[Brackets]

by Sloan, David

  Jason was leaning into the wind now, barely keeping his balance. It was hard for him to keep his eyes open. The indicator read 100. Neeson sat back, observing remorselessly as the wind meter ticked up steadily. A panel that hadn’t been secured well broke off and flew just a few yards from Jason’s head. Jason did what he could to pound the window again and yell as the wind hit 110.

  Suddenly, Jason fell backwards and disappeared under the window. Neeson stood up and walked over to the glass. As he approached and scanned the floor, he failed to notice that all the panels were suddenly, simultaneously, closing. A few seconds later, the power to the fans stopped and the brakes came on. Neeson whipped back to the control panel to see what was happening. The screen had a warning: Failsafe: Direct Override. It was Jason’s program, created for Haj’s benefit and never tested because the electrical systems had failed too soon. Neeson had forgotten. He typed swiftly, trying to override the override, but it was too late. The full power down was mandatory. Turning back to the window, he saw a haggard and angry Jason, hair askew, standing inches away from the glass, rubbing the back of his head.

  “You are completely out of your mind!” Jason yelled.

  “Calm down, Jason, you aren’t hurt.” Neeson considered holding this conversation through the thick safety glass, but wearily decided against it. There was no point. He pushed the button to unlock the door, and Jason barreled through, panting and livid.

  “I should sue your hide. How high would you have let that fan go if I hadn’t installed the failsafe, huh?”

  “First tell me this,” Neeson demanded, wondering if Jason would punch him and preparing to punch back. “How, after everything we did to build this thing, after all the work that everyone did, how could you decide to work so hard to destroy this company?”

  Jason was still breathless, but he had enough to sound threatening. “Neeson, you are the dumbest, blindest… Which one of us created that bracket program? Or the stock market program? Which of us decided to try using my system to make money on the side instead of fixing the real problems of WindSkin?”

  “I was trying to make sure this company had a future! I was trying to make our company’s system reached its full potential! If you hadn’t ruined everything, if you had just fixed the problems instead of deciding to hit and run—”

  “If I had fixed the problems? You were so busy playing with your side projects that you didn’t notice that WindSkin is a complete failure. The whole thing’s a flop, OPUS or not. You think we never got a sale because we couldn’t get the specs we wanted? We couldn’t get a sale because WindSkin is a bad product. The panels are too expensive, too bulky in a group, too delicate individually, and too unreliable in a network. Even if we had made a sale, there is no way that we could have installed it successfully. I kept trying to tell you early on, but you kept sayin’, ‘Oh, we’ll deal with it, it’s fine,’ until eventually I just gave up trying to tell you anything. I stayed on as long as I did because I thought you’d eventually leader up and do something to turn us around. Then I find out that the whole time you didn’t really care. This company was a dead horse limping along only because you needed it to live long enough so that you could sell us out. I did everyone in this company a favor by putting it out of its misery.”

  Neeson folded his arms, relaxed somehow now that he had been proven right. “You have one hour to pack up and leave your office. I’ve already told the security guard that you would be returning to clear things out, and that you aren’t allowed to even touch your computer. Your passwords and clearances have all been removed.”

  Jason didn’t move. “You think I’m just gonna forget what you did to me just now?”

  “No,” Neeson said, “but I don’t think you’re going to tell anyone about it. You see the camera over there?” He nodded to his left, where a video camera was looking down on them. “It just recorded this whole conversation. You say anything, and it will come out that you sabotaged the company and caused massive electrical damage to private property. You can remember today all you like, but if you take me down, I take you down.”

  Jason stared at him with a colder, more disgusted look than Neeson had ever seen on his face.

  “I guess we both better shut up and move on then.”

  “I guess so.”

  One more glare, then Jason turned his back on the control room and walked away, his boots punctuating the vitriol in his eyes. Just before he reached the door, Jason turned back.

  “Just so you know, I didn’t have to do much to keep OPUS down. It really was turning off the failsafes on its own. It’s a problem with the system itself. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was power hungry. It overreaches when it has too much successful reinforcement. Sound familiar? If I were you, I wouldn’t put too much faith in those side projects of yours. They’ll let you down eventually.” And Jason left.

  Neeson was alone. Exhausted, he leaned his head forward and covered his eyes. He had been right about Jason, but now that the confrontation was over, he realized that his rashness may have kept him from thinking everything through. Slowly, he went about packing away and turning off what he could. The tower of panels was left alone, tall and opaque, as Neeson turned off the lights and left.

  The air was cool, humid, and pleasant as Neeson walked to his car. But when he turned the key, he found himself without anywhere to go. He didn’t want to go back to the office, not while Jason might still be there. He just wanted to get away. He left Chlorophyll Valley and kept going, mile after mile, until he arrived at the shore. There was a small public beach that Neeson preferred. Hardly anyone was there this time of year. He got out of the car and stood looking over the hazy ocean, hands on hips, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loose. The wind blew hard, shifting around him and making his shirt billow against his chest, but he liked it. It felt good to breathe new air.

  As he replayed the events of the last hour, it occurred to him that he may have sent Jason packing too hastily. There were questions that he had neglected to ask. Had Jason actually pitched OPUS to anyone? Was there a sale in the offing, and was the brackets demonstration his calling card? He knew that Jason was responsible for the perfect Seattle bracket, but he could only guess about the other two. Were they all plotting this together, or were they just hapless hoops fans, easily manipulated by an engineer who was anything but the guileless cowboy Neeson had thought him to be? Neeson mulled over the possibility of three other people—four, counting Jason—profiteering off of the success of OPUS. His OPUS.

  An even more disturbing thought crept into his consciousness. Jason had said that OPUS was glitchy, destined to fail in time. But no, it was probably a bitter lie. Neeson himself had performed the trials that demonstrated his program’s reliability. He could trust the system.

  His head hurt. He was tired from staying up all night, and the adrenaline rush of his rash plan’s execution was wearing off quickly. He rubbed his eyes, now heavy from the glare of the sunlight off the ocean and the wind pelting his face.

  The phone beeped. He looked at the number. Graham. Neeson let it ring, then for the first time since he’d started taking Graham’s money, he silenced and pocketed his phone. He would talk to Graham when his plan was clear, foolproof.

  After a few fortifying breaths of sea air, he drove back to Chlorophyll Valley. There were things to do. He would e-mail the staff and inform them of Jason’s departure. He would finish the paperwork with HR. But most importantly, he needed a recovery plan. His side projects with OPUS, no matter how important they were to Graham, had to be considered a lower priority at the moment. The more he drove, the longer his immediate to-do list became.

  As Neeson drove into the nearly empty parking lot, he noticed a man he didn’t recognize coming out of the building. The man was older, upright, and assured despite a stress-lined face. He inspected Neeson with alert, penetrating eyes as Neeson walked up. The man extended his hand.

  “Are you Neeson Faulkner?” asked the man.

  “Yes?”<
br />
  “I thought you might be. Your secretary indicated yesterday that you are often here over the weekend. My name is Bryan Casing. I have something that I would like to discuss with you.”

  “Are you interested in purchasing WindSkin?” Neeson queried hopefully.

  Casing gave a thin smile. “I’m afraid not. I have a more unique offer to make.”

  “I see,” Neeson said, summoning his professional demeanor. The world had caved in around him, and this guy wanted to chat. “I’m sorry, but I have a lot to do today, Mr. Casing. Why don’t you call my office and have them set up an appointment for later in the week…”

  “I’m afraid that I’m only in town today,” said Casing. “I only need a few minutes of your time, and I think that you’ll be interested in my proposal. Do you have an office where we can talk privately?” Neeson narrowed his eyes suspiciously. A messenger from Graham, perhaps? But it could also be something useful for the company. In spite of his misgivings, he brought Casing up to his office with the determination to kick the man out in three minutes if he proved a waste of time.

  They entered his office together. Neeson took his place behind his desk, turned on his monitors, and offered Casing a chair. But Casing had paused in front of the antlers that hung over Neeson’s shelf.

  “Are you a hunter, Neeson?”

  “I used to be. I’ve been too busy to get out in the last few years. Why don’t you sit down and we can discuss why you’re here.”

  But Casing didn’t sit. He continued to stare at the antlers. “May I ask you something, Neeson? Do you like to hunt by yourself or in a group? Or, are they called parties? Hunting parties?”

  An odd question, and Neeson’s patience was nearly exhausted. “Are you here to ask me about my antlers or my business? Because, frankly, I…”

  “I just thought it was interesting that you chose to decorate your office with a hunting trophy, in an environmentally friendly energy company, no less. But to answer your question, I am here to ask about your business, yes.” Casing unhurriedly turned away from the antlers and sat. “I’m here on the recommendation of Haj Hitok. You remember him? He told me that you met last week.”

  “Of course,” said Neeson, now listening.

  “He spoke very highly of your product and your company, said that coming up with WindSkin showed unusual creativity and ingenuity. Those are signs of the kind of people that I’m interested in.”

  “Interested in for what?”

  “I would like to tell you about a special project that I’m working on at a new facility in Kentucky, one in which we could use people with your…”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Neeson interrupted brusquely, furious at the realization that this was a job interview. “Did Haj send you down here to offer me a job? Look… it’s Bryan, right? Thanks for the offer, but WindSkin is just getting off the ground, and, despite what you may have heard, I don’t plan on abandoning my company any time soon. Tell Haj that I appreciate the gesture, and I’m sorry you wasted your time, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a company to run.” Neeson stood, opened the door, and suggested that Casing leave.

  But Casing stayed in his chair, observing him like an ornithologist contemplating a dodo. Then, to Neeson’s amazement, the older man resumed his pacing around the room.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I understand,” said Casing as he looked out of the window. “It really is a wonderful project. Perhaps you have others in your company that might be interested. We have been contemplating a three-year rotation schedule for corporate workers…”

  “Bryan, we are not interested in loaning out our supply of talent for…what is it? Never mind, we aren’t interested. Now, please…”

  Casing wasn’t listening anymore. He was looking intently out of the window with a concerned expression, the aloofness gone. Neeson walked up behind him to see what was so interesting.

  Down on the sidewalk in front of the building, two men were shaking hands. One wore cowboy boots and was holding a box full of desk ornaments. The other wore a baseball cap.

  “Do you know them?” Casing asked.

  Neeson didn’t answer because he was already out the door, sprinting down the stairs to the exit. Graham was talking to Jason. There was no possible way for that to be a good thing. Neeson ran out of the door and tore around the building to where the two had been talking. But he was too late. Graham was gone, and Jason’s car was just leaving the parking lot. Neeson yelled for Jason to stop, then ran through the parking lot and behind the building, looking for any sign of Graham. He found none. It was possible that he and Jason were in the same car.

  Neeson stood near the entrance with his hands on his hips, somewhat out of breath.

  “Missed them, huh?” Casing said, coming up behind him. “I suppose I was too late as well. Recruitment is a much more stressful job than I thought going into it. You lost a worker, didn’t you? Probably your best one. But don’t blame yourself. He can be convincing.” Casing sighed, then offered his hand to Neeson. “Thank you for meeting with me. I wish you and your company all the best. It’s just as well that you didn’t hear me out. I knew right away that you weren’t a good fit for us. It’s quite obvious—though you never answered my question—that you hunt alone.”

  Casing nodded good-bye and stepped away without looking back, leaving Neeson seething on the sidewalk. Contempt burned in his veins; contempt for Jason, contempt for Graham, contempt for everything and everyone. But he forced himself to bottle those feelings. He had work to do, a company to control, and a betrayal to overcome.

  And yes, he did hunt alone.

  [South Division: Final Four]

  [Saturday, April 4]

  In the aftermath of Perry Lynwood’s accident at the end of the first Final Four game, Neeson was asked to give one brief statement to arena security and several statements to reporters. Like the other two bracket holders, he had very little to say. No, he hadn't known Perry from before. Yes, he’d seemed quiet and depressed and a little odd. No, he didn’t know why he ran out. Yes, it was tragic and strange. And then the inevitable question:

  “So, how do you feel going into your game?”

  Neeson smirked. “I can guarantee you that I will be winning this game,” he said every time.

  “How can you be so sure?” he was asked. He would smile and shrug and walk away, ignoring all other questions. It would be excellent footage to play before his victory interview at the end of the day.

  There was enough time between games that he could take a break. He left the arena and went down the street toward the center of Chinatown. He found a trendy sandwich place and settled into a booth with a really good roast beef on wheat to get caught up on his messages.

  Confidence. That was his plan. He would convey confidence so that when he won—and what alternative was there?—the mystique surrounding him and his company would rise above any anonymous slander or rumor. Who wouldn’t want to buy from the man with the golden touch, who seemed to know things that no one else did? There was no better image for a CEO.

  Change is in the wind, he repeated to himself as he finished his sandwich. That was the line that he somehow needed to work into his interviews. It had taken him a week to realize the truth in that statement. He had come to accept that losing Jason was the best thing to ever happen to his company. Sure, Jason was a good engineer, perhaps more talented than the rest of his staff put together. But he was also the main force holding it back. After he’d left, Neeson himself had been able to find the bug that Jason had put into the failsafe protocol. They had recorded a test with the panels closing at 135 mph and enduring while closed up to 152. He had promptly sent the video around to all of his former potential clients with a message decrying the outrageous campaign of misinformation launched at his company, undoubtedly from some rival. Granted, he hadn’t heard from anyone yet, but that would change over the weekend. His clients would be foolish not to capitalize on his newly enhanced profile, especially after he won the deal wit
h ChangZhang.

  He hoped that Jason was watching from whatever hole he was hiding in. He hoped that Jason had seen the pitiful victim of his “Typhoon150” prank lose his mind. Jason’s horse was out of the race, and Neeson was in for the win. As for the other two, he had no reason to fear them. The frat kid was merely riding his school’s wave of success. There were probably thousands of people projecting Nebraska to get that far; someone was bound to get lucky. The other one, the secretary, he just looked like he wanted to go home. He clearly had no real stakes in the game; they clearly weren’t plants of Jason’s. Both Cole and Tucker had chosen UCLA to win the next game, but BC had the best player by far in the Williams kid, and they’d had a more dominant tournament run. With the win, Neeson was guaranteed the million dollars, half of which would be a nice little floater for the company. In a few weeks, after business picked up, he might even pay off Graham and finally cut that awful chain from his neck. His company, including OPUS, would finally be his alone.

  He hadn’t heard from Graham that whole week. He didn’t care.

  His inbox cleared, he checked the time. He would have to be getting back to the arena soon. He wanted to be on time for his big game.

  Neeson finished his sandwich, left a nice tip in the jar on the counter, and walked back toward the arena entrance in no hurry. All kinds of people, tourists and street vendors and homeless people, bustled around him on the sidewalk. No one seemed to recognize him, but that would change, he knew. Two more games.

  Just outside of the entrance, Neeson saw someone that he recognized. Someone wearing a UCLA baseball cap.

  “Nice hat, Mr. Graham,” Neeson smirked, “but I think that you’re cheering against the home team.”

  “Maybe,” said Graham, eating a fist full of something from one of the vendors. “You think OPUS is going to prove itself tonight?”