Simulated a calculated n.., p.4
Simulated: A Calculated Novel, page 4
Harrison fidgets when she joins us. He has it bad for her. She debates all his theories and messes with all his algorithms, but it’s obvious she likes him too.
“Coral Hacker,” I say. “We’re setting a trap for him in my sims.”
“Seriously? He’s a criminal,” she says, looking straight at me. “With today’s meeting, it’s not a good idea. What if he gets into our system?” Harrison nods at her voice of reason.
“He won’t,” Pens says, “Harrison and I will guard the walls like Godzilla. We’ll give him one hour to find his way in. When he does, we’ll trace the origin of his DNS back to his IP address. Then we find his identity and expose him for good.”
“You’d better know what you’re doing,” Felicia whispers. “Use our Rogue server. I didn’t tell you that.” With a wink, she slips away.
We all stare at each other as if we’re about to go cliff diving without knowing if there are rocks below. Then everyone nods silently and quietly steps back to their desks like we didn’t just plan an ambush against ourselves. But my blood is finally flowing again.
I sit down at my desk and log in. Harrison pulls up his hood, like he’s already hiding, then sends me a skull emoji and a thumbs up. Pens sends me a countdown of t-minus ten minutes. Time ticks by agonizingly slow until the final punch of a few buttons. They’ve unlocked a door and set a cyber trap, which means there’s no time to waste.
My heart surges as I stride into the sim room. My gift flickers, calculating the odds of Coral Hacker taking the bait. Even if it’s just for one hour, he knows things and I need to find out what.
Ms. T greets me at the door. “Ready?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’ve got a feeling about today,” I say, ducking my head for fear she’ll see through me.
“Hmm,” Ms. T grunts. She goes to the door and turns. “Try not to do anything reckless, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, but I know I already have.
Chapter Four
The sim-box’s walls are covered with screens, small speakers, and heat sensors. As usual I settle into the gel-body-forming chair.
“How are you today, Ms. Rivers?” Mr. Barrios, a senior analyst, says attaching the neural connectors to my body.
“Fine, thanks. Can you please put me into phase three first, Mr. Barrios?” I ask. I’m eager to have the rush from my gift. I need to remember who I am. It’s there, and it wants to resurface. But Mr. Barrios frowns.
“Sorry, Jo,” he says, “Mrs. T says you’ve done a lot of phase three, but you’ve skipped too many phase one and twos. According to our calculations, you need all three to get your gift back. She’s ordered that you do all of them for the next week. Even at home.”
I sigh. I don’t do it on purpose. It’s just that phase one—the time before my mom died—is hard. I like being there. I even like the recreations of my mom. It doesn’t sting as much as it used to coming out of them, but they’re slow, and there’s never anything that sparks my gift at all.
Phase two, on the other hand—my time in China—is an emotional left hook to the head. It’s where I became who I am today. Where I met Kai and Red. The place of fire and pure gold and strength. It also triggers Phoenix and my greatest fears.
When Madame is in them, they’re too real. Too skin crawling. But I buckle down and take it all in. I need to be reminded that fear can always be overcome.
And yet, my gift doesn’t spark in phase two either.
Ms. T claims my subconscious will see things I didn’t notice in the moment during my time of fear. By reliving a point in time, my perspective will change and hopefully trigger my gift. It might resurface in new ways, she’d said. It’s all theoretical, of course.
Phase three is the only simulation where I gain new ground. I’m still not sure why they always turn into near death experiences but if anything can kick start your life, it’s nearly dying.
Mr. Barrios clears his throat.
“Alright,” I agree. It’s their design. “Send me to phase one. But can we automatically transition this time? I don’t want a break in between.” Besides, I don’t have time. We only have one hour.
“You know zero process time causes unnecessary anxiety in the brain,” he says. “It could disrupt your neural patterns and complicate the sims. I recommend a break, even if it’s 1-2 minutes.”
“I’ll be fine. I just want to jump in today,” I say. “Who knows, it might spark my gift.”
“Fine,” Mr. Barrios says, his lips puckered in thought. “We can do that. I’ll set them at 20 minutes each for the first round. They’ll transition automatically.”
Perfect. One hour. And I’ll be in there the whole time. If the hacker is watching, he should be able to find me.
“You know the drill,” he says, prompting my verbal permission before he leaves the room.
I nod, eyes closing. “I agree.”
The lights go out.
A familiar lavender aroma grabs my senses as the lights slowly transition from semi-darkness to bright. My bare feet sink into soft, fuzzy carpet. “Mmm,” I hum. My old room. My eyes adjust. I stand, looking at a fully stocked bookshelf. My old bed is covered with the patchwork quilt my mom made. My desk is piled with math books, journals, and trophies. It’s exactly as it was before mom died.
My mind sinks deeper into the sim connected to my neural memories of being thirteen. I’m happy, content. Nothing is wrong. There is everything to look forward to. A part of me knows it isn’t true, but I give in for a moment.
I go to the bedroom door, eager to see who is home. Will I eat lunch with my mom? Play games with my family after dinner? Outsmart my old math tutors? Give Tails, my cat, a scratch session by the fireplace?
“Mom?” I call out, listening. No answer. “Dad? Mara? Lily?” No sound comes from downstairs. Not even a meow.
My smile fades and a pinch between comfort and loss sweeps over me. The thirteen-year-old girl in me shivers. I was rarely left alone in the house. A moment of reality hits me—I’ve never been alone in phase one before. I retreat to my room. Whatever I’m here for must be in there.
I wander around my room looking at memorabilia. A shelf covered in small sticky notes with codes and equations. A calendar on my wall with different symbols crossing out each day. I check through the notes and dates like usual, but nothing stands out or sparks my gift. No sign of Coral Hacker either.
Slowly slipping back into my thirteen-year-old self, I plop myself down into the swivel chair at my desk. I’d spend hours each day at this desk. My old laptop is glowing blue, a string of old tabs open. I take a closer look. School assignments, math forums, book chats, and my old blog, www.you-get-my-digits.com. I laugh out loud. How had I forgotten about that blog?
My APP-Site was the highlight of my thirteen-year-old life. Mom had inspired me to start a forum for gifted kids, creating a space to meet others like me. Those friends kept me sane. They were there for me when others couldn’t be. A youthful buzz of energy shoots through me.
I click open my chat room, excited to connect with my old math pals when it dawns on me. These friends might not be excited to chat with me after what I did to them.
My chat room message board pops open. Hundreds of unread messages and old unanswered chats stare back at me. My stomach sinks. Worried friends. Broken promises. Kids who confided in me, needed me. Friends I failed. My stomach tightens as I scroll down.
FROM
FROM
FROM
I remember the day I logged out. Never went back. I left them all hanging like they didn’t exist. And I never explained why. What a horrible friend.
A surge of grief and regret rises in me. I want to hit reply right now. Answer them all. Ask them to forgive me for abandoning them. Tell them why. That after my mom died, I didn’t have the emotional energy to be around people, that running a math forum seemed pointless without the one who inspired me to do it in the first place. I’d tell them I couldn’t think straight. That I cried myself to sleep. That Mara was angry at me. That I focused on school. Worked with my dad. That it was a dark time…then Madame came… No. I wouldn’t tell them that part.
I scroll down through the hundreds of messages, faster, searching for one name. When it pops up, all my courage is lost.
FROM
My face flushes with heat and my stomach ties itself into a hundred knots. I’m a thirteen-year-old girl staring at the screen, my fingers trembling. The one person who deserved an explanation the most never got one. What do those twenty-five messages say? Do I even want to know? My eyes squeeze shut, and I breathe. This is a sim—the thought comes sharp and fast. It’s all in the past now. Instead of opening his messages, I close the computer. I’d rather remember him without messages telling me how I hurt him.
I push the chair back, and open a drawer, searching for an old journal. I find it under a few papers and knick-knacks. Tucked in the middle of it is a postcard of the Mandelbrot Set Fractal, a famous mathematical phenomenon, the origin of his virtual name. The only time he sent me something physical. I remember thinking he’d sign his real name on the back, but he didn’t. I was disappointed.
My finger runs over the smooth card. I’m about to turn it over, to re-read what is written on the back when a flicker of numbers rolls over the complex lines of the Mandelbrot.
I freeze, not willing to lose the moment. This has never happened in phase one.
My eyes hone in on the picture and a sharpness comes over me. I look deeper, my eyes running over the lines of the symbol. Slowly, a spark, a drip, a taste of my gift. I blink, and the measurements of my old room become a blueprint, like a light turning on. The numbers are so familiar I nearly cry. Equations connect everything from my bed to bookshelf to all the memories of my childhood. Laughter bubbles out of me until the lights snap black, and my head starts spinning.
My back is against a brick building. My hair whips across my face in the sharp wind. I’m dizzy as I gain my bearings on where I am. No process time, like Mr. Barrios said. The transition is heavy this time.
I focus on what is in front of me. The Shanghai skyline. Downtown. The Bund, Waitan. I’m near Chan’s old office. I’m not 13 anymore. I’m 17 and in the city that both destroyed and forged me into who I am. Strong. Brave. Fierce.
I’m breathless, as my mind catches up with my location. I need to be fully here for my assignment, for Harrison and Pens as we wait for Coral Hacker, but I can’t seem to shake my feelings from the last sim.
My gift was at my fingertips.
My head buzzes. I can’t think about that. There’s no time.
It’s night. I’m outside in a square. There are thousands of people around me. Scents fill the air. Oil frying, car exhaust, and dust. I feel like I’m home, but I know it won’t last long. I check my pocket. Sure enough there is a note like always in phase two.
Your assignment: Get to the factory. You have twenty minutes.
Easy enough. There’s a bus stop across the street. I go to cross the street, ten feet ahead, when all of a sudden, my back is thrust against the same brick wall again. I shake my head. That was weird. Somehow, I’ve missed the bus.
Several new choices are before me. The subway station is several hundred feet ahead of me. But it’d be busy now. Hailing a taxi would take too long. I decide to run.
My feet charge ahead, my head darting left and right. Excited to be out in the night air, I dodge pedestrians, crossing in and out of my path. I pass an old favorite restaurant that Kai and I frequented. People are gathered at round tables, laughing and eating. I try to count them.
Running faster, things like cars, bikes and old faces become obstacles.
I run past boutiques as their doors close for the night. I dodge shop owners trying to sell to me, and gate guards wanting to question me.
Finally, I make it out of the brightly lit downtown area and onto the shadowy street where the factory is. It’s dark, but I know the way. I run faster, knowing I’ll beat the allotted time. I’m almost there when there’s a bright flash that blinds me and I’m back against the brick wall where I started. The note is once again limply hanging in my hand. I look at it.
Your assignment: Get to PSS. You have twenty minutes.
I straighten. PSS? What is happening?
I look around confused. I’m still in Shanghai. Is this a malfunction in the program? Then I remember what Mr. Barrios said. Having no process time could disrupt or complicate the sims or my neural patterns. Apparently, he was right. The red button on my chair is tempting. I could easily push it and get out. Restart the system. But I can’t. Harrison and Pens are depending on me for one hour.
I’ll complete my first assignment. Get to the factory.
I run, this time avoiding a group of rowdy boys and bustling carts. I cut corners to avoid red lights. I’m almost to the factory, nearly touching its gate when—flash—
My back is against the brick wall again; the note still hanging in my hand. I pull it up in front of me.
Your assignment: Get to Kai. You have five days.
My whole body shivers. I’m still panting from running. I look up, searching for threats. For Coral Hacker. But Shanghai is calm. Nothing to fear that I can detect. It has to be a mental disruption. I’ve been thinking about Kai since our phone call.
I’m determined to make it to the factory when up ahead a woman who looks like Ms. T catches my eye. She speeds over to a circle of people who are yelling in the square.
Ms. T has never been in a sim. It couldn’t be her. But I run after the lady anyway. “Ms. T!”
As I pursue her, a little Chinese boy on a bike rides urgently toward me. I go to dodge him but stop. My eyes must be playing tricks on me because I swear his face is changing. Like a digital program morphing into another. He is not Chinese anymore, but darker, with new distinct features, no longer Asian. The square is also changing. I don’t know where I am. Is this the hacker? Or a disruption? If it’s him, I need to find out where he is.
I shake my head. Focus. Just make it to the end, Jo.
Voices yell, pulling my attention to the right. They are gathered in a circle, watching something. A fight. I search for the Ms. T look-alike in the crowd. I spot her and gasp. Madame is beside her. Too close. I have to warn Ms. T.
My gift starts sparking like flint against stone. Madame is talking to an X girl with a short skirt standing beside her. Oh no. I have to warn the girl too. I run faster trying to reach them, but the circle keeps moving farther away as the fight gets more violent. The woman who looks like Ms. T is swept into the crowd. Madame walks away, the X girl at her side, walking in perfect sync. I harden, an instinct inside me takes over. I run toward her until a man emerges from the fight, bloody, and follows Madame and the girl. My mouth drops open. I’d know his gait, his frame anywhere.
“Kai?”
Before he turns, a wall of black engulfs me.
A loud noise beats above me. My eyes snap open to a blue and white haze. Sky. Blades.
Voom. Voom. Voom. Voom. My hands are gloved. I’m gripping controls on an aircraft I don’t know how to fully operate. I’m high in the sky. The West Coast of Washington State is below me. I’m in a helicopter. This time, I reorient myself quickly. I’ve done the helicopter sim many times.
I close my eyes until I feel the high winds on my face. For a moment, I forget phase two and the hacker-prod who could be in the system, and just breathe in and out. Ever since I was young, I’ve always wanted one thing: The impossibility of soaring and falling through the clouds, flying just like the birds above our beach house. After all these years, I get my wish. Sort of.
I’m extremely happy. It’s summer and I’m flying above a beautiful coastline. I’m five thousand feet above the ground, according to one of the many gauges.
After many times attempting to fly this thing with only 30% information, I still can’t get it right. But I’m determined to learn.
Each time I get close, a problem starts. Right now, the sound of the blades pumps loudly in my ear while I notice rapidly blinking lights—40 dials, 200 buttons, 30 switches, not sure how many gauges.
The helicopter simulation is supposed to reboot my brain, but it makes it spin instead.
Now the smell of smoke is pungent. Fire below me? Fire in the engine? The helicopter is broken. I need to land fast.
My gift flickers to life. I’ve got a 50/50 chance. In a split second, a possibility, an option, a route is revealed in my mind’s eyes. But it flashes out before I see if it’s safe. But one thing is clear. I’ve dropped in altitude. I’m flying too low now and must pull up.
Mountains, jagged cliffs and water. Last time it was desert. I’ve even flown in the jungle. I’ve learned all the routes and still I don’t have what I came in here for. What if I try to crash? My mind would be forced to save me—like a shot of adrenaline to the brain. I dive low, ignoring all the warning signs.
My gift is sparking like crazy. I will taste it today. The blades chop and the wind presses against me. I am flying. I am falling. The red warning light glows hot in my peripheral. I ignore it, and go faster, lower. A peak is approaching when a robotic voice like the one in my car this morning shatters the sound of the blades.
“Slow down.”
My breath catches. Coral Hacker. He came. He speaks again and my skin goes cold.
“You shouldn’t have opened this door. You’re going to regret that.”
It’s not what I expect him to say. It’s a threat. Regardless, a confused hope soars alongside me. I won’t waste this opportunity to speak with him. “Tell me how to get my gift back.”
