Version Zero

by David Yoon

  Max nodded at Akiko. She struck a key. Trollout stopped.

  “Final count: forty-one thousand account deletions,” said Akiko. “And one suicide.”

  No one spoke for a moment, as if to memorialize Fred Mould.

  “You know what?” said Pilot, suddenly happy as a daisy. “I think we could use a change of scenery. I mean, here we are stuck in this dark room for days. Everyone, head home, pack a bag, and come on back here. We’ll fly out to Glass Island, get some air in our lungs.”

  Shane’s knee stopped. “Glass Island?”

  “I have a place there,” said Pilot. “It will be our first retreat as Team Version Zero. Max, what do you say?”

  “Fucking nice,” said Shane before Max could answer. He rubbed his fists together.

  “How about we meet back here in an hour?” said Pilot. “The door will be unlocked for you.”

  Shane looked at Max with big, eager eyes. He looked at Akiko, too.

  “See you in an hour,” said Max.

  1.18

  Shane and Akiko drove home in the Poolwhip to get their stuff for the trip.

  Brayden walked home.

  Pilot gave Max a ride in his car. It was an ordinary Proton hybrid on the outside, but on the inside things were different. Pilot set a course on the car’s single large screen, swiveled his chair away from the twitching steering wheel, and offered Max coffee from its center console in a little paper cup.

  Pilot leaned back. He did not bother with a seat belt. “If I die, I die,” he said.

  Max clicked his seat belt. He took a ginger sip. “This coffee’s super great,” he said.

  Max faked a smile, and Pilot caught it.

  “Are you okay?” said Pilot.

  “That suicide freaked me out,” said Max.

  “I insist it is not the fault of anyone but Fred Mould,” said Pilot.

  “I don’t know where there is for Version Zero to go next,” said Max.

  “Turn off your brain, Mister Max. Get your things. Glass Island is a good place to relax. Let the answers come to you.”

  “Sounds like some mindfulness shit,” said Max.

  “Fuck that mindfulness shit,” said Pilot with a hissing grin. “I am talking about beer and bocce ball by the sea.”

  The Proton accelerated and turned and braked with a grace no human could ever match. Max stared at the screen and watched its sensors detect every detail of the passing landscape and make adjustments accordingly.

  “When I was your age,” said Pilot, “this was the most futuristic thing anyone could ever imagine. A car that could drive itself while its passengers enjoyed refreshments.”

  “It is pretty damn cool.”

  Pilot beamed. Max could see he had a good smile. A kind smile. Maybe Pilot had been too kind for the tech scene. Maybe that was why he dropped out.

  Max dipped his head. That was not why he dropped out.

  “Eh, you get used to it after about a week,” said Pilot. “Traffic is still traffic. I do like that it drives safer than most humans can.”

  “Because humans suck,” said Max.

  “Oh, no,” said Pilot, tsking. “Do not say that. You sound like cynical old me when I was your age.”

  “When Ah wuz yer age,” croaked Max.

  They laughed.

  “Fred Mould was a human who sucked,” said Max. “Rest in peace.”

  “Fred Mould was simply an inevitable product of a system where humans had been removed from the equation. There could be no Fred Mould without the internet.”

  “Explain,” said Max.

  “A delusional racist like Fred Mould would normally have no one to talk to. Maybe he would keep a horrible private diary. Maybe he would scribble on his basement walls at night. He would never stand on a street corner and shout his racist Holocaust denier nonsense in public. But along comes the internet.”

  “Along comes the internet,” said Max.

  “And Fred Mould can do whatever he wants without showing his face. Without consequence. He finds other faceless men. They encourage one another. The internet is the world’s biggest men’s bathroom graffiti wall. A perfect and frictionless outlet for insanity.”

  This reminded Max of a study conducted at his old school comparing graffiti in men’s and women’s bathrooms. The men’s walls were full of rape jokes, dick doodles, and gay bashing. The women’s bathrooms were spotless. It was a confounding study, because there was literally nothing to compare. Max wanted to run around campus, shake everyone he met, and ask: Why?

  “Why is there even a need for an outlet like that in the first place?” said Max.

  “Right?” said Pilot.

  “What kind of man even wants to say shit like jew stink?” Max said.

  “You’re asking why men insist on dehumanizing other men.”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  “Indeed,” said Pilot. “Fuck if any man knows.”

  The car took a bounce, and Max steadied his cup.

  Pilot drained his coffee and exhaled. “There has always been this habit among men,” he said, “to take humans out of the equation. The internet is the epitome of that habit.”

  “Dehumanized systems are efficient, I guess,” said Max.

  “I used to believe humans were the problem,” said Pilot. “We all did. I thought tech could do everything humans could do, but faster and safer and cheaper. Need a cab? Use your phone. Need a fridge, need a therapist, need a soul mate? Use your phone, no need to talk to a soul. It has become the way of doing things. Investors ask, Will it scale? and the only answer is Yes, once we remove the humans from the equation.”

  They both gazed at the car’s sensor screen, which missed nothing.

  “Then I had a satori,” said Pilot. “A realization.”

  “You realized you were a big robot nerd with social issues?” said Max.

  “Thanks for reducing a life epiphany to a joke,” said Pilot, and laughed. For a moment Max thought he had insulted the man; but Pilot’s laughter was warm and steady as rain, and his eyes danced as if counting the years floating by.

  “I realized,” said Pilot, “that the future I imagined as a child turned out nothing like my dreams. My science-fictional futures still had people at the controls. The Fred Moulds of the world stayed hidden deep in the closet. But no, the future we got was the one where Airlift drivers can kill their fares with impunity.”

  “That shit was so fucked up,” said Max, and they shared a moment of silence.

  They were talking about a series of nine recent murders where Airlift drivers killed the customers they picked up. The drivers were never caught because they all used fake profiles. They all might have been the same person.

  In response, Airlift CEO River Askew released a Things You Can Do online safety guide, while still allowing the creation of fake profiles.

  “Humans are messy as fuck,” said Max. “But they still do the important stuff better than an algorithm.”

  Pilot toasted to that. “I wish I had realized that when I was your age.”

  “When Ah wuz yer age,” said Max.

  A pause.

  “I am continually grateful we met,” said Pilot. “Am I . . . ?”

  Pilot hesitated. Max leaned in.

  “Are you what?” said Max.

  “I was hoping I could be a mentor to someone like you. Am I being a good mentor?”

  “People would kill for a mentor like you,” said Max. “You’re the best.”

  “Whatever comes after this Empty Age,” said Pilot, “you will be there to bring people back into the equation. You will do great things. I know it.”

  “Shut the fuck up, duncie,” said Max, and Pilot shone bright in return.

  I just called Pilot Markham a duncie.

  Max saw the Stonehenge of America and its
carved words: Be fair. Be just. Seek beauty and love.

  The Proton’s dashboard chimed: they were nearing their destination. Max looked up, and through the heavily tinted windows he saw his parents’ street—and spotted a van parked near their house, an outrageous luxury van emblazoned with the Wren logo.

  “Shit, stop the car,” said Max.

  “What is it?”

  “Stopstopstop,” said Max.

  Pilot stopped the car. He looked where Max was looking.

  Pilot smiled at Max. “It looks like Cal Peers may be trying to smoke out that inconsiderate asshole who leaked his Soul Project.”

  Max swallowed a dry lump. “He can’t know it’s me.”

  “Of course not.” Pilot patted Max’s shoulder. “Theoretically, dozens and dozens of people had access to those documents. I suspect his vans are deployed everywhere at this point, a dragnet of surveillance and intimidation.”

  “You think he called the FBI or Homeland Security or whatever?”

  “That would be stooping down to the government for help,” said Pilot. “He probably treats his hunt for Version Zero like he does everything: an engineering problem to be solved with technology. But he can’t know it was you. He doesn’t even know of my involvement.”

  Max squinted at the van. “You and I can’t be seen together.”

  “Mhm.”

  “Can you show me how to do something?” Max drew out his phone.

  “Of course.”

  “How do I check in to some place I’m not?”

  “May I?” said Pilot.

  Pilot was asking for consent, and Max gave it.

  Pilot tapped on Max’s phone and went to a strange internet address, where he downloaded a system-level file Max did not recognize. Once installed, Max found he was now able to set his geographic location manually to anywhere in the world.

  “Dude,” said Max.

  “Check in wherever you want,” said Pilot. “That café seems good.”

  Max did. They waited. The car ticked under the heat of the caroline sun.

  Moments later the Wren van started up and drove away.

  “Motherfuckers,” said Max.

  “They will get theirs,” said Pilot, patting Max on the shoulder.

  “Motherfuckers,” said Max.

  1.19

  Pilot,” said Max. “This is Dad.”

  Dad stood thunderstruck. “You are Pilot Markham.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Pilot.

  “This is the friend I told you about before,” said Max. It was a ridiculous thing to say, because even most normal, nontech people knew who Pilot Markham was.

  “Hello,” said Dad. Then he screamed into the house: “Honey! Max has a guest!”

  He pronounced it ho-knee. He never called Mom honey, except in the presence of gringos.

  Dad turned back to Pilot. “Please, come in.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They sat at the tiny octagonal dining table. Mom brought a clinking pitcher of iced soursop fresco and set it on the table, which wobbled. Dad knelt to tighten the wingnut. He chuffed with effort. He groaned back into his chair before yanking the table to test it: stable.

  It was hot. Dad was sweating lightly. Dad, Max realized, was getting old.

  “Wow,” he said. “It’s an honor to have the great Pilot Markham in my house.”

  Dad looked at Max with this gleeful sort of incredulity: How . . . ?

  “Well,” said Pilot in a voice so warm as to be almost baritone, “it really is an honor to be working side by side with a brilliant young man like Mister Max. Your son is brilliant, you know, Mister . . . ?”

  “Ulises,” said Dad. “This is my wife, Penelope.”

  Pilot raised his eyebrows. “Ulysses and Penelope? That’s incredible.”

  “It was written,” said Dad, and he gave Mom’s hand a squeeze. Mom, ever the traditionalist, smiled and went to the living room to let the men do their talking.

  “We just came by to pick up a few things for an overnight,” said Max.

  “I am flying Mister Max and the team out to Glass Island for a retreat,” said Pilot.

  Dad’s eyes flashed big, one time. He was impressed. Bewildered, but impressed. Max felt himself wanting to cry. There was the golden glow of pride in Dad’s eyes—a big pride, the pride of a lifetime’s work: America, my son, coil spring factory, Pilot Markham.

  “Can I ask what you are working on?” said Dad with jazz hands, a gesture he saved for when he was nervous. “Or is it top secret?”

  Max smiled into his soursop and cast Pilot a sidelong glance.

  “Uh,” said Max.

  “Mister Max is making the world a better place,” said Pilot. “The entire planet will feel his impact. That is unfortunately all I can say for now. He is defining a new era.”

  I am? thought Max. I guess I am.

  “A new era,” said Dad.

  Pilot’s phone buzzed. It was a strange buzz, more like the sound of knuckles cracking, as if the device contained cartilage.

  “This is our flight calling,” said Pilot. “Excuse me.”

  With Pilot in the hall murmuring to his phone, Max and Dad had the room to themselves. Dad leaned in over his drink and whispered.

  “God in heaven, Flaco, how did you meet up with the world’s richest man?”

  “Dad, he’s not the richest.”

  “Well, almost.”

  “I guess.”

  “How much are you getting?”

  “Dad.”

  “A man like him, it has to be a lot.”

  “Dad, we haven’t talked money or anything. It’s not about the money.”

  “Well, talk to him. Don’t forget. Don’t be afraid to ask for a lot.”

  “Dad.”

  “What, it’s a huge opportunity. It could mean a ranchito for us three, Flaco.”

  Max really wanted to cry now. Dad was being impossible, but he was also right. Max had read something once about immigrants, how they come wanting a better life and how their kids wind up taking that better life for granted, and lo, a generation gap is born. Here Max was trying to tell Dad that money did not matter; here was Dad trying to tell Max that money was everything: money meant security and freedom and rest for weary bodies that had seen too much toil and violence.

  Max felt the heavy commingled surge of guilt and gratitude and irritation that all children of immigrants feel, and he also saw the fantasy those same children see from time to time: the fantasy of handing a set of brand-new house keys to parents screaming with joy.

  A ranchito on the top floor of the great Masada of Playa Mesa would be a thing for sure. It would be the biggest thing-thing ever.

  The glass of soursop smelled so sweet and cold, citrusy fresh with the faintest dusty hint of freezer burn from ice cubes left unused for too long.

  “I’ll talk to him about money,” said Max.

  “Promise, Flaco.”

  “I promise.”

  Hands clasped his, and Max looked up to see Dad’s face crinkled with open hope. He wasn’t being cautious, or coy, or anything. Just bearing all his hope for Max to see.

  Footsteps approached, and Dad’s hands sprang away.

  “We are good for takeoff,” said Pilot, reappearing.

  He looked at Max and Dad with a thin gray smile.

  “Max is lucky to have parents like you,” said Pilot. “I wish I had a dad like you.”

  Dad smiled. “I’m sure your parents did a great job.”

  “Eh, they got blown up by a bomb.”

  Dad’s smile went slack. “Oh.”

  Mom had come just in time to hear the words blown up by a bomb and froze.

  “Shall we?” said Pilot to Max.

  * * *

  * * * />
  Max packed a backpack, and the four of them now stood on the front porch in the blinding afternoon light.

  “Have fun,” said Dad.

  “Very be careful,” said Mom.

  The three of them hugged. Max sensed the awkwardness of Pilot fidgeting nearby. So Max said:

  “Come on, Mister Pilot, get in here.”

  Pilot joined them, and the four of them hugged and laughed at how funny and exciting this situation was.

  Max and Pilot took their leave. Mom and Dad tended to wave all the way until their guests were out of sight, so Max and Pilot waved and waved back at them, and Mom and Dad waved and waved and smiled big smiles until Max and his mentor Pilot reached a far corner.

  “Very be careful,” shouted Mom.

  1.20

  Our hearts go out to all the loved ones affected by the tragic recent losses involving our innocent ridership. Safety is our top concern at Airlift, and we would like to take this opportunity to communicate simple things you can do to ensure your safety when using an Airlift-provided taxi or lodging.

  1. Make sure your phone is always charged and transmitting your GPS location at all times.

  2. In a car, never sit next to the driver; sit in the opposite rear seat in case you need to make a quick exit. Make sure child lock is not turned on. If it is, ask the driver to turn it off.

  3. Before you enter a car, take pictures of the license plate, the driver, and the make and model and send them to your friends.

  4. Text, call, and post with friends on your phone during a car ride to let the driver know you are not alone.

  5. If the driver starts acting in a disturbing manner, exit the car at the next intersection, preferably one with lots of people around.

  6. Upon arrival at a lodging, knock on the door first and watch from a distance for ten minutes before entering.

  7. Begin shooting video as you enter a lodging. A livestream to your friends is even better, if local bandwidth allows.