Neuroptera

*Prologue*

Affidavit of Evidence Collection and Submission

Special Agent Anthony Newcombe, United States Air Force Office of Special Investigations (OSI), collected the following electronic diary, with the preceding scanned entry, and placed it into evidence.  It depicts the events between the dates of 20 Mar 1992 and 06 May 1993.  SA Newcombe submitted the diary into evidence for a pending criminal hearing, which is tentatively scheduled to start on 24 May 1993.  The diary is evidence pertaining to case YCJ199584A and is considered sensitive material.  For details concerning the evidence retrieval process, please see the criminal investigation report for case YCJ199584A.

//SIGNED//

SA Anthony Newcombe, USAF OSI

*Chapter One*

March 30, 1993.  Seventy-eight days running

The law has not caught up to me, not yet.  Some may say it is a matter of time; I contend no one will ever catch me until my mental faculties render me incapable of rational thought.  I fear my time is coming soon. 

Seventy-eight days, that’s how long I have been running.  I have kept in contact with YJ on IRC, but it feels as if our last conversation was such a long time ago.  I wish he were here to guide me, but any help would lead my pursuers to my location—lead him to my location—and he is too smart for that.  The Internet is exploding now!  Oh, I wish I could be part of it as I once was.  There are so many opportunities—so much unlimited potential—waiting for someone to exploit.  No one seems aware of it, of what this new digital age will be.  Oh, to be back in my small trailer again, with my computer!  I find nothing interesting here; the television is my only entertainment.  Every news channel is discussing Brandon Lee, the son of Bruce Lee.  People think Brandon was involved in some sort of accident on a movie set today, and he died...  It’s so sad.  No one knows what happened.  Someone on one of the channels just said that people are already claiming that Brandon's death is the result of some sort of Chinese curse. 

I can’t watch anymore.

Even now, as I write, my hand is shaking and it is hard to hold the pen—yes, the pen.  I do like the hotel’s stationary, and it's a wonder I haven't used stationary before; on the other hand, writing with the computer is just so much more efficient.

You, this journal, being an extension of myself, know as well as I do that all of the other entries in this journal are typeset; yet I did not want to let this record die simply because I couldn’t use a computer as often as I would have liked.  I have not been near a terminal in days, at least not in a situation where I could sit and write in a journal, recording my observations of each day.  I have forgotten how therapeutic this is, how good it feels to my ragged emotions.  Thankfully, I had saved a floppy disk, with all my previous entries, before a shameless vagrant stole my laptop.  I had been staying at a hostel in Louisiana, and I don’t believe his success was a result of my carelessness—although I would be more careful now, in other ways, if I had the chance.  He took it from my possession by force, without the subtlety of deception, and I feel empty without it. 

Despite the childish fantasies I embraced when I first started logging my thoughts, I don’t know if anyone will ever read you, dear journal, and I don’t know if I want them to.  I have never been a public person, and despite YJ’s attempts to get me to open up, I remain a private person—YJ has failed in that regard.  Have I gone crazy?  No, I think you are my last hope of sanity, the last thread of what I really am, and I am terrified that if I don’t have you, the essence of who I am will fade away, as I drift into insanity.  You are the record that proves I exist, the me who is sane; the me who only wants to be like Captain Crunch.

I do feel I am going insane.  This thought is a deep-rooted fear; it gnaws at me and pulls me to places I do not want to go.  I see them everywhere now, those unwanted spirits (save one, bless her) who appear like ghosts, and continually taunt me.  I don’t know how I can hide from them, and they represent my greatest agitation.  I do fear them—more than the law, more than punishment for my crimes.  I want to be free of them.  One of them, in fact, is sitting across from me in this hotel room—gray skin, piercing eyes, wordless.  Simply staring at me.  Or am I staring at me?

I know this entry is out of order.  I will fix it later, when I feel I can lay all of my entries out and sort through them without fear.  Oh, there’s a banging on the door! 

March 2, 1992.  Initial entry

This is, perhaps obviously so, my first entry.  It seems awkward, and writing my thoughts down makes me feel anxious, but using a computer helps.  In order to reduce the awkwardness, I am going to pretend I am writing to another person, so I will address you as you.  I hope you don’t mind.  I suppose I will start by saying I don’t know why I am writing.  Perhaps, there doesn’t need to be a reason why, but then this entire process would be in vain, wouldn’t it?  I read somewhere that keeping a journal helps a person to work out anxieties, to understand the root cause of inner distress.  I deeply need to open up to someone, but I have no one, no other soul, with whom I can open up.  Is it abnormal to have no intimate relationships?  Does it mean someone should pity me? 

I am afraid to release my deepest thoughts, even to you, because I feel as if I would die if someone read them.  However, I will do my best.  I do feel better already, so maybe this idea has some merit.  I do think that journaling will be much easier than trying to talk about my private thoughts to a real person.  Actually, I should not make this comparison—the possibility of me telling another person my darkest secrets is a concept outside of my comprehension.  I’m not even sure I can write them down yet.

My mom says I need to find a real hobby.  I think that’s an arrogant comment.  What does she even mean by that?  Are my hobbies not real?  I like my own hobbies just fine, and I think they are as real as anything else is.  I think disagreements like this are what have kept my mother and me from ever getting along with each other.  She filters everything through the grinders of tact and restraint, two concepts I have never mastered.  She is a hard woman; born to a family in poverty—the way she sees simple things is often at odds with the way I do.  It’s almost as if I’m adopted; I simply can’t follow her point of view.  I’ve tried.

Today, I watched the Space Shuttle Endeavor launch on television.  The technicality of sending something so large into space enthralls me.  Still, no one else seems to want to watch the Shuttle launches anymore; the television news report was a mere five minutes long, and then the story moved on to a report about forty-two people who drowned today.  I think a ferry sank off Sumbe Angola, wherever that is.  I may never know, because Dad immediately switched the channel, but at least he moved on to things that interested him after I saw the Shuttle launch.

Tonight, Mom comes into my room, nosy as ever, and before I can disguise my activities, she finds out I am starting this journal on my computer.  She thinks it is a wonderful idea, but part of me feels a twinge of guilt, because she won’t be very happy if she discovers I am writing about her.  Thankfully, my dad is supportive of my new endeavor.  He’s actually the one who allowed me to commandeer this old computer in the first place.  I think he’s just happy the computer is getting some use; it was quite expensive when it was new.  He doesn’t even mind that I decorated the outside of it.

My mom doesn’t understand at all; she thinks something’s wrong with me.  Dad patiently lets Mom rant, and then he puts his arm around me after she leaves.  A journal is a very personal thing, he says, "and how you complete your journal is just as personal."  He is always able to make me feel better, at least when he’s sober.  Sober, meaning not completely drunk.  It’s hard to think of a time when Dad doesn’t have a drink in his hand.  He carries one so often, I don’t even notice anymore.  Mom says he’s an alcoholic, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.  I don’t see why.  If it’s a bad thing, maybe he needs help.  If it’s not bad, then why can’t I talk about it?  Regardless, she can’t stop me from putting it here, in my journal.  Try as she might, she can’t control my mind, and this journal is an extension of my mind. 

March 3, 1992.  I am a nerd

The Duchess of Cornwall—her name is Camilla Parker Bowles—divorced her husband today.  The local news anchor says they divorced each other, but I think this is an overly optimistic opinion.  I say she divorced him because she was having an affair with a prince named Charles.  Perhaps it is because of my upbringing as an only child; but I have never been able to see the world the same way other kids do—with innocence, and hope, and unbridled optimism.  Dad passively ignores my apparently odd behavior; he simply shrugs and says I’m an old soul.  Mom thinks I’m precocious—precocious being spoken with a hint of disdain, as if she’s trying to spit out a bitter aftertaste.  Regardless, before I saw the story on the news, I didn’t know princes and princesses still existed—let alone cheated on each other.  Not that the activities of princes and princesses interest me anyway.

I just finished re-reading my first entry.  Addressing a journal as if it were a person seems somewhat dumb now, especially since I don’t anticipate any person besides me will ever read this journal.  I’m not even sure I want to read about my own boring life.

Still, if addressing a journal as a person seems dumb, then what I have to say next must sound childish and idiotic.  Nevertheless, I have a fantasy:  I like to daydream about the future, and I pretend there is the possibility—no, the likelihood (it’s my fantasy, right?)—that a hundred years from now someone will come across my journal and will be fascinated with my mundane life.  He or she will think I’m strong, and thoughtful, and will understand why I am attracted to computers instead of the things Mom thinks I should spend my time obsessing about.  Consequently, therefore, if someone from the future does read my journal, if I address the journal as you, it might make the reading more personal for that person.  (I’m speaking to you!) 

This brings me back to my primary course of thought today.  I think, perhaps, that I—just like anyone who keeps a journal, I suppose—I hope for one thing and fear another: First, the hope is for some stranger in the far-distant future to read this.  He or she will completely understand me—will totally get my deepest, darkest thoughts.  On the other hand, if I am honest in my journal keeping—and why keep a journal if I am not—then this journal could play the starring role in the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.  I find myself thinking, What if someone, who is in my current time and who knows me, stumbles across this journal and reads it?

This is an interesting dilemma, I am noticing, as I write it.  I acknowledge my distinction between a future reader and a present reader, and it is apparent I am excited about a person in the future reading it, but I am equally horrified about someone in my own time reading it.  I presume I feel this way because a future reader would not have preconceived notions about me, or expectations, and therefore should be less judgmental than would a reader from the present.

You can understand this, right?  Oh, and just so I don’t confuse you, you should be aware of something.  As I recount stories from each day, it helps me to re-live them, that is, to describe stories as if they are happening in real time.  This method of dictation helps me to remember specific details.  For example, I may write, I am thinking about starting a diary.  I turn on my computer and start typing.  Obviously, I can’t be typing in my journal while I turn the computer on.  However, if I recall events this way, I feel as if I am able to recall more accurately, and it helps me to record any events that happened during the day properly.

Not that I will have many stories to tell.  I’ll be honest; it actually seems a little narcissistic for me to worry about how to recall the stories of my life.  You see, I often wonder if everyone else’s life is as boring as mine is.  The farthest I’ve ever ventured away from my house on my own, besides routine trips to my high school, is into the neighbors’ yard. 

The neighbors are an old couple.  I’ve only seen them once, which makes me think they might be as reclusive as I am.  That’s fine; I have no particular desire to join them in Bingo, or any other hobbies they may find interesting, whatever they might be.  The neighbors’ yard, however, fascinates me.  We are inland a bit, near Monrovia, California, and the neighbors own a plot of land at the end of the cul-de-sac.  I suppose it is actually behind the cul-de-sac; they have a long, narrow driveway, which leads into their plot, at the very end of the cul-de-sac.  Trees obscure their parcel of land, making it impossible to see from the street—and this is exactly the reason behind my aforementioned excursion.  They owned the property before anyone bought the land around it, and before anyone designed and constructed the surrounding subdivision.  They didn’t want to let the subdivision annex their property, so the subdivision planners simply built track houses around my neighbors’ lot. 

I hear plenty of talk in high school about the property being haunted.  I don’t know if I believe any of it or not, but either way, I had to see the house for myself.  I figure if they had gone through so much trouble to ensure privacy, there must be a mansion in there, or something equally hide-worthy. 

That night I dressed like a ninja; I covered everything but my eyes with black cloth—this is funny, thinking back on it, because I took some time to fix my hair before going out.  I snuck through the trees at dusk so there would be less chance of anyone noticing me.  The hike was short, but finally I saw what I was looking for, and the discovery was unrewarding.  There was nothing but a trailer home there.  No mansion, no pool, no secret superhero lair; there was only the trailer.  There were no ghosts, monsters, or even a crazy old person sitting on the porch with a shotgun.  At least the trailer was a doublewide.  It was not even ugly; the trailer home had a hummingbird feeder out front, along with some nice potted plants.  I was so disappointed, however, that I removed my hood before trudging back, no longer concerned with stealth, nor about the fact that the ninja hood must have left me with serious bed-head.

But let’s go back a little bit.  What makes you think your life is so boring, you wonder about me.  Well, I’m what everyone calls a nerd.  Just in case someone a hundred years from the future reads this, and thinks But nerds are cool now, I want to clarify: nerds are not cool in 1992.  For an example of why I am a nerd, consider this: I am keeping a diary, but to do so I am using a computer with an amber-colored monitor, rather than using a traditional spiral-bound notebook.  Before you get excited, I don’t mean the outside of my monitor is some sort of awesome yellow color.  I mean the screen displays one color: amber.  It does not even produce enough colors to form a primary colors chart, and the color it does produce is not even the pleasing green you can see on other systems.  This monitor only displays a boring yellow color.  Someday I will get my hands on a Commodore64, or perhaps even an Amiga, and will enjoy working with a full color display.  For now, however, I am making do with what I have, because I am still more comfortable recording my thoughts with bright yellow letters on a black screen, than I am with pencil and paper.  Honestly, though, another reason I choose a computer over paper is that I doubt anyone in my family will be able to figure out how to open my journal to read it.

My choice of journaling equipment is not the sole reason I am a nerd.  The reason I am a nerd would probably be because I have terrible social skills and I enjoy things that have to do with science.  I am not a person of many talents.  However, I am good with one thing: working with machines.  I love their simplicity.  A machine only does what its makers build it to do.  It’s that simple.  If some idiot accidentally hacks his own leg off with a chainsaw, it is because he failed to realize what the machine was supposed to do, or he did understand, and regardless of that understanding, he used the machine inappropriately. 

That reminds me of something else: I don’t understand people who can’t figure out how to program a VCR.  A videocassette recorder is nothing more than a machine.  Someone designed this special machine to record and play back video.  It can even do that for you automatically, but you have to tell it when.  This concept is not rocket science (which is actually not a complex field either).  Computers are machines, just electronic machines, and a VCR is no different from a complex gearbox—actually, it is a complex gearbox—except a VCR is both an electronic and a mechanical machine rolled together into one.  The electronic machine simply controls what would have been a hand crank in a purely mechanical machine.

Really, I think many people are simply afraid of computers; they think computers have some supernatural power inside of them that might destroy the world if provoked.  They don’t credit computers for what they are.  A computer is a device that receives a long list of commands, and obeys each command in order.  The commands come from people.  Computers are really the stupidest of machines.  If you give a computer an impossible command, it won’t know what to do and will freeze up; it will cease functioning.  However, if you turn the computer off and then back on, with a new set of commands to follow, the computer works as if nothing bad ever happened.  Try operating a car improperly; see if it is so easy to fix.  Or, a chainsaw; see if you are as easy to fix.  The human body is a machine in itself, is it not?

Once you realize the simplicity of their operation, computers are easy.  You really have to try to break them, and the most efficient way to do that is to go find a hammer.  After you master the skill of telling a computer what to do, you can pair the machine that obeys the commands (the computer) to the other type of machine, which moves levers, gears, and pulleys, and you have what’s called a robot—or, if you are less ambitious,