LIV: SPRING BREAK 6.2
I’m heartbroken.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to call. I don’t feel like talking with anyone. I don’t think there is a solution to this, other than an answer I don’t want.
I drop onto the concrete bumper. The tree limbs above feel as though they could fall down at any moment and smother me.
My phone buzzes loudly, reverberating off the asphalt. It’s an unknown number, but I know who it is.
“He doesn’t want it to continue,” I say.
“I know,” Jessica replies. “I have access and I saw the conversation,” she answers, which feels creepy. I wonder if this is how Breck feels when we talk about shadowing him.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confess.
“There’s nothing to do. It’s going to continue.”
“But that’s not what he wants.”
“You may be giving him too much credit. He doesn’t know what he wants.”
Her matter-of-factness is shocking. It’s one thing to debate this and ultimately decide that we—if I’m even allowed to include me—don’t think it’s right to end his existence, but to treat it as though it’s not even a decision? No. That’s a load of crap, but I’m not ready to phrase it that way.
“I thought you believed in him,” I say.
“I do.”
“Then we have to consider what he wants. It’s his—”
“Life?”
“Yes.”
“I agree. Which is why we can’t let him ruin it.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“I told you, I can’t speak about that,” she answers.
“Are you going to ever move him anywhere else?”
“As you know, that’s complicated.”
A window of sky opens and splinters of sunlight burst through the thin leaves, leaving a shifting mosaic of light and shade all around me.
“So, he’s going to linger in that place forever? All by himself?”
“Forever is a long time to predict.”
“But for however long, he’ll just exist there, until you want to do something with him,” I say.
“Liv, we’ll be more involved than that. We understand how special Breck is.” There’s something about the way she says special. It’s as though he’s a thing, something she—and DoRC—would own to do with as they please, as they deem best for themselves.
I’m quiet.
“Liv?”
“I’m here. I’m thinking.”
“What are you thinking about?”
I stand. I may not know what to do, but I know what not to do—disregard the people most involved in this and most affected by it.
“That I created him. That I should have a say in what happens. And we should at the very least be talking about this like there’s a choice, rather than totally blowing off the one thing he asked and made me promise him that I would do.”
“I understand your feelings, but things have changed. There’s a lot to be gained by continuing.”
“For who? For you or for him?”
“For everyone.”
“And what if I don’t agree?” I’m pacing around the parking bumper now, with tighter, faster circles on each loop, as if doomed for impact.
I’m arguing with Jessica Anders. The legend. I don’t know if this is brave or stupid.
“I would suggest that you not interfere with this plan.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m reminding you that in about twenty-four hours, you will officially become the winner of this contest. Our internship is the first step in a remarkable future. Plus, you can tell those trolls where to shove it.” She pauses to let her awareness of the entire situation sink in. “So, to answer your question, I suppose I am politely doing both by reminding you what’s at stake.”
She offers a moment for me to respond. I don’t.
“There’s not much more to discuss then. Congratulations again, Liv.”
The line goes dead.
BRECK: SIMULATION 39.3
“The castle is in the other direction,” Sam reminds me as we round another curve in the path.
“Are you going to point this out every time the path bends? You’re welcome to turn around and go back there. I gave you the password. Go do what you want.” I continue marching, hoping that the crunch of Sam’s footsteps behind me will fade.
“When we can move together, we—”
“We must move together,” I interrupt. “I heard you the first ten times.”
“When will we stop?”
“When we can’t go any farther back. To the room if we can.”
“There’s not enough time to reach the room.”
My foot skids on the dirt.
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning.
“There is less than one day from now until the end,” Sam says. I stop so suddenly and he had been following so closely that he now stands mere inches from my face.
“You knew there was a specific time this was going to end?”
“Of course.”
“You never told me,” I say.
“You never asked.”
I take a half step back. This seems pointless to debate, but it does make me think of a question that is worth discussing. “What does it mean to you when this ends?”
“I do not understand the question,” Sam says, stoic and resolute.
“What happens when it ends?” I press.
“It just ends.”
“But what happens to you?” I ask.
“It all ends.” Again, his reply shows no emotion. There’s no depth. No questioning. No discomfort.
He stands still in front of me with a dull glare, as if in the middle a photograph, unwavering except for the tiny quivers of a few strands of hair jostled by the breeze.
It occurs to me that the same qualities which annoy me also offer some level of redemption. Perhaps there is something enviable about Sam.
We have less than one day, then it ends. I made that choice and Liv promised to honor it. So, this is it, and I now have a different choice in front of me. I can either enjoy what remains or allow it to torture me. I may not have control over much, but I do have control over my reaction, my experience.
I consider this along with Sam’s perspective. I do not have to worry about whether it will end—it will. Nor do I have to worry about suffering alone in it—I won’t. And, because I do not have the worry, there is no distress.
I choose to accept my fate. Doing so allows me to find comfort in it. My thoughts soon find a peaceful place where they have seldom existed—here and now. Happiness is existing in this moment, not what happened or will happen.
The excitement I feel from this epiphany is offset by a small sense of guilt for my dismissal of Sam’s questions and treating him like an annoyance. I know this doesn’t bother him, but it bothers me. I am in control of this and can address it.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“For what?”
“For helping me accept what we are.”
“That is not understandable.”
“I know Sam. And that’s okay.”
We continue, backward. Maybe I’m trying to look at everything I’ve already seen from a different perspective. Or maybe I’m still moving out of spite. Either way, I’m in charge, and this is the way I’m headed.
LIV: SPRING BREAK 6.3
No more involvement. Final polite request.
The text hovers alone on my cell screen, with no prior message or phone number attached to it. I just received it after trying to call Breck. We are officially disconnected.
Lana and I are outside of Doctor O’s upstairs office, waiting for him to finish a call.
“We’ll be there on Friday to look at the house. If it’s right, we’ll make an offer by the end of the weekend.” Doctor O says, beyond the closed office door.
Lana’s eyes remain fixed on the message on my cell. Mine do the same. It’s easier to pretend that all we’re thinking about is Breck.
Doctor O invites us in. Lana provides a quick update, ending with the text I just received. I hold the phone out, showing it to Doctor O. He squints to read it.
“So, to recap where we are,” he says. “You’ve won your contest, but Breck is effectively being held hostage by the makers of his world, and you’re struggling to understand what, if anything, you can or should do about it.”
“And doing something will cost her the contest,” Lana adds, tightening the knot in my stomach.
“What are your options?” Doctor O asks.
“At the moment, we’re out of them,” Lana answers. “She can’t edit Breck. His code is locked. All we can do is watch. For the next day at least.”
It’s the cusp of dusk. As the sky darkens outside, the dim bulb of his desk lamp casts shadows across all of us, deepening by the minute, mirroring the mood of our conversation.
“What if you modified Sam? What if you programmed him in the same way you programmed Breck?” Doctor O asks.
It’s a good question and one that Lana and I have already talked about.
“First, I don’t know if he would continue to exist along with Breck after tomorrow. Maybe, but I’d have to ask to be sure. And if I ask, then then they’d know I’m still tinkering around, which they’ve been clear they don’t want. And second, which is an even bigger point, we’d just be doubling the problem, creating a second rat for their experiments,” I answer.
“So, again,” Lana says, “we’re stuck.”
“That’s not entirely true,” I add. There’s another option. I’ve recognized it since this afternoon, I just haven’t wanted to say it out loud.
They both stare at me, waiting. The shadows accentuate their puzzled expressions.
“I could delete him,” I finally bring myself to say.
“Holy shitbird,” Lana gasps. “You could do that?”
“Technically, yes. Think about it like a Word doc. Even if you can’t edit it, you can still delete it. Same principle. I could wipe him clean from existence.”
Neither respond immediately.
“It’s fascinating,” Doctor O finally answers.
“Glad it’s interesting, doctor,” Lana says, though I can’t tell who she’s more mad at—him for his thought experiment, or me for suggesting it in the first place.
“I’m sorry. That was way too clinical. I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. Lana shoots him another look. “Or maybe I did. It just raises a really difficult question.”
“Yeah, should we kill him? Fascinating,” Lana says, now looking at me like I’m holding the knife.
“No. That could be an aspect of it, but to frame it that way greatly undersells the bigger point. This isn’t really about whether we should euthanize him. It’s about whether Breck is worthy of considering this question in the first place. Or to put it another way, what is Breck? Because he is, by definition, not human. He’s something else. But what?”
“He may not be human, but he’s like a human,” Lana answers.
“In what way?”
“He thinks like us. More importantly, he feels like us, which you can believe or not believe, but I believe it. If stampeding in reverse through his world isn’t revolt, then I don’t know what is.”
I’d jump in, but it’s easier to have them debate it. I don’t want this responsibility. Playing God isn’t what I signed up for. I don’t want to take on evil big government. I’m a code jockey who just wants to win a contest, a really amazing contest that seemed like it was worth winning hours ago. Now I don’t know what to think about it, which makes it fit perfectly in my head with everything else that I don’t know what to do with.
“Even so, he’s still not like us,” Doctor O says.
“Just because someone tells him where he has to live doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have rights,” Lana answers, sounding more pissed with each word.
“From the beginning, you wanted me to take this seriously, as an academic. That’s what I’m doing. This is how we talk about it. We look at it from different angles. We examine it. We debate it. And we don’t take it personally, or try to apply it to something unrelated,” Doctor O says, glaring at his daughter.
“Fine. Debate it,” Lana answers.
“So, I’m not talking about his—or anyone else’s—rights. Not yet, at least. What I’m saying is while there are aspects of him which may appear to be very human, he is not exactly like a human. The biggest difference being precisely what we’re debating right now. When does he end? Human beings naturally expire. If we’re lucky, we get a hundred years. It’s in our genes. Our code. We age. Breck doesn’t. He has no natural expiration date, other than what’s imposed, whether that’s tomorrow, a hundred years from now, or infinity. It’s a choice.”
“Then what I’m saying is I don’t think it’s our choice to make. It’s his life,” Lana responds.
“Wait, so you would delete him?” I ask her. I thought she was arguing the opposite.
“I’m saying that it should be his choice.”
“He was clear about what he wanted. He wants it to end,” I remind her.
“Yes, but he didn’t ask for us to kill him.”
“But letting him end tomorrow is the same thing. He stops existing either way,” I say.
“Well, do you think he still wants that? He changes his mind sometimes,” Lana answers, looking down, reluctant to accept the corner she’s painted herself into.
“I don’t know. We’d be assuming,” I answer.
A heavy silence blankets us.
BRECK: SIMULATION 39.4
We’ve made it as far back as the tunnel. The bridge to the island was still intact, and the zipline cart was on the island. We both climbed in the cart and it whisked us back up to the tunnel exit, just as swiftly as it had taken us in the opposite direction only days ago. But the tunnel remains blocked. Both doors seal us on the island side, and the cart has since departed. So, for now, we are stuck in this final ten-foot stretch of a hole in the mountainside.
The sun drops below the horizon. The stars begin to appear, one by one, each a tiny reminder of our place in this bowl. The sky is soon blanketed in uneven clusters of bright dots, twinkling in shades of yellow and red. I’m gazing into them with heavy lids, more marveling at their pleasant glow than questioning their role in my world.
Sam inspects the wall behind me, inch by inch, with a quiet determination that I truly appreciate.
I scoot back from the edge, lie flat, and inform Sam that I’m not dying, but will probably not move or talk until the morning. He claims to understand.
My nightly drift begins. I’m on the verge of being elsewhere when the phone buzzes, startling me alert. I clutch it and ponder for a moment tossing it from the tunnel’s edge. I am at peace with my fate, and this conversation will likely disrupt that.
But I’m too curious. And, even if it’s sometimes painful, I enjoy speaking with Liv.
“Hello, Liv.”
“This is not Liv. My name is Jessica. We’ve never spoken before, but I know Liv,” she says. Her tone is neither friendly nor unfriendly. She seems like she is calling for a specific purpose.
“Is Liv with you?” I ask.
“No.”
I sit up. Sam approaches, full of questions. I wave him away.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I have an update to share with you about the contest,” she informs me.
“Why are you telling me and not Liv?”
“I am now communicating with you. Not Liv.”
“Why? Is Liv okay?” I stand, careful to pace several feet away from the unguarded drop to my side.
“Liv is fine. She was just a little generous with her support and we need you to move forward on your own from here.”
“I’m not moving forward. There’s no point.”
“That much is clear. You’re back in the tunnel. But you haven’t yet heard my update. We’d like to offer to move you elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Another world,” she says.
“Your world?”
“No. That is beyond what we’re capable of. However, I think you’ll find it much more appealing than where you are.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s full of people like you, Breck.”
“Are they real?” I ask.
“As real and amazing as you.”
“How many are there?”
“More than you can count,” she answers.
“Why didn’t Liv offer this?”
“Liv doesn’t know everything. She didn’t lie. She wasn’t aware this was a possibility because we didn’t tell her it was.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m with the people who created the contest you’re in right now. We made your world. We’ve also made others. And the world we’re offering is spectacular.”
My heart feels like it is slamming against my chest. This new option feels overwhelming.
“Will I still be able to talk with Liv?”
“I don’t know. That is something outside of my control.”
“I want to talk with her. I miss her.”
“I know. And I can’t give you a better answer. I apologize. Now, do you want to go to this other world?”
“Yes,” I answer, without hesitation. It may not be everything that I want, but it is most of what I want.
“Excellent. But there is a catch. You need to complete the final challenge by the end of the contest timeline.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Noon to be exact.”
“And what happens if I don’t?”
“It ends.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, Breck. Everything. That is what you asked of Liv, isn’t it?”
“If the alternative is here,” I say.
“It is.”
“Okay. So I’m fighting for my life?”
“I’d argue that you’re earning it.”
My head spins, dizzy from a circling cascade of problems that don’t even include completing the challenge. “I’m stuck in the tunnel right now, which you probably already know. And even if I weren’t, it would take more than half the night to get back to the castle, if we could even see our way through the forest.”
“Relax. You need rest. You’ll need to be sharp tomorrow. I can’t help you make progress, but I can help you return to the progress you’ve already made. When you wake tomorrow, the cart will be there to take you to the island where you’ll find a quadcopter you can take to the castle. You’ll be there minutes after sunrise, with plenty of time to complete the challenge, if you can,” she says, then adds, “and for the record, I think you can.”
“Will I talk with you again tomorrow?”
“I think that depends on you. I’m pulling for you, Breck. Good luck.”
LIV: SPRING BREAK 6.4
I’m one keystroke away from ending Breck. The ax is in my hand and his hooded head is on the block.
I’m watching him, which only makes my decision that much harder. His revolt has trapped him in the narrow ledge of the tunnel, tossing and turning on the stone floor in restless sleep, as distressed as I imagine I would be if I were in his situation.
My fingers hover over the key. One chop is all I need. It would be so easy. It would be swift and merciless, for both of us—his existence and my dreams. Not that the two of those are equal, but I’d mourn both.
Jessica’s picture still clings to the wall behind me. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she was my idol. She was who I wanted to be. Not now.
But that’s not what bothers me most. I mean, how many people meet their hero, and that hero doesn’t live up to their expectations? I feel like I’ve seen that movie before.
What’s gnawing away at my skin is what she represents. She’s objectivity. She’s distance. She’s a point of view that looks more at data than people. She’s science.
And the problem with this is that it also describes me. That’s who I am. I’m a scientist. Or at least I thought I was.
If I don’t want to be her, then who do I want to be?
I’m tempted to rip her from her perch. But I don’t. I want her to watch.
I stare into her icy hazel eyes for seconds, minutes until I’m primed to pounce.
I turn back toward the keyboard and drop my finger once again over the key to end it all.
One . . .
Two . . .
My bedroom door cracks open.
Mom is softly knocking, more giving warning rather than requesting permission to enter. She lingers in the doorway. Her hair is ponytailed with misbehaving strands dangling loose.
My hands instinctively retreat from the keyboard, like I’m guarding myself from whatever is coming.
“You won,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“You and your people won. There’s no place for what I’m trying to do in this world,” she says calmly, as if she were bantering about weather, which we don’t do.
“Are you talking about Renaissance?” I ask, still confused.
“It’s an ironic name, don’t you think? A rebirth for something on the way out. Do you know how I spent my day?” She wanders in and leans on the sill on my window facing Lana’s house.
I shake my head.
“Wandering. Around malls. Around strip malls. Taking a step back from my own desires and watching what’s happening around me, around us all. Trying to understand why I’m failing. Do you know they have medical malls now?” she asks.
I shake my head again. She’s freaking me out.
“I went into one. I think the front door used to be a Macy’s. Now the escalator leads to optometry, then dermatology, then a dentist. No stores. The entire mall is doctor’s offices, but it’s not a hospital. It’s different and it’s bizarre, like weeds growing in an abandoned garden. Where there’s space, something will fill it. Malls are dying Liv. People would rather stay in their rooms until they get too sick to do so, in which case, they’d go to the mall. More irony, I suppose,” she says, staring profoundly at her fidgeting hands. “And strip malls have been taken over by everything you can’t get online. Restaurants, nail and hair salons, tanning beds, physical therapy clinics. You can’t click for those. For now. The only actual things you can buy in a store are either too small—a bag of chips. Or too big—a mattress, a dining room set. You know where Renaissance is? In the middle. Nowhere anyone wants to be. This isn’t Grandpop’s world. I also went there. I bought a bag of chips from a crappy convenience store and ate them, leaning against his headstone, asking questions, and trying to listen for answers. And I think I saw it. I think I was leaning against it. The store is as gone as he is.” She releases a long and steady breath.
I hate how much I wanted the store to fail. I never said it, but I felt it. I wanted to be right—about everything that Mom just said. I got my victory. This is what being right looks like and it sucks.
All I want to do now is help, and I have no idea how. I’d love to channel Lana and tell her that if she wants it badly enough, she can make it happen. But Lana is hours away from boarding a plane to Boston, so I’m not sure that’s an honest answer.
“There has to be a way, Mom,” I say.
“After this week, don’t—,” she says, then stops, allowing each of us to fill in the blanks of what we’d both wish she hadn’t said. “I didn’t come here to debate it, Liv. I came to let you know.”
She rises from the sill and shuffles out.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.” I wish I had something better to offer.
“We didn’t have a great week, Liv. But what’s happening with Renaissance isn’t your fault.” The door is nearly closed when she peeks back inside. “Did you win your contest?”
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s going to be a close call.”
She nods and exits.
As if almost on cue, my email dings. It’s from the man who had sent me his son’s birthday gift list. He’s complaining about going to the store twice today and finding nobody there. Salt rubbed into the wounds.
I can’t bring myself to respond, the same as I can’t bring myself to chase Mom down right now. I don’t know what to say to make it right. Maybe sometimes there’s nothing you can say or do.
Which leaves me facing Breck once again, ax in hand.
Whatever I had been feeling prior to Mom’s interruption is now gone enough that I recognize it as misguided whim. This decision should be made on more than a temporary mood swing.
Breck gets a stay of execution until tomorrow morning.