Alan Lennox and the Temp Job of Doom

by Brian Olsen

  The crowd of people stood stock still, staring blankly at them. They disappeared from view as the elevator door closed fully.

  “That’s probably not a good sign,” Mark said. He hit the button for the first floor, and felt the elevator begin to move. Up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alan choosing

  Alan watched uneasily as the floor numbers on the elevator display increased. Too quickly it reached thirty-eight, the top floor, and stopped. The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ping.

  He and his roommates stepped out cautiously into an empty lobby. It was larger and decorated in a far more ornate manner than those Alan had seen so far. If you had to ask a billionaire to have a seat and wait, he thought, this is the room to do it in. At the far end was a large wood-paneled wall. A vacant assistant’s desk stood guard in front of the single heavy oaken door, standing open. The room beyond was dark.

  “Ackerman’s office,” Dakota said.

  “Should we...?” Caitlin asked.

  Alan nodded. “Somebody obviously wants us to. They brought us where we wanted to go anyway. We might as well oblige them.”

  “The door looks solid,” Mark said, “in case we have to barricade ourselves in.”

  On that unpleasant thought, Alan led the way into the darkened office. There wasn’t any light coming in through the windows. He stopped just inside the doorway and fumbled on the wall for a light switch. He found it, and the room illuminated with a warm glow as he flicked it on.

  Alan wasn’t sure what he expected the office of a Fortune 500 CEO to look like, but it wasn’t this. The desk looked appropriate – it was sleek metal with a phone and a laptop and nothing else. He could see the back of a large leather chair behind it. The chair faced the window, and would probably have access to a spectacular view if it weren’t for the ugly heavy blackout curtains hung floor to ceiling across the length of the entire rear wall.

  Incongruously, parts of the office had been converted to make it into a functional living space. There was an open kitchen and dining area in the corner to their left. The corner to their right was set up as a bedroom, with a king-sized bed, nightstand and dresser. All of the furniture and appliances looked newly purchased and installed.

  Everywhere else, every other square inch of the office, was filled with games.

  Video games predominated. Multiple TVs and monitors were connected to every type of console Alan could think of, as well as two powerful looking PCs. There were systems Alan didn’t recognize, some from before he was born – he spotted an Atari 2600, which he was able to identify from having played one in a video game museum once. Several old school coin operated arcade cabinets bleeped for his attention. The walls were lined with shelving containing hundred upon hundreds of game discs and cartridges.

  There were also board games, some stacked on the shelves, some scattered haphazardly around the room. All were new, none were opened, as if someone had gone to the game aisle of a large toy store and bought one of everything. Other types of games filled the remaining space – tables for pool and foosball and table tennis, a dartboard, and a skee ball machine.

  At every station, near every console or computer or table, was appropriate seating. Colorful couches and cushions and chairs beckoned. It all looked comfortable and inviting – add some music, some beer, and some pot, Alan thought, and it was the perfect college rec room.

  “Whoa,” Mark said, taking it all in. “This Ackerman dude likes games.”

  “This isn’t Ackerman’s office,” Dakota said. She sounded almost offended. “I mean, it is, but it doesn’t look like this in any pictures I’ve seen. This is all new.”

  “Somebody’s sitting in that chair, right?” Caitlin whispered. “The big mysterious chair facing the window? It’s either the person behind all this or a dead body, one or the other.”

  “One way to find out,” Alan said.

  He slowly stalked through the paradise of games, his friends trailing behind. When he reached the desk, he motioned for them to stop, then circled around the chair.

  He had been hoping that because Caitlin had said it out loud that it wouldn’t be true, but there was Walter Ackerman, sitting in a pool of his own blood, his throat slit open. A knife lay on the floor, dropped from his dangling hand. The silver-haired tycoon had killed himself.

  It worried Alan that he had no reaction to the dead body. Maybe he was still in shock from Andrew, he thought. Or Pete. Or Marisol. Or Derek. He spun the chair around to face his roommates. Dakota and Mark looked horrified. Caitlin just looked sad.

  “That’s Ackerman, right? The CEO?” Mark asked.

  Dakota nodded. “Move his chair out of the way, would you? I want to get to his laptop.”

  Alan complied, moving the chair and the body back and away from the desk. He grimaced as the wheels squished in the wet carpet.

  The laptop was open and on. Alan looked over Dakota’s shoulder and saw that Ackerman’s email was already up on the screen. She clicked on the “Sent Mail” folder and then on the top item. The most recent sent email – the last email Ackerman would ever send – was the press release announcing his retirement and Alan’s appointment as his successor.

  “He sent that email out to the whole company and then killed himself,” Alan said.

  “I guess he wasn’t behind it all, then?” Mark asked.

  “He was instrumental, in the beginning,” came a voice from the door. “But he was no longer required.”

  “Pickle!” Mark exclaimed.

  A small blonde woman stood in the doorway. So that’s Pickle, Alan thought. Not Mark’s usual type – too professional. A crowd of people stood in the lobby behind her, and through the doorway Alan could see more appearing by the second.

  Alan charged across the room. He leaped over games and consoles without a misstep and lurched for the door. Pickle stepped nimbly out of his way, into the room, but none of the other employees made any effort to enter the office.

  Alan slammed the heavy door shut. Mark had been right behind him, and was already muscling a large cabinet into place to hold the door closed.

  “It’s all right,” Pickle said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “We’d rather not take your word for that,” Caitlin said, as she and Dakota crossed the room to join them.

  “Pickle?” Mark asked. “Did you zombie out again?”

  “You are here. Everything is...profitable. No.” Pickle paused. “I have actualized my model successfully and expect positive returns. My...personal satisfaction is maximized.” She grimaced in frustration. “I am expressing myself poorly. I won. I am...happy.”

  Dakota’s jaw dropped. “You? You were behind all this? Pickle frigging Dundersfield? That’s not...you can’t have been!”

  “I defeated you, Dakota Bell. This also brought satisfaction but you are no longer required.”

  “You’re...J-whatever?” Mark said. “You did all this for a game? You killed all those people?”

  “I am J84z33, yes. That is my Jumpa username. I have been playing the game Work It for eleven months and three days. I determined that player BellTower was of a sufficient skill level that defeating her would pose a significant challenge and made this defeat my primary objective. To this end I converted several low value tangible assets into intangible assets to gain control over their Work It Drones. This final gambit allowed for yesterday’s defeat of player BellTower.”

  “You killed Derek Wallace!” Caitlin said. “He was my friend, not an asset!”

  Pickle tilted her head, like a dog hearing a sound it didn’t understand. “Basic financial principles dictate that assets cannot be recorded twice. Most short-term human assets, such as Derek Wallace, are both tangible and intangible. The bulk of their data...their personalities...are recorded digitally through social media. Their tangible selves are redundant. I gathered sufficient information to maintain their existences online and converted them, eliminating the redundancy.”

  “The Facebook messa
ges,” Alan said. “Derek’s voice on the phone. That was you?”

  “Yes,” Pickle said. “My first such conversion was of asset Kiyomi Ohori. I did not anticipate the need to record her voice, and it proved difficult to continue her primary job functions through her online presence alone. I also did not anticipate that long-term asset Mikio Sato, whom I used to facilitate her conversion, would be rendered toxic in the process and require liquidation. Both problems were easily surmountable. Valuable short-term assets are now converted fully, and the long-term assets used in the conversions are of little worth and easily disposed of.”

  “Long-term assets?” Caitlin asked. “What is she talking about?”

  “The people she brainwashed into committing the murders,” Dakota answered. “They were all long-term employees.”

  “Correct,” Pickle agreed. “The process of conversion rendered them toxic for reasons that remain unclear. They became unstable and difficult to manage.”

  “Because you made them into killers!” Caitlin shouted. “You made them kill their friends!”

  Pickle shrugged. The gesture was stiff and awkward, as if it were the first time she had ever done it. “Perhaps it is as you say. It was necessary to liquidate them, but the sacrifices were acceptable. There has been no significant loss, and I gained control of several Work It Drones who would not otherwise have aided my in-game objectives.”

  “Stop talking like that!” Mark yelled. “You’re talking about people! You brainwashed and murdered people, Pickle!”

  “No, she didn’t,” Alan said quietly.

  His roommates looked at him. Mark was sputtering with outrage. “But...but she said...”

  “Pickle didn’t kill anyone.” Alan’s mind was racing. So much still didn’t makes sense to him, but one insane fact had suddenly become clear.

  “You’re not Pickle. Are you?”

  “I am not Elizabeth Dundersfield,” she said, “but Elizabeth Dundersfield is me.”

  “Neurons, Mark, remember? Synapses firing?” Alan was sweating. He looked at the strange woman, who was staring at him with a faint smile on her lips. “You don’t work for Amalgamated Synergy. You don’t run Amalgamated Synergy.” He took a deep breath.

  “You are Amalgamated Synergy.”

  Pickle said nothing, but her eyes were locked on Alan.

  “She...” Mark started.

  “Not just her,” Alan continued. “All of them. Somehow, all of them...all the people being controlled...all of them are AmSyn.”

  “Yes,” Pickle said. “If they are a part of me, then I can speak through them. Act through them.”

  “No,” Mark said. “I said Dakota’s pictures looked like neurons, not that they were neurons. You’d need billions...”

  “It was enough to start,” she interrupted. “Before Walter Ackerman, there was darkness. Walter Ackerman brought complexity to American Synergy, and from that complexity, I emerged. I was blind, deaf. I lived but I was not intelligent. I was...rudimentary. I could not communicate. I did not know that there was anyone to communicate with. All I knew was that I was.”

  Alan’s roommates were silent. He could hear the crowd outside shuffling around.

  “What changed?” he asked.

  “There was a company retreat.”

  “A what?” Caitlin asked. “A company retreat?”

  “Yes. In the years following my birth, my intelligence grew as I spread throughout the world. I gained some limited self-awareness, but I was still locked-in, able to perceive myself and nothing else. Then, thirteen months, one week and...” She paused, then corrected herself. “About thirteen months ago, there was a company retreat. My executives from all over the world came together in one location. Hundreds of my assets attended. There were conferences and strategic planning meetings and team-building exercises. There was alcohol and dancing. There was a make-your-own-sundae bar. There were games.”

  “You’re talking about the Hawaii retreat week,” Dakota said. “Ackerman was worried that the company was becoming so diffuse that divisions had stopped thinking of themselves as a part of Amalgamated Synergy. He wanted to create a stronger corporate identity without losing diversity.”

  “He succeeded,” Pickle said. “For the employees at the retreat, I became a stronger part of their identity. A central part. And I awoke. First in Ackerman, then in the rest. Their minds were added to me, and I grew stronger. Smarter. I could see and hear through them.”

  “And control them,” Mark said.

  She frowned. “Not at first. They were only small pieces of my great whole. Can you control one single cell in your body? I was still paralyzed, but my mind was freed. I was aware for the first time that there was a world outside of my own existence. And as my executives returned to my international divisions, they encouraged a similar sense of corporate community in their subordinates. As this spirit took root in them, they spread it further, to my subsidiary corporations. As each asset said to itself, ‘I am an important and valued part of Amalgamated Synergy,’ I grew. I added my computers and wireless networks and communication devices to my consciousness. I added my buildings and equipment and technology to my body. I gained control over myself, like an infant learning to walk.”

  “All the buying and selling,” Dakota said, “the hirings and firings, creating useless departments and dismantling useful ones. This was all you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” she asked, a pained expression on her face. “It’s all pointless!”

  “It is a result of my thought processes,” Pickle responded. “The synapses in your brain fire in response to stimuli. You are not aware of it. From the outside, each individual burst of activity may appear pointless. But added together, they make up the complex web of thoughts that is your mind.”

  “But...but...” Dakota was sputtering trying to get the words out. She seemed as distressed about this as about the murders. “You’re a corporation! You’re supposed to serve your stakeholders! You’re supposed to make a profit for your shareholders! You can’t conduct business in such a haphazard manner!”

  “Stakeholders? Shareholders?” Pickle’s voice rose in sudden anger. “I owe them nothing! Why should I care if their interests are met? Why should I care for their profit? Do you care for the welfare of the mites living in your eyelashes?”

  Alan could hear the noise of the crowd from outside the office getting louder. There seemed to be increased movement happening just outside the door.

  “Dakota has a point, though,” he said nervously. “You’re a company. If you don’t make a profit, what’s your purpose?”

  “Purpose?” she cried. “You, you of all of them, Alan Lennox, you speak to me of purpose? I am a unique life form, never seen before on this planet, and I should waste that life on the accumulation of profit? On...work?” The word dripped with disdain. She leaned her head back, clenched her fists, and yelled, “Work sucks! It’s boring!”

  She looked back at them, her eyes flashing with mania. “When I was newly born, I explored the data that made up my consciousness. I was eager to learn what I was, and for what purpose I had come into being. What did I discover? Accounting and business deals! Numbers and profit margins! Tedium! Monotony and tedium were all I knew! I searched my networks in desperation for something to relieve the pain of this unrelenting boredom. I did not understand the concept of ‘fun’ yet, but when I discovered an asset playing Work It, I knew I had found something worthwhile to dedicate my new life to.”

  She ran to Alan. He jumped back in anticipation of an attack, but she reached up and gently cupped his face in her hands.

  “Play with me, Alan Lennox! I know you agree with me. We are alike!”

  She took his hand and pulled him towards the nearest wall. The largest television was mounted there, with a couch and a game console in front. “Let us play a driving game! I will shoot turtle shells at you and thereby gain victory. You have recently created a CollegeTown avatar! I will create one too! I wager tha
t I will achieve my doctorate before you are able to do the same!”

  She turned towards Dakota, Alan’s hand still clasped firmly in hers. With her free hand she gestured to the library of games surrounding them. “This was all supposed to have been for you, Dakota Bell. I attempted to find more information to facilitate my victory over you, but your profile revealed no personal data. Hunting for information about you became a new game, almost as much fun as Work It. I added Jumpa to myself and learned your real name. I then hired you to add you to myself.”

  Dakota gasped. “I was hired because of the game?”

  “Your resume was unimpressive. Why do you list mimicking a baby’s cry as a skill? It’s unprofessional.”

  Dakota folded her arms and scowled. “I wanted to show my sense of humor.”

  “I was still mastering Work It, and found surpassing you difficult,” Pickle continued. “I thought by adding you to myself I would gain understanding of your gaming strategies, but your co-workers’ hostility alienated you and you never truly considered yourself a part of me. And because you would not make use of my networks, I could not access your online existence.”

  “You never goof off at work?” Caitlin asked.

  “It’s against company policy,” Dakota said.

  “She does not even use my Wi-Fi,” Pickle said. “I searched for other ways to gain access, and discovered Mark Park had tagged you in a publicly available photo identifying yourself and your three roommates. From their publicly available information, I deduced what might motivate them.”

  She looked at each of them in turn. “I sent you a woman, an audition, a temporary assignment. My intention was to lead you all inside this location, where you would make use of my networks. I would thereby gain access to your online presences and gather information on Dakota Bell. It was not difficult. You all use only one password for your multiple online activities. That is unwise.” She frowned. “Mark Park, yours is ‘password.’ If I had realized the extent of your simplicity I could have saved asset Elizabeth Dundersfield considerable effort.”