by Bruce Bethke
By the time I made it down to the cafeteria, the battle, if there’d been one, was long since over. T’shombe and Bubu were gone; there were corpses stacked about the place like cordwood, but all of them mutilated beyond the point of recognition. I was cautiously checking out the kitchen when I run into the most frightening monster of all. A huge, foreboding, presence…
“Pyle,” it said in Melinda’s voice. “You are dead meat.”
I spun around, shotgun at the ready.
“Can you hear me, Pyle?” From the sound it was clearly off to my right, but—oh no, it was invisible. I hate it when they’re invisible.
“Take off the stupid VR headset, Pyle.” I dove left and fired blindly.
It answered with a soft, metallic, faintly musical sound. The sound was vaguely familiar. It sounded like—keys.
I took off the VR headset. Melinda was standing there. The real Melinda. She was jingling her key ring.
“Oops,” I said.
7: DISASTER SLINKS HOME WITH ITS TAIL BETWEEN ITS LEGS
I’d always wanted a corner office with a door that closed.
A window would have been nice, though.
Furniture, too, come to think of it. Instead, all this room had to offer was a video screen mounted in the wall behind a slab of Plexiglas, and a hidden speaker somewhere in the ceiling. There was a training presentation running on the monitor: happy music, cartoony graphics, and a smug, well-polished narration. The title of the presentation was, So You’re Getting Fired.
Obviously, it was made by the same folks who’d produced all those mindless benefits videos I had to sit through when I first joined the company. I wondered if MDE got a package discount.
“And that,” said the narrator brightly, “is the whole job termination story. With your cooperation it can be a smooth and nearly painless process. Better for you, better for us, and the important first step on that road to a better tomorrow.” The video faded into a jolly pastel rendering of our little animated hero (what was he supposed to be, a dog?) striding confidently into the dawning light of a new day, while the music rose and came to a thematic conclusion.
Ping! The screen went back to the title graphic and the narrator’s smug voice returned. “If you would like to repeat any part of this program, please say yes now.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“That is an invalid response,” it answered. After a pause, it added, “If you would like to repeat any part of this pro—”
“No,” I said.
There was another pause. “In that case, this program is now over. If you have further questions, an outplacement counselor will be with you shortly, and he or she will be happy to answer all of your questions personally. Thank you for taking the time to watch this program, and fuck you, too.”
What? Did that thing say what I thought—
The room lights faded up, the screen went black, and the electric door latch snicked to unlocked. There came a gentle and polite knock at the door. “Mr. Burroughs?”
Oh, no, Kathé again. The program was wrong in one regard—I didn’t rate an outplacement counselor, only an under-assistant outplacement clerk, 2nd class—but it was right to say she would be happy. Kathé was amazingly happy, considering what she did for a living. Pathologically happy, even. There was probably a treatment program somewhere that was still looking for her to get her back on her medication.
Another polite knock. “Mr. Burroughs?”
If I only had a bar of soap, I could carve it into the shape of a gun and attempt an escape, if I only had a knife.
She knocked again.
“Come in,” I said.
The Under-Assistant Whatever-the-Hell-Her-Title-Was opened the door, stuck her cheerful round curly-brown-haired head into the room, and gave me a sunny smile. “So, Mr. Burroughs. Did this program help you to understand your situation?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Her perky smile failed not a whit. “Good. You know, if you think you might want to watch it again later, you can check out a CD-ROM copy and take it home.” She stepped fully into the room and scanned the electronic clipboard in her hands. “All we would require is a security deposit of—”
“Thank you, no. I’ll pass.”
She nodded, setting her curls all abounce, and touched a spot on the clipboard. “Okay. In that case, before we go any further, I need to make sure of one thing. You do understand that you are not being fired, right?”
I sighed. “Right.”
“MDE does not ‘fire’ people. Rather, your employment status has been transitioned to Unpaid Administrative Leave, pending a review of your case by the Workforce Issues Mediation Committee.”
I nodded. “And when can I expect this review?”
“In four to six weeks. You’ll be notified when the review is scheduled and given a chance to present your side of the story.”
“And then I’ll be fired.”
Kathé shook her curly head and tsk-tsked at me. “That is an unnecessarily negative attitude,” she admonished me. “Why, it’s entirely possible the committee will decide your supervisor was wrong and reinstate you with back pay.”
“Has that ever actually happened?”
It was worth asking. For a few seconds there her perky smile failed, and a look of cloudy confusion drifted across her sunny round face. “Well I’m sure it has,” she said at last. “Otherwise the employee handbook wouldn’t say it’s possible.”
Yup. About what I figured.
With that question firmly resolved in her mind, she went back into perky mode. “So, unless you have more questions—”
I shook my head.
“Good. In that case I just need to get a few more answers from you, and then we can finish things up.” (And I can have my belt and shoelaces back, please?) “First,” she thumbed something on her electronic clipboard and started down a checklist, “do you own any automatic or semiautomatic weapons?”
“No.”
“Do you have any military training or access to explosives?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been adjudged mentally unstable, committed to a mental institution, or had a restraining order against you?”
“No.”
“Have you ever worked for the U.S. Postal Service?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly, and smiled. “Very good. Now, you do understand that MDE will continue to make your National Health contribution while you’re on leave, that the cost of this contribution will be deducted from any underemployment benefits you may be entitled to receive, and that the remaining surplus,” she thumbed a button on her clipboard, “which we estimate to be $3.53 per week, will be direct-deposited to your bank account?”
“Three dollars and fifty-three cents per week!”
“Well,” she frowned, and thumbed the clipboard until her face brightened. “Oh. It says here you haven’t taken advantage of the vasectomy discount program. You know, you could cut your health contribution by fifty-percent if you’d just—”
I shuddered. “Thank you, no.”
“It’s your choice.” She shrugged and thumbed something off on the clipboard. “Finally, I must remind you that pending the review, you are still bound by your noncompete agreement. You understand what this means, of course?”
“Of course.” I shrugged again. “It means I can’t even look for a job until after the Mediation Committee makes a decision.”
Kathé shook her head and tsked again. “Such negativity, Mr. Burroughs! You are perfectly free to seek employment, in the,” she paused, and glanced at her clipboard, “fast food, domestic service, or car-washing industries.”
“Oh,” I said as sarcastically as possible, “I feel better already.” It was wasted on her.
“I’m glad you’re finally starting to understand,” she said. “This is not a problem. It’s an opportunity.”
There seemed no adequate response to that. I stood there while she thumbed through more stuff on the clipbo
ard, until eventually she stopped with a satisfied sigh. “Well,” she said, “that about wraps everything up. So if you’ll just come with me,” she stepped out of the interrogation cell, and I followed. We walked down the hallway to stop before a large metal fire door. “Step through this door, please.” I did.
Clang! The door slammed shut behind me, and the electric lock bolts slammed home. I spun around in a blind panic, then spun around again as I realized where I was.
Outside the building. In the east parking lot. Standing before the entire A&F division, all 120 people, neatly assembled in rows, by department. I scanned for Charles, Frank, Bubu, and T’shombe, but if they were there, they were hidden in the back.
EXTRA CREDIT
It is 12 miles from B305 to Jack’s house, and 1.75 miles from Jack’s house to the No Questions Asked pawnshop. The average speed of a car on Highway 5 West is 32 miles per hour, while the average speed of a pharmaceutically impaired person on foot carrying a television set is 3.7 miles per hour. It takes 19 minutes to navigate the Police Department’s voicemail system.
If Jack leaves work and heads for home at the same time as a morally challenged person exits Jack’s home with his mother’s TV, will Jack be able to report this unanticipated redistribution of material wealth before the set is pawned and the junkie is back in detox?
Show your math.
Two uniformed, black-armbanded, MDE security guards began to play drum rolls on their black-draped snare drums. Walter Duff came forward, stopping a foot short of my nose. Without a word, he tore my MDE name badge from my shirt, threw it on the ground, and stepped on it. Then one by one, he plucked my pencils from my shirt pocket, held them in front of my face, and snapped them in two. My pocket protector followed; then he pulled my shirttails out of my pants, stepped on my shoes and scuffed them, and in a final gesture, produced an ivory-handled scissors, which he used to snip off my necktie just below the knot.
And then two more security guards came forward, and grabbed me by the elbows, and frogmarched me across the parking lot to the property line, which is where my car had already been towed. The guards watched me narrowly, hands on their holsters, while I unlocked the door and climbed into the Toyota.
She started on the second try. I eased her out onto Highway 5 West, turned right, and headed home.
INFONUGGETS
Okay, so I changed my mind. Sue me.
“Hi, Mom, I’m home.” No answer. I picked my way up the back steps—gee, Psycho Kitty’s litter box really needed changing—and wasted just enough time upstairs to verify that Mom had gone out. Grocery store, possibly, or liquor store, more likely.
Fine. Sounded like a great idea. If I could drink more than two cans of Lite without either falling asleep or throwing up, I’d probably do it myself. I wasted a minute looking for the mail before remembering it was Tuesday (we were on the Monday/Wednesday/Friday route) and before realizing, There Was a Way.
Fifteen minutes later, MAX_KOOL was strolling into Heaven. The crowd was a bit different at this time of day—more EastBloc EuroTrash, and a few diehard Yoshi Yakitori types still out doing nemawashi from the night before. (Or was it from tomorrow? I can never keep this international dateline business straight.) But the place was still packed, and the music still pounding, because after all, Heaven is a virtual nightclub on the World Wide Net, and it’s always midnight somewhere.
MIDNIGHT
Actually, in Heaven, it’s always a quarter to twelve. That’s one of the immutable rules of the MUD. Don’t ask why.
NEMAWASHI
The ancient Oriental art of buying your boss a few drinks after work. See brown nosing.
I flooped out of the a-grav tube and made straight for the bar. Some idiot kid with a purple mohawk and a row of IC sockets grafted into his forehead made the mistake of getting between me and the bar and trying to introduce himself. “Howdy, Mr. Kool, I’m Lowjack from Silicon Jung—awk!” I gave my knife an extra twist to make sure he was real dead, then pulled the blade out of his larynx and kicked his collapsing corpse out of the way.
Sam was already pouring me a double by the time I plunked my ass down on the barstool. “Evening, Mr. Kool.” He slid the glass across the bar to me and spared a glance at the body on the floor. “Bad day?”
“You don’t know the half of it, Sam.” I grabbed the drink, knocked it back in one gulp, and set the empty glass back down. Sam refilled it without being asked.
EASTBLOC
Once you know what to look for, it’s really easy to spot the eastern Euros. Since they all use PAL video, and we Norte Americanos use NTSC, their colors always look a bit washed out and they tend to crackle when they move. (Dropped sync bits in conversion, I’m told.)
“You want to talk about it, Mr. Kool?”
I paused, the glass halfway to my lips. “Why, Sam. I didn’t know you cared.” The drink resumed its course.
He shrugged, picked up a rag, and polished an imaginary spot on the bartop. “Can’t rightly say as I do,” he said at last. “But I do know Miss Eliza was in here asking for you.”
I almost spit my drink out. “Eliza? I heard she was dead.”
ELIZA
What, you expect me to spoonfeed you everything?
“She got better.” Sam stopped polishing the bar and flipped the rag over his shoulder as the bouncer—some obese cyber sumo clown I didn’t know—waddled over.
“What happened here?” the bouncer demanded, as he nudged the corpse with his foot.
“The newbie got in this gentleman’s face,” Sam said, nodding slowly. “I expect he won’t be making that mistake again.”
“I should say not,” the bouncer said. “But why is this—” he kicked the corpse again “—still here?”
“The kid was a putz,” I said, as I put my glass down and turned around to face the bouncer. “I don’t know what kind of amateurs you’re letting in here tonight, but—”
Maybe I didn’t recognize the bouncer, but he certainly recognized me. “Oh! Mr. Kool, I’m sorry, I—look, could you please just make it go away? It’s making the other guests nervous, if you know what I mean.”
I gave the bouncer a good frown, took a deep breath, and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Well, okay. This time.” With a casual gesture, I brought my left hand up and snapped my fingers.
The corpse randomized out of existence. Which is what should have happened as soon as I killed it, and would have happened if the kid behind it had known jack squat about VR.
“Thanks Mr. Kool,” the bouncer said as he backed away from me, bowing. I snagged my drink off the bar and winked at Sam.
“You want I should call Miss Eliza over for you?” Sam asked.
“No way,” I said. “I gotta go see a man about a horse. But in the meantime, if anyone but Eliza shows up looking for me…”
“You’re here tonight, Mr. Kool?”
“Yup. Reckon I am, Sam.” Someone called for service at the other end of the bar, and Sam left. I took another sip of my drink, then wandered down the bar, around the corner, and ducked into the little alcove that held Gunnar’s palm tree.
“Gunnar?” I whispered.
“Hi,” the tree said in Gunnar’s voice.
“I got fired today,” I said, with more anger in my voice than I’d thought I had. “Could I borrow your AK-47 and—”
“I’m not here right now,” the tree continued, “but if you leave your name and a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Bye!”
Oops. Gee, I hoped Gunnar had good security on his voicemail message file.
“Max Kool?” said a male voice behind me.
I scowled and turned around, expecting yet another geek from Silicon Jungle. “Now wha—?” There was no one there.
“Max Kool?” the voice said again. There was something odd about the spatial imaging. It took me a few seconds to place it.
I looked down. There was a dwarf standing there. But not one of your usual pseudo-medieval Tolkienoids. This one wo
re a nicely tailored three-piece suit and a brown fedora. “Are yon Max Kool?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?” I answered. I conjured up a cigarette, lit it, and blew a stream of smoke at him.
The dwarf doffed his hat and bowed slightly. “I am Thorvold, son of Orvold, from the Hall of the Mountain King!”
“I don’t care if you’re a son of a bitch from the Halls of Montezuma,” I said between puffs. “What’s your problem?”
“Since the days of future passed,” the dwarf prattled on, “my people have been emissaries, process servers, and repo agents to potentates and emperors!” He put his hat back on, and reached forward as if to shake my hand. Reflexively, I responded by extending my right.
Got to admit, the little bugger was fast. Before I could react he clapped a chip into my hand and jumped back a full yard, “Lucky for you,” he said, “I’m just a messenger!” He clicked his heels three times quick and vanished in a puff of smoke.
Well, I’d certainly walked square into that one. I looked around to see if anyone important had noticed how easily the dwarf suckered me, and how many people I’d have to kill to save face. But it didn’t look like the damage was too severe—no one at the bar was snickering at me—so I figured what the hell, I’d let them live, and touched the chip to my forehead.
My beautiful black-haired dancer shimmered into view again. This time, though, she was standing still, except for a slightly feline grinding of her hips, and she had a soundtrack.
“Hi, Max,” she said sweetly. Her voice was all sex and honey and true love and lust. “I’m Amber. Sorry my friend alarmed you last night, but I was just so eager to meet you.” She paused to smile and wink. “I still am, Max. Please come see me tonight. 0300 UTC Standard Time, alt.alt._really_.alt.sex.com. I promise, this time I’ll be alone, and I’ll leave the lights on.” She smiled again, and blew me a kiss. “I’ll be waiting for you, darling. And I promise, tonight, I will make you an offer I know you won’t want to refuse.” She smiled one last time and indulged in a long, slow, lascivious tracing of her lips with her longue. The image faded out.