I figured something was wrong when I got called up to Michaelson's office. StorTec may have a pretty flat corporate hierarchy, but I'm just a flunky in Support and he's one of the five developers that started the top company in our market segment. Financially, at least, we're worlds apart.
I was certain something was wrong when I focused on the fact he'd actually asked me to his office, rather than just flaming me in e-mail. The butterflies in my stomach really went nuts on my way up in the elevator... Christ, was I getting fired? I thought back over the last few weeks. I couldn't think of anything that might've gotten me into hot water, but maybe I missed something. Guess I was going to find out soon enough.
I knocked on his open door and he waved me in, chattering to someone on the phone about some code review meeting. He put his hand over the mouthpiece long enough to stage-whisper "Close the door, please." That's torn it, I moaned to myself, I'm screwed for sure. I dropped into one of his guest chairs and started calculating how much time I'd have to find a new job before money got tight. I hadn't been thinking long before he dropped his feet off his desk and hung up. Here it comes...
"Sam! Thanks for coming up here like this. You must be wondering what's up and I don't want to keep you off the phones too long, so I'll get right to it: I'm having a party tomorrow night and I'd like you to come." My jaw dropped open in surprise, but he must've thought I was going to say something.
"I know it's totally last minute," he said as he held up a hand, "and it'll be tough to find a costume so late—did I mention it's a masquerade party?—so I took the liberty of putting a deposit down for you at a shop near the mall."
I opened my mouth to actually say something this time, but he interrupted me again. "My wife gets really bored at these things, since I'm usually off schmoozing, and I thought you might be willing to keep her entertained. Besides, someone working in Support all day could probably use a good party now and again, hmm?"
"Well, if it's all settled," he said as he stood and came around the desk, "I'll let you get back to work. Here's an invitation and directions to the house, and I've e-mailed you the name of the costume shop. Just tell them your name and that the deposit's under mine. Okay? Great. I'll see you at eight tomorrow night."
I was halfway down the hall to the elevator before my brain kicked back in. Not fired, and invited to the house of one of our heavy hitters. With a networking opportunity like this, maybe I could finally worm my way out of Support and into Development. And escort for his wife, too, who was not at all bad-looking. Here's hoping she's got a sexy costume.
I stopped off at Barney's Costume World on the way home and was mildly disappointed at Michaelson's selection, a rather dopey-looking superhero get-up, complete with masked hood and cape. Still, it could've been worse, and I must admit I looked pretty good when I put it on the next night. I do a reasonably good job of keeping fit and the costume's strategically padded design made me look even better. Michaelson better not leave me alone with his wife for too long, is all I can say.
As I expected, my little beater of a pick-up was as out of place as I was, but nobody inside was going to know what I was driving, so what did I care? I pulled the hood up over my head, grabbed the invitation, and headed for the front door like I belonged. Nothing like the anonymity of a costume to give one a little confidence, I always say. Still, my heart beat a little harder when I handed the invitation to the behemoth who answered the door. I wouldn't have thought this crowd would require a beast like him, but maybe a gigantic bouncer was part of the decorations. The gorilla costume was a predictable touch, if still mildly amusing.
A short section of brushed-steel ceiling, walls, and floor on the way to the foyer confused me until I noticed a faint tingling sensation and realized I was being scanned for weapons, recording devices, and who knew what else. I'd heard about these things, but hadn't thought you could own one privately. Then again, with all the espionage, kidnapping, and even outright murder that seemed to be the cost of doing business nowadays, I guess people like Michaelson couldn't be too careful. The geek in me was itching to go back and talk to whoever was running it, but Michaelson's wife was heading towards me from the bottom of one of those sweeping staircases you only see in the movies.
"Hello, you must be Sam. I'm Laura Michaelson."
Was she ever. She was dressed as a popular film star in her latest role—an exceedingly seductive vampire. Let me tell you, she really looked the part. As it happened, our costumes went together quite well and some of the less sophisticated portions of my mind began wondering what else might go together. Fantasizing about boinking the boss's wife is risky at the best of times, and doing so while invited to their home had to be in particularly bad taste. So much for sophistication.
She made a quick gesture in my direction, an annoyed look on her face. Oh jeez, how could she tell what I was thinking? Not here two minutes and I've already blown it. But I realized she was actually dismissing Man Mountain, who had followed me from the door and was lurking over my shoulder.
"But ma'am, the sensors—"
"Yes, thank you William. You may go."
"Well! I'm so glad you were able to come," she said, turning her attention back to me.
"Oh, I wouldn't have missed this for anything. It really was very nice of you and Mister Michaelson to invite me." I didn't want to let go of her hand. I don't come across women like this very often... okay, never. She was tall, obviously in great shape, and drop-dead gorgeous, with eyes that'd make you forget your name. I swear to God, my knees actually went weak.
"No, it's our pleasure. Sam likes to invite some of the non-executives now and again so that you can enjoy some of the prosperity you've helped create. He also thinks it's a terrific opportunity to do some networking, so don't be bashful. In fact, some of the other guests are here already, so why don't we get you introduced?"
She took my arm and led me around the corner to a room not much smaller than the parking lot at work. Deep, white carpeting, paintings and other objets d'art that probably cost several fortunes, an enormous piano, and furniture that looked like sculpture. Some very pleasant jazz was coming from speakers I couldn't find. A waitress appeared to take my drink order and, suitably encouraged, I set out on my evening with Important People.
The "movers and shakers" turned out to be rather nice people, overall, and I had a couple of interesting conversations with a senior developer and the head of Research at StorTec, displaying the qualities that I hoped would indicate my superior prospects for advancement. The evening got a little weird, though, when I was accosted by a drunken parrot.
"Sam! Lissen, we gotta talk some more." I'd had just enough to drink at that point to be a little taken aback by a 6-foot green parrot waving a gin and tonic in my direction, but I quickly regained my composure.
"Umm, okay." Smooth, yup, that's me all over. The parrot and I excused ourselves from the group I'd been speaking with and stepped over by the French doors. Whoever-it-was obviously knew me, but I'd be damned if I could figure out who he was.
"I know how you feel about this, but Sam, I gotta tell ya, I'm still upset about you getting 'Athena' canceled. It was totally unfair, but, more to the point, really short-sighted and I'm convinced it's gonna come back and bite us in the ass." He punctuated the sentence with a slosh of his drink onto the carpet.
Ping! The little light in my head went off and I knew who I was talking to. Paul Abbott was another of the senior developers and had been championing some project for a while. Not as senior as Michaelson, though, who had successfully lobbied to get it canceled. Which is obviously who Abbott thought I was. A few more costume parties like this and I'd be the toast of the gossip mill at work.
"Uh, I hate to blow your evening, but I'm not who I think you think I am."
"What?" More drink on the carpet. If he'd been spilling this much all night, it was a wonder he was as buzzed as he sounded.
"Yeah, well, I gather you think I'm Sam Michaelson, but I'm not. In fact, I haven't even seen him tonight."
"But... No, of course it's you! I mean, your name's Sam, right? You've been with Laura most of the night, you're wearing the right costume..." I peeled back the hood far enough for him to see who I was. He got an odd look on his face and turned toward the doors, which is when I figured out how he'd screwed up. I happened to look past him toward another section of the house, where it bent past the pool, and caught sight of Michaelson through another set of French doors. He was talking to a couple of guys in his home office. Although the hood was off, it was pretty obvious he'd gotten us identical costumes. I mean, how unimaginative can you get? And him something of a big deal in the tech industry. Sometimes, I just don't get how the world works.
Abbott moaned an "Oh, shit." right about then, so I assumed he'd spotted Michaelson too. The "Shit. Shit! Oh, shit, not now! It's not him!" that followed seemed a bit much, but I guess I'd be pretty embarrassed, too.
I was vaguely considering asking him if there was anything I could do when the house suddenly went dark. The lights in the pool were still on and, since Abbott was still looking that way, I figured he saw the same shapes running toward the house I did. Part of me was thinking I should be doing something, but I just stood there watching as three men in black ran toward the doors. My eyes had just focused on a little red dot on the glass when the door shattered and Abbott fell down, making gurgling noises. I started to look down to see what the hell his problem was now, but I got distracted by two little red dots of my own. I got as far as thinking "Huh" before two massive blows to the chest knocked me down next to him.
I became aware of several things at once: Darkness, vehicle noises, and sharp pains whenever I breathed. I could hear people talking, but some sort of bag was over my head instead of the costume's hood. My muddled brain finally got around to noticing that I was lying on my side with my feet and hands bound together behind me. What the hell was going on? This couldn't possibly be part of Michaelson's party, could it? Maybe some kind of initiation? No, something was really wrong, but it was all so weird... What the hell was going on?!
"Jesus, what a screw-up. Abbott's got one simple job and the stupid shit fucks it up. Goddamn, this pisses me off." The voices seemed to have moved closer.
"He got what he deserved, didn't he? Now what are we gonna do about this guy?"
"Who cares? Put a bullet in 'im and dump 'im somewhere. Ya know, I'm wondering if we couldn't just turn around and snatch Michaelson anyway. Those idiots still aren't going to know what's happened and even if someone's thought to beep the security services, I bet they haven't responded with much. We could just bust right in again and get this mess over with. Yeah, yeah, I know, stupid idea. Just trying to salvage something out of this mess. Shit. Okay, go up and tell Rick to drive over to the reservoir. I'll whack our buddy here and then you guys can drop me off. I'll hook up with Charlie and meet you guys back at Rick's place."
If what my abductor had said was a key, then the door it opened revealed a room full of hypnotically suppressed memories. I remembered Leopold Curtis, a 34-year old programmer from Duluth, convicted six years ago for murdering his wife and her lover. No, not his wife, my wife. No, wait, I'm Leopold Curtis! As the implanted personality continued to fade away, I realized who—and more importantly, what—I was: A Federally licensed and bonded Executive Double, series 7, "built" by Penal Solutions Inc. four years ago after selection from death row.
Worse was the sudden understanding of what it means to be an ED in situations like this. The most unpleasant part of my conversion had involved surgery to implant ten pounds of plastic explosive and spun glass in my midriff. I was, quite literally, a walking hand grenade.
Without any conscious intent on my part, I began to speak.
"Gentlemen, it is my duty to inform you that this act—" Someone kicked me in the stomach, very hard. The rest of the formal statement came out in a choked wheeze, but the mastoid microphone was extremely sensitive. "...is in violation of the Technology Creatives Act of 2012. Engaging in proscribed activities against persons of protected status within a technologically advanced field, as defined by statute, carries an automatic sentence of death. Sentence is to be carried out immediately. May God have mercy on our souls."
