skirt, I don’t care if Nadine kicks off. But I’m doing make-up, and I feel weird and clumsy with it, like I’m not as good at this part as I should be, so I stop and wipe it off, thinking I’ll try again when I’ve read the email. But it’s not from Mark Ocean. It’s from Shawn. I can feel the heat from it – angry heat – before I even read the contents. Just a fury of words.
Jesus you stupid bitch, leave me alone. Why can’t you get the message? Stop writing to me, I’ve been trying to let you down easy but you won’t get the hint. It’s been a week since I emailed you, and you didn’t get it, so I am telling you to stop now, okay. I don’t know what’s wrong with you.
A week. But I’ve had emails from him the past few days. I open them, to check they’re real. I look at his email address.
It’s different. It’s just the name. They’re not from him at all.
The words in them. I know where I recognise them from. I wrote them into Organon. They’re the questions, the phrases. Rejigged, maybe, slightly. But they’re Organon’s words. I asked Organon for help with Mr Ryan. I told Organon I wanted Shawn to reply to me. Organon is programmed to do what I tell it to; to try to understand me.
To try to make me feel better.
I can see myself in the glare of the screen as I start Organon; as the off-white room appears, and the text box, inviting me to speak to it.
> Hello Laura. What would you like to talk about? it asks.
I don’t know how to even begin to reply.
2007 A VERY MODERN PIRACY (#ulink_79d5c9ed-c5f1-547d-ac5a-9e2908042d5e)
I said to myself, out loud, because vocalization somehow equals permanence: ‘I hate Laura Bow.’
Before she left, we vocalized. Things were said. She asked why I didn’t trust her, and I called her a cunt, which was malicious, because I know how much she aggressively hates that word. That was me lashing out. I said, I have no reason to trust you, and she said, You were the one who, you know. The door swinging after her, slamming back into the wall, the handle cracking a hole into the plasterwork, noise like a distant thunderclap. A period after her leaving, punctuation marking the end of us.
In the wake, I stared at her things; or, I tried to stare at her things, only I couldn’t see any of them. I fucking knew how things happened from this point forward, because everybody’s broken up with somebody before, everybody’s been a we then a you and also separately a me. It’s a scale of how entrenched your lives are. Everything in the apartment was going to be split up into either Mine or Hers, a harsh line drawn in the hardwood floors, but in that moment I couldn’t see anything that didn’t have the taint of Ours about it. I knew what she was like, and I knew she wouldn’t come back for any of it. I knew how it would go. She would tell me that she didn’t want anything. She was good at leaving things, at not wanting the pressure of the responsibility.
I walked to the kitchen. Put ice into a glass, then bourbon. That’s what people did in the movies when they were sad, or when a thing had been ended. They drank. They sat in their chairs, and they drank. After a while, they would get up, and they would pace, and try to call her cell, but she wouldn’t answer. Then they would drink more, and lie down and watch the ceiling, spinning, around and around. They might watch the rose in the middle of the ceiling, from which she insisted the light hung, and they might try to focus on something else entirely. How do you stop the room from spinning? One single moment. They would hear something, think that it was the telephone ringing, or the doorbell, or the alert of an email, but it would always be nothing. So they would hit the wall. A fist, and they’d never hit anybody in their life. Not a single thrown punch until that moment, and they would be pleased that Laura wasn’t there, because if she had been, she would have seen that, and she would have been disappointed. That’s the thing that they would hate the most: the feeling that she would be disappointed.
I got to work early the next day. Territorial, because this was war, now. HR said before: Don’t get into a relationship unless you think you can get yourself out of it at the other end. And we said, Okay, sure. I mean, we’re adults.
I hadn’t slept, partly because it felt as if there was mucus or moss or something behind my eyes. I sat at my desk, and I blogged. Blogged. I wrote. I carved. I didn’t know who read the blog – I kept an eye on my hits, because what’s the fucking point in not? – but that wasn’t the point. Maybe some of them knew me, sure, but a lot of them didn’t. But it was like feeders, you know? People who like to give other people food. Make them fat, keep them reliant. I checked my stats every morning like some compulsive hatefulness that I couldn’t actually shake; an addiction that there was no moving past, because it was so there, so constant. All I knew was that I was writing this shit, and people were reading it. I was feeding them; or, they were feeding me. I don’t know.
At work, at Bow, we were constantly being told about statistics and the importance of clicks. The importance of clicks, like the title of some novel Laura bought because she’d read some piece about it on Wired or Engadget or McSweeney’s, but that she never got around to reading.
Everything went back to Laura. I wondered how many days that would happen for; when I would move past it.
Not it. Her.
I blogged. Spent too long trying to think of the right word, Current Mood: sad or pissed off or agitated or free or something else entirely, because what if Laura read the post? When I was done, catharted as hard as I could stand, I Bowed to find out how long it would take to get over her. How long it takes the average man to stop thinking about them. At the time, Bow’s software did some things well, but searching wasn’t one of them. The algorithms had been bought from some shitty start-up in the early part of the century, and sure there was a team on it, but they were the drags. Interns given jobs with big ideas and no coding skills. The search engine was kept around as a presence, a part of the ecosystem it was important to have fingers in. Same as the emails, the weather site, the video site. So I opened up a private tab, because I didn’t want anything hanging around on my system – there were always rumours about Mark Ocean wanting us only to use Bow software, like dressing in flat beige chinos because you worked at the Gap – and I went to Google. Better. GQ told me that there were seven stages; FHM said there were five; Men’s Health, ten. The one I settled on, on some Gawker site, said that it was twelve. Mourning is all illusions, sleight of hand: because twelve feels more comprehensive, twelve you’ll definitely find something that you associate with, and then you can pinpoint your own pain, and that illusion will help you to move on. Five? Five is nothing. Five could leave you in its dust.
But anger, they all started with anger. I think that would have been obvious. Nobody searching for this stuff wasn’t going to be feeling at least pretty angry.
I called Laura a cunt. Was that angry enough for me to start moving on?
I kept my head down. Blinkers on as I stared at the screen. When they broke up with you, the website said. Like the person who instigated it – the breaker, not breakee – wouldn’t need these things. I broke up with Laura Bow. I said that, I think, out loud. Under my breath, blown out when I exhaled. Laura had a mantra she liked, when she was stressed – she used to say, I have things in my head I don’t want to say, so I say them internally, get them out that way – and maybe that was mine. I did it, so I would have to deal with this. Own it. That’s just the way it is. I read the things that will help you move on: bury it; try to forget; get rid of all reminders of her, all memories; delete her from your life.
I wasn’t ready for any of that; not yet.
Park walked in. Blinkers on, I reminded myself. Don’t look up, act like you’re not going to see anything out of the corner of your eyes. He waved. Lifted his headphones. He wore those enormous things, like he was in a recording studio. He listened to nothing but country. Old country, as well. He was a surfer guy, could have been into metal or indie or trashy European dance music, but no: Merle fucking Haggard. The twang of slide guitar seeping through the oversized studio headphones, a hipster before we even had a word for such a thing.
‘You booted her yet?’ he asked.
How the fuck did he know what I was going to do? And he must have known what I was going to do even before I did, because I didn’t know until gone eight the night before, when we were sitting there, across from each other, and she wasn’t looking at me; she was looking at her files, scanning through them on her laptop, and I realised that I wasn’t even in the room, not for that second. She was somewhere by herself, and it was like I didn’t even need to be there. She didn’t need me, so I—
‘I put some new routines into her last night,’ he said. ‘Didn’t even get out until three or something, and then my alarm went off, and here I am. You know when you’re so excited to see what it’s done?’
SCION. He was talking about SCION, not Laura.
Charlie, you fucking idiot, I told myself, get your head in the game.
‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ I told him. ‘I just got in.’
‘Dude! I sent you an email,’ Park told me. He was disappointed. His face was more emphatic than anybody else’s I’ve ever met. It creased like indelicately folded paper. I had seen the email, right before I finally went to sleep. Pretty sure I deleted it. Park used to send about ten emails a day, all excited about something he’d managed to do, always with italics or full caps or bold or underlined in there, like everything he wrote or thought was meant to be consumed in one immediate rush of slanted words, hurrying to get to the edge of the page. Exclamation marks at the end of every sentence. And that was how you knew to delete it: the more excitement there was, the less it was going to matter. ‘It’s a fucking breakthrough,’ he said, and he came to my desk, cleared a space at the edge, leaped up. He sat right there, perched, and leaned over. I didn’t say anything about my personal space, because I’d been there before. He wouldn’t have listened. He never did. ‘Let me,’ and he took the mouse before I’d even touched it, started the SCION program. ‘Wait, wait.’ We watched it boot. It was the same loading screen as it always had; as it had used since before we even started at Bow. Some hangover from aborted reboots in the nineties. ‘Okay, okay. So, try this: SCION …’ He said the word like he was talking to an idiot, waved his hands like he was talking to a foreigner.
‘What?’
‘I put in speech. I applied the speech recognition module, hooked up the microphones. SCION something is the command.’
‘I do not understand “something”,’ it said.
That was the first time I ever heard SCION’s voice. A Stephen Hawking voice, only worse. More clipped, fragments of sounds arranged to form the words. No fluidity to it.
‘Mother-fucker,’ Park said, and he laughed. His high-pitched idiot little laugh. ‘Listen, listen,’ he said, and, ‘SCION, what is your function?’ He held his finger in the air between my face and the computer screen, as if that was going to keep me quiet; as if I’d been just talking on and on, and he hadn’t been able to get me to shut up.
‘To learn. What is logic. What is function.’
‘You taught it to speak,’ I said.
‘I mean, sure. If you want to reduce actually implementing a state-of-the-art text-to-speech engine that I wrote myself into the world’s smartest artificial intelligence into nothing more than teaching it to speak.’
‘I do,’ I told him. ‘Because that’s exactly what it is.’
‘Try it. Just fucking try it, dude.’
I sighed. I think that I sighed a lot with Park, when I was talking to him. So much that it ceased being a thing that was real, and more a part of the performance of our relationship. ‘SCION, who is Johann Park?’
‘Johann Park is a designer of computers and software applications from Palo Alto, California. His specializations are—’ The computer kept talking, and I stopped listening. The door swished open – Ocean had set them all to be programmed with the noise from Star Trek, that thing that I loved when I was a kid; because my doors had banged or slammed or whatever, and here was this thing from the future, this effortless wave of noise that sounded uniform and constant, and that was what we promised, right? That future, clean and brisk and so fucking efficient – and Laura walked in.
Maybe I’m naïve, but I didn’t think she’d actually come in that day. I had assumed that she would stay at home, crying over what had happened. I hoped that she wouldn’t be in that day, I hoped that she would have stayed at home, crying. The same things, over and over, in my head, in that moment, that microsecond, before she looked over at Park and at me, and she smiled, and she raised her hand in this coy little half-wave, and it was like the two years previous – the night previous – hadn’t happened.
‘Laura B, you have to see this,’ Park said. He didn’t know we’d broken up. Why would he have known? I didn’t like him enough to have bothered telling him.
‘In a bit,’ she replied. In a bit. English phrase. Her English phrase.
‘You’re going to freak, though. This is super cool.’
‘I’m sure,’ she told him. She didn’t look at me. Or maybe she did, but I just don’t remember it, or I didn’t catch it, because I wasn’t looking at her; except for when I was. When I was glancing over at her, eyes to the side, like I could have been looking at something else completely.
I listened to the sound of her computer. I listened to the whirring of the fan in the back of it, the fan she kept clean with that little flask of air she bought from that shop in San Francisco; the little can of air that she puffed in between the blades so that they spun freely. No dust.
‘Good morning, Organon,’ she said, but her AI didn’t answer back. Park sat and watched her until she was settled, and then she got up, and he was about to ask her to have a look at SCION again – we were a small team, made up of even smaller victories, and I could see it on his lips, that eagerness to open his presents, to take his new bike out, to open the envelope – but she was already out into the corridor.
I remember thinking that it was a mistake, to be there. One of us should have stayed at home, that day. On a schedule, that we’d worked out beforehand.
Park asked if he could sit with me at lunch. I was eating early. You ate early, missed the rush, got the best of the food. Bow always put on one heck of a spread, as Laura used to say, but the later you went for it, the sludgier the noodles, the warmer the sushi.
Laura used to say. She wasn’t dead. She just wasn’t there, wasn’t sitting next to me or opposite me. Wasn’t rolling her eyes at me as I wondered when the sushi went from being actual sushi, and when it was some different dish, some warmed-fish bullshit mistake they tried to pass off as intentional on Top Chef.
‘You okay?’ Park’s voice was lower than mine. He would have made a fine singer, I think. I nodded, again. Different sort of nod. ‘Because, hey, there was hella tension in the room earlier.’ He was so affected. The way that he spoke, the hobbies he had – surfing, hacky sack, playing guitar around campfires on beaches – and his stupid fucking beard, tiny plaits with orange and green thread twining them into one serpent’s tail underneath his chin. He had all these things and he was from Twin Forks. Not California, not the shit he presented, the way he acted. Everything was false. He was from Twin Forks, originally. Not Palo Alto. Nobody was born in Palo Alto. Why did SCION say Palo Alto? Click, click. Cogs. He wasn’t born in Palo Alto. That’s not what his Bow employee data would say.
‘Why did SCION say you were from Palo Alto?’ I asked. Park looked clueless. Like SCION was something that we had never discussed before. As if it wasn’t the thing we’d spent the past four years working on, and like it hadn’t existed for the God knows how many years it had been worked on before that. All the code, when we inherited it, a total mess of archaic patchworked programming languages. When we started, we weren’t creators: we were curators, translators, detanglers.
I could see him trying to work out the answer, trying to even understand the question. ‘I guess that’s what it says on my website. That’s—’
‘You took SCION online?’ I stood up from the table, went through the double doors, pushed past people, ran down the corridor, Park chasing behind me, beating his arms as he tried to stop me.
‘Charlie, listen. It’s on the network, but I put in a firewall around it, like a, this reverse firewall. I made a wall. It can’t get out.’ I was always good at reading voices. His said: I don’t have a goddamn fucking clue about what I have done. I did a stupid thing and I’m a total fucking idiot.
‘We have safeguards for a reason,’ I said, and the doors swished open pretty much in time for me to get through them, back into the lab, and there was Laura, on her feet as I stormed into the room – as if she thought that what was going to happen then was the second round of our argument, or second act, or second sitting; or however she was thinking of it, in her own mind – and she asked what was wrong, but I didn’t say a word. I was breathless with rage. I don’t know who at. I wasn’t showing it. I pulled the cord from the back of Park’s computer, from the back of mine. I went to Laura’s.
‘Don’t you dare,’ she said.
‘Park let SCION online.’ The first words I’d said since the last words; and the last words had been vicious. Laura looked at Park as if he was a puppy. He’d done a shit on the floor, and that was the look she gave him: somewhere between pity and sadness.
When I was a kid and the dog shat on the floor, my father rubbed his nose in it. Grabbed him by the collar, pushed his head down to the ground. See what you did? See what you fucking did?
‘It’s fine,’ Park said, but I stared at him. Dared him to continue.
‘I’m not running SCION,’ Laura told me. She barely met my eyes. She was looking just below them. Top of my cheeks. Her eyes weren’t red. I wanted them to be red. ‘Why would I be running SCION?’
‘I’m not saying you are,’ I told her. ‘I’m saying, it might have found a back door. This idiot put it on the network, so maybe it’s—’ I didn’t finish the thought. I interrupted myself. My fingers were on the end of her cable. At the point where it went into her system. Her system was immaculately clean, where mine and Park’s were filthy with dust. My dirty fingerprints, dusty from the cables I’d already pulled. I could see the marks that I’d left, and I could imagine her dusting them off; using that blast of cold, clean air on them, and then they would be gone. Like they were never even there.
‘Charlie,’ she said to me, ‘do you think I’m an idiot?’
I didn’t answer her. Easier to not answer, because that felt like a trapdoor I simply did not want to open. The night before, we both said some things, I told myself. People say things when they’re in the heat of the moment. They say nasty things, cruel things, hateful things. I tried to tell myself that we both said some things, but in reality: I said some things. She was quiet, and I thought, when I said those things, that she looked beaten. Not like it was a competition, or even a war. Beaten. I had never hit her. I never would. She looked like I had.
Years later, I’d think: Does it just feel kind of the same?
