by Camy Tang
“Oh. That’s too bad.” As if her father actually knew what she was talking about. But he’d always loved listening to her about work.
“The tool worked fine with our first batch. I need new data to keep testing it, but I need to rent a MoCap studio to get it. I’ll have to look around for one.”
“You’re working with Drake Yu. Ask him for one.”
No. She didn’t want to ask him for anything. She didn’t even want to put herself in the same room with him alone. “Um…maybe.”
“You don’t want to ask him?”
Man, why was Dad being so persistent about this? “I’ll wait for a good moment.”
“Well, I’ll let you go.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Don’t forget to ask Drake about that Momo-thing. Bye.”
She clicked off She needed to shove her attraction to Drake in the back of the closet, just like the Marchesa gown. She didn’t want to like him. He might have changed, but that was like buying a refurbished computer—too risky She had more important things in her life—his sister’s company, her own. No time to waste on handsome, mesmerizing, possibly still-immoral men.
She had to admit to herself that she’d never been so afraid of a man before in her life. Afraid and excited at the same time.
She didn’t fear what he’d do, but what she’d do to him.
The cold South San Francisco air flapped at her cheeks as she got out of the car. She shivered, but not with chill. No one walked the cracked street, and the tall industrial buildings blocked out any sunlight on this cloudy day, casting gloomy shadows on the dirty walls and browned windows.
She prayed as she set the alarm that her car would still be here when she got back. Which hopefully wouldn’t be too long—she’d called in to Darla not to expect her this morning, but Mondays were always busy, so she could expect a mountain of work when she arrived that afternoon.
But it had enabled her to avoid Drake, because she couldn’t yet face him when he’d seen her in that gorgeous dress less than twenty-four hours ago.
She entered the MoCap studio, a nameless old warehouse with boarded-up windows, which she’d only found because a remnant of the building number was still painted on the curb. The metal door creaked open. “Hello?” Must, sweat, and Lysol hit her in the face. Not a pleasant combination.
A woman with platinum blonde curls hurried into the open area near the door, screened off from the rest of the warehouse with tall partitions and a few ficus trees. “We’re in the middle of a session.” She motioned toward the back of the building, where Venus heard grunting, running, and bodies crashing.
“I’d like to speak with Jeffrey Stuart.” Venus surreptitiously tried to peek through a crack in the partition, but she only saw a glimpse of some blue gym mats set up on the floor.
“He’s…in a meeting.” The blonde’s gaze flickered away.
Venus narrowed her eyes and flexed a muscle in her jaw. Her feet itched to turn around and walk out. Slapped in the face with his questionable work ethic, she certainly didn’t want to work with this guy, even if his studio was the closest to San Jose.
But she was desperate and short on time to finish ironing out the wrinkles in this program. She only needed a few hours, and she could pay top dollar for them. “I’ll wait.” She crossed her arms and studied the blonde’s face.
The woman gave a sharp inhale, and the whites of her eyes flashed against her blue eye liner. In the next moment she recomposed her face, although her hands smoothed her white button-down cotton blouse with fluttering fingers. “We…don’t have anywhere for you to sit.”
Venus glanced around at the sparse reception area, if the ten-foot-radial semi-circle around the front door counted as such. She sighed. “If you bring me a chair, I’ll wait here.”
The woman gave her first smile and hustled away to return with a plastic garden chair. Venus sat to oblige her, but as soon as she disappeared behind the partition, she got up and kicked at the bottom of a partition to nudge it aside. She situated her chair in front of the crack to watch the MoCap session.
Looked like a game or a movie. Probably a game. A man ran over the blue gym mats that covered the concrete floor, dressed in what looked like a black diving suit covered with ref lective sensors. Cameras had been set up around the blue mat area—Venus counted twenty. Hmph. The website mentioned thirty-two cameras, which was what she needed. Jeffrey Stuart better have an extra twelve cameras stashed somewhere in this warehouse.
She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the computer setup in the corner. The technician sat like a king behind his wall of equipment. Venus squinted, but couldn’t see it any more clearly. She’d ask Jeffrey to give her a tour later.
The actor in the MoCap suit now walked over to where a huge blue mattress lay in a corner. A few men directed him, discussing with the technician. Venus strained to hear but only got her earring tangled on a screw protruding from the edge of the partition when she leaned close. Good thing she hadn’t punctured her skull on that thing.
They took forever to figure out what they were doing, to adjust cameras so they’d pick up the sensors on his suit better. Venus took her latest issue of InStyle magazine out of her purse and flipped through it while they discussed the action being recorded. After more gestures, they seemed to have decided what to do. Venus put down her magazine.
The man walked a few yards back from the mattress, then did a running leap. He held both hands out as if he were firing twin guns at a target to the side of the mattress, before landing in a heap.
Venus heard his shoulder pop even from where she sat. Ouch.
People ran toward the poor guy from all directions. Venus sighed. Game over.
She checked her watch. It had already been twenty minutes? She dropped her magazine back in her purse. The warehouse couldn’t be that large. She’d go in search of Jeffrey’s office. Everyone seemed to be focusing on the injured actor, so she could probably sneak around without being caught seeing anything she wasn’t supposed to.
She peered around the partitions. Doors lined one side of the warehouse, while the majority of space had been used for the MoCap studio setup. No one in sight.
Most offices had the old-fashioned glass-paned doors, so she glanced in as she walked past. Some doors were ajar. Nobody home, in any of them.
Oh, wait. The last office held a man seated at his computer with his back to the closed door. He apparently hadn’t heard the anxious calls from other people rushing to the injured actor. No name on the door. She drew up to the window in the door to see if he had a name plate somewhere on his desk.
She didn’t mean to glance at his computer screen. In fact, she tried really hard not to, because she didn’t want to view anything proprietary and hush-hush. But something about the movement on the screen reminded her of some animations she had seen done, and she leaned sideways to get a better view around the man’s head.
Terrorwars III. No way! She hadn’t worked on that game, but she’d known the other Game Lead at Oomvid, and she’d seen the animators and programmers working on it.
It wasn’t out yet. Oomvid had paid megabucks to hype up the release, especially since it had been almost two years since Terrorwars II had come out.
This was an advanced copy. Way advanced. No one except Oomvid employees had access to this game.
Well, apparently not anymore.
Then she caught a gleam on the desk, and a tumbled name plate. Jeffrey Stuart.
And suddenly, Venus understood everything.
She turned the knob and slammed into the room. “You slime.”
Jeffrey jumped in his ergonomic chair and whirled around. Confusion dotted his pale eyes for a second, but then they relaxed into a half-lidded perusal of her person, from head to toe. “What can I do—”
Venus stabbed a finger at his computer screen. “That’s what Yardley promised to you if you’d refuse to rent the studio to me.”
His mouth cracked open, making him look a bit li
ke a largemouth bass, while his eyes darted from the computer, to Venus, to the computer again. “Uh…” Then his backbone solidified, and he rose to his feet. He tried to stare down his nose at her, even though he stood at least six inches shorter. “I can rent out my studio to whomever I choose.”
Maybe she could still get her way. “Look.” Venus approached him, slowing her walk to something less intimidating. She casually propped a hip against the edge of his desk. “You’ve already got the advanced copy of the game. You could still rent the studio to me.”
Jeffrey’s eyes had wandered between her mouth and her chest, but he gulped before answering her. “They also promised…overflow work.” He tried to look brave, but only succeeded in looking like a rabbit about to be pounced upon.
“Oh for crying out loud!” Venus slammed her palm against the desk. “You’re not one of Yardley’s cabana boys. I only need a few hours.”
Jeffrey had shot up almost a foot. He retreated from her fierce gaze by picking up a pen with trembling hands and fiddling with it, not looking at her. “We don’t want your business, Miss Chau.”
The way he said her name made Venus feel a hundred years old and senile. She leaned down and shot flaming crossbow bolts into his balding skull. “I am going to tell every project lead I know about how your studio does things.” She had the satisfaction of watching his cheeks pale, then burn pink.
“Go ahead. I still won’t rent to you.” His voice quivered, but he managed to keep her gaze this time, albeit with lots of blinking.
She walked out before she decked him.
Her fists clenched at her side, making her manicure dig into her palms. The pain kept her from punching the wall as she passed the other office doors.
She shouldn’t be surprised Yardley would do this. A man unscrupulous enough to try to steal her program would certainly want to keep her from using that program to create a rivaling game.
He was stupid if he thought she’d take this lying down. This would only fire her resolve. She slammed the front door on her way out. She’d show him. She’d create the best game and blow his sorry butt out of the water. She’d shove it in his face—
Wait a minute, where was her car?
She’d parked it right there. She knew she wasn’t mistaken. Did someone steal her car? In broad daylight in South San Francisco? She ran across the street, each step like burbles of boiling water in her gut. Where was her car? She hadn’t left anything important in it, right? No laptop, no papers. Nothing anyone would want to steal aside from the fact it was a BMW convertible left in a seedy manufacturing district.
Too late, she saw the dented pole with the faded, bent red and white sign, No parking at any time.
The boiling water went nuclear. Venus screeched and kicked at the curb.
All it got her was a broken stiletto.
SEVENTEEN
Venus, where have you been—”
“Not now.” Venus almost knocked her palm into Esme’s face as she limped through the doors into work. She didn’t want to listen to Esme’s perfectly reasonable questions when she herself felt as pleasant as if she’d gone dumpster diving.
She smelled like that oil-drenched, grimy towing yard. She also smelled like the tobacco the tow truck driver had been chewing as he talked (and spit) at her, giving her the paperwork to fill out. Limping on her broken heel had made her hips start to ache, as if the inferno headache frying her brain wasn’t enough.
“Are you ok—”
“Not now.” Venus pushed past her and wound her way down the hallway to her office.
Drake walked out of his sister’s office, saw her and stared.
Venus glared back. “What?” She started to march past him but felt ridiculous in her heel-less state and pulled both shoes off before stalking down the hallway.
She sensed rather than heard Esme behind her as she turned into her office. No rest for the wicked. And she’d most certainly said and thought a lot of words God would not approve of while getting her car back.
Venus crashed into her desk chair and looked up at Esme, who was hovering but trying not to seem like she was hovering. “Esme, I’m not mad at you, I’m just a little stressed.”
Esme sighed. “Oh, good.”
“Go get a cup of coffee, and come back to me in twenty minutes. Not a second sooner. I don’t care if someone is bleeding and burning. You will not disturb me. Understood? And shut the door on your way out.”
She dropped her head and dug her fingers into her forehead. The click of the door released a pent-up breath, but her next inhale only got her a lung full of diesel fuel fumes from her blouse.
Why was this happening to her? She read her Bible every day. She prayed every day. She went to church every Sunday. She had even started working with the youth group—with kids!—and this was the circus her life became.
She bent to pick up her shoes from the floor. Three hundred dollars, but now only fit for the trash after walking all over South San Francisco. She would have wept, but the very sight of them reminded her of her aching hips, her aching feet, her aching head, and the gas-related smells that accompanied it all. She tossed them in the circular file.
Breathe, Venus. Get back in control. Except lately her life resembled Black Friday sale day with too many pairs of shoes spilling out of her arms.
Knock, knock. The door opened.
Venus slammed her palms against her desk. “I said, not even if someone is bleeding and burning—”
Drake stopped halfway into her office. He regarded her with raised eyebrows.
Venus kneaded her fingertips into her temples. “Now is not a good time.”
“I gathered that.” He came in and shut the door, tossing a file onto her desk. “How about bleeding, burning, and crashing?”
“What’s crashing?” She opened the file.
Drake caught sight of the shoes in her trash bin. He picked up the heel-less wonder. “I’d hate to see the other guy.”
“Very funny.” She scanned the papers. “The system’s not supposed to crash—”
“I’ll tell it the next time we’re out for coffee.”
Venus checked to make sure he hadn’t sprouted a flowerpot out of his head. “You are just begging to get decked, aren’t you?” He had that infuriatingly calm look on his face.
He shrugged and dropped her shoe back in the can.
“Why did they use this patch for the code?” She stabbed at the paper. “EBF 4.0 is too new.”
He bent over to look. “They said you told them to use that version EBF.”
Venus resisted the urge to bark and growl. “Who are you going to believe, me or them?”
“Venus, stop being defensive.” His neutral expression never changed, although his voice hardened.
She couldn’t not be defensive. Whenever something went wrong in other companies, she was the first to be blamed as lead programmer and as a woman. She expected to be blamed, so she went on the attack instead. He knew this. He’d worked with her. She continued skimming the papers so she wouldn’t have to answer him.
A tentative knock, knock at the door, then Esme’s voice trembling behind it. “I know you said not to disturb you, but things are crashing…”
Venus wrinkled the papers in her fists to prevent her hands from flinging them up in the air. “No one is listening to me.”
Drake laughed. Laughed! “You’re C TO. Get used to it.” He walked to the door and opened it.
Esme’s cheeks bloomed English rose red at the sight of him. “Oh, I’m sorry, Drake. I didn’t know you were having a meeting.”
“We were discussing the crashing.”
Venus started at his tone. Was he actually being sarcastic?
“Oh, good.” Esme heaved a sigh and smiled sweetly at him, serene and beautiful, so relieved she didn’t have to break the news herself to that horrible Gorgon, Venus.
Venus made an effort to cool down, be nice for a change. After all, it wasn’t Esme’s fault. Or Drake’s, if she was bein
g perfectly honest. “Do you know why the programmers used this EBF version?” She held out the papers toward Esme and tapped her nail against the offending section.
Her brow wrinkled, and her pink lips parted. “You told them to.”
“Why would I tell them to use version 4.0? It hasn’t been through Q&A testing yet.”
“But…” Esme’s mouth formed a confused O. She flipped through the leather folio in her hand, and then showed her notes to Venus. “You told me to tell them this.” She pointed to a line. Use version 4.0j EBF.
The perfectly legible handwriting instructed her to tell the programmers to use the exact EBF version they’d used. Venus grabbed the folio to look closer at the notes. Had she been half-asleep when she told Esme to do this? This was completely stupid. But it was right there in black and white.
Something inside her cracked like the melted sugar crust on top of a crème brulee. How could she have done something so incredibly wrong? She never made mistakes like that. Not on something so elementary.
Drake pulled the folio from her fingers and scrutinized it, brow furrowed. “You said this?” Even he couldn’t quite believe it.
An icy boulder crashed in the pit of her stomach. “I…I must have.” She braced herself. Drake was going to go ballistic the way he had done in past meetings, loud yet cold, like the roar of an avalanche against an arctic cliff. And it would crash over her while she tried to stand tall and proud and take it like a man.
He tossed the folio back on her desk, where it plopped and slid a few inches. Her tense muscles jolted. She wouldn’t let herself close her eyes—she kept them trained on his expressionless face, waiting for the blow.
He cast her a cursory glance. “Fix it.”
She kept her eye on his profile. She had expected it to come, and it hadn’t.
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“That’s it?”
“What’s it?”
“I’m waiting for nuclear detonation.”
A smile creased the corner of his mouth before his eyes slid to Esme, a wide-eyed onlooker, and he wiped his humor away. “Just fix it.” He turned and exited her office.