Once decrypted, the code was still a fraction of archaic Fortran, but I was able to get it to run with the help of the crypto friend I had sent the code to earlier. It’s difficult to imagine anyone being so far ahead of their generation’s technological limits, but once I downloaded and ran the finished script I couldn’t help but think of the circumstances of Duncan’s death. Foreseeing the exponential growth of computing power, Duncan had spent her last years reaching out to touch that hopeful future.

I’ve seen blog posts about kids slicing open their hands to embed LEDs or microchips under their skin, grisly but novel experiments linking flesh and data. Like the rest of her studies, I think Duncan was leaps and bounds ahead of her peers in understanding human consciousness—attempting to use primitive electrodes and wires to flush her life into the waiting circuits of an automatic typing machine. I still draw a blank when I try to imagine the memories and affections of life written out as data. What scale of measurement? Would memories translate? Awareness?

I’ll never know, I suppose. With only a fraction of Duncan’s masterpiece, her program pales in comparison to the woman Matheson knew, but maybe a damaged artifact is still better than being forgotten.