The Big Disruption

by Jessica Powell

  As Bobby raced across the lawn toward Fried Fred’s, a fleeting sense of guilt descended upon him — Gregor was clearly still upset about the whole business with the Fixer. Bobby needed to find a way to make it up to him, but he also knew he didn’t have the time right now to give Gregor the attention he wanted. Bobby had a company to save.

  Not much was getting done at Anahata.

  The sprinkler system went down, and the engineer who had designed the company’s elaborate watering system was nowhere to be found. The lawn’s signature green (#008000) had quickly given way to a more authentic, Californian brown, and the janitors arrived on campus each morning to find bedsheets and beanbags strewn across the lawn like slaughtered ghosts.

  But none of the employees seemed to notice or care. They all had their heads pointed down at their phones, their bright heels and plastic Crocs clicking along an invisible course of pulsing lights. One spotted them coupled in stairwells, bushes, and sleep capsules; sometimes the glimpse of a foot or bare leg would emerge from the kale beds in the compost garden.

  The shyer ones flocked to Roni’s “user experience sessions,” where the scent of vanilla candles and the gentle notes of bossa nova wafted through the room as engineers and female employees stood at opposite ends, like at a middle school dance, speaking to each other through the Social Me app.

  Meanwhile, the more outgoing ones ended up at Roni’s Island Paradise — formerly the volleyball court — each evening ablaze with orange tiki lights between the palm trees. Robot butlers rolled across the grass, offering a vodka Jell-O shot to any woman who had the Social Me application on her phone.

  To the right of the Island Paradise, just past the main entrance, employees locked lips in beanbags below the dinosaur and rocket ship that charged across the building’s skylight. To their right, a TV was on mute, flashing with the day’s news. At the tenth minute of the broadcast, Anahata employee Arsyen Aimo briefly appeared on the screen, first shown raising the Pyrrhian flag above his head, then atop a podium in front of a large brown building, his fist raised in triumph. Below him, shattered in large chunks, were the remains of a statue of the deposed leader, President Korpeko.

  No one saw the news, and no one saw what was happening across the hall, either, where the Anahata squid moved across his tank, tentacles pumping vigorously through the water as if desperate to attract someone’s attention.

  On a positive note, not a single Anahata employee had defected to Galt in more than two weeks.

  G regor charged into Building 1 and marched down the hall toward his office. Rounding the corner, he saw Roni hovering in the shadows, the outline of a female form hidden behind him, her blond hair half-obscured by a potted ficus. Gregor growled, and the girl scampered. Glaring at Roni, Gregor grabbed the ficus and dragged it down the hall, unsure of his aim with that particular ficus, but certain that the fewer hiding places Anahata provided, the sooner he could unearth his burrowing engineers.

  He hauled the tree into his office and set it next to his desk. He would confiscate every last ficus tree if necessary. And not just ficus trees — he’d also collect all the bushes, stairwells, and sleep capsules, lock them all up in a data center, and get his engineers back on course.

  Of course, the easier solution would just have been to shut down Social Me. But Gregor knew that wasn’t an option: Doing so would provoke a mutiny among his engineers, and then there would be no hope at all for launching Project Y.

  No, he needed a more discreet route — something that would limit the impact of the app without destroying it. Gregor considered restricting the hours the app was available or cordoning off the female staff. Perhaps he could replace the female employees with robots, or he could ask the Building 1 chemistry team to use its pheromone technology to turn the women into lesbians during working hours. If, that is, he could find his Building 1 chemistry team. They were missing along with everyone else.

  “Agggh!” Gregor hit his fist against the desk.

  He closed his eyes and tried to force calm, rational thought. How would Gregor Guntlag solve this problem?

  He thought.

  And he thought.

  The answer was obvious.

  Gregor Guntlag wouldn’t know what to do. He would ask Bobby.

  But Bobby, of course, would offer no guidance. Nor would he ever recognize that this was all his fault.

  If Bobby had simply fired Niels, Gregor wouldn’t have had to go to such extremes to get rid of him. Then Niels never would have fleeted anything about the moon, the stock price wouldn’t have sunk, the Fixer would never have entered — then exited — their lives, the engineers would still be engineering, and the moon colony would still be a secret.

  Instead, Bobby and Fischer were now off carousing with online sales girls; HR Paul was hiding from all of the company policy violations bumping, humping, and smacking their way across the campus; and Old Al was busy getting a colonoscopy. Only Gregor understood what was happening: Social Me, that tangential, ridiculous project, was destroying his masterpiece.

  Gregor stared at his mobile.

  Although Social Me had been deployed to his phone at the same time as the rest of the company’s engineering population, Gregor had yet to open it.

  He tapped the cloying pink S&M logo, and a dashboard vaguely similar to Social Car materialized before him.

  Gregor hit a button that said “match me.” Profile photos of various female employees spun before his eyes like a slot machine, a kaleidoscope of blondes, brunettes and the occasional redhead. Gregor felt his eyes blur. He slammed his index finger into the phone, blindly choosing from the flickering profiles.

  Ding! Ding! Ding! went the Social Me slot machine. He wondered just what he had won.

  When he opened his eyes, Gregor saw a photo of an attractive woman, probably in her late twenties, staring up at him from his screen. He clicked on the profile to see what would happen next.

  Her name was Kerstin. She worked in HR and was a Capricorn. She liked swimming and was looking for “not Mr. Right — just Mr. Right Now.”

  Just then, the Social Me message icon beeped and his phone vibrated. Kerstin was messaging him.

  hi. ur checkin out my profile. like what u c? ;-)

  Gregor felt his heart quicken. He looked to the door, hoping someone would enter just then, looking for advice or a product review. Anyone, any problem, would have served as a welcome interruption. But no one appeared. It was early evening and most of the employees had left — or were hiding away somewhere on campus.

  He tapped his fingers on the desk, then stood and walked to the other side of the office. He didn’t like the idea of interacting with someone on the app. He just wanted to understand how it worked.

  Gregor looked out the window. Two pairs of legs extended from a bush along the opposite building; by the volleyball court, bodies of a man and woman were smashed together in a never-ending embrace.

  Beyond them, far in the distance, Gregor spotted a robot butler abandoned in the field, its arms open in supplication. It was supposed to rain that week. Given the state of things, the robot would surely rust and no one would notice.

  Gregor could feel his throat constrict, the anger rising inside him. He tried to push it away. This was not a productive way to respond to a problem. He breathed deeply until he felt it recede.

  Now, what would I normally do if there was something wrong with one of our products?

  I would do a thorough feature-by-feature review.

  Gregor sat down again and typed a message to Kerstin.

  I am here

  what r u in the mood 4?

  I want to try the app.

  u want 2 try anything else?

  What do you mean?

  gregor, ur silly. u know what im saying.

  No I do not.

  ur older than me (hot) and run something in engineering (hot)

  Gregor grimaced as much at Kerstin’s spelling as at her flirtatiousness. He ignor
ed Social Me’s prompts to help him with his conversation, putting the phone aside for a moment so he could note some feedback for the Social Me team.

  He started with the design — all pink and dizzying with its many profile pictures. It was miles away from Anahata’s design aesthetic, which, as Bobby always reminded his employees, was “purple and green and magical like a fairy but practical like a gnome.”

  He then turned to the notification feature. It was smart but a bit too persistent. It would be better with —

  His phone buzzed again.

  Why don’t you want to talk to me? I’ve always wanted to talk to the big brain that runs Anahata.

  Gregor’s eyes lingered on the screen, surprised to discover that Kerstin was suddenly capable of forming complete sentences.

  I’ve heard that nothing happens at this company without you. That all the good ideas are yours.

  Gregor reread her message a second and then a third time. How did she know him so well?

  He studied her heart-shaped face and bright-green eyes. Kerstin. His babysitter’s name had been Kerstin.

  You’re the big genius.

  Gregor blushed and decided he should respond. It was the best way to understand this coupling thing Jennie and Roni had been talking about.

  I enjoy working at Anahata.

  Kerstin responded immediately — she must have been a fast typist.

  It can be hard when it feels like people don’t appreciate your talent. That was one of the reasons I left Europe.

  Gregor inhaled sharply. Kerstin was European, too! She knew what it meant to toil in the shadows, to have people eschew progress and innovation in favor of philosophical debates and endless films in which people did nothing but talk and stare into clouds of cigarette smoke.

  It meant…she knew failure.

  Gregor stood and shut the door to his office, then returned to his desk and typed:

  It is good to meet a fellow European.

  gregor, i want us to be friends.

  Kerstin seemed to have tired again of capital letters.

  turn on the video button. let me see ur face

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Gregor pushed the video-chat icon within the Social Me app. Kerstin appeared on the screen, looking even prettier than her profile photo had suggested.

  “Hi there,” said Kerstin, smiling. She had no trace of a European accent.

  Gregor blushed and tried to smile.

  Without saying a word, Kerstin began to take off her top. She was smiling at the camera, biting her lip. Gregor felt the stirrings of an erection.

  “Gregor likey?” she asked.

  She was the kind of woman who would normally ignore someone like him, and yet she was moving her bra strap off her shoulder, watching him watch her as it fell down her arm.

  “Gregor,” she said, leaning into the camera, “you’ve gotta give to take. This can’t be a one-way interaction. So, if you want me to continue, I need you to do one little thing for me.”

  Gregor nodded and started to undo his belt buckle, surprised at the ease with which he had handed all control over to this mysterious woman. He had gotten his pants to his knees when Kerstin spoke again.

  “Now click on the blue button to the right of the video.”

  Gregor did as he was told, watching as Kerstin undid the clasp of her bra.

  He smiled at Kerstin.

  She smiled back at him.

  Then a payment screen popped up. Kerstin was charging him $49.95 for a ten-minute session.

  Gregor shrieked and threw down his phone.

  Gregor sat at his desk, unable to move. What had Anahata come to that one of its HR employees was running a porn business on the side?

  But more than that, he was disgusted with himself. He was an engineer; only idiots clicked unknown links in emails and chat messages.

  The computer on his desk began to beep. Gregor glanced at the screen. It was a video call from Bobby — a welcome distraction from his thoughts.

  Gregor scanned the room: the recycling bin, the poverty poster, the ficus tree. All was normal. The only thing out of place was Gregor. He quickly buckled his pants and answered the call.

  Bobby’s face took over his screen. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned at the top, his hairy chest on display. He was sitting next to a plastic palm tree. Cardboard waves moved behind him like a cheap set from a high school prom.

  “Hey!” cheered Bobby, lifting a fruity, umbrellaed cocktail. “Come join us at the Polynesian barbecue. Roni’s gotten more than 500 Anahatis to come. Actually, Kerstin — hey, Kerstin,” said Bobby, turning away from the camera, “Come on over. I’m talking to Gregor.”

  The temptress from Gregor’s Social Me adventure bounced onto Bobby’s lap.

  “Kerstin’s a rather entrepreneurial HR employee. She was telling me about her little side business this morning. It made me think that with video chats and Social Me, we could really empower a whole generation of women to become small business owners.”

  Gregor felt himself sinking in his chair.

  “So I thought, hey, what better way to make it up to Gregor after that whole Fixer thing than by giving you the first test drive of Kerstin’s product?”

  Kerstin giggled and batted her eyes at Bobby, then turned her attention toward Gregor, pouting her glossy peach lips.

  “What did you think about the UI of that payment screen? Watching you two, I was thinking it might be better if we put the payment button across her chest. You know, stretched from nipple to nipple.”

  Gregor opened his mouth but could not speak.

  “By the way, how are we on Y? How soon can we launch? It seems like Social Me is working great and so — ”

  “You!” Gregor screamed, ripping the computer from the desk and hurling it to the ground, raising his boot over and over again.

  He knew it meant nothing. He could destroy as many machines as he wanted, but he could never destroy the information itself. His shame was forever recorded on Anahata’s servers, forever stored in Bobby’s memory.

  Gregor crumbled, his knife-straight posture folding in defeat. He felt himself move toward the door, shards of computer crunching below his feet. A plan began to form, something beyond him, beyond logic, the only chance to escape.

  Twenty minutes later, Gregor found himself at home, grabbing his backpack and a knife. As he stomped through his kitchen, he stopped and descended to the basement. It had only been a few weeks and yet that day with Niels seemed very long ago. He grabbed a bottle from the rack closest to the stairs, not bothering to check the drink-by date. Then he was upstairs, back in his car, speeding out of Atherton and toward the freeway.

  As he headed south out of the Valley, his ancient Jeep swerving from one lane to another on an empty freeway, Gregor found himself crying for the first time since he had left his parents’ home in Liechtenstein at the age of seventeen.

  “ You’re late,” boomed Arsyen, knowing full well that the man kneeling before him in the Grand Hall was not late in the slightest.

  Arsyen’s father had kept his advisers on their toes by falsely accusing them of minor acts of treachery. Although he was only two days into his reign, Arsyen had embraced the technique with enthusiasm.

  The adviser made the sign of the red-breasted woodpecker, darting his head to the left and right six times. “I am sorry, Your Highness.”

  “Had you arrived on time, you would have already updated me on Project Tabletop,” Arsyen said. “Instead, the progress of my kingdom has been delayed five minutes.”

  “Tabletop?” whispered Natia, squirming next to Arsyen.

  He wondered whether her discomfort was owed to her Embrian scalp dress or the human-toothed throne upon which she sat. As a commoner, she was not used to such luxuries.

  “Tabletop is the code name for our plan to clean up the country,” Arsyen explained.

  Natia clapped her hands.

  “Oh, that is wonderful news! The people have
suffered so much at the hands of Korpeko and, well, excuse me, and your father. You must start completely from scratch.”

  “Exactly. I want it all cleaned up,” he said, kissing Natia’s hand before turning back to the adviser, who produced a chart for his review. Arsyen briefly studied it.

  “There’s nothing about brooms in here. I want more brooms for Pyrrhia.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. What shall we do with them?”

  Arsyen sighed loudly, lamenting for the fifth time that day that his intelligence was too great for his advisers to grasp.

  “Do not bother me with small questions. I only think big thoughts. Now, how many supply closets are there? And are we stocking them with the yellow sponges with the rough green backings?”

  The adviser looked to the floor. “I am sorry, but I — ”

  “How can you not know this?”

  Arsyen felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Natia. Again.

  “I’m sorry, my love, but how will more brooms help our people? They are starving and sick and — ”

  “My dear Natia, I am cleaning up the country. This is key infrastructure.”

  “But — ”

  Arsyen patted her head. “Let the king be a king, my little lamb.”

  Natia shook her head. “You keep using that word — ‘king.’”

  “Do you not like how it sounds? I think it has a certain panache, but perhaps it could be more modern. What do you prefer? Almighty Ruler? CEO of Country?”

  “What about a government of the people?”

  Arsyen chuckled. Natia’s jokes about democracy were a cute little phase. Eventually she would move on to a more feminine hobby like watercolors or the piano.

  “These are symbols of Pyrrhia’s bloody and corrupt past,” said Natia, sweeping her arm past the gold doors and hanging tapestries. “You are different. You are Arsyen, the Great Reformer!”