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[From The Cyclone Release, Chapter 3…] Mo found herself out and about more now, in the coffee shop, in the large Printer’s Inc. Bookstore in Mountain View, at the occasional sidewalk table. Tonight, it was a Computer History Museum lecture at the Xerox Palo Alto Research Center, known as Xerox PARC. Assemblies of committed nerds, virtually all men and most from previous generations, would relive the valley’s creation sagas: the silicon microchip, early programming languages, the Internet itself. Mo enjoyed the barrage of curious glances from the men, playing off against that razor thin chance she might encounter someone she knew. On stage tonight, pioneers from PARC were revisiting and actually powering up and demonstrating the Xerox Star, one of the earliest systems that featured a mouse, drag-and-drop interactivity, spreadsheet displays—all things Mo’s generation had taken for granted. The aging faces of the men presenting were contrasted by photos of their younger selves, displayed in larger-than-life size behind them. The lines on their present-day, animated faces, and the smooth, silent faces in the photos, reminded her of her father, who was a contemporary of these now famous men. He was a technical trainer in San Diego, living with her mother in a small Spanish revival in the exclusive Kensington neighborhood. His work and legacy would never draw a crowd like this one, but his aging face would still contort with strain and joy as the presenters’ faces were now, both commanding and standing in awe at the marvels their industries had made. When the lecture was over, she worked her way back through the crowd, crossed the PARC campus in the descending darkness and made her way down Hillview Avenue. Halos of light from high street lamps illuminated the smooth pavement and only the occasional car passed by as Mo arrived at the bus stop. Still leery about driving since the crash, which had occurred on a wet, deserted stretch of Caribbean Drive in Sunnyvale, she had familiarized herself with a few important County Transit routes, including this ride to PARC. She opted to stand and, setting her bag on the bench, noticed the lights of a plane off in the distance, in the direction of the bay. The lights reminded her of a shockwave she had experienced at the age of twelve, when passenger flight PSA 182 crashed into North Park, very near her Kensington home. It was a hot Monday morning early in Mo’s seventh-grade year at St. Didacus, the Catholic primary and middle school in the neighborhood. She had just started getting used to the middle school routine of changing rooms between classes, and she and the other students from her homeroom were on their way to Señora Esposito’s Spanish class when they heard the boom. It was earthshaking. They all stopped, wondering if they would have to take emergency action, but after a few quiet seconds, both students and teachers went about their business. Sirens wailed in the near distance for the rest of the day, but all was normal at St. Didacus. It was only later that they all learned the tragic news: two planes colliding in the air above North Park, crashing into the neighborhood and destroying 22 homes, killing 137 people on board the planes and seven on the ground, including two kids. All of this less than two miles from their pleasant little Catholic school. Her father changed for a time, becoming withdrawn, but her mother remained active as ever as the school and parish observed memorial vigils for the victims, making preparations, serving coffee, clearing things away so that all could get back to normal.
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