We Are Satellites

by Sarah Pinsker

  * * *

  • • •

  Alyssa didn’t write him back for two days, two days in which David had jumped every time his phone buzzed. Her message was cautious. She remembered him, thank you for the apology. He tried to calibrate the tone of his response, continued to hold back his ask. He wanted it to come up naturally.

  At work, he tried to hold himself together. Worked on his trainings, tried to avoid anything that would get him sent back to Dr. Morton’s office, like a teenager trying to avoid the principal. Since he was on an apology kick, he apologized to Tash for snapping at them, and they accepted the apology, at least superficially, though he got fewer visits over their shared wall than he had previously.

  He tried to get information on the early-adopter trials Sophie had mentioned, but either he wasn’t a good investigator or there was no information to be found. BNL was a huge corporation. The Research and Development Department was siloed from his department and was siloed from the subsidiary that ran the clinics, though they apparently had the right to pass his medical records along like he was livestock trading hands. There was no internal path from where he was to anyplace else. He tried the shared server, the company intranet, the printer folders that people in his department sometimes forgot to clear. The others were more fastidious. Dead ends all, passworded and firewalled and it was impossible to look for something when you didn’t know what you were looking for.

  He started to doubt any of it existed. Maybe Sophie had made it up, or the person who had mentioned it to her had. Maybe it was speculation, without any research behind it. After a week of searching, he decided that had to be the case. Which was why he was shocked to find the very thing he’d been looking for.

  He had brought a handout over to the copier/printer outside his supervisor’s office to photocopy. People were always forgetting their originals in the feeder, walking away with the copies but not the original, or else printing something to one machine thinking they’d printed to another, and then sending the job again when it didn’t turn up instead of searching the other machines. David had done it himself. He’d found all kinds of things that way: a pay statement showing him how much more his boss made than he did, flight confirmation numbers, receipts for items that were definitely not company purchases.

  He glanced at the name on top: Nina Flaherty, his supervisor. Normally if he came across something abandoned in the printer, he’d bring it to the person whose name was on top, or leave it where it was, or toss it in the shredder, under the assumption that whoever had left it, likely Nina, would print it again if it was needed. She printed everything; everyone complained behind her back how wasteful it was. He would have done what he usually did this time, if the e-mail’s subject hadn’t read “Can we spin this?” He didn’t try to read the rest while standing there out in the open. He made his copies, then casually gathered the printed e-mail beneath his own original, put both at the bottom of his copy stack, and carried everything back to his desk.

  His own copies were of a handout he was supposed to bring to a hospital the next day. Students mostly used their phones to access the info and play his quizzes, but there were still older nurses at the hospitals who preferred the paper version. They were the ones he was there to recruit, and this small concession pleased them. The next day’s training was early enough that he had planned to leave with all his materials, rather than come in early the next morning. That made it easy to walk out with the e-mail buried in his box.

  He often waited until everyone was gone for the day to head home, to avoid the five p.m. lobby scrum and the anxiety it instilled, but this time he thought it made sense to walk out at the same time as others.

  “Not staying late?” Tash asked when they and David stood from their desks at the same time. “People will think you’re slacking off, Poster Boy.”

  “Nah. Early training tomorrow.” David tossed a few more random brochures into the box, to further bury the e-mail.

  “Can I carry something for you?”

  “No! I mean, I’ve got it. You can hit the elevator buttons.”

  The elevator was already packed, and Tash held the door while David attempted to maneuver in without hitting anyone with his box or messenger bag.

  As he turned, someone said “Hold for me?” Tash stuck a foot in the closing door, and Nina squeezed herself into the remaining space. “Thanks!” Then “David! You’re leaving on time for once!”

  Tash said, “He’ll be back to overachieving tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  David forced a smile. “I had no idea people cared when I left.”

  “Nah, I’m glad to see it,” said Nina. “Work-life balance is important. You’ve been looking stressed lately.”

  David tried to exude unstressed. It felt like everyone in the elevator was looking into the open box he carried. Surely his boss had already spotted her name on the e-mail buried deep in his stack.

  He tolerated being squeezed in, but he wished the elevator weren’t stopping on every single floor. The box got heavier. He was the tallest person in the elevator, a good vantage. Someone smelled like coconut deodorant covering sweat, and somebody sniffled like they were holding back a sneeze, and someone had earbuds in that spilled snippets of a self-improvement podcast into the compartment. This was why he didn’t leave with everyone else.

  They finally reached the ground floor. The guards had no reason to give him a second look; he left with boxes several times a week. Even if they stopped him, he could always say he’d grabbed it by accident. Still, he felt a terrified thrill walking it out under their noses.

  Why risk this? He didn’t know for sure that it would prove to be anything, but that title had intrigued him. How funny if this was how he found something; total dumb luck after all his attempts at subterfuge had uncovered nothing.

  Ordinarily he’d leave the next day’s materials in the car under the assumption that nobody wanted to steal flyers, but this time he hauled the box into his room. He gave himself a paper cut digging the e-mail out from under the other papers.

  He tried not to hope. Didn’t know what to hope for in any case, aside from answers to a question everyone seemed determined to avoid. “Can we spin this?” It could be anything.

  The e-mail was to all the department heads, including his supervisor. “Can we spin this?” was followed in the first line by “or bury it?” The attachment line referenced a document he didn’t have, titled Neuroplasticity in Early Adopters.

  Before he could change his mind, he slipped it under his sister’s door.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  SOPHIE

  The first thing Sophie noticed about the paper under her door was the single smudged blood-brown fingerprint. She stepped over it, closed the door, then lifted it by the corner, in case it had more blood on it than she could see. She wasn’t squeamish about her own blood, but she didn’t think it was sanitary to touch somebody else’s, even if it was her brother’s blood—her assumption when she unfolded the page to find an internal BNL e-mail. She considered knocking on his door, but if he’d wanted to talk about it, he would have handed it to her in person.

  The title was “Can we spin this?” She wished she had the attachment mentioned, Neuroplasticity in Early Adopters; the brief e-mail thread that followed repeated six variations on “bury it.” If her brother had given this to her by hand, she would have hugged him. As it was, she sent him silent thanks, took a quick shower, restocked her bag with meds, and headed back to the meeting space, too excited to wait until morning.

  She’d taken the night’s last northbound bus to get home, and the last southbound would’ve passed ages ago. She usually avoided transit apps because she didn’t like being tracked, but it was the only option short of flagging a hack, which would give her moms heart palpitations and made her kind of nervous herself at this time of night. App it was.

  “Are you sure that’s your destination?” the driver a
sked.

  “I’m sure,” Sophie said firmly. “Do you ask everyone that question?”

  The woman turned and drove. Sophie knew she’d been curt, but it was nobody’s business where she was headed. Just because she was small and young-looking didn’t mean she didn’t have places to go.

  The meeting space was dark, but light spilled from under the office door, allowing Sophie to navigate past the sleeping bodies, stepping on only a few. She thought she recognized Dominic’s muffled “ow” just outside the office.

  Gabe frowned when she pushed the door open. “I thought you went home?”

  “I did. Then I came back. Check this out.” She pulled the folded paper from her backpack and passed it to him.

  “Whoa.”

  “Right?”

  “Your brother?”

  Sophie nodded.

  He read it again. “Are you going to turn it in to National?”

  “I didn’t like what they did with the ID—no offense!” As she said it, she remembered Gabe’s part in that. “I just thought they squandered the opportunity, and as far as we know nothing came of it. I think we should handle this ourselves.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Wasn’t there that one reporter who called after the break-in who seemed trustworthy to you? I think we should give this to a reporter. National would tell us to wait, and I don’t want to wait.”

  “That makes sense. Hmm. There was that one who asked different questions than the others, like he had a different angle. Maybe him? I kept his name somewhere.”

  “Cool.”

  Gabe poked around the cluttered desk, and a minute later, pulled a scrap of paper from under some other scraps of paper. “Eduardo Toledo. I remembered it because he had a cool name, and when I looked him up he’d done a bunch of investigative stuff. He asked the same questions about whether we knew about the break-in, but then he also asked about the meetings themselves, and the demographics of the attendees, and if they differed from donor demographics. He wanted to know if it was only people who’d never had Pilots, so maybe he has some related angle?”

  “Sounds good. Do you want to reach out, or you want me to?”

  “How about I’ll message him but tell him to talk to both of us?”

  That made Sophie happy. Not because it had to be only her, but because she wanted to be part of it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  DAVID

  The call from Nina’s office came at nine thirty a.m. They’d had a meeting scheduled for ten a.m. to discuss his idea for a new outreach project to help people like Milo who struggled after leaving the military, and he was still gathering his thoughts, which was why he was surprised to be paged half an hour early. He entered to find her table ringed with Nina, a security officer, the head of Communications, and a fourth stranger, who introduced herself as Ms. Ritter, HR.

  This office always irritated David because Nina kept music on low volume, this weird staccato electronic stuff where he couldn’t quite find the beat, and if he found the beat he could file it away, but the beat kept changing and bringing itself to the forefront of his attention. She had clacker balls on her desk, too, and a couple of other toys he never saw her touch, all of which caught the sun and tossed it around the room at odd angles. The security officer stood and resituated himself behind David, near the door, leaning against the wall like he’d meant to leave but hey, he might as well hang out, though the casual lean was betrayed by a nervous foot that he tapped in a nonrhythm entirely unlike the music’s nonrhythm. David’s head hurt.

  A tissue box had been placed at the table’s center, so David knew he was being fired. He didn’t know why he knew that; he’d never been fired before. Something about the combination of these things: his supervisor’s office, HR, security. He’d gotten that feeling when he walked in, but the tissues solidified it. He debated leading with that, but decided to make them work for it.

  “David,” the HR person began. “First of all, we want to thank you for all the hard work you’ve done for our company since you started here. The Pilots for Prison Guards initiative was a success because of you.”

  Nina and Communications both nodded their heads in agreement. There was a pause where he thought maybe he was supposed to nod his head as well, maybe agree, or say how much fun it had been to work on the campaign. He kept his mouth shut.

  “But, well, we think we’ve got a new direction for marketing, and we’re afraid we’re going to have to part ways with you.”

  “And the others?” He couldn’t resist. “Do the others still have jobs?”

  Ms. Ritter smiled; he preferred the serious expression. “Who is and isn’t staying isn’t your concern, David. We’re going to have to ask you to clean out your desk and leave.”

  “That quickly?” He tried to remember his terms of hire and whether he was owed two weeks or more explanation. He supposed it made sense for a company with this many secrets to force people out quickly, without a chance to take anything with them that they might offer to a competitor.

  “You’ll be paid for two weeks, and one additional week for the year you’ve been with us, but today will be your last day of employment. Your e-mail address is being suspended as we speak, so no need to send any company-wide good-byes.”

  “Wait—am I being fired or let go?” He turned to Nina. “Will you give me a reference?”

  Ms. Ritter spoke first. “As a policy, we don’t give references, but if anyone calls us we’ll verify your dates of employment.”

  “But nothing else? Not even that I was in good standing when I left, or that I wasn’t fired?” He dared them to say it.

  “Nothing else.”

  “I don’t understand. My performance reviews have been stellar. You could move me to another team. Unless there’s something else?”

  Ms. Ritter sighed. “David, someone carrying your ID card was caught trespassing in the building.”

  That had not been what he expected her to say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait—you mean that break-in on the news a few months ago? Why wouldn’t you tell me then? Or fire me then, if you thought I had anything to do with it? I didn’t.”

  “I believe you, David,” said Nina. “But security policies are zero tolerance.”

  “Zero tolerance on things I didn’t do, that happened months ago? With no chance to defend myself?”

  “This is the best I could do. You’re being let go on good terms, despite this, because I said you’ve done great work for us. Sign the papers.”

  He didn’t cry. He opened his mouth to thank them, then shut it again. What was he thanking them for? An uncomfortable fame, Dr. Morton’s medical intrusion, an unjust separation, an accusation with no chance to defend himself? He signed the papers they put in front of him, which basically said he wouldn’t use any information he had gained here in any other position, and he wouldn’t talk to the media about parting ways with the company.

  One clause brought him pause. “It says here if I initial and accept the three weeks’ pay I’m not entitled to see my personnel files. Does that include whatever medical reports Dr. Morton has downstairs? Is that personnel, or something else?”

  Nina and the HR woman exchanged looks, then Ms. Ritter spoke. “That isn’t technically part of your personnel file. You can put in a written request to see the contents.”

  “Have you seen the contents? Any of you?”

  “No,” Nina said. The others shook their heads.

  He signed. It was only after the security officer followed him from the room that he realized he’d asked the wrong question. He should have asked whether they knew the contents of his medical file, not whether they’d seen it.

  People on television always left work with a box, but he didn’t keep much personal stuff at his desk: a mug his moms had given him, with a dragon tail for a handle; his headphones; a
few snacks he’d stashed in a drawer. The guard leaned against the wall and watched him. David made his motions slow and deliberate, so the guard saw he was putting candy in his mug, not, say, USB drives.

  When he finished, he leaned over the shared wall with Tash’s cubicle. “Hey, it’s been fun working with you.”

  “You, too, David.” They had the grace to look surprised, though they had to have noticed the guard.

  In the meeting, HR had said not to talk to the media, but hadn’t said he couldn’t talk to Tash. He lowered his voice anyway, so the guard couldn’t hear. “I was going through a lousy time. I still am. I’m having problems with my Pilot and now I’m getting let go and I don’t know why but it might have something to do with that? Anyway, go team. Carry on.”

  Tash looked like they had a thousand questions. “Shit, David. Good luck?”

  David pulled a watermelon-flavored lollipop from his mug and held it out to them. They took it and nodded at him.

  The guard followed him to his car. He held his mug out in a silent toast, then put it in the passenger seat. He wanted to sit for a minute, but the guy kept staring at him and clearly wasn’t going to stop until he left. He drove off the property and three blocks more, then pulled into a residential cul-de-sac and turned off the car.

  The ID thing had to be bullshit; if they’d really thought he was connected with that, they’d have fired him back then. Nobody could have noticed the e-mail he’d grabbed; he was sure of it. Too much prying into other departments? If they’d found out about that, they would have said so, he was pretty sure, and besides, everything he’d searched for could have been explained as answers to questions people had asked him at trainings and recruitment sessions. As far as they knew, he hadn’t turned his Pilot off. He hadn’t disparaged it in public. He had passed the medical assessment with Dr. Morton, or so he’d been told. Nobody could possibly know he’d taken that one printed e-mail or that he’d had his Pilot turned off. He had no idea what he’d done wrong.