Corrupted Code

For as long as I can remember, every day has always been the same. Get up. Go to work. Come home. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Lately, something feels different. Almost like the battery on whatever device they use to program us has begun to die.

That is highly unlikely, though. The Government comes regularly to check our Connectchips and ensure they are updated.

This morning I stare at my ceiling, knowing that I have to go to work.

But I am not moving.

Not today.

Today, I am choosing a different path.

When I clock in at at work, a signal is sent to another facility, Dispatch, which sends another report to another agency within National Security; they are known colloquially as Time Keepers. Then, those who are not fulfilling their duties to the Government are sought out.

What I mean by sought out is exactly the implication that I want to convey.

They find the people. Then they are disappeared. I only know about these procedures because I helped designed the report that links all these departments together.

I work in Logistics underneath the umbrella of National Agency, a department of the Government which is responsible for making sure other departments are seamlessly interconnected via their digital networks.

But since that day so long ago, when I designed and pushed out the code for those reports, I have had regrets. Lamentations, really.

I have witnessed people carted off in my neighborhood, never to return. Their houses never go up for sale, but somehow are reoccupied by another family. I have even seen people hoisted out by their arms, dragged in shackles, even in the middle of working. Whispers speak of labor camps, but I think they are sent beyond the borders of the city: the Wasteland.

By not getting out of bed, I already know what is going to happen next.

After I coded the report that manifested the ability for The Nation to subvert people’s ability to choose on this scale, I made a decision. This is not about safety, or security, or production. This is about control.

I must undo what I did.

As a computer programmer, I know how these things work. That’s why my position in Logistics is so critical. I know a lot of information about how the system functions, which helps me re-code a program that could eliminate the digital connections between these departments and Dispatch, which is the center of this web.

I’m supposed to be at work within the next thirty minutes. Calculating how the cameras are reviewed, that means that if I am being watched, Surveillance will have already observed my usual routines.

Perhaps I should go backward…

A long time ago there was something that people refer to as When the Clouds Touched the Earth, a nuclear holocaust that targeted just about every known location around the globe. It is rumored that some parts of the world were completely eradicated, all evidence of life eviscerated. Since that time, there was a period of time known as the Aftermath. But people around here barely know that time exists. Those within the Borders know little of these issues because technology has allowed us to control our environment. Massive filters prevent the negative environmental effects of the Aftermath from reaching us.

The Nation, what the country is now called, has been divided into two halves. There are the regions known as Wastelands, where Plebes, people who are too poor to access the city, live. Those are the places where bombs struck the hardest.

The City, after the wealthy reinvested in the running of government, was bordered off. This one and others like it that were not affected as badly were reestablished by The Nation as hubs. These cities run like police states. Hence, all the cameras and the Big Brother voyeurism. Then you look around at the Government-sponsored billboards offering their condolences: “Maybe in another life.” A reminder everyone that things are as good as you make them, and you had better not hope for more.

That was until I learned of the Plebes.

These regions are left desolate. People are struggle and survive out of sheer will. They are given rations, but its a cruel irony. To give them barely enough food to survive so they think they have a fighting chance.

So when I finally get up from bed and grab my backpack, I rush out the door. I rub the back of my neck, the spot where the Connectchip is installed. With its recent update, it has improved GPS capabilities. Some Plebes have them as well, but their functionality is not quite as advanced. As long as The Nation knows where the Plebes are, that is good enough for them.

As I traverse my house, getting ready to run, my mind wanders to a moment from yesterday when my Supervisor came into the office the other day:

“Thomas, we’re moving forward with the new report, so you can push the code through.”

“Well, it’s not quite—”

“Push it.” His tone was harsh, scathing.

I should have known better than to question him, but I needed more time. “But you my code is—”

“Which part of ‘push it’ did you not understand, Thomas?”

“Sure.”

Then he left. It wasn’t a discussion. According to the job order, the code is intended to improve the connectivity between the reporting stations and the people being reported on. It would give Dispatchers access to all camera and work log in information before the reports were even sent out. The code was intended to “maximize productivity and work participation,” but really what that means is that it gives The Nation more control over individuals.

After making the necessary changes, I realized that changes in the code gave Dispatchers access any information that they wanted to at any time they wanted to, without the lead coming from another department. This might not sound like a big deal. But let’s say that, like today, I get to work later than normal. Normally, the Time Keepers would be notified from my workplace. They file a report, and I am reprimanded. Then the file gets pushed to Dispatchers so they can be aware of the issue and monitor it with an access code. With the new code, Dispatchers could go online without even a log in key and view any camera they wanted to or any clock-in information. With no context whatsoever, Dispatch could forward this information to National Security and then the black vans could storm my house within moments. Even before I had done anything. They would cart me away, no questions asked, and then my life would be over. They would send me off, as far away as they could get. To be a Plebe.

So I chose to altered the code.

I scheduled it to go out this morning, at the approximate time when I would normally sit at my desk and login into my computer. That time is nearing, so it’s time to get moving.

I slip my backpack over me, and leave the house through the back door. I’ve been observing where all the cameras are for weeks, so I know where almost all of them are. Hopefully, by the time they notice that I am missing, I should be in the clear.

I walk down the back alley behind my house when I hear the sirens.

I duck behind some trash and wait as the black van speeds by.

Followed by another.

This response is too fast. The only way this could have happened is if the amended code was done correctly and send out early.

As the cars pass, I run out of the end of the alley and across the road to the next alleyway. And I don’t stop running.

When I get to the end, I look around to see if the Security team has gotten here yet. I am guessing that they’ve broken into my house and have gone through to discover that I am not there. They will have sent a message to Dispatch, who will be reviewing all the records they have. If the code was corrected and pushed out, that means Dispatch can access any information they want, without any access permissions.

I must go. Now.

I pass by several buildings as I run. I am trying to outrun my doubts and fears, but they are pacing me well.

As I run, I wonder how someone could have repaired the corrupted code I added.

As I come to a street corner, I look up at the silver post hosting a round black sphere atop it. These are the CCTV cameras that are directed straight to Surveillance. Not if the code was sent out, though. The only people who can send out the black vans are Dispatch. The red light atop it is blinking, blinking. That means the cameras are still on. This means that the virus I embedded in my code was also removed. Only certain people have the authority to access my work…

Go. I run past that camera and make a turn. I can see the gates to the borders of the Wasteland. I stop and pull the bottle of homemade whiskey from my pack and take a big swig. The strength of it will jam the signal of the Connectchip, which links directly to nerves in the spine. It’ll dampen their ability to follow my location and, hopefully, provide me with enough time to get beyond the fencing. The sirens are closing in, so I hope that I didn’t wait too long.

As I continue running down the street, I can see the fencing slowly coming closer, but I can also hear the noise of something slicing through the air.

I stay to the sides of buildings and duck into a shadow as a helicopter slices through the sky overhead. Their reaction speed is much too fast for a normal process to my absence from work.

The code.

I run again, my heart beating in my chest as I begin to track the data. (1) Last night, I programmed the code to go out during my normal work hours, (2) they busted through the house mere minutes after I left, (3) they quickly discovered I was gone, (4) but Dispatch must have already been contacted due to the quick response, (5) but the helicopter is extreme, even for an overzealous Dispatcher. This means my plan has been severely compromised. I must assume that along with my data, my entire plan has been thwarted. So the fence looming in the distance only causes me more anxiety as the approaching sirens seem to be outpacing me.

Hazarding a glance over my shoulder as I run, I see a singular black dot on the horizon zomming in on me rapidly. Turning my head the other way, another black van hurries, meant to pin me. Above, the helicopter rounds on me. A voice from overhead calls to me: “Stay where you are!”

I make a sharp turn down an alley. I can hear the squealing of tires and the black-clad officers running down the alley, screaming at me.

Keep running.

My breath is shallow and choppy, forming a strange rhythm with the slapping of my feet on the ground. Meanwhile, my brain still spins around, trying to figure out just how my plan was uncovered so easily. I can hear the men behind me screaming for me to stop, but I ignore them as I explode out of the alleyway, a horn breaking through the air. A bus slams to a stop as I pass by in a blur.

I can hear sirens coming near again, but my adrenaline is coursing through my veins, my body running on pure fear and desperation. I can see the Borders in the distance, slightly closer than before. The helicopter hovers overhead. My mind spins around like those rotors in a torrent of thought, trying to remember something that would help to answer my query.

But I keep running.

I can hear the men yelling again.

Then something appears on the fringes of my mind…

It danced there, alone…

Just as the squealing of tires manifest plumes of smoke from the burning rubber and the black-clad men burst from both vans, guns drawn, I run into the fence. I run along it, looking for the gap. Smugglers often use these to get items in and out of The City. I remember it being here somewhere. This is where my route was supposed to take me. If I could just get on the other side…

Then the lonely dancer asks me to dance…

My hands slide along the iron fencing as the voices near. But the world goes silent as my thoughts and I twirl around. After my boss left my office, I was editing the code. The codes are only available on Company networks, so it was a risk working on it there. I had gotten up at one point, then returned to my office a bit later. Then I left.

As I was leaving for the night, I passed my supervisor in the hallway. He had stopped, looked at me with a smirk and then said, “Enjoy your evening, Thomas. Will I see you tomorrow?” Like it was a question. I supposed, at the time, that he was jut being callus. He always is. But…

What an odd phrasing…

But that must be it. He must have used his keyfob to access my office. Each fob only accesses your office and whatever areas you have clearance for. But supervisors have access to all areas in their departments.

As the men close in on me, I finally find the break in the fence that I was looking for. I crawl through, my clothes snatching on the wire fencing. I feel hands grab for me, but refuse to stop and look at them. Looking back means death. The only means of surviving this is by getting. Through. This. Fence.

But the hands are many. They are strong. But my desire to escape outweighs them. They are screaming at me, but their groans and growls are silenced by my own animalistic cries.

I am not listening to them.

I am not going to be held prisoner by the Company.

Or the Government.

I will not continue to program misfortune and prejudice into data sets that determine people’s fates.

I scream, forcing my body to find more strength, more courage, more fear. And I continue to scream until I fall forward and roll in the dirt. My hands grip themselves into a tight fist. I am suddenly aware of my heart drumming upon my chest, which rises and falls in fast motions like an unsteady tide. The men whose faces are always covered stand at the fence, cursing to themselves.

Another man, who wears the same black-clad armor, but has three white stripes across his left arm, walks to the fence. The men part as is he is an alpha male, allowing his gravity to fill the negative space.

He lifts his visor to reveal a thick graying beard and eyes that reveal no life. “Thomas Renquist.” His voice uttering my name cuts the air like a blade on skin. “A warrant by The Nation has been issued for crimes against the Government. Cited are as follows: Treason, Acts of Utter Dishonesty, and Failure to Comply With Duty. You have hereby refused arrest and have selected exile in its place.

“From this moment forward, your Connectchip number will be registered on the Exiled Citizens list with Surveillance. Should you ever return, you will be imprisoned for life; or should your Connectchip be detected near the borders of the City, you may be shot on site, your body left for fodder for the Wasteland and all wild creatures that feast there, depending on the will of The Nation. Since you have chosen to survive in the Wasteland, The Nation will allow to to seek your own death.”

The man lowers his visor, turns and walks away. The flood of men follow him as they climb in their black vans and take off into the city. The helicopter, slices through the sky back toward its perch.

I turn to face my fate. The Wasteland. I have a few supplies, but unless I find shelter, I am as good as dead. But it is better than being a prisoner of The Nation. With the dark clouds looming overhead, I can feel the climate change. The artificial comfort of the city is being left behind for the cruel, unforgiving environment of The Aftermath, the places where remnants of the times of When the Clouds Touch the Sky serve as a grim reality for the rest of the population that were unable to traverse their way to the safety of the city.

But I smile to myself regardless of what happens.

Because I chose.