by Max Barry
He walks down the glass corridor, following the sound of voices, and enters a meeting room. There are half a dozen people already here, including Eve Jantiss, who is leaning against an oak table roughly the size of Jones's apartment. This table can't be a single piece of wood, because that would be ridiculous, but it certainly looks like it. It is a rich, warm brown, not so much reflecting the recessed lights as gently spreading their luminence around; it is a table so beautiful that Jones actually notices it despite the fact that Eve is right in front of him in a short black skirt and buttoned shirt. “Jones!” she says. “You just won me fifty dollars.” She points through the glass wall to a bank of monitors. “Level 13 on the first try. Tom thought we'd need to go fetch you.”
“Hi,” says Tom, a middle-aged man with a bright blue tie who is browsing the buffet table on the other side of the room. Jones nods hello.
Eve says, “You know, one time I tried that trick at the Hyatt in New York, pressing 12 and 14 then DOOR OPEN at 13, and I surprised a bunch of FBI agents. I swear I'm telling the truth.”
The room chuckles at this, so Jones wipes the amazed expression off his face and replaces it with a smile. He looks around for somewhere to stash his briefcase.
“Under the table,” Eve says. “And help yourself to a pastry.”
This occupies Jones for the next few minutes, along with introductions to the other agents of Project Alpha. They all seem reasonably sociable, but the common thread is that they are clearly very smart. Jones realizes he will be running along behind these people for a while.
“Ah, the wunderkind,” a voice says behind him. Jones turns to see Blake Seddon grinning at him from the doorway. Blake is Alpha's plant in Senior Management. He is deeply tanned, in his late thirties, wears pinstriped suits, and has teeth so bright that Jones finds himself squinting. Did his parents just take the gamble that he would turn out a square-jawed hunk with great hair, Jones wonders, or was that brought on somehow by his name? There's a whole nature-versus-nurture debate right there. “You know, if you're meant to be the hot new thing here, you should get yourself a new suit.”
Jones realizes he's been insulted. He looks down at his suit, which is two months old and cost four hundred dollars.
“Oh, fuck off, Blake,” Eve says amiably. Blake laughs. Eve takes a seat and gets to work on her croissant. “Jones,” she says, through a mouthful. “Come sit.”
Jones obeys. The chair surprises him, giving in some places and supporting in others. This, he realizes, is an expensive chair. He experiments, moving his butt and arching his back. It gets better. Jones had no idea that chairs could do this. To think, all his life he has accepted that chairs provide a certain standard level of comfort, while society's elite were enjoying this.
“Ignore Blake.” Eve doesn't deliberately aim this at Blake, but she doesn't lower her voice, either. “He's just threatened.”
“Why?”
She looks at him. “You don't know? Wow. You are cute.”
Jones feels thrown. What do you say to that? He settles for a mixture of smiling and looking doubtful.
“What a beautiful morning!” Daniel Klausman exclaims, striding into the room. From the general reaction, Jones gets the impression that this is a standard greeting. He's wearing his overalls, which is going to take Jones some getting used to, and he drops into an enormous leather chair at the head of the table. The agents take this as a signal to get organized, but Jones notices they are not exactly rushing, in the way they would if, say, this was Training Sales and Sydney's meeting. So Klausman is fairly relaxed about protocol.
Klausman leans to his right and peers at a pastry on a napkin in front of a young woman wearing delicate glasses. “What is that, Mona? Cake?”
“Mille-feuille,” Mona says, covering her mouth daintily. She swallows. “It's a French pastry. Custard, filo, and, if I'm not mistaken, a hint of almonds.”
“Nice?”
“Very nice.”
“Good. The company's prices are outrageous, but they promise quality.”
“They deliver,” Eve says. “I had a pastry last week that was positively orgasmic.”
“Well,” Klausman says. “They are exceeding expectations, then.” He looks around the table. “Shall we begin?”
“Project 3811,” Blake says. “Training Delivery. We're experimenting with endurance limits in floating-deadline environments. Basically we've recruited four volunteers for what we've told them is a task of critical importance, put them in a meeting room, and every few hours we change the task's goals in minor but significant ways that require them to keep working.”
“Hmm,” Klausman says. “You're getting them food and water?”
“Oh yes. They order in pizza, and so forth. It's very interesting. They've been in there for twenty-eight hours and no one's left. The dynamic seems to be that no one wants to let the others down, even though they all want to go home. I don't need to point out the potential here. But there are some side effects: shouting, increased aggressiveness, declining conformity to company dress code, that sort of thing.”
“I bet you can't keep them in there for more than two days,” Eve says.
Blake raises his eyebrows. “I'll take that bet.”
“Bottle of Dom Pérignon?
“I believe you still owe me a bottle from our last bet.”
“So you'll have two.”
“If I don't have one now,” Blake says, “why should I believe you'll deliver two later?”
“Touché,” Eve says.
“Children,” Klausman chides. “Take this off-line, if you please. Tom, how are you going with the depersonalization project?”
“Well, mixed results. Although . . .” He clears his throat, glancing at Jones.
“Ah,” Klausman says. “Of course. Mr. Jones, you are unwittingly part of this project. We're experimenting with eliminating first names, encouraging employees to refer to each other by surname only. That's why your ID tag doesn't have your first name on it.”
“Oh,” Jones says. “I was wondering about that.”
“My theory is it encourages focus on job function rather than personality,” Tom explains. “The military does it. Can I ask: What did you think? When I was observing you, you didn't seem to raise any objections.”
“Uh . . . I guess, no. I thought it was strange . . . but everyone was calling me Jones, so I just went with it.”
Tom nods, satisfied. “It's early days yet. But we are seeing potentially significant downward trends in nonbusiness watercooler and phone chatter.”
There is an approving murmur at this. Jones sees Eve smile at Tom appreciatively and feels a stab of surprising, stupid jealousy.
“Good, good. Mona, make a note of that?”
“Got it.” She begins to murmur into something that looks a little like a tape recorder but, Jones has no doubt, is probably also able to organize her calendar, unlock her car, and place phone calls.
“Next. Jones. Jones?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What have you got for me?”
Jones feels everyone's eyes on him. “You mean like, a project idea?”
There are a few chuckles. Blake, across the table, laughs a little louder and longer than Jones feels is really necessary. “Yes,” Klausman says. “That's what you're here for.”
Jones clears his throat. “Well, obviously I'm new to all this, so I don't know exactly what you're after . . . but I was thinking of doing something about smoking.” He leaves a little pause, just in case anyone wants to jump in with, We already have a project on smoking, Jones, or Not again, every damn new guy wants to do something about smoking. “As I'm sure you're aware, the average company loses 5.7 days per year for every employee who smokes, due to the additional breaks they take. It's illegal to discriminate against them, but companies that reduce smoking in their workforce will see a productivity increase. Not to mention, of course, the health benefits.”
“Right,” Tom says. “We pay higher premiums
for smokers.”
“Ah, yes, there's that, too,” Jones says. “So my first idea is to reward nonsmokers with additional vacation time for not taking smoking breaks—say, a day per year.”
Across the table, Blake interjects, “Or we could just penalize smokers a vacation day. Or make them work overtime.”
“Well . . . no. Because that would be illegal.” Jones doesn't want to get into a pissing match with Blake, so resists the impulse to add something inflammatory, like: obviously.
Eve says, “Zing!”
“Also,” Jones says, pressing ahead, “this way you get buy-in from the staff. Plenty of nonsmokers feel aggrieved that smokers get extra breaks during the day. This will make them feel justified about their outrage, and more willing to speak out about it, which increases peer pressure on smokers to quit. It's kind of inflammatory, but given the benefits, including to the smokers themselves, I think it's justified.”
Eve smiles. “Is this guy good or what?”
“My other thought,” Jones says, gaining confidence, “is to create a designated smoking area. Currently people hang out in two or three groups near the exits.”
“Wait,” Tom says. “How does this help discourage smoking?”
“We put up little mock fences and a sign that says Smokers' Corral,” Jones says. “So it's socially embarrassing.”
There's a ripple of laughter. “I like it,” Klausman says. “I can see you'll fit right in here, Jones.” He ponders for a moment. “I want you to do it. But with the vacation days, don't make an official announcement. We'll just spread the rumor that the company is considering it. As for the Corral, I think we should be able to set something up near the backup generator, yes?”
Blake says, “I can put a request in to Infrastructure Management.”
“Excellent!” Klausman smacks his lips. “Now, all this talk of smoking is giving me cravings.”
“Me, too,” Eve says. “And I quit a year ago.”
“What say we take a recess,” Klausman says, standing, “and pick this up in ten.”
Megan, the Training Sales PA, staggers through the glass doors of the level 17 gymnasium. She's wearing a big, baggy tracksuit that's stuck to her skin with what feels like a gallon of frozen sweat. Her heart is thumping so hard she can feel it in her ears. This morning Megan decided to walk to work. When the Zephyr building drew within sight, she picked up pace; then, at the very end, she broke out into an actual jog. It is the first time Megan has run since high school, and it nearly killed her.
But she feels happy. Last night Megan was channel surfing, zapping from one stupid show to another from the comfort of her sofa, when she hit a motivational speaker on an infomercial. “Your goals are within your reach,” the speaker said, the squareness of his jaw brooking no argument. Megan's finger hesitated on the remote. “The only thing holding you back is you.”
Lying alone in bed that night, Megan wondered if that wasn't true. Why is she, a reasonably intelligent twenty-four-year-old woman, spending forty hours a week sitting at a desk against a wall with nobody to talk to and nothing to do more interesting than rearrange ceramic bears? Why is she keeping careful notes on the movement of Jones (who is away from his desk a lot lately; she hopes he doesn't have medical trouble), instead of talking to him? Yes, Sydney makes her sit away from everybody else, and yes, people in Zephyr Holdings are generally oblivious to the lives of PAs, but Megan has the power to change this. If she was more confident, she might get into more conversations. If she lost some weight and bought some better clothes . . .
This was fantasy. But the man on the TV said the only thing holding Megan back was Megan, and if he's right, then Jones is within her reach, too.
She can't even think it without flushing like an idiot. It is ridiculous to imagine that Jones could fall in love with her. He is young and dynamic and surrounded by girls who are effortlessly more attractive than Megan, people like Holly Vale (blond, slim, athletic) and Gretel Monadnock (beautiful) and Eve Jantiss (depressingly beautiful). Megan has stood in the shadows of girls like that all her life, as they tossed their shiny hair and flashed their perfect smiles, touching their necks as they laughed at the jokes of all the boys Megan has ever liked. She knows how it works. They flirt, even though they already have boyfriends (they always do, and always the best ones), and whether they mean to or not they exert a gravitational pull on every man around, reminding them that this is what a desirable woman looks like, this, not like fat, bespectacled Megan, who might as well belong to a different species.
She heads into the gymnasium shower room. Every step hurts, but her body feels as if it is singing. Megan is amazed. So this is why people exercise! If it works like this, instead of being a constant battle against pain and exhaustion, well, Megan can see herself doing it. She could run to work every day. She could (eventually) become one of those people like Holly, who is thin and attractive and—emerging from a shower stall right in front of her.
Megan stops dead. Holly, wearing just a white towel, sees her and blinks with surprise.
“Hi,” Megan says, but only her mouth participates: her throat fails to get organized enough to supply it with sound. She clears her throat to try again, but thanks to the jogging emits a thick, wet noise that sounds like someone blowing their nose. She is too mortified to speak.
“I didn't know you worked out.” Holly walks to the bench, puts one foot up on it, leans forward, and begins to dry her hair with a second towel.
“I'm just starting.” Megan's voice comes out strained. She cannot bear to stand here and watch the muscles work in Holly's tan shoulders—shoulders that look nothing at all like hers. The idea of walking past those shoulders to the showers is so daunting that it takes her a second to force her body into motion. Her hand grips her bag of work clothes so hard that her fingers ache.
As she's squeezing past, Holly says, “Well, good for you, Megan.”
Megan is shocked. It sounds like Holly really means it.
Level 14 is split into two halves: Training Sales when you turn right from the elevators and Training Delivery when you turn left. They are exact mirror images. Most of Zephyr is like this, and there are several amusing stories of burned-out employees wandering into the wrong department, settling down, and complaining about being unable to log on to their computer.
In the Training Delivery meeting room, blinds are drawn across both the internal wall and the windows. Four people sit around a table, not speaking. One, Simon Huggis, is staring at Karen Nguyen's face—or, more specifically, at the mole beside her nose. Simon has worked with Karen for two years, and in all that time her mole never bothered him. But he's been in this meeting room for thirty-four consecutive hours, and now it's all he can think about. He loathes it. When he closes his eyes, he can still see it, nestled in under the curve of one nostril. Over the past couple of hours, an idea has been forming in his brain: Karen knows exactly how annoying it is, and that's why she leaves it there.
Across the table, Karen looks up from a list of action items. There are deep, dark troughs under her eyes. Her hair is frayed. “What?”
“Nothing.” Simon reaches for a mint. As he does, everybody else exhales sharply.
“Simon,” says Darryl Klosterman. His voice is gentle but pained, like a doctor explaining that the cancer is inoperable. He is sitting beside Karen Nguyen. Everybody is on the opposite side of the table from Simon, because, allegedly, Simon smells. That's what they said, ten hours ago. Another explanation is that they are plotting against him. “Please. No more mints.”
Simon slowly unwraps the mint. The plastic crackles.
“Simon,” says Helen Patelli. She is a tall woman with graying hair, which is all Simon can see at the moment, because she has her head in her arms, resting on the table. “If you have one more mint, I swear, I'm going to slap you so hard.”
Simon pops the mint in his mouth. He sucks on it more vigorously than is really warranted, making little smacking noises.
“Ple
ase. Please,” Darryl says. “We're almost done. This is it. Let's just keep it together for one more half hour, then we can all go home.”
“That's what you said yesterday,” Helen says into her arms. “Yesterday!” Her voice cracks.
“But we've agreed. This is it, no matter what. This is our last revision. We made that perfectly clear. If they want more changes, they can get someone else to do it. So let's just pull together for this one last—”
The meeting room door cracks open, spilling light into the room. Everyone looks around, dazed. Even Helen's head comes up. Standing in the doorway is a tanned, handsome man in a beautiful pinstriped suit. Simon doesn't recognize him.
“Not interrupting, am I? Blake Seddon. Senior Management.” He smiles. His teeth leave an afterimage on Simon's retina. “Just wanted to duck in and say what a fantastic job you're doing. Everyone in Senior Management is aware of the sacrifice you've made. Including Daniel Klausman.”
This gets a murmur from the group. Helen says, “Daniel Klausman . . . knows about us?”
“He's very impressed. He told me to make sure that when all this is over, you get whatever you want. Vacation days, a bonus—you name it.”
Simon sees his co-workers' mouths split open and their teeth emerge. It takes him a moment to realize what's happening, because it's been at least a day since he's seen any of them smile. Even Karen Nguyen's mole briefly disappears behind her nose. The tightness in Simon's chest eases a little.
“Now,” Blake says, looking at a piece of paper in his hand, and Simon's gut spasms. This is what happened two hours ago, and three hours before that, and so many times before that that Simon can't remember them all: someone comes in to deliver praise, then . . . “I want to make sure you know these figures need to be plotted out over five years. Right?”