Chương 13: Uncanny Valley (02/17/1980)

DATE: Sunday, February 17, 1980 LOCATION: Carlsbad, California | The War Room (Grandparents' Dining Room) LOCAL TIME: 02: 00 PM PST The dining room table was a graveyard of green-bar paper and half-empty coffee cups. Uncle Bob rubbed his face, radiating stress. Across from him, John Battisti was hammering away at his calculator like it had personally offended him.

"It's garbage, John," Bob muttered.

"The file system is a mess."

"Forty dollars a machine, Bob. Just ship it." I sat in my high chair at the end of the table, quietly drawing on the paper placemat with a red crayon. I drew a heavy line down the middle. Left side: a simple Band-Aid. Right side: a series of boxes connected by arrows. A Merkle Tree.

"Hey Chaddy," John said with an oblivious grin, "whatcha drawing over there?" If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Bob glanced over casually... then froze completely. John kept talking, but Bob wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were locked on the right side of my placemat. His face slowly drained of color.

"John," Bob said, his voice suddenly tight.

"Go call the lawyers. Tell them to hold off on the contract." John frowned.

"It's Sunday—""Now, John." Once the door clicked shut behind him, the room went dead quiet. Bob slowly got up and walked over to my high chair. He crouched down so we were face-to-face. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"... How do you know what that is?" I picked up a napkin and meticulously wiped the sticky Cheerio dust from my fingers. The motion wasn't clumsy. It was precise. Surgical. The toddler facade melted away. I looked at him for a second, then spoke quietly.

"I know things, Uncle Bob. I can't tell you how... but I do." Bob stared at me, his breathing shallow. I could see him trying to make sense of it and failing. I kept my high-pitched voice soft, but my cadence was entirely adult.

"Jason's gonna get sick soon. Real sick. The doctors are gonna say it's just colic. It's not. He has Crohn's disease. You gotta take him to Dr. Stein at Scripps and ask for an ileitis panel. Before May. Please." Bob looked like someone had punched him in the chest. I tapped the placemat lightly with my crayon.

"Ship the DOS to IBM. Take the money. But... while you're doing that, start working on something better in the background. Call it Sutra. I'll tell you more when I can." Bob stayed crouched there, staring at me like I was something impossible. After a long silence, he whispered: "Chad... what are you?" I gave him a small, tired smile.

"I'm family," I said quietly.

"And I really need your help."