Idempotency (29 page)

Grepman jumped in,  “We suspect that NRS will utilize the SolipstiCorp technology on the slum dwellers in a pernicious manner.”

Simeon laughed as he and his wife, Nimbus, shared a glance. They had both noticed Grepman’s not-so-subtle puppy-like crush on Sindhu; Grepman’s stolen glances were practically announced. Simeon looked back at Grepman and said, “Pernicious? Really? Since when did you start using the thesaurus mod in your ocImps?”

Grepman blushed, and rolled his unnaturally black ocImp eyes in response.

Simeon looked back at Sindhu, who was showing an embarrassed smile. “Grep is right, though; we think they are going to—it sounds crazy—but we think they are attempting mass brainwashing using SolipstiCorp’s breakthrough deathTrip technology.”

“But, why? For what purpose?”

“That’s exactly what we need to find out. Maybe by putting the poor to work? Indentured servitude? Maybe using them to enact political changes? We are still a democracy, and the poor now represent a majority of the population no matter how they are measured. Of course, most of them can’t vote due to restrictions on intelligence and permanent-residence requirements. But, give them some education and a place to call home, and suddenly you control any legislation you desire. We believe, at its heart, this move by NRS may be an attempt at a global coup.”

Nimbus added, “This is not just about corporate profits or class warfare. This is about global control; warfare enacted via technological means and corporate machinations. A hostile takeover attempt of several governments, where people merely represent shares of stock.”

Sindhu started to see the outlines of a larger picture. She exhaled loudly and shook her head, wondering if it was even possible. “I still have doubts. Why? You still haven’t provided a motive. What could NRS possibly be after, even if they control the electorate? They already make billions in pure profit.”

“The easy answer is more money, or more power, but we don’t know. That’s why Boxster’s there—to try and find that out.”

“Boxster?” Sindhu’s raised her eyebrows in question.

“Uh, right, you don’t know about Boxster. Box—or Dylan Dansby, as he’s known in realWorld—is our operative inside NRS. Or, rather, he will be soon; he interviewed for a position with NRS yesterday, which we helped facilitate—clandestinely.”

“What will he do there? Is he a software developer?”

Simeon laughed. “Ah, software developers, always believing you’re at the top of the food chain. Every other corporate role is a subset of the developer skill set, right?” He paused, then continued: “Dylan has a skill set that is unique these days: social dexterity. As for what he will be doing—he will be obtaining information.”

“And why am I here? What will I be obtaining?”

Simeon chuckled a deep
uh-huh
. “That’s easy. You’re here because you are one of the best developers in the world, you’re brilliant, you’re athletic, you’re Indian, and we’re going to also need your help . . . from the inside.”

Sindhu had never taken compliments well, and this time was no different. She smiled sheepishly, then replied, “Right, whatever. So, when do I start?”

“You already have,” Simeon said, beaming.

Dylan was bored. He was selling a product that sold itself.  Upon his hiring at NRS, he’d been assigned to their cell-regeneration line of products; skin and bone, reborn. Their products were effective, proprietary, and very expensive. Extended life came with a cost, and the rich paid it while the poor suffered.

He’d considered reaching out to Simeon and SOP, but he’d been explicitly instructed not to make contact again unless and until he had material information to share, and even then he was given very strict instructions on how to secretly and securely distill that information. But Dylan was restless and something had to change.

He fondled his empty latte cup as he stared out his seventy-fifth-floor office window at the wispy cirrus clouds moving in slowly from the north. A clear portent of a coming storm. After realizing that he had been staring out the window at nothing in particular for at least five minutes, he stood up and grunted. If this had been a normal job, with no component of subterfuge, he would have surely complained weeks ago. They weren’t utilizing his talents, and if they weren’t intending to remedy that issue, he would remedy the problem himself by finding another job. Surely NRS knew this about him; they had his full psych detail.

“If anything, the fact that I’m not complaining should raise a red flag. If they know anything about me, they would find it damned peculiar that I haven’t complained yet,” Dylan whispered to himself. He was developing a bad habit of thinking aloud. “Fuck it.”

He strode out of his office, past two holoDoors, and barged into the third holoDoor: his boss’s office. Eugene Plum was a stoic man with a strong jaw. He had a mostly bald head, with a halo of brown hair that lazily fell closer to his shoulders every day. An odd, fleeting thought passed through Dylan’s head just then: How strange it was that of all the technological advances, many men still chose to be bald.

Startled, Eugene looked over his shoulder as the holoDoor sounded a soothing chime upon Dylan’s entrance. He had been flipping through a presentation of some kind, displayed upon his media wall.

“Gene, you busy?” Dylan barked a little too quickly.

“Well, I’m reviewing something for a holoConf that I’m about to take, but if this is important, I suppose . . .” Gene was often passive, noncommittal. It drove Dylan crazy, and he wondered how this meek man had managed to become VP of sales for one of the largest corps in the world.

“Great. It’s important.”

Gene looked surprised. “Well, okay then.” He waved a hand and the presentation on the media wall was replaced by a real-time view of the ocean, somewhere far, far away. “What’s up, Dylan?”

“Gene.” Dylan inhaled, then plastered a smile on his face. “I’m dying here, Gene. If I have to go to one more corp-to-corp sales job for SkinRegen, I’m going to start looking for other work. I need a challenge—and it’s great that you guys are paying me a zetta-crap-load of money, but why pay me so much for a job that does itself? One of those fancy new EGC androids could do my job!”

Gene nodded his head slowly. “Well, I’m sorry you feel this way, I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I should have mentioned it, but I’m new here, and I was trying to fit in, be the good employee and all that jazz,” Dylan replied.

“Well, what areas are you interested in, Dylan?”

“Something cutting-edge. Something that will be challenging to sell. Something that I can provide input on—where I can help drive the customer experience based on feedback from the customer, my customers. That kind of thing.” Dylan was speaking quickly. He paused to take a breath, and then spoke slower to ensure Eugene could keep up. “Gene, this company is enormous, there must be some cutting-edge work happening. I know there’s a giant R and D division in the budget.”

“Okay, well then . . .” Eugene looked down at the floor and began tapping the holoTable with his fingers. He then brightened, looked back at Dylan, and said, “We have a new product line just coming into field-test stage around finger and toenail hardening. No more broken nails. Ever!”

Dylan blinked slowly. He was about to respond with more cynicism than was wise, when Eugene held up a hand, motioning that he had a call coming into his BUI. He reached up and tapped the small device around his ear and began speaking to someone on the personal BUI display that had appeared in front of him.

“Uh-huh.” Eugene paused and nodded at the BUI display floating in front of him. Dylan could only see an NRS logo where the display was. “Sure, yes, I agree.” Pause. “Yep, we can do that—absolutely.” Pause, more nodding. “Okay, will do. Yep, Okay, good-bye.”

Eugene clicked off his BUI and looked back at Dylan. “Sorry about that, Dylan.”

“No problem, Eugene.”

“Well, as I was chatting there, I had a thought. There is an effort underway that might interest you. It’s highly secretive at the moment. Have you heard of the work going on up on the 115th floor?”

Dylan couldn’t hold back a sly smile. “Only that it’s highly secretive, there’s extra security up there, and they seem to steal all the best engineers.”

“Exactly. Well, there is a need for a salesman in that division. To be honest with you, I don’t even know what’s going on up there. I know that it represents a colossal investment, and I’ve been told it’s the future of the company. But that’s about all I know.”

Wanting to make his interest authentic, Dylan downplayed his excitement. “Okay, I mean, it sounds interesting, just because it sounds important. But, who would I be selling to? Is this a corp-to-corp thing? Or is it direct to consumer?”

“Well, I don’t know too much more. I believe the position would be working with governments and potentially lawmakers. And the other thing: You wouldn’t report to me anymore, you would report directly to the VP of operations and special projects. He’s heading up the T-One-Fifteen project directly himself.”

“Umm, what’s that guy’s name? I think I interviewed with him. Sarles?” Dylan asked innocently.

“Searle.”

“Searle. Interesting name,” Dylan responded playfully. “Is he any good to work for?”

“Oh—he’s tough, but fair. He was the second hire at NRS. Working directly for him could be a very solid strategic move for you, career-wise. It would be challenging, though.”

Dylan smiled. “I love a good challenge. My Mom was fond of saying that the fullest flowers bloomed after the worst winters. I don’t think that’s scientifically true, but the sentiment was nice. So, when do I get my new office?”

The amount of red tape Dylan traversed in order to obtain proper security credentials for his new position was substantial. Background checks, a subcutaneous security chip placed in his shoulder, a corp-requisitioned BUI with extensive time-based security protocols. A quiver of fear had shot up Dylan’s spine on more then one juncture, but he cleared the requirements and was now walking down the hallways of the 115th floor, about to enter office 1-15.

“Mr. Dansby, please have a seat.” Korak motioned to a chair on the opposite side of a holoDesk as the holoDoor chimed and faded back into existence. He unbuttoned a sharply geometric light-gray suit and promptly sat down. “I’m thrilled to hear that you have decided to take this new position,” he stated with absolutely zero thrill in his voice. “Frankly, I was surprised that you put up with your initial position as long as you did.”

“Yes, frankly, I am too. I was trying to be a team player, but at some point the best team players are those that decide to take over the game, right?” Dylan asked as he sat down, attempting successfully to match his new boss’s smugness.

“Of course they do,” Korak replied as he shuffled through some digital documents on the holoDesk’s flat display panel. He found the one he was looking for and proceeded to pinch it, raising the document off of the flat display and upward. The document gained three-dimensional shape and now floated a few feet off of the desk as a holograph. It was a deck of three-dimensional graphs and metrics. At its current size, Dylan could not discern any details. It spun slowly in between the two men.

Dylan became distracted with a fledgling thought that he couldn’t shake and asked, “I’m curious—if you felt that I would tire of my SkinRegen position downstairs with Eugene, why did you put me there? Why not steer me toward something that would be a better match?”

Half of Korak’s thin lips raised in a smile pointing up toward the bridge of his offset nose. “The position I felt you would be . . . uniquely qualified for required us to ensure that we were right about your talents.”

Dylan ran his hand through his bouncy brown hair. “I passed the test, then?”

“I suspect you did. Now, Mr. Dansby, what do you know about the T-One-Fifteen project?”

Dylan shrugged. “Nothing.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why? From what I hear, it’s supersecret.”

“Then you do know something?” Korak asked flatly.

Dylan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Okay, so I know it’s highly . . . recondite.” He said the last word smugly and continued attempting to match Searle’s tone. “I’ve heard it represents a huge part of NRS’s future, and I know you guys have stolen some of my team’s best developers, scientists, and operational folks to come work on the effort. I’m assuming it has something to do with SolipstiCorp’s tech. As for what the project actually is, or does—that’s where I have no idea.”

“Fair enough,” Searle responded, apparently satisfied. “Rather than go into too many details, I’d like to send you on a trip to visit one of our facilities; it’s the facility furthest along in project T-One-Fifteen, the only active facility, boasting an over 50 percent usage rate at this juncture. We call it the Titus facility. It’s located deep in the jungle of the Jalisco state in Mexico; halfway between Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta. I’d like you to go tomorrow; you’ll be there for three days and two nights. We’ve already made the flight arrangements: a personal charter, leaving from the rooftop, here.” Korak paused, then asked, almost begrudgingly, “Okay?”

Dylan couldn’t help but laugh slightly. “Uh, no, not okay, Korak.” Dylan’s impetuous pushback caused Korak to wince. “I don’t even know what I’m doing now. What’s my job? Am I still a salesman? Can you give me some data to study for the trip, so I can at least be a little prepared? Why Mexico? What does the facility even do? Manufacturing?”

Searle smiled. “In a manner of speaking, yes, manufacturing. There is no preparation you need to do. It’s something you need to experience firsthand. Consider this training for your new job.”

Dylan wanted to mention that the last time he heard similar advice on a project, he ended up needing months of therapy, but he bit his lip as Searle continued: “You will be meeting with the operations manager in charge of the entire Titus facility, Mr. Kane. He will be your tour escort.”

“A three-day tour?” he asked, surprised that a tour required three full days.

“It’s a large facility, Dylan.”

“What about my current job?”