Ghost Stories - Lorna Bradbury [14]
Then some of the families began to request that, instead of taking the profiles down, we left them up – as a sort of tribute to the dead person.
‘In memoriam,’ said Matt.
Dee shuddered. ‘i think it’s creepy. Being dead, but still having a presence like that.’
‘So that’s what Lake does,’ said Joel. ‘he looks after the memorials. he has to remove any inappropriate posts, monitor the accounts. and, of course, even those profiles we take offline, we don’t delete. They get cached. Saved. Stored in silicon.’
‘Cached in their chips,’ offered Matt.
‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ said Dee. ‘all those dead people on our servers. Like we’re sitting on top of a graveyard.’
‘You still haven’t explained,’ I said, ‘why he’s got so many friends.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Joel. ‘Lake’s friends. well, there’s not much to it. Every time we have a confirmed death, Lake simply adds the dearly departed to his friends list. That way, if there’s any activity from the user, he’s the first to know about it.’
‘Activity?’
‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore,’ said Dee. ‘Can we change the subject?’
‘oh, you’d be surprised,’ continued Joel, ignoring her. ‘hackers. Pranksters. identity thieves. not to mention good, old-fashioned ghouls. People have always wanted to resurrect the dead.’
I had to go back to the office to get my bike. as I swiped in, I noticed a light was on down the stairs that led to the server room. The door opened with a sucking sound and a blast of frigid air. The omnipresent hum of thousands of tiny fans served as a velvety backdrop to utter silence. The several hundred server towers were arranged in rows. I could see a glow of light at the end of one of the aisles, but no sign of Lake. no sign of life at all, unless you include the blinking monoliths looming on all sides.
I picked an aisle and walked down it. it was barely wider than my shoulders. God knows how Lake, with his generous proportions, managed to get around his realm. I called his name, cautiously. no reply.
At the far end of the room, I found Lake’s cubicle. a light was on, but he was not there. The desk was scattered with the usual technical detritus: hard drives, cables, a soldering iron, programming manuals. But these were lost under the pile of used junk-food cartons, crumpled soda cans, candy wrappers and styrofoam coffee cups fuzzed with mould. I guessed the cleaners didn’t come down here too often.
I leant on the partition and Lake’s monitor flickered into life. The mouse must have moved and woken his computer. Curious, I looked at the screen. I saw the faces of kids. So many kids. white kids, black kids, hispanic kids. Goth kids, indie kids, sporty kids, geeky kids. Smiling at the camera, snarling, pouting, flirting, waving, hiding. I found the mouse and scrolled. There were hundreds of them, thousands of them, each thumbnail photograph a tiny assertion of individuality; each, in turn, a tessellation in a mosaic whose pattern was too massive to make out.
‘Those are my friends,’ said Lake.
‘Jesus Christ! You scared me.’
‘You’re at my desk.’
‘Sorry.’ I moved away. ‘is it true? are they all …?’
‘Dead? Yes.’
‘How did they … ?’
‘How does anyone? all different ways. Look at them. Meghan, sixteen, Sacramento. Broke her spine putting up Christmas decorations. The stepladder was only three feet off the ground. Lauretta, twenty, Boise, idaho. Transplant never came through. Ramon, thirteen, Culver City. Left his Medicalert bracelet at home that day. Didn’t want to be teased about it.’
‘How can you bear it?’
Lake raised his bleak, bloodshot eyes to mine. ‘These are their testaments,’ he said, in a lower voice. ‘i am their witness.’
He sat in his chair and his hand fell automatically