Company

by Max Barry

  He snapped out of this fantasy to realize he was being assigned a new job: to restore the company network. He said, “Really? It seems people are actually happier without the network. They're moving around, talking . . . my feeling is this may actually be good for the company.”

  “Of course the staff like it,” Blake said scornfully. “It means they can't do as much work. No doubt the staff think it's terrific. We're not here to entertain them, though, Jones.”

  “I'm not suggesting otherwise,” Jones said, in the cool, measured tones of a man resisting the urge to clock Blake with his coffee mug. “I'm just wondering if this might not increase productivity. Have you heard of work-life balance? It's the crazy idea that employees work better when they're happy and motivated.”

  Blake leaned back and folded his arms, regarding Jones as if he had just heard something very stupid. From the head of the table, Klausman said, “Ah, Jones, we're not big fans of that whole work-life balance thing. It's not that it's not a great concept. It is. In theory.”

  “Like communism,” Blake said, eliciting chuckles. There will be no drunken reminiscences, Jones decided.

  “The problem is it's a myth. We've run the numbers; it doesn't check out. The amount you gain from reduced absenteeism and error rates is swamped by what you lose to reduced working hours and off-task behavior. Simply put, happy employees aren't more productive. They're less.”

  “In most situations,” Mona interjected. “Remember?”

  Klausman nodded. “Ah, yes. When it's expensive to replace an employee, it can be worth spending money to keep them happy. But that's the exception.”

  “So what you're saying,” Jones said, “is there's no point spending money on employee welfare unless they're in Senior Management.”

  Blake said, “By Jove, he's got it.”

  “What I'm saying,” Klausman said, “is that when it comes to work-life balance, we're fighting for the work side of that equation. Capisce?”

  “Yes,” Jones said.

  “Good boy. This is one of those occasions where I don't want to wait for Zephyr to fix itself. Most of Senior Management doesn't even have a computer; it'll be months before they figure out something's wrong. No, the company needs a network, Jones, and you are going to give it one.”

  Jones opened his mouth to say, How?, but that wasn't very dynamic or Alpha-like. So instead he said, “All right,” and everyone looked happier.

  The third unsettling thing happened as the meeting was wrapping up. Blake announced, “And keep an eye on Staff Services. The new manager there, Roger Jefferson, has a lot of fresh new ideas.” This was apropos of something, but Jones had been packing up his briefcase and thinking about the network, so he missed what, exactly. But when he looked up, Blake was watching him with a small, patronizing smile, and Jones realized that for reasons he wasn't yet aware of, today was going to suck.

  He finds out why when he reaches the cubicle. Freddy and Elizabeth are in an animated discussion, sitting with their knees almost touching in the cramped quarters. Freddy is shaking his head emphatically. “No, no, no. Jones! Come here, I need your support.”

  “Freddy, I understand what you're saying,” Elizabeth says. “It's just there's nothing we can do about it. There are no other options.”

  “What's going on?”

  Freddy waves a printed memo. “Look at this! Roger calls it an ‘Accountability Program.' From now on, we have to pay for everything. Our desks, our computers—he's billing us for them. He's made us personally responsible for departmental expenses!”

  “There's going to be a run on office chairs,” Elizabeth muses. “We should stock up. Maybe we could sell them to other employees at a markup.”

  “When Staff Services work becomes available, we have to tender for it. The lowest tender gets the job. And we pay for all expenses ourselves! He's turned us into subcontractors!”

  “Oh,” Jones says. “That sounds bad.”

  Freddy grinds his forehead with the heel of his hand. “All I ever wanted was a little job somewhere with no accountability. Somewhere I could do what they asked me, more or less, and not have to wonder if every day is going to be my last. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”

  “What's going on?” Holly says, appearing beside Jones.

  “Holly! Back me up here. Is this Accountability Program the worst idea you've ever heard or what?”

  “Um . . . no, I think it's all right.”

  Freddy gapes. “All right? All right?”

  “Why shouldn't we be responsible for our own expenses? You know Lianne? She always photocopies like a dozen pages before she gets it right. And that guy in Procurement, who used to do nothing but e-mail jokes all day. Why should I subsidize people like that?”

  “Subsidize? When did you start talking like a manager?”

  Holly shifts from one foot to the other.

  Freddy says, “Oh, no.”

  “I'm running the gym now.” She licks her lips. “I don't know if I'll still sit here or not, but . . . I'm running the gym.”

  Freddy sags in his chair. “This is a disaster.”

  “Boy,” Holly says, nettled. “Thanks for the congratulations. Remind me to get excited when you tell me your new roles.”

  “Nobody's getting new roles,” Elizabeth says dully. “Nobody but you.”

  “Oh,” Holly says.

  “Oh,” Freddy says. “Oh yeah, gee, I wonder why Roger's handing out special favors to Holly. Let me think. Hmm.”

  Holly's eyes widen. “Yeah? Why?”

  “It wouldn't be because you told him about a certain donut, would it?”

  Elizabeth's eyes leap to Holly. Holly's cheeks flush.

  “Oh, God,” Elizabeth says.

  “He was going to find out anyway,” Holly says, her voice rising. “Look, I'm sorry, Elizabeth, but he was going to find out. He's obsessed.”

  Suddenly a Klaxon tears through the room. The bulb in the ceiling cage bursts into life, throwing swirling sheets of orange light over the cubicles. In an instant level 11 resembles the scene of major roadworks. Jones jumps. “What the hell?”

  Everybody peers over the cubicle walls. In between stabbing flashes from the orange light, they see the TV screen:

  TENDERS INVITED

  JOB #0000001

  TASK

  Reallocation and auction of cubicle space

  (level 11)

  DETAILS AVAILABLE FROM STAFF SERVICES PA

  “It's work.” Freddy's voice trembles. “Work.”

  Cautiously, employees drift out of their cubicles to stare at the monitor. Then, one by one, glancing at each other warily, they head for Roger's PA.

  “Look at them!” Freddy stares in disgust. “Everyone ready to beat each other out for a pay packet. You know what, I'm not going to tender. What happened to sticking together? What happened to teamwork?” He gives Holly a dirty look.

  “Hey,” Holly says. “You know what Roger told me? He said there's no such thing as teamwork. It's a con. The company doesn't promote teams. If you want to get ahead, you have to screw everybody else and look after yourself. Co-workers are competitors. Roger told me the truth: there's no I in team, but there's no U, either!” There is silence. Holly's chest rises and falls. Her cheeks flush. “But . . . I really am sorry, Elizabeth.”

  “Maybe now he knows, he'll forget about it.” She looks away.

  “I bet he does,” Holly says. “Honestly, you know, that wouldn't surprise me.”

  Freddy stares at her.

  “I'm sure everything will be okay,” Holly says. Her voice is so plaintive that Jones has to look away.

  In the lobby, Gretel has a migraine from the flashing switchboard lights. She shouldn't even be here: this morning she called in sick, but a woman in Human Resources and Asset Protection sucked air through her teeth and said, “Oh, dear . . .”

  “What?” said Gretel, but suddenly she was listening to a traffic report on the state of I-5. She closed her eyes, sitting on the edge of h
er bed in her pajamas. Her boyfriend slumbered beside her, one hand on her thigh. Then the voice came back. “Gretel, I'm going to transfer you. Okay?”

  “I—” Gretel said, but then she was back to the radio station. She waited.

  “Gretel?” A man's voice, loud and painfully cheerful. “Jim Davidson. What's this about you being under the weather?”

  Jim was HR's personnel manager. “Yes, sorry, Jim. I'm feeling terrible.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” he said, but his tone didn't change at all: he made it sound as if this was a joke they were sharing. “Unfortunately, that puts us in a bit of a pickle.”

  Gretel squeezed the phone. “I'm sure Eve won't mind covering me for one day.” This was a lie: she was sure Eve would mind. However, it would not kill Eve, and after the horrors of Monday, when Gretel was under siege and Eve was nowhere to be seen, it might even be what Eve deserves.

  “Yes, I'm sure—if Eve hadn't called in sick ten minutes ago.”

  Now Gretel is stabbing buttons on the switchboard while her head pounds and dampness collects under her arms. Exactly why Human Resources is unable to hire a temp is unclear to her, as is why this is her problem. Jim did explain; he spoke at length in that cheery, teeth-cracking voice about the upheaval following the consolidation and how difficult it would be to deal with a new crisis especially since all the people who might have been able to step into her role for the day had just been sacked. After two minutes of this, Gretel agreed to come in so he would stop talking.

  She should have held out. As it was yesterday, and the day before that, the switchboard is completely swamped, because half the company has just changed jobs and nobody knows anyone's new number. Human Resources and Asset Protection has promised to issue a new directory, but not for two to three weeks—which, Gretel knows, means it'll be a month and a half, contain numerous key errors, and there won't be enough copies. On top of this, there is no IT department to update the phones, so everyone's caller ID is wrong. You need to dial an additional number to reach employees outside your own department, so Gretel can't connect anybody until she knows where they're calling from. The employees don't understand this, so this morning Gretel has had two hundred conversations like this:

  “Good morning, reception.”

  “Hi, can you give me Kevin Dawson's new number? He was in Corporate Marketing . . . I'm not sure what that's called now.”

  “Can I have your name and department, please?”

  “Um . . . Kevin Dawson? In Corporate Marketing?”

  “No, not the name of the person you're trying to reach. Your name.”

  “Oh! It's Geoff Silvio.”

  “In . . . ?”

  “Well, I guess it's called Treasury now.”

  “Just a moment, Geoff.”

  During all this, the switchboard flashes a solid bank of yellow lights at her, informing her that there are twelve more identical conversations lined up and ready to go. At eleven o'clock she is so desperate for the bathroom that she literally runs across the lobby floor, and when she emerges, a man from Senior Management is walking past the reception desk, looking at all the flashing lights, and he frowns at her.

  Gretel realizes around twelve thirty that once again she has no hope of lunch: the inflow of calls isn't slackening at all. She enters a numb, robotic state where her mouth and fingers move first and her brain catches up a second later. Over and over, she punches TRANSFER to end one call and activate the next. “Good afternoon, reception.”

  “It's me.”

  “Yes, hello,” she snaps. “I need to know who you are and where you're calling from before I can connect you.”

  There's a surprised pause. “Gretel, it's Sam.”

  Sam is her boyfriend. Her mouth drops open. She covers her face with her hands and starts to cry.

  Is Roger a bad person? It's a difficult question. Right now it is occupying center stage in Elizabeth's mind. He is petty, yes. He's scheming. He's arrogant and insecure, a terrible combination. He has never shown her any affection bar the physical, and that was brief and impersonal. Sometimes when she looks at him, she wants to tear out his neat brown hair and stuff it in his mouth.

  She's heard of women craving odd foods while pregnant, repulsive combinations like ice cream and gherkins. Well, Elizabeth craves Roger. She aches for him to wrap her in his arms. Just thinking about it brings a whimper to her lips. Elizabeth has been in love more times than she can count, but until now she never felt desire as a physical force. Right now, if Roger asked, Elizabeth would strip naked and make love to him on the orange-and-black carpet.

  Sitting at her desk with her hands clenched into fists, she tries to talk her body around. There are many logical reasons why she should not desire Roger, and she silently argues each one of them. But none of them stick; all are washed away by the rich, red hormonal tide within her. The rational part of her, the part that sold training packages, bobs helplessly adrift on an emotional sea. What do you know about anything? the ocean says. Look at your job. Look at your priorities. Thanks for the input, but I'll take it from here.

  She has to admit that her body makes a good point. But Roger! Why, why, why Roger? Does her body see hidden depths to him? She can't. She pleads with it to change her mind.

  Getting the network back turns out to be easier than Jones expects. He starts by thinking about which department should logically control Information Technology, and decides it's his: Staff Services. So he knocks on Roger's door and pitches the idea. Roger listens in silence, then turns his chair to face the window for a while. Jones doesn't know whether Roger is thinking deeply or simply striking a pose, but he doesn't mind waiting. After a minute, Roger swivels back. “You're asking for a significant capital investment on the part of this department.”

  “I guess.”

  “You know I'm trying to make individual employees more accountable for expenses. This runs contrary to that paradigm.” He presses his fingers together. “I'd need to basically loan you the money.”

  Jones blinks. “How would I pay that back? What, you mean I personally would bill other departments for network usage?”

  Roger smiles. “Let's not get carried away. I'm externalizing expenses, not revenue.”

  “Then—”

  “What I am prepared to do is pay you a royalty on network billings, up to a certain ceiling.”

  “So . . . I'm responsible for all the costs, but only get a percentage of the revenue?”

  “We can negotiate the exact numbers,” Roger says. “But frankly, if you don't like it, I have a department full of staff who would kill for a job like this.”

  “Hey,” Jones says, bristling. “Setting up the network is my idea.”

  “That's why I'm giving you first bite at it.”

  Jones opens his mouth to argue, then realizes he's not here to earn a salary from Roger. He's here because Alpha wants a network. “Okay, okay.”

  “You'll need help. A big job like this. You should subcontract to other Staff Services employees.”

  “I will.” Jones has no intention of fooling around with wires and computers.

  “Don't just give the work to your friends,” Roger warns. “You'll get better value by making them bid for it. Just a word of advice.”

  “Thanks, Roger,” Jones says.

  He gives Freddy the task of scouring Staff Services for anyone who knows anything about computers, and settles down at his desk to phone IT consultancy houses. After each call, he puts a line through their name if they tried to sell him something he didn't ask for or used the word “solutions” more than three times. An hour later he finds a guy called Alex Domini who, he suspects, heads a one-man shop, and makes an appointment to see him the next day.

  His voice-mail light is blinking, so he dials in to find a message from Sydney. “Ah, Jones? Can you—yes, I will get to you in one minute. Just—just stay there, all right? Jones, come down to reception, there's a package for you. Now look—” The phone clicks.

  Jones p
uts down the phone. Surely Sydney isn't working the phones in reception? But one elevator ride later, he discovers she is: almost lost behind the great orange desk, she is fending off half a dozen waiting employees and snarling into the headset. This is such a sight that Jones stops to gape at it.

  “Gretel left,” says a voice. He turns to see Klausman, standing there with a mop in one hand. Jones blinks. He has to give it to Klausman: in that janitor disguise, he is practically invisible. It's a psychological thing: you see the gray overalls in your peripheral vision and don't bother looking any closer. “She just walked out. Human Resources had to send down someone to fill in.”

  “Gretel quit?”

  Klausman shrugs. “She didn't say. Not impressed, though, Jones. Not impressed. We're trying to run an efficient operation here. We don't have room for unreliable employees. It throws the whole system off.”

  Jones glances back at Sydney. It doesn't look as if he'll be getting near that reception desk in a hurry. “I guess that's what happens when there's no slack in the system.”

  Klausman considers. “Maybe so. Hmm. That would be worth measuring. It would certainly be ironic if after all this time it turned out that hyperefficiency was counterproductive.”

  “Indeed,” Jones says.

  Klausman watches Sydney struggle with the phones. “Breaks my heart to see the system fail like this. It actually hurts. You know the goal of any company, Jones? To externalize. An efficient company should be like a healthy human body: extracting nutrients from the environment and excreting waste into it. Sources of income are our nutrients, and sources of costs are our wastes.”

  “So . . .” Jones says, “Zephyr eats money and shits costs?”