Chapter Text
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1/31/1997
Against a canvas of white noise, celebratory searchlights beamed into the dingy high-rise apartment. The messy room was bathed in cyan, then magenta, and then yellow. The searchlights drew Spamton’s attention to his overflowing, bug-infested Recycle Bin and the piles of folders and unsold wares that made it difficult to walk in a straight line. He got up from his office chair, pulled the curtains, and sat back down. The only source of light that remained was the CRT monitor in front of him, which buzzed with the same cadence as the bugs.
It was cold in the apartment, even with a jacket on. Now that the holidays were over, the white noise was more of a nuisance than anything else. January was a somber month. Once the clock struck twelve and the champagne bottle popped, there was nothing to look forward to but a blank calendar page and long nights of static snow.
The snow wasn’t the only thing that was static. Spamton gripped his mouse, and every few seconds, he refreshed his web page’s daily hit counter.
Hits: 63.
Refresh.
Hits: 64.
Refresh.
Hits: 65.
At first, Spamton thought he was gaining views at a steady rate. Then, it dawned on him that every single one of those hits was from him. The Lightners didn’t want to check out his “HOT DEAL$” or register for his mailing list; they didn’t want to click here, there, or anywhere, assuming they even knew Spamton’s web page existed.
He relented. Staring bleary-eyed at his hit counter was just making him more miserable than he already was. Spamton scrolled to the top of the page and laughed darkly. Customers were ignoring his ads and sales were slipping through his fingers, and he just didn’t know what he was doing wrong. He didn’t get it. There was clearly a demand for his services—people should have been flocking to register!
Spamton absently navigated to CNN (Cyber News Network) and was bombarded by flashy banner ads and sidebar ads and pop-up ads linking to fellow Addisons’ domains. He wasn’t even safe checking his own e-mail: his inbox was chock-full of Addison ads. On-line, their presence was unavoidable. They were marketing moguls, while Spamton couldn’t even sell something he was giving away for free.
Due to his lack of sales, Spamton was strapped for cash. He couldn’t afford for his ads to be plastered all over the internet like the Addisons’ were—but how was he to sell products and acquire funds if he had no means of attracting potential customers? How were Lightners even supposed to find his web page? He was stuck in a pathetic cycle, and it was unlikely he’d ever get out without doing something daring, like taking out a hefty loan. Business was all about taking risks, wasn’t it?
But Spamton was set in his ways, and he liked playing it safe. He wished he could just look up the secret to success on a search engine, but any results such a query would retrieve were surely nothing more than scams. Nobody was going to make a fool out of Spamton G. Spamton. He knew every trick in the book, because that book was his scripture. He just didn’t know how to read between the lines.
Spamton couldn’t just throw in the towel and start over in a different field. As a Darkner, he had been created with a purpose, and that purpose was to be a salesman. He couldn’t betray his programming and challenge the status quo—Darkners, generally speaking, didn’t have the luxury of choice. The only way Spamton could achieve happiness was by being successful in his ordained calling.
If only he had a chance.
He gritted his wooden teeth as he checked off every last e-mail and designated them as spam, just like he did every night. Then, he clicked the back button twice, returning him to his own web page.
Hits: 66.
Before Spamton had a chance to even register an emotion, a window popped up on the screen and a stilted, artificial voice blared from his speakers: “CONGRATULATIONS, YOU WON!”
Spamton flailed and rolled backwards in his chair. Once he had calmed down a little—his heart was still beating fast—he readjusted his seat and glowered at his monitor. A pop-up on his own web page? Truly nothing was sacred. The Addisons—likely out of pity—had given Spamton the privilege of hosting their ads on his web page, but a pop-up ad was a step too far. It didn’t look like anything any of the Addisons had put out, though, chiefly because it wasn’t actually advertising anything. It almost seemed like a half-baked imitation of some sort of offer that had been generated by a rogue AI.
Spamton guided his cursor toward the X button, and only then did he notice the text in the title bar. Now was his chance to be a… what, exactly? It could have been anything, but something compelled him to fill in the blanks.
A big shot.
Spamton couldn’t bring himself to close the window. He couldn’t look away from the pop-up—but the more he looked at it, the more questions he had. All of its elements were either in conflict with each other, or made no sense at all. He didn’t know what “null value” meant, but he found it unsettling. It made him feel as though something was wrong. Something felt off about the juxtaposition of the cryptic text and the cheery graphic, too, along with the discrepancy between the different sections of text. It seemed to be built on the assumption that the recipient would click it without thinking, and as such, it didn’t need to be anything more than a rough approximation of something legitimate.
Nevertheless, the graphic’s friendly veneer lured Spamton’s cursor toward the hyperlink, but he pried his fingers from the mouse before he could click down. His rational, web-savvy side knew it was a scam, and a lousy one at that. Spamton didn’t even know why he was going through the motions of convincing himself of such. Yet, his cursor still hovered over the link, and his index finger hovered over the left mouse button. There was something hypnotic about the text; the mantric words almost seemed to extend from the screen like something out of a 3-D movie. No: those words were alive. Spamton rubbed his weary eyes, but the phantasmagoric effect remained. The words were reaching out and pulling him in, echoing a command he felt he had no choice but to obey.
He couldn’t take it anymore. His finger came down like the blade of a guillotine, executing a program that caused his speakers to erupt with a wailing siren and triggered an explosion of pop-ups across his screen.
Spamton screamed and tumbled out of his chair. The siren was cut off; then, there was a pounding on Spamton’s door. “This sounds like an emergency! But you’re in luck—I am a doctor!” The door flew open and an Ambyu-Lance burst onto the scene. It patted down the wall until it located the light switch, which it proceeded to flip. In the corner of the room, Spamton lay on his back with his legs kicked up against his chair.
The Ambyu-Lance rushed over, knocking over boxes of files and assorted miscellany. It crouched beside Spamton. “Sir! Are you hurt?”
“No, but… the COMPUTER…!”
“What?” The Ambyu-Lance glanced over its shoulder at the monitor, and then looked back at Spamton. “What about the computer?”
With the assistance of the Ambyu-Lance, Spamton got to his feet. “The POP-UP, it—” He gasped. All of the pop-up windows were gone. Had it all just been a figment of his imagination? Perhaps he had drifted off in front of his computer, and the Ambyu-Lance’s wee-wooing had woken him from a fleeting nightmare.
“Never mind,” Spamton said with a defeated sigh. “It was just a bad dream.”
The Ambyu-Lance waggled its finger. “Tut-tut. Clearly you’ve been getting too much screen time if you’re having dreams about being on your computer,” it chided. “Eyestrain is no joke! If you’re not careful, you might end up needing glasses.” It headed for the door, this time taking care not to contribute to the ever-expanding mess. “Now, you ought to power down your computer and get some proper shuteye. Doctor’s orders!”
The door closed, and the siren resumed—but it was slightly softer, like an air horn’s tender rendition of a lullaby. It left Spamton feeling wee-woozy. Once the siren died down and he managed to collect himself, Spamton returned to his computer. His web page was open, just as it had been before the pop-up snafu.
Hesitantly, he clicked refresh.
Hits: 85.
Spamton’s jaw dropped. Was he still dreaming? If it was a dream, he didn’t know if he wanted to wake up. How many minutes had it been since he last checked the hit counter? There was no way so many people could have found his web page in such a short span of time. But that didn’t matter. Finally, he was generating revenue! He couldn’t wait to share the news with the Addisons the next time they met up at the Firewall Grill.
Spamton was wide awake now, as if he had shotgunned a can of java. He sat straight up and clicked refresh again, his partially detached jaw chattering with excitement. Hits: 117.
They just kept coming! Spamton was spellbound, and in that euphoric moment, he had completely forgotten about the pop-up incident—that was, until he managed to pry his attention away from the hit counter and catch a glimpse of the taskbar. The hostile text made him flinch, as did the memory it invoked. He sucked a breath through his teeth and restored the window.
Spamton began to panic. Oh god, was his computer infected? Why hadn’t his antivirus program protected him? It must have been an anti-antivirus virus, and tragically, Spamton had turned down an offer to have an anti-anti-antivirus program installed because he thought his IT guy had a stutter. He grabbed fistfuls of hair as he regarded the screen, eyes darting from one disturbing line of text to another. What was he supposed to do?
It seemed like there was only one thing he could do.
Maybe there actually was a better option, but Spamton was far beyond the point of thinking things through. Regardless, it was just a phone call—what was the worst thing that could happen? He pulled the handset off of the receiver and dialed in the numbers one-by-one. Then, he brought the phone to his ear… and waited. He couldn’t tell if the person on the end had picked up or not; all he could hear was what could only be described as garbage noise—a jumble of static, electronic feedback, and something not entirely synthetic. It droned on uselessly for a frustrating amount of time, trying Spamton’s patience. Why had the wiseguy behind the virus provided a phone number if they had no intention of answering? Was all of this just some kind of practical joke? In that case, what the hell was the punchline? Thinking about it made Spamton want to punch his landline.
He was at the end of his rope. “HELLO?” he bellowed.
The only response he received was a garbled echo: “… HeLLo? …”
Spamton decided to hang up—but before he could return the handset to the receiver, his eardrums were assaulted by the screech of dial-up tones. He had been blasted by sudden loud noises so many times that night that he’d become somewhat desensitized to the surprise; otherwise, he would have thrown the phone halfway across the room. Was he being connected to someone? He stayed on the line, simultaneously intrigued and confused.
Then, there was a click.
“Hello…?” Spamton said, sounding uncharacteristically timid.
He heard what might have been distant murmuring among the garbage noise, as if someone was attempting to talk into the phone from several feet away.
“H-hello?” Spamton repeated. “Is anyone th—”
He was interrupted by a man’s voice, or at least he thought it was a voice—it might’ve just been an electronic anomaly. No: it was definitely a voice, though Spamton couldn’t tell whether it was organic or automated. He focused, straining to isolate words from the background noise.
“ARE W…” It cut out. “… NNECTED?”
“Connected? Yes, we’re connected,” Spamton affirmed. Finally, he was getting somewhere.
“… EXCELLENT.”
That was enough to make Spamton fly into another rage. “EXCELLENT?” he jeered. “Yeah, real EXCELLENT. All of this is just GREAT!” He slammed his fist on his desk, bumping the receiver. “So, BUDDY, you wanna tell me what the HELL is going on here?!”
“EVERYTHING WILL BE EXPLAINED IN DUE TIME. BUT FIRST—”
Spamton was seething. “I don’t have TIME for this crap. I NEED my computer. I’ve got a JOB, you know? And this couldn’t have POSSIBLY happened at a less convenient time! Listen, pal…” He proceeded to talk his ear off about how much of a failure he’d always been, and how he lived in a cheap apartment full of junk he couldn’t sell despite spending every day slaving away in front of his computer. The Addisons were his only friends, but he could never relate to them when they talked about their success; and he was bound to them, because they’d been created for the same purpose. But now, he was finally starting to rake in hits! His stats might have still been small potatoes compared to the Addisons’, but for the first time in Spamton’s pathetic life, things were looking up! … At least, until…
Spamton paused, realizing he’d been ranting for nearly fifteen minutes straight. Was the man on the other end of the phone still there, or had Spamton just been yelling into static the entire time?
“I AM STILL CONNECTED.”
Spamton was taken aback. Had the man read his mind, or was he so invested in Spamton’s story that he wanted to make sure Spamton knew he was listening? In any case, no one—not even his “friends”—was ever willing to lend Spamton an ear. When he spoke about his dreams, the Addisons would just sort of chuckle in the way an adult might react to a child saying they wanted to be an astronaut or a movie star when they grew up. Spamton didn’t want to be anything outrageous, though. He just wanted to be good at what he was made to do—why couldn’t he at least have that? Why didn’t anyone believe in him?
“DO YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF?”
Did Spamton believe in himself? He certainly liked to talk himself up, but did he ever mean any of what he said? Spamton hid his insecurity by pretending to be a wannabe-hotshot with an inflated sense of self-worth. When he was with the Addisons, he acted like a kid trying to fit in at the grown-up table. He didn’t want them to know how depressed he was; he couldn’t let them know.
“I KNOW I’m gonna make it big,” Spamton boasted with the confident duplicity of a used car salesman. “I’m gonna have my CHANCE!”
Spamton heard what might have been laughter, but could have just as easily been something said in a mumble. The man’s shoddy connection made it impossible to tell.
As cathartic as it was to let go of his inhibitions and vent to the man, Spamton was becoming agitated. “That’s enough about me. What’s YOUR deal?”
“MY DEAL?” the man repeated. “YES. I HAVE A VERY SPECIAL DEAL INDEED.”
“That’s not what I—” Spamton froze. “You… want to make a deal with me? But why should I trust you?”
“DO YOU NOT ALREADY?”
Only then did it occur to Spamton just how strange it was to tell a complete stranger—and a stranger who was holding his computer hostage, to boot—all the details of his personal life. He had played right into the stranger’s hands, and now the stranger had plenty of ammo to use against him. Spamton wanted to shove his face into a pillow and scream. That night, January 1st, 1997, was nothing more than a series of blunders and bad decisions—and to think it was only the first day of the year.
The man said, “WILL YOU LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY?”
“If I do, will you tell me what you did to my computer?”
“THAT IS PART OF OUR DEAL, YOU SEE.”
Spamton thought it was awfully presumptive of him to imply that they had already made the deal, whatever that might have entailed. He must have really thought he was making him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The man didn’t sound confident—he sounded certain, and that certainty was manifest in every word he spoke. It was as though he had prior knowledge of what was going to happen, and he was merely setting things in motion. This was no ordinary man, Spamton realized.
And Spamton was curious—very, very curious.
This deal, the man said, would be life-changing. It would make Spamton’s wildest dreams come true. The man had already given Spamton a taste of what to expect—he indicated that the program Spamton had run was responsible for his increase in hits, but did not elaborate beyond this—and he was offering more.
“All right, buddy. What’s the catch?” Spamton queried, drumming his fingertips against his desk. “This all sounds too good to be true. What do you want, my soul? Sorry, I don’t have one.”
“I EXPECT NOTHING IN RETURN. I AM MERELY CONDUCTING AN EXPERIMENT.”
Spamton didn’t know what to make of that. If this was all an experiment, couldn’t that mean that something might go wrong?
… But really, what did he have to lose?
“I UNDERSTAND YOUR APPREHENSION. BUT KNOW THAT YOU WILL BE VERY SATISFIED WITH THE RESULTS.”
Spamton wasn’t sure how his mysterious benefactor intended to help him, but he had already proven himself to be legitimate. Spamton was struggling to come up with reasons not to take the deal.
“Well then, PAL, I guess you have yourself a deal.” Spamton envisioned himself extending the man a handshake through the phone. “So what happens now?” He paused. “Is my computer still at risk? What about my files, are they safe?”
“WORRY NOT. I HAVE DONE NO HARM TO YOUR SYSTEM,” the man said. “WE SHALL PROCEED TOMORROW. I WILL TELL YOU EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW.”
Spamton, holding his phone to his ear with his shoulder, pulled out a stack of sticky notes, copied down the man’s number, and stuck the note on his monitor. He noticed that the warning on the screen was gone. “Gotcha. I’ll call you back first thing in the morning.”
The man did not say anything. The garbage noise peeled away into a disconnect tone, prompting Spamton to place the handset on the receiver.
Tomorrow—that was when his life would change, allegedly. He refreshed his web page one last time, noting a dramatic spike in hits. The change was already taking place. Smiling, Spamton shut down his computer, transferred a couple of boxes from his bed to his chair, lay down, and pulled the covers up to his chin.
This was it, he thought giddily. This was his chance to be a big shot.
All he needed to do was listen.