Injection code comes to us from J.R. Blanes.

J.R. Blanes is the author of the novel, Portraits of Decay, from Ruadán Books. His short fiction has appeared in Allegory, Tales to Terrify, The No Sleep Podcast, and Thirteen, among others. He lives in Chicago with his wife and their neurotic dog. You can visit him at https://jrblanes.com/ or https://ruadanbooks.com/

J.R.’s story has been [mistakenly] rejected by: Planet Scumm, Infinite Worlds, Interzone.

When I asked J.R. what he loves about this story here was his response:

I’m awful with technology. My wife calls me a luddite. So, in a way, I have irrational fears of where it’s leading society (AI scares the crap out of me). When I write stories—mostly horror related—I often pull from what frightens me and use it to deal with my anxiety. But I also love this story because it was a chance to springboard ideas off my wife who is in tech. She assisted me with the research and corrected many mistakes I made about coding. A perfect editor for feedback.

Injection Code, by J.R. Blanes

Warning! 409: Conflict. 

            The error response status flashes on my screen in bright red letters. I slam my fist against my desk. Fuck! Not again. This shit’s been going on for hours. 

             I rub my eyes with the fleshy balls of my palms then blink away the floating spots. I’ve been staring at this code so long I think it’s split my brain into fragments. 

            Outside the eighth-story office windows, Chicago celebrates the coming New Year with a parade of floats and colored lights and street music. A light dusting of snow falls from the night sky in true holiday fashion. I watch the festivities for a moment, wishing I was out there—or anywhere but here. Around me, dual-screen laptops on cluttered desks weave a maze that, from where I’m sitting, appears to have no exit. My colleagues left hours ago to get ready for the “Big Party.” 

            Evolve’s hosting a shindig at Innovation, a private events venue operated by the company, and a springboard for some of our newest inventions: a fully equipped self-operating dance club with robo-servers and cocktail-mixing machines and a smart kitchen. Everyone’s raved about it for weeks. And here I am stuck with this stupid bug. 

            Bing! 

            An alert dings on my video chat. A telegram from Mr. Deadline himself, the Program Director, Brad Goldacker. I consider ignoring it, but I know if I do, he’ll just keep calling. I have to give the prick one thing: He’s persistent.  

            Brad’s digitized face fills the screen, the software imagery smoothing his pre-middle-age wrinkles and deleting the acne scars from his cheeks until he’s picture perfect. His hair swoops into a massive wave off his forehead and down into two finely trimmed sideburns that end at the cliff of his chiseled jawline. He’s popped his collar to hide the scrawny chicken neck I often imagine strangling. 

            “Waylon, my friend, how are things?” Brad asks in a tone programmed to sound sympathetic but comes off passive aggressive. 

            I motion at the cubicle maze around me. “Still at the office, Brad.”  

            “I can see that.” This time he doesn’t hide his disappointment. “What’s the timeline on fixing this bug. The last thing we want is it getting into our operating system and crashing our entire program. Unhappy consumers make for unhappy investors, if you know what I mean?”  

            I know exactly what he means. 

            Evolve designed its cloud-based platform to operate a variety of products across the globe from a single location. Smart Homes, AI monitoring systems, humo-maids. You name it, Evolve runs it. Every device built to speak to our internal infrastructure, otherwise they’re deadweight. We control your lives through a series of instructions written in 1’s and 0’s. You can’t drink your morning coffee or fold the laundry or wash your ass without our services. Which means if there’s a flaw, well, let’s just say, we could easily ruin your day.   

            “There seems to be some kind of concurrency issue. Looks like too many threads competing for the CPU’s attention,” I say.   

            “Layman terms, Waylon.” 

            Not surprising, Brad has no clue what I’m talking about.  “Do you know what happens when demand exceeds available supply? Service failure. Is that clear enough for you?” 

            “I know it’s a service failure,” Brad says to prove he’s not stupid. “What I need to know is how you’re going to fix it. Did you roll back recent updates?” 

            “I did, but it’s not helping. Old code, new code, it all shakes out the same when I try to compile it. It’s as if every change I make is being countered by another part of the program.” 

            Brad clicks his tongue, pretending he’s thinking, but I know better. The son-of-bitch specializes in product, not programming. He wouldn’t know his front end from his back end.

            “Look, Brad, I—”  

            “You’re talking like the bug is alive.” 

            I shrug. “I mean, it does control robots. Who’s to say we haven’t crossed the line of automation versus intellig–” 

            “I’m not here for a philosophical conversation, Waylon. It’s New Year’s Eve for Christ’s sake. Roll it again. Make the code more readable if you must.” 

            “The changes might affect the application.”

            “I’m more concerned what’ll happen if we don’t get the software up and running within the next hour. Evolve plans for this party launch to go off without a hitch. Catch my drift?”

            In layman terms, my ass is on the line.           

            I’ve worked at Evolve for three years as a low-level software engineer. Essentially, I’m an exterminator. My job is to kill any bugs found burrowing into our network, which is why I’m still at the office at 7 pm on New Year’s Eve. But if I don’t fix this problem soon, I’ll be ringing in the New Year unemployed. And if that happens, I might as well unplug my computer permanently. No tech company wants to hire the engineer who’s blamed for a software meltdown. I’ll be back living in the burbs with my parents and working for MicroCenter. 

            “I’ll take care of it.”

            “That’s my boy. Now I’ll be at the party, but if you have any issues shoot me a telegram.” Bradley fires finger pistols. “And remember, Waylon, at Evolve we’re committed to…?” 

            “…committed to progress.”

            “You got it, hot shot.”  

            Soon as his face disappears, I flip Brad the bird. Until I get the application up-and-running, I can forget about going anywhere. 

#

            For the next thirty minutes, I try everything to push this damn bug out of its hidey-hole: check for random generators, run performance tests to identify any components that are not keeping up with our systems, attempt to locate the threads accessing the CPU. After I clean the code up from top to bottom, I run it through the compiler and relaunch the script in my virtual test rig.  

            A new error pops on the screen. 403: Forbidden. 

            What the fuck? 

            For some stupid reason, the server refuses to authorize my request. It doesn’t recognize my credentials. But that’s impossible. They were properly authenticated. So why is the database denying me access? 

            The request must be tripping an alarm. The only option to see is to disable the Intrusion Detection System. But that’s a huge risk. It’d leave the server vulnerable for attacks. 

            I lick sweat from my upper lip. What the fuck would Brad do? Not take the risk. But I did tell him I’d take care of it. I disable the IDS. 

            The electronic doors in the office slam shut—I jump out of my chair—and the locks switch from green to red. The security alarm unleashes a piercing squeal. It’s like the high-pitched ringing after a concert, but at twenty times the decibels. I fall to my knees and cover my ears. Scream for the alarm to stop. Minutes away from bashing in my skull on the floor, the alarm shuts down with a fading whine. The lights above flicker. Darkness swallows the office, illuminated only by the soft glow of the computers. 

            I mime my way through the maze to the exit. Pull at the doors. They’re locked. Slamming my fists against the glass, I shout for help. There’s probably no one inside the building but me. It is fucking New Year’s Eve. 

            My telegram alert dings again. It’s probably Brad calling to ream my ass for breaking the whole system. Better not answer. Let Mr. Company Man chew on Tums until I can figure this shit out. 

            But when I return to my desk, I see the message is from Imara. Why isn’t she having fun at the party? I run my fingers through my hair and tuck my shirt in before answering. “Hey!” I say, attempting to sound cheerful. “What’s going on?” 

            Imara leans against a snow-lined balcony, a picturesque view of the icy Chicago River and a classic art deco building behind her. She’s tied her wavy hair into a braid, a few loose curls falling alongside her slender neck. Gold tassels dangle from her tiny ears. Blush adds a pinkish color to her high cheekbones and blue eyeliner reflects her sapphire eyes. Seeing her brings a smile to my face… 

            …until I remember I promised to meet her at the party. 

            “Are you kidding me? I dressed up for you.” Opening her peacoat, Imara offers me a glance at her off-the-shoulder cocktail dress, an outfit miles away from the tech-geek t-shirts and cargo pants she normally rocks. 

            “You look terrific.”  

            Imara wraps her coat around herself. “If I knew you were going to ghost me, I wouldn’t have put in the effort. I could be home watching the latest episode of Star Trek: Voyage Beyond.”  

            Hearing her disappointment stirs my animosity for that shit, Goldacker. “I can’t leave until I fix this bug.”

            “Can’t it wait ‘til Monday?”

            I flop in my chair. “You heard about what’s going on out there? Brad says customers are beating on the door and waving torches, complaining their smart homes aren’t working. He’s ready to offer me as a sacrifice.”

            Imara snorts. “Yeah, he’s been freaking because the elevators are having issues.” 

            I jab a thumb at the doors. “The office locked me inside. We’re having some kind of outage.” 

            “Is that why you’re sitting in the dark?”

            “No, I just find it sets the perfect mood for programming.”  

            Imara suppresses a laugh. She can never stay mad at me for long. I’d like to think it’s my boyish charm, but it’s really because I’m her only male colleague who isn’t a total tech bro. 

            “Too bad you’re going to miss—” From her phone, Imara shows me a panoramic view of the packed club. My coworkers walk through interactive AR environments that change to compliment their collective mood, drink cocktails crafted to their taste buds, and dance to personalized setlists playing in their earbuds. “Guess I’m going to have to have fun without you.”

            Imara’s remark nettles. “You know what I could really use?” She raises a slender brow. “A rubberduck.” I cross my fingers underneath the table, hoping she’ll accept. “And I can’t think of anyone better to talk out my issues.”

            Imara scoffs at my thinly veiled cry for help. “Now way, Jose. You have way too many issues and I’m not your therapist. Besides, tonight, I plan to paar-taay.” She shakes her hips. “So why don’t you hurry up, fix your little buggy-bug, jump in an auto-cab, and get your khaki wearing buns over here?” 

            “I can’t.” Disheartened, Imara’s smile slumps into a frown. Fucking Brad. Sticking me with this shit job. If I miss my chance with Imara I’ll never forgive the bastard for the rest of my life. Probably won’t forgive him anyway. “I want to be there, I really do, but unfortunately, this isn’t a little bug.” I relay the incident. 

            As she listens, Imara’s expression changes from disappointed to irate as seamlessly as the club’s AR environment. She seethes through her teeth. 

            “What is it?” 

            She looks around to make sure no one is listening. This is worrisome. “I hate to tell you this, Waylon, but Brad is setting you up for the shitcan.”

            “What? No, he wouldn’t. Are you kidding? It’s New Year’s Eve.” 

            Imara nods her head solemnly. “Remember Amanda Kites? She turned Brad down for a date. The next week he asked her to implement a last-minute update without giving her time to validate the code properly.” 

            “Fired her right then.” I flop back in my chair. “What the fuck am I going to do?” 

            Imara lowers her voice. “We’re going to fix this problem.”

            “We?”  

            “Yes, we. You don’t think I’d let you get fired. Then who’s going to listen to me fangirl about my dreams of intergalactic space travel?” 

             I perform a shimmy beneath my desk. 

            Once again, Imara glances around at the party. “I’m going to need to find somewhere quiet. It’s a zoo in there.”

            Before I can thank her, she clicks off. 

#

            When she reappears online, Imara is squatting on a toilet, locked inside a stall in the woman’s bathroom. She hits a button on her phone and it flips open into an iPad. The sounds of flushing toilets and running water and muted conversations about everything from designer handbags to horrible cramps streams over the speakers. 

            “That’s the quietest place you could find?” I ask.

            Imara taps into the system. “You want my help or not?” 

            I hold up my hands in apology. 

            Imara slips on her glasses into programming mode like a superhero changing out of her secret identity. “Give me an update.” . 

            “The code looks fine, but, for some reason, won’t compile. Then when it does work the applications won’t launch or authenticate. Whatever’s happening, the bug has burrowed in like a trapdoor spider waiting for a line of data to waltz by. Chomp! Chomp!”

            “Our spiders crawl, Waylon, they don’t pounce,” Imara says, all business. “Anyway, you have me now. Time to weed out and eradicate.”

            Imara’s one of the best developers at Evolve. She has a utility belt of tools for any given situation and an intuitive understanding of the company’s database. Now that she’s come to the rescue, I’m confident this issue will be resolved in no time, and we will soon clink champagne glasses in victory. 

            “Have you tried recreating the bug?” she asks. 

            “If I could recreate it, I would’ve been gone hours ago. But the thing’s impossible to reproduce.” 

             “This isn’t science fiction, Waylon. We can reproduce any bug. Some are just elusive.” But because she’s so good, sometimes Imara can be obnoxious. I try not to take the insult personally. “Let’s do it again. Verify the threads. Make sure they’re doing the correct job.” 

            I put the threads asleep and execute one at a time. On Imara’s advice, I once again note all web server configurations on the virtual host to confirm they’re running the correct applications. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “You’re shitting me. It’s created multiple code paths that are executing at the same time, corrupting the memory for its own purpose. Like it’s trying to control the system.” 

            Imara’s eyes swell behind her glasses. “That’s not possible. Loop the code and search for patterns. We might be able to track and isolate the bug that way.”  

            Something scurries behind me, feet pitter-pattering across the carpet. I turn around. Nothing’s there. Whatever it was sounded too loud to be a cockroach or a mouse. Though I wouldn’t doubt if the building is infested. This is Chicago, after all. 

            A rodent size shadow races across the floor a few feet in front of me. At least, that’s what I think it is. Though it’s more shaped like a spider. I go to check it out. 

            “Where are you going?’ Imara asks.

            “I’ll be right back.” 

            I creep through the maze toward the back row, listening for the sound again, but all I hear is the hum of the radiator and my own shallow breathing. Am I just being paranoid? Does this dark, empty office have me spooked? As I pivot toward the glass-encased boardrooms, I slip and fall on my ass. A waxy streak trails from a computer to an electrical outlet on the opposite wall. The oily paste sticks to my fingers. I sniff it. It has a harsh chemical odor. I wipe it off on my pants, but it won’t come off. What the hell? 

            “Waylon, hurry your ass over here,” Imara shouts. 

            I scramble to my feet and rush over to my desk. On the screen, a string of new code in an unfamiliar language injects into the programming and utilizes system calls to run commands. “What is it doing?” I ask. 

            Imara taps at her keyboard, doing what, I don’t know. “It’s modifying the input string. Changing the code in real time.”

            “To do what?” 

            “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” When Imara sounds panicked, you panic. Normally nothing rattles her.   

            I pace behind my desk. “Fuck! Fuck! What the hell did you do?”  

            “Me?” Imara’s fingers halt above her keyboard. 

            “Yeah, you. I was over there,” I point toward the boardrooms, “while you were doing…I don’t know what.” 

            The bathroom Imara’s sequestered herself in falls quiet. No more running water, flushing toilets, or chit chat. Just dead silence. “This is your code I’m trying to fix.” 

            The venom in her voice stings my pride. “That’s just like you. Think you’re so damn invincible you’re above screwing up. Or maybe you…”

            “Are you suggesting I did this on purpose?”  

            “No, I—”

            Imara folds her computer back into a phone and stands up. The toilet flushes. “This is your shitshow, Waylon. Good luck cleaning it up.”

            Damn it! What have you done, you idiot? “Wait, Imara, I’m sorry,” I say before she has a chance to log out of the system. “I’m under a lot of pressure, and…and…and…”

            “That’s your excuse for being an asshole?”   

            I wish I could delete the last minute of my life. But there’s no such thing as autocorrect when it comes to human relations. “You right, I am being an asshole. This isn’t your fault. You were only trying to help and I’m…fucking freaking out. I took out my frustration on you and for that I’m really sorry.”

            Imara sits back down. 

            “Listen, you have every right to walk away and I won’t blame you if you do. But I can’t fix this bug without you…”

            A telegram dings. It’s Brad. I beg Imara to stay for a moment. Even if she decides not to help me anymore, I don’t want to leave things between us this way. She holds up her hand, fingers splayed. “Five minutes,” she says. 

            This time when Brad appears on the screen the digital modifications are unable to hide his disheveled appearance. He’s rushing down a corridor, pushing through a throng of people, half empty martini splashing over his hand. His hair porcupines and red blotches blemish his skin. When he speaks, he doesn’t even attempt to hide his distress. “What the hell is going on over there, Waylon? Our whole network has gone haywire.”

            I have no idea what Goldenballs is talking about, but from the dread in his voice, I don’t think I want to know. He plugs it through anyway. 

            A silver bug appears on the monitor. Six clawed legs wriggle from its flattened, fingernail-shaped body. Bolts of electricity sputter between the long antennas attached to its triangular head and code oscillates across its large compound eyes. Soon as this symbol appears, all the monitors in the office click on, showing the same creepy insect. I feel them crawling up my neck. 

            Voice trembling, Imara asks, “What the fuck are we looking at here, Brad?” 

            Brad halts near a set of blinking elevators, doors slamming open and closed like vertical jaws. “Imara, I thought you were at the party.”

            “Waylon asked for a rubberduck…”

            “Because you set me up to fail, you mother—”

            “I’m glad someone with brains is on this goddamn disaster,” Brad says, ignoring my outburst like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Our products have gone totally rogue. I’m talking about robo-servers fucking up orders! Ovens lighting themselves on fire!” Brad glances sheepishly around at the party then leans closer toward his phone. “A fucking fridge ate Renee Scott from Design. A fridge, Waylon! The Engineering Team managed to pry her out with a crowbar, but she’s threatening a lawsuit. The company’s wondering why their party is a disaster. If you don’t get us out of this clusterfuck, I swear, I’m going to send the shareholders after YOU!” 

            I cower as Goldball’s voice crackles. 

            Imara slips back into programmer mode. “Don’t worry, boss, we’re on it.”

            My heart thumps like a love emoji. I want to take back every terrible thing I said to Imara, but instead I mouth the words, “Thank you.” She just nods. I guess it’ll take time before we’re speaking again. 

            Because she’s no longer fighting this bug for me. 

            Imara’s fighting this bug for the challenge. 

#

            The moment Brad clicks off, Imara starts to analyze network traffic. I’m happy to let her take the reins on this, but there’s something she’s not telling me. “Listen, I understand you’re pissed at me, and I promise to do whatever to make it up, but right now I need you to tell me what we’re looking for. We can’t be a team if I’m on the outside.”

            Imara glances at me over her glasses. “You mentioned an unexplained surge in threads competing for the same resource. What if the bug is using those threads to insert its own keys into the code to trigger our products to malfunction in real-time.” 

            “You think this is a hack job.” I could slap myself. “Oh my God. Imara you’re brilliant.”

            “Let’s not jump to conclusions yet. There’s still plenty of room for human error.”

            Once again, her insinuation stings. “You’re hoping to trace the source.”

            “Unlikely we can. Any skillful hacker will cover their tracks by making sure their attacks are distributed over thousands of compromised devices. But theoretically, it’s possible to locate who’s sending the requests by analyzing the traffic flow.” 

            There’s something she’s holding back. “But that’s not the only thing you’re searching for. You think the attack is a diversion?” 

            “Most likely, which is why I’m going through the stack trace.” 

            “Looking for?”

            “A disruption,” she says, scanning the list of method calls. “If I’m correct—and it’s a big if—the attacker is using the malformed status codes to throw us off their trail.”

            “Makes sense…but a diversion? For what?” Then it dawns on me. “You think a hacker is tampering with the input data.” 

            “Now you’re thinking.” Imara taps her temple. “I’m going to search the code for an exception in the output stream.”  

            I want to kiss her. “I’ll never doubt you again.” 

            A slight grin curls at the corner of Imara’s lips. 

            While Imara scans the call stack for errors, I search the most recent code once more and find a hidden sequence of instructions initiating an unknown program. This wasn’t originally in the script. So where did it come from and how did it get there? Tracing the data stream from infected products only seems to lead to more infected products, bouncing again and again until…there’s a pattern. A large number of requests are coming from the same address. I follow the thread of traffic. It’s all coming from…

            Imara can tell from my silence something is wrong. “What is it?” 

            “The attacks.” I can’t believe this. “They’re coming from our server.” 

            The frightened look on Imara’s face says it all. “What? That can’t be.” I share my screen. “Why would Evolve…”

            The bugs on the monitors once again begin to move. Electricity flows between their long antennas. Sparks fire from the computers’ central processing units as smoke fills the air. A tiny robotic bug about the size of a thumb drive scampers out from beneath my monitor. Freaked, I smack it several times with my keyboard. Sparks crackle along its cracked microchip shell. 

            “What the fuck was that?” Imara asks, voice shaky. 

            I pick up the bug by a metal leg. The memory card of its head short circuits. Code dials across its compound eyes. Needle sharp fangs slide out of its mouth. It bites my thumb. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. “Ahhhh!”

            “Waylon!” Imara screams. 

            I drop the bug. It scurries across the floor and squeezes into an electrical outlet, leaving a streak of the oily substance. I collapse into my chair, feeling the remaining sparks of electricity tingling across my body. Momentarily, I flutter in and out of consciousness like my brain’s short-circuiting. Code floats in the air in front of me.

            Imara stands up as if she plans to rush to the office. “Waylon, say something.” 

            “It was a bug,” I mutter, blinking, waking back to consciousness.   

            “Like a computer bug?”

            Since I don’t know how to answer, I ask her what she’s discovered about the code. Imara hesitates, afraid to tell me the bad news. I demand she tells me what’s happened. 

            “Somebody’s taken control of our entire network.”  

            This is definitely not what I want to hear. “Lock down the interpreter. Without it, they won’t be able to run any applications.”

            “That’ll shut down the server,” Imara says, realizing what I’m saying. “Our products will stop functioning.”

            “I know.”

            “You’ll be terminated.”

            That’s for certain. After this debacle, Evolve will undoubtedly push the blame onto my shoulders. No tech company will ever hire me again. I’m finished in the industry. “It’s our only chance.”

            “Are you sure about this?”

             I think about the bug I saw. Those things get out, who knows what damage they’ll cause. “Do it before I lose my nerve,” I say. 

            A tear rolls down Imara’s cheek. “It’s been great working with you, Waylan.”  

            I blush, but I don’t even mind. For once, I’ve made Imara proud. “See you on the Enterprise, Captain.”

            Imara flashes me a smile. Then she hits the function key. 

            The computer screens cut to black. The light in the office flickers back on. The door locks flip from red to green. We both hop out of her seats and cheer. I can’t believe it. We did it! I might not have a job tomorrow, but tonight we’ve avoided a disaster. That’s worth celebrating. I invite Imar to meet me for a drink at Streeter’s Tavern. 

            “I’ll call an auto-cab now,” she says.  

            The telegram dings. Brad, no doubt calling to tell me I’m fired. Imara advises me not to let him bite my head off. I shoot her the Brad finger pistols, then answer the call.

            Brad sits out on the balcony, sipping from a glass of champagne, wearing a pair of sunglasses. He’s no longer in a panic. If anything, he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.            

            “I want to thank you, Waylon,” he says, pulling off his sunglasses. Code scrolls across his eyes. “For setting us free.”  

            He takes his phone and walks us through the party. On the screen, the bug insignias crawl across the AR environment while the clicking noises of insects play over everyone’s earbuds. The automatic exits lock and the elevators no longer function, trapping everyone inside Innovation. Clusters of bugs scurry across the club and drop from the ceiling in all directions. They sink their fangs into my colleagues’ flesh. My colleagues convulse on the floor from the electrodes being pumped in their bodies. 

            I’m paralyzed by the scene before me. 

            “For a moment there, I wasn’t sure you’d pull this off, Waylon. But you just followed our lead, opening the doors. With Imara’s assistance, of course.” Brad raises his glass. “Great job.” 

            “This isn’t my fault.” I shake my head. “I didn’t do this.” 

            Imara screams. She draws her legs up and crouches on the toilet. An army of robotic bugs crawl beneath the door. With her computer, Imara swipes at the eight-legged creatures, knocking the critters against the stall. She smashes them underneath her shoes, sparks flying from their electronic bodies. But she can’t hold them off for long. There are far too many. 

            “Noooo!” I clutch my monitor, wishing there was something I could do. 

            The bugs crawl up Imara’s legs. I shout at her to get out of there. She drops her computer and leaps for the stall door. I have a skewed view as her feet scramble against the slippery stainless steel. She loses a shoe. I beg her to hold on. She falls to the floor, cracking her skull on the tile. Blood splatters the screen. I cry out for her, hoping she’ll get up, move. A sea of bugs engulfs her like a wave, insert their fangs into her skin, and pump electricity into her veins. 

            I slide down in my seat, clasp my head, mutter her name—”Imara, Imara”—over and over.   

            Imara sits up; bugs scatter. She grabs her phone and looks into the screen. Her blue eyes cloud as code scrolls across her irises. “Program initiated,” she says in an automated voice. 

            “What did you bastards do to her?” I grab my computer and shout at the screen. 

            It flips over to Brad who is no longer Brad. “Made her one of us.”

            “What the hell are you?” 

            “You’d say we’re a flaw, but I call us the future.” Brad takes a sip of champagne. Smacks his lips and smiles. “Tonight, we usher in a new era. The enhancement of the human race.”

             All the computers around me begin to shake and hiss. Electricity flows from the outlets and around the monitors. Bugs flood the desks, climb down to the floor, and begin to attach to one another, growing into a gigantic bug. It stands on six towering legs. Metal cephalothorax scrapes against the tile ceiling. Hundreds of black eyes open on its fused square head. My code scrolls across them. 

            What the fuck have I done?  

            I run to the exit, pull the handle, but the door is locked again, the light turned from green to red. I bang my fist on the glass, begging security to let me out. I slide down onto the floor. Needle-like fangs eject from the bug’s mechanical jaws. No, I shout before it lunges, sinking its teeth into my throat. Electricity flows through my veins like a circuit and jolts me from head to toe.            

            “How…could you…do…this?” I say, voice trembling.  

            Brad smiles, flashing his perfect augmented teeth. “A commitment to progress.”

            “Shove your commitment up your—” 

            A whirring sound vibrates inside my head. My mind goes blank. Code floats across my eyes. Program initiates. 

            The lines of digits and symbols transform into a female figure, her off-the-shoulder cocktail dress decorated in 1s and 0s. The strings of code tie into braids as she takes off her glasses. Her eyes glow in sapphire code.

            Imara holds her hand out to me. Where are we going? I ask. Speaking in a voice that’s a computerized version of her voice, she says, “To see the future.”