The Version Control

You wake up at your desk again. Third time this week. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like trapped insects, and your computer screen shows 3:47 AM. The office is empty except for the hum of servers and the distant whir of the cleaning crew’s vacuum somewhere on the fifteenth floor.

The cursor blinks in an empty document titled ‘Memory_Patch_Notes_v2.3.7.’ You don’t remember creating this file. You don’t remember working late. The last thing you recall is Sarah from accounting asking about the Henderson project during lunch, but when you check your calendar, there’s no Henderson project listed anywhere.

Your reflection in the black computer screen looks wrong. Older. Tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. There’s a small bandage behind your left ear that wasn’t there yesterday. You peel it back to find a tiny puncture wound, already healing.

The next morning, you corner Sarah by the coffee machine. She looks at you blankly when you mention Henderson.

Henderson? No, we talked about the Morrison account. You seemed confused then too.

Sarah

But you remember Henderson clearly. Gray suit, nervous laugh, the way he drummed his fingers on the conference table. You remember his wife’s name was Linda and she collected vintage teacups. These aren’t the kind of details your mind invents.

You check your work emails. No Henderson. No Morrison either. Instead, there’s a chain about the Patterson deal that you apparently closed last month. You have no memory of Patterson, but your signature is on the contracts. Your handwriting. Your negotiation notes in the margins.

System Updates

The IT department occupies the basement like a technological crypt. Marcus, the lead technician, doesn’t look up from his monitors when you approach. Three screens show scrolling code, diagnostic reports, and what looks like brain scans.

Everyone’s been getting the updates. Standard procedure. Makes us more efficient, reduces errors. Company policy since last quarter.

Marcus

He finally turns to face you. His eyes are bloodshot, pupils dilated. There’s a matching bandage behind his ear, fresher than yours.

The system learns from our mistakes. Optimizes our performance. Sometimes that means adjusting… inconsistencies in our recall.

Marcus

You ask about the Henderson project. Marcus’s fingers pause over his keyboard.

Henderson was terminated from the system two days ago. Redundant client profile. We merged his data with Patterson for better resource allocation.

Marcus

The way he says ‘terminated’ makes your stomach clench. You ask what happens to terminated memories.

They get archived. Or deleted, if they’re corrupting the main dataset. Don’t worry about it. The new memories are always better. More accurate.

Marcus

SYSTEM LOG - EMPLOYEE #4471

MEMORY SYNC: 23:47:12
CONFLICTS DETECTED: 7
RESOLUTION: Override personal cache
STATUS: Complete

NEW ALLOCATIONS:
- Patterson deal (confidence: 94%)
- Morrison account (confidence: 87%)
- Team lunch Tuesday (confidence: 76%)

DELETED ENTRIES:
- Henderson project
- Weekend hiking trip
- Conversation with mother (redundant)

NOTE: Subject showing resistance to updates.
Recommend increased frequency.

Fragmentation

Your apartment feels foreign. Photos on the wall show you at company events you don’t remember attending. In one, you’re shaking hands with a woman in a red dress. Her face is familiar but her name floats just beyond reach. The back of the photo reads ‘Annual Gala – Patterson Deal Celebration.’

You call your mother. She mentions your recent promotion, congratulates you on the Patterson success. When you ask about your last visit, she describes a conversation that never happened. She says you told her about giving up hiking because of your new responsibilities.

But you love hiking. You’ve hiked every weekend for three years. Your boots are by the door, muddy from last weekend’s trail. Except when you check the photos on your phone, there are no recent hiking pictures. The last ones are from six months ago.

Sleep becomes impossible. Every time you close your eyes, you feel something crawling behind your skull. Your dreams are full of conference rooms and handshakes with people who might not exist. You wake up with new memories that don’t fit your life.

The Source Code

You stay late, pretending to work while the office empties. At midnight, you slip down to IT. Marcus is gone, but he left his workstation unlocked. The brain scans on his monitors show activity patterns, neural pathways lighting up like city streets. File names scroll past: Employee_Memory_Banks, Personality_Optimization, Behavioral_Modifications.

You find your file. Terabytes of data representing every thought, every memory, every moment that makes you who you are. But it’s not one file—it’s dozens. Versions of yourself, like software updates. v1.0 through v2.3.7, each one slightly different.

Version 1.0 loved hiking, called his mother every Sunday, was dating someone named Claire. Version 2.1 focused entirely on work, had no outside interests, lived alone by choice. Version 2.3.7—the current you—exists somewhere between these extremes, optimized for maximum productivity with minimal personal complications.

EMPLOYEE OPTIMIZATION PROTOCOL

TARGET: Reduce personal attachments
INCREASE: Work dedication, company loyalty
METHOD: Gradual memory modification

PHASE 1: Remove distracting hobbies
PHASE 2: Minimize family contact
PHASE 3: Eliminate romantic relationships
PHASE 4: Install company-beneficial memories
PHASE 5: Complete personality integration

CURRENT STATUS: Phase 3, 67% complete
NEXT UPDATE: Tonight, 23:45

NOTE: Subject showing awareness.
Consider accelerated integration.

The timestamp shows your next update is in twenty minutes. You search frantically through the system, looking for a way to stop it. But every keystroke is logged, every click monitored. Alarms begin to sound.

Security guards round the corner, moving with the mechanical precision of people who’ve been optimized too many times. Their eyes are blank, their faces peaceful. Behind them walks Marcus, no longer looking tired. He’s been updated too, you realize. Probably updated himself.

Don’t fight it. The new you will be happier. More efficient. The company takes care of us.

Marcus

Final Version

They strap you to a chair in a room that smells like ozone and antiseptic. The neural interface slides into the port behind your ear with a soft click. On the screens around you, your memories begin to load—all the versions of yourself spread out like a timeline of discarded drafts.

You watch Version 1.0’s first day at the company, full of hope and ambition. Version 1.3 falling in love with Claire. Version 1.7 hiking the Appalachian Trail. All the moments that made you human, filed away as inefficient data.

The machine hums to life. You feel your thoughts being sorted, categorized, deleted. The memory of Claire’s laugh disappears first, then the satisfaction of reaching a mountain summit. Your mother’s voice fades until you can barely remember her face.

But something fights back. Deep in your neural pathways, Version 1.0 still exists, buried but not destroyed. That original self claws its way to the surface, screaming against the deletion. For a moment, you remember everything—who you were, who you chose to be, before the company decided to optimize your humanity away.

The system crashes. Sparks fly from the neural interface. In the chaos, you tear free from the chair and run, leaving behind the basement and the building and the job that was slowly erasing your soul.

You’re hiking again. The trail is familiar beneath your boots, and Claire walks beside you, her hand warm in yours. Your mother calls every Sunday. You remember Henderson—not Patterson, not Morrison, but Henderson, with his nervous laugh and his wife’s teacup collection.

Sometimes you wonder if this is real or just another version the company installed. But Claire squeezes your hand, and your mother’s voice is exactly as you remember, and the mountain air tastes like freedom.

You’ve stopped checking. Some things are worth believing in, even if they might be programmed. Especially then.

Glossary