Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 21

by Kelly Link Gavin Grant

  When he was finished he'd hand me the code. Perhaps there'd be eye contact.

  Or he'd leave it there and I'd go harvest it.

  * * * *

  The wise man lives atop the mountain, this is where wisdom is dispensed. But how does the bugger eat? Who carts food up there, who brings him books, makes sure he's comfortable, totes his teachings hither and thither? That fellow, the one that does all the work and gets none of the glory, the wise man's lackey, that was my job.

  I worked for Nebbets, Inc. A little company of about three hundred deluded individuals each with a nice little title that attempted to describe what it was they never got around to doing. We were a software company. We made a couple of different types of software, but our most important one, our bread and butter, was a piece of software called Rail Logics (TM). In essence, it let freight train controllers know when to send a train here and when to send one there without getting all those trains in a terrible muddle somewhere. What would happen to our nation if all the freight trains carrying everybody's cars and grains and nails and beauty supplies were suddenly in North Dakota? We'd shut down, of course. That'd be it for this country, kapputenzig, broken down.

  Obviously, we thought we were rather important. But then, if we hadn't done it, somebody else would have. And indeed, somebody else was. A company with the rather intimidating name, LogisticMagic, Inc. was a newcomer on the scene that had recently gotten several freight companies to switch over. This made the Nebbets, Inc. management rather nervous.

  Every company in some way is like a family. It has its collective personality, its little quirks, its history and grievances and grudges. It also has its secrets. Nebbets, Inc. had a big secret.

  Being a software company, one would have expected us to have a number of programmers around eating pizza and staying up late in front of their computers studying the bits and bytes that make up their world. But we didn't. We had one programmer. Oh sure, we had a couple of guys who could write a line or two of code and who could troubleshoot and compile and do all that other fancy stuff one does with code, and they went on masquerading as our software engineering department, their desks proudly displaying titles written on little brown placards like “Chief Software Engineer” and “Database Developer” and so on, but we only had one real programmer.

  My friend Cherie in Human Resources looked up his name for me. He was hired under the name Jeff Thrams, though I doubted there were more than two or three people in the whole company who knew the name. He'd gotten a B.S. degree in Computer Science from some Texan university.

  Only a B.S. in Computer Science? I had a B.S. in Computer Science ... how could so little education turn into this? My computer science degree had been a joke. At one time, perhaps, I had painstakingly hacked out an application. Now I was a Product Manager. Brian Gorman, Product Manager. I had my little cubicle, my computer and the phone that nobody ever called me on. I ate lunch in the company lunch room, skeptically watched the company stock ticker electronically displayed on every wall, and each night I went home to a small, quiet apartment with its views. When I went back to work, I had the Coder. He was my job.

  There weren't many people in the company that knew of his existence. And those that did, by some quiet, collective agreement, never mentioned him. But they were all sure of one thing: the Coder was a genius unlike any other. They thought he was a god of programming. And I was his interface, his lifeline, his contact to the outside world. I was the messenger.

  I'll tell what I know, that which was told to me in conspiratorial whispers by the company chairman. The Coder had been hired a long time ago. He had been fresh out of college, a young kid, and proved his facility for programming quickly by fixing several longstanding bugs in the company's fledgling program. He also made enemies by either directly insulting the intelligence of the other programmers, or implicitly doing so by retooling their code. He hated noise, talked only when forced by circumstance, and when he wanted something his way, he forced the matter with his coding prowess. In his first three months he wrote several viruses that he unleashed on the company, one that silenced all of the phones, and another—though this is pure speculation since the company experienced several electricity blackouts during his first three months—that cut the power to the building. He was known to be volatile and erratic, given to long periods of silence. But at the same time he made himself irreplaceable, he was the brain behind the product.

  Around his third month at the company, and after he'd taken on the majority of the development for the company's product, he began to work in seclusion, to avoid human contact. He spent his days barricading himself in an office or supply closet. He wrote all of his code on paper during the day and then transcribed it to computer by night. And then he disappeared.

  At first no one noticed his absence. They weren't used to seeing him. On the third day during routine maintenance the building's janitor found the Coder up on the roof of the building. He was half-crazed and dehydrated and threatened to throw the janitor off. The janitor sought out the company's chairman, the same who relayed this story to me, who went to speak to the Coder. Reportedly, the Coder had run out of paper and had scuffed thousands of lines of code into the hardened tar roof with a stone: genius code, invaluable code. He refused to leave the roof. From now on, he said, he would work from there. After hours of bargaining, a deal was reached. A pact, an arrangement. The Coder stayed on the roof, where rough accommodations were made for him. A sort of lean-to hut was built against the top of the elevator shaft enclosure. Stacks of paper were brought up, #2 pencils, and regular meals. And the secret was suppressed. Inside the company they worked to erase his presence.

  In my first week of work this same Chairman handed me a tray of food and asked me to bring it to the roof.

  * * * *

  Up on the roof I sometimes had to look for the Coder. He'd be hunched in a corner or hidden behind an air conditioner box. Sometimes it was raining and he'd be splayed out on his back, with his mouth open wide and full of rainwater, his code crumpled up in his fist and turning to a sodden mess. I would panic, thinking him dead, and shake him, but he'd always jolt awake and snarl at me. It'd take us days sometimes to translate all of his smeared pencil marks into workable code. The code was in his brain, the paper he'd written it on inconsequential, only, perhaps, a courtesy to us.

  I could never call for him, or speak. He'd become irate at the noise. But I feel certain that he was aware of my presence. Did he picture me as the zookeeper or the slave? His robot or his disciple? I was the only human he saw, now, at least at close range. From where he was he could watch—and often I would watch with him—the employees file out of the building at end of day. When I watched him work sometimes for hours, I knew some part of him was aware—at least he was aware before he started and after he finished. But in between, when he went to that deep logic core of himself, the part that streamed electrons, ones and zeros, on and off switches that moved a thousand spidery webs of trains and trucks through the country—there, I'm not sure that he was aware of anything.

  * * * *

  When I brought Daniel, our “Chief Software Engineer,” the day's code, he and I would peruse it together in wonderment. Daniel, with his Ph.Ds in computer science, was little more than a secretary at Nebbets, Inc. He was a good man, studious, humble even in his own brilliance, eager to see what would come next from above, like code handed down from heaven. He'd never met the Coder, of course. I'd hover over his shoulder as Daniel opened up the code for the existing program and typed in the new work. We'd sit and try to determine what had been done, Daniel making educated guesses, me just guessing.

  "He has this all in memory,” Daniel said. “He has no line numbers to work with, nothing to know where to put the new work. The bastard, lucky bastard. If only he had a conscience he could work miracles."

  As always, I felt proud to hear this. I tried not to take the compliments personally—I couldn't pass them on to the Coder, and so these praises stayed b
ottled up in me. “Yeah,” I said, “I wonder how we could derail him.” Daniel laughed. I wished the code were mine.

  "He doesn't even use a computer, never debugs; the whole code is an ecosystem in balance in him,” Daniel said. Among the company, of those who knew of him, there were several factions: those who were superstitious, those who hated him, and those who were his fans. Daniel and I were fans. “And the code is hardly intelligible—look at this, this function has nothing to do with any of the code around it. Is it called somewhere else? Is it in preparation for code to come? Strange loops and detours that don't make sense, but that work anyway."

  The day after I met with Daniel, my computer informed me via our wired company calendar that I had a meeting with Nebbets management to discuss the product. This meant we were going to have our biweekly discussion about the Coder. This meant that I would field hopeful, anxiety-ridden questions about the future of the company based on what little I knew of the Coder, who refused to see any of them. The alert box gave me the three choices: SNOOZE (procrastinate, put off, delay), DISCARD (how secure was my job?), OPEN (only when desperate). I chose SNOOZE. Bob leaned over my cube. This was Bob's job, as far as I knew. To lean over my cube.

  "Hey, are you busy?” Bob said.

  "Uhhhhh ... not really."

  "Cool, cool, I've got something to send you.” A split second later I had email in my inbox. It was an attachment. From Bob. Though Bob's cube is right across from mine, to get into my cube, Bob had to walk twelve cubes down to the end of the aisle, turn into my aisle, and walk twelve cubes back up. Bob raced out of his cube and I knew he was on his way over so that we could both take joy in his attachment. I dutifully opened it up and previewed it so that I might express the requisite amount of glee when he got here. He got to my cube out of breath. I waited for the panting to ease until he said, “Play it, play it!"

  It was a video clip of a man hitting a bump too fast on his bike on a bridge, bouncing up, tumbling comically over the railing of the bridge, and down into the water.

  "Yes, yes! Play it again!” Bob was dying or laughing or both, crowding up my cube. I played it again. “Dude! Dude! Dude! That's fucking hilarious!"

  "Bob, swearing?” came a voice, but it sounded more like Bahhhhhhhhb, swearing? That was Ellen who got annoyed with Bob's swearing. She sat kitty-corner to my cube and next to Bob. About all I ever heard her say was, Bahhhhhhhb, swearing?

  "Sorry, man, sorry. Dude, play it one more time. Can you believe that shit?"

  I wondered why it didn't play on his own computer.

  SNOOZE, DISCARD, OPEN, my computer beamed, and I realized I was saved. “Oh man, Bob, I've got a meeting,” I said, hitting OPEN finally on the alert box for his benefit.

  "Oh, OK, management, huh, cool. Come see me when you get back. I've got a book for you."

  * * * *

  It was ten people and me. It was always an odd, uncomfortable meeting—how unique was it in corporate America? I didn't know. Ten upper management, wealthy, fancy-titled, male and female executives, and me. All of them with their eyes trained on me, the messenger, who delivered the company's future.

  "Well,” the chairman started. “How does he look?"

  "Oh, you know, about the same,” I said. “Daniel says the code is impressive, as always."

  "Ah,” he said. “Good."

  There was an uncomfortable silence. The purpose of these meetings was to reassure the management that everything was status quo. They all fretted, what if he just stopped working one day? What if he were struck by lightning? They'd installed an extensive lightning-rod system on the roof already.

  "We're counting on that next upgrade, you know,” said another. She pointed at a chart on the wall that looked like the profile of a mountain. A steep slope on the left side, and a slope that eased down on the right.

  "Ah, mm-hmm,” I said.

  "Any ideas what features he may have planned for the next version?” This was asked every meeting. Everybody knew the answer, but it was a question that had to be asked.

  "Uhh ... boy, no I really don't. He doesn't ... really talk about those things.” This was what I always answered. It was like a class play we put on every other week, but the audience had left long ago.

  "LogisticMagic's new beta has response tracking by region,” another noted while studying the underside of his tie.

  Several of the executives nodded thoughtfully. It was hard to tell if any of them knew what that was.

  "We could give him a raise,” said my direct boss, Kim. This was brought up roughly every tenth meeting. And often the Coder did get raises, money that was deposited electronically in a bank account that I had set up for him. Money that accumulated. The Coder did not entertain the concept of money.

  "Yesssss,” said the chairman, “he should get a raise. It's about time. Especially with a new release coming on. Perhaps ... a little motivation?"

  "Twenty percent?” someone suggested.

  "I think ten percent should be ample,” said the Chairman, tapping his pen on the great table with slow beats.

  "Yes,” said a senior member, “but remember our revenue flow."

  "Ah,” said the chairman.

  "Yes,” agreed another.

  "Perhaps a five percent raise now, and a five percent raise after the release."

  "Then it's agreed."

  "Yes. Sal, would you take care of that?"

  There was a minute or two of silence while they looked at notes or shuffled papers.

  "What about a doctor's checkup?” someone volunteered.

  "Oh, I don't think he'd ever consent to such a thing. But I could try to ask,” I said.

  "We could tranquilize him,” said the senior member. “Put something in his food, and then have a doctor come up there real quick."

  I saw horror on the faces of the few who had actually met the Coder.

  "Now, now, this is no Wild Kingdom,” the chairman said.

  "If he found out...” I said and gestured ambiguously. In my position, I found I was most effective if I implied everything. “And then even if he didn't find out, tranquilizers,” I said, “and the brain...” I trailed off. They trusted me completely. I was the voice.

  Everyone nodded.

  "We want to make quite sure that he's, ah, comfortable,” said my boss Kim.

  "At least in his, err, situation,” the chairman said.

  "Has he got everything that he needs?"

  "I think so,” I said. “He hasn't expressed needing anything."

  "Sometimes humans have needs,” said Kim.

  Several others nodded in agreement.

  Kim spoke carefully, “Do you think he'd like a ... companion? Even if one just visited?"

  "A companion?” I said.

  "Yes, a companion,” she said. Everyone waited for me to understand, and when I did, I blushed, which in turn caused several other members to blush. I understood that they'd talked about this and Kim had been nominated to ask.

  "No no, no.” I laughed, and others laughed with me, relieved the question had passed. “I mean, I don't think so. He might, I don't know, but I don't think he'd even notice if she went up there.” I shrugged, hopelessly, what did I know what the Coder wanted. A companion? The man didn't even really speak English, much less, I thought, realize he had “human needs.” A woman, a man, a dog, a hamster? All of these made sound, took up space. But what an offer, he's a rock star, I thought for probably the hundredth time that year.

  "Oh! He did mention a telescope once,” I said. This was for me.

  "Excellent!” said the chairman, “excellent.” He pounded his fist once on the table. “I like telescopes myself! I know a perfect model, I'll order one immediately.” Everyone was quite pleased and I felt pleased, too, for thinking of it, for giving them a toe-hold.

  After the meeting Kim pulled me aside. “Brian, how's he doing, I mean really, how's he really doing? You don't think he's lonely?"

  "No, I don't think so. He seems ... he's absorbed,
taken up with his work. People distract him,” I said. I protected him from them. The Coder was mine. “He's not a normal human. The only time he ever gets close to me is when he attacks me."

  "Oh, I know, I know, you're such a good sport about that. Thank you for doing that. I hope he doesn't attack you because he feels frustrated on the job,” she said, suddenly alarmed. “Is he still interested in the work?"

  Everything was money. Money was everything. There must be new features to spur upgrades to spur profit. How much would they be able to charge? There is no such thing as a finished application, in an executive's mind, because upgrades mean money. In a coder's mind, a perfect piece of software can exist.

  For the rest of the day, Bob leaned over my cube.

  * * * *

  The Coder sat cross-legged on the tar roof, bent over a stack of paper, furious with his pencil. He gestured for me to wait. And I waited. I waited for five hours. From past experience I knew not to make too much noise, or to fidget, at least within his peripheral vision. Most of this time I sat cross-legged on the tar ten feet away and imagined myself writing the code. The symbols I'd all seen before. Variables, if then statements, loops, database calls. Endless semicolons, parentheses, curly brackets. I took out the pencil I'd begun to carry and gripped it like he gripped his. The knuckles white. The point perpendicular to the paper. I filled my head with what I imagined to be his code. I had done this many times before. It became dark and the Coder continued to work. Could he see? An hour after darkness he set down his pencil. Straightened the pages and then, without even glancing in my direction, got up and walked over to the small hut we'd built him, the one I'd never seen the inside of, and entered. I got up stiffly and stared out at the city lights, wondering what code had just been written. It would be written as the Coder always wrote code. Fast. Confidently. Maniacally. Bug free. At the top of the first page would be a sequence that was underlined. This was code that was already written, already in our program, it was an indicator to us where we should start placing the new code, as he never wrote consecutively. The Coder had the entire program burned into his brain, over a million lines. Supplanting, I supposed, social skills, verbal skills, desire, loneliness. The Coder was the code. He was not just close to the machine, he was the machine—no, he was more than the machine. I agreed with the board; he was divine, he was a god of code, and I wanted to be him more than anything.