John had worn through the calluses on his fingertips, they were all raw. He had finally started the compiler program routine to encrypt his code. He had combined his mission with his skills, creating a combined purposeful set of characters and symbols. A code never before created that only he and his computer would understand. It had taken more than fourteen hours straight to connect the peer-to-peer network he had secretly built the last seven years. He knew he often lost track of time when he was engrossed in the code. It wasn’t the work, it was his mission that enabled him. He was proud of what he was doing, although no one knew it was him, nor would they likely be proud if they knew. He leaned back in his chair, it made the noise any well-worn chair makes. The sound from the chair was the only noise outside the cooling fans from his computer. He had been working it non-stop.

Leaning back, he realized what he had done. The compiler would take a few minutes, even with the best computer you could buy, and the fastest broadband connection available. With this new implementation of his surveillance software, the face recognition software would timestamp the location every four seconds. He’d be able to track everyone’s location inside buildings. Everyone.

The compiler was getting faster even with more data sources. John had added more sources from the spread of his malware, now more than seven years old, since he visited Silicon Valley as a younger, naive boy. He recently updated the global network code to version seven hundred forty-three. It would be a record for software revisions if he would tell anyone about what he’s been doing. He is the only one that knows.

John took a conscious, purposeful, deep breath, stretched a bit and the compiler progress bar said 42% done. He closed his eyes. His brain always went its own direction whenever he even gave himself the privilege to relax, even if just for a few minutes.

Although it was years ago, as if it was yesterday he could hear the wheels of his bike spinning, it was dark and the sidewalk was bumpy. The air was moist from the morning dew and the sidewalk was slippery from the sprinklers only run in a wealthy neighborhood where he delivered papers. Although sitting in the same chair the last five years, as a twenty-nine-year-old adult, in complete darkness, John could feel the bumps of the sidewalk, the smell of the air from nearly twenty years ago, as if it was now, and the constant urgency of delivering papers on time. He felt ten years old again, even if just for the next few minutes.

His mind took him there. No matter where it started, whether in the early nineties delivering papers, or trying to change the world today, it went quickly to his never-ending altruistic desire to make things right. This other voice was always there, when he relaxed, it tried to take over. It sometimes succeeded. John knew it well, it was the real him. It is what he wanted to be. Over the last twenty years, after being diagnosed with Comorbid disorders at the age of ten. He remembered them telling his mother he had two problems, a possibly dangerous combination of the misunderstood Asperger Syndrome and equally confusing Schizoaffective disorder. He learned first to manage these problems, then he started to use them to his advantage. He felt normal, but his parents were concerned, and then his doctor, then a team of doctors, seemed at a loss. They labeled him. John knew even at ten, he didn’t like the label. He was just himself. He believed that things should be right and he was compelled by the supposed voice in his head to take action. He didn’t like any of the doctors either, but they had been part of the court order. His parents had no choice.

The compiler progress was now at 83%.

Sitting in his chair, he could still hear the wheels of his Schwinn bicycle spinning. He would always try and throw the papers perfectly. If he missed, he would stop and try again. His brain would tell him, compel him, command him, to do it right. He didn’t see it as a disease it was initially called or a disorder it was later called to soften the blow, he saw it as a requirement. The requirement to do things right. He wished everyone then, and since then, would do the same. Do the right thing. He didn’t know why he was different, but he was glad he was. He liked who he was, even if most people didn’t.

He liked being John now, and Pauly then. Paul was the name his mother gave him. He remembered a great childhood, always on his bike, free to do what he wanted. The doctors were there, but not during the summer. It was great of course until the ‘thing’ happened. That is what his mom always called it, the thing. She always tried to soften the blow. He remembered her for the first time being really upset with him.

He ran up the thin walkway towards the house as quick as his ten-year-old legs could go. He found the rolled-up newspaper he accidentally threw in the bushes at the large white house. He exited the large bushes, he was wet and covered with the bushes needles. That is when he heard the screams. A woman from in the home, even at the early hour, with the sun rising but yet to break the horizon, was screaming. Someone was hurting her and she was begging them to stop. He realized he was at the house of the fat kid on his baseball team. His mom always had worn long sleeves on the hottest days and the other parents would judge her. John had heard the whispers but didn’t know what they all meant. He didn’t know what domestic violence meant, it was an adult term and only said in hushed tones. Everyone seemed to know what was happening, but no one did anything. Standing with the paper in his hand, John now knew what was happening. She was being beaten by her husband, as he stood there, now hiding, concealed by the same bush that soaked him. He knew then, he needed to do something. The first thing he did is let his other voice take over.

The compiler was now at 96%. The computer fans were barely keeping up with the heat of the extra processors. The computer temp was ok but higher than normal.

He knew he needed to save the screaming woman and his fat friend, his brain commanded him to do something. It had only taken him a few minutes to retrieve the lighter fluid and matches from the old metal shelf in his father’s garage. When he returned, it was quiet as he stood on the porch of the expensive white house, he could no longer hear the screams, as they were now subdued to whimpers. He had seen the firefighters save people so he spread the lighter fluid on the porch and doused the paper he had in his hand. He jumped down the steps, he then lit the paper and made a perfect toss to the center of the liquid pooled on the porch. He smiled as the porch instantly went up in flames.

The first thing he could feel was warmth. He was cold from being wet, still shouldering the bag with his undelivered papers, yet his face was warm from the fire. He had lost track of time as he usually did when he let the other voice take over. He was now back on the sidewalk watching with others as the second fire truck had arrived. The first arrived just a few minutes ago being from the well-staffed volunteer fire company only three miles away. The lighter fluid and matches were buried in his bag. He wasn’t planning on telling them.

Although rescued, the man was in custody with handcuffs. The fat kid was crying, but safe in a blanket with the neighbor lady. The woman’s body was rescued last, it was not burned, yet she was dead from what John would later learn was blunt force trauma.

John closed his eyes, thinking about the history of his mission to help people. An amazing algorithm he’d developed bordering on a miracle. Hundreds of millions of records, people living and breathing, aligned with what they did, where they went, and the choices they made or didn’t make.

John had solved what others couldn’t, governments tried but were restricted by law. He was only restricted by his conscience. He had not shared his discovery, he never did. Knowing how to analyze data was hard for most people and a waste of his time.

He had learned and then mastered how to get the computer to do the thinking, not just the processing of data. Artificial Intelligence was the buzzword from a few years ago, yet always used in the wrong way. Only a few had thought of what John had already done, he had bootstrapped, a tech term used to mean he did it without help, a super comprehension AI. Enabling a computer to think, not just process. There are three types of computer learning models, telling it what to see, allowing it to see, and then enabling it to think. The third was and is impossible for others. As they don’t have enough data. John didn’t have that problem. Seven years of data collection with millions of incoming points coming in every minute, updating every record. His code did the rest. It processed what was happening and made a decision about not only what was good or bad, but who was good and who was bad. The compiler was fast.

His other voice started again but was interrupted.

Ding!

The computer made its familiar sound to get you to pay attention. The compiler was complete. The sound jolted John abruptly out of his highly visual memories, he leaned forward and smiled at what he expected, no errors and it was done doing its work. His work. Finding those that were bad people, doing bad things in private to most, but not private to the software John had made to do just that, find them, expose them.

Barbara Miller

GPS: 32.4332604,-99.7605777

Location: 1345 Barrow St, Abilene, TX 79605

Place: H-E-B Grocery Store

Tag: Theft, Pharmacy

Loading her name into his database search, matching this Barbara Miller from the many in his database, he could now see everything she had done. The porn she watched, the devil-worshiping searches she made, the television shows she watched, the exact location from her phone, confirmed with the multiple video cameras that caught her face passing by, when she picked up her kids, when she didn’t, visiting known drug houses in downtown Dallas. In this case, it included her biometrics too, as she tracked her steps, she was being tracked. John now used the firmware code that he had embedded years ago in the manufacturing process in China. Back then, security was too loose, as the urgency to get the wireless routers made and sold was the priority. Most large companies weren’t paying enough attention. He now had access to the router in her home network and had captured everything.

John sat back again, not to relax but to marvel at his ability. He didn’t have a disorder, the label they gave him was wrong, he didn’t have Asperger’s nor was he Schizoaffective, he was more like an all-knowing god.

John could see everything. He looked at the report his compiler produced. Based on her phone’s location data, and the metadata from the texts she sent her lover, not her husband, from the third pew, confirmed by the hacked church’s security camera, Barbara Miller had gone to church just the day before. She arrived late and left when it was over. She probably had more porn to watch.

He would expose, glancing at this screen as he had already forgotten her name, Barbara Miller, tomorrow during the set time he exposed everyone, midnight GMT. He had thousands of followers online. Some followed as they relished in the excitement of his daily briefing, others were scared to know it might be them.

John never felt bad. He would only expose who she was. Barbara could have been good, she could have visited homeless shelters, she could have rescued a dog instead of stealing Oxy from the pharmacy. But she didn’t. She chose to do wrong. She knew it was wrong, now everyone would know. John could feel the warmth on his face.