‘No,’ she said, and sat down on the landing. Dropped to the floor, and seemed to keep on dropping as the two figures stretched above her, dark suits and dark shadows jagging up and up against the stairwell wall – and she was sinking deep into the cold that seeped through her jogging bottoms, through her skin and her flesh and into her bones. Her hands turned light with pins and needles. Her insides dragged with absence. Alan was nowhere inside, not a molecule left. Nothing in her but darkness, yawning.
It was only Make-Believe. Neurons firing out of sync. A minute’s delay in restoring her ability to move had left her frozen in Lewis’s bed; this must be the same, a lack of the dopamine that ought to have eased her out of her world, back into the real. She could try to explain it away, this plunge – the modified bioware? – but it made no difference. She sat, hollowed, could scarcely care enough to breathe. Any moment, the dopamine should kick in. If she just kept breathing. Counting. Counting the breaths.
And then the young man spoke.
‘It is hereby agreed as follows, that Cassandra McAllister shall not contact, directly or indirectly, for any purposes, any persons employed by Imagen Research unless prior written consent has been granted …’
It was the agreement she’d signed. The agreement she’d breached. He was telling her she didn’t have a choice.
‘… in everyone’s interests for you to come with us now,’ he was saying, ‘so we can sort this out informally.’
Cassie’s brain felt inert, lumpish. Imagen, of course. That was where they were from. How they knew who she was. Somehow, the hacked bioware had given her away, and now they had come for her, as she should have guessed they would. And though there was not a scrap of fight in her, she remembered Alan’s words: You’re planning to be a soldier, in your little army dress.
She had never felt less like a soldier. She was a lost child, huddled cold on the stairs, with nowhere to go. With no one to protect her. With no more options.
You’re thinking of how you can save him.
It took all the effort in the world for her to place her palms flat on the concrete. Push into a crouch, then up to a standing position. To take one step.
Eyes fixed on the stairs, she followed the woman. Step. Step. Step. The front door swung open, the street outside empty, early dawn light making her flinch. When the woman opened the door of a silver car and the man ushered her into the back seat, she climbed straight in. Let him close the door.
Head bent, hands shoved between her knees. Still counting the breaths. The city moving round her. The suggestion of sunrise the only indication of how long she’d been with Alan.
Stop. Someone opened the door. She clambered out, hugging herself.
A long time since she’d stood here, on this pavement. If ever she needed to pass through this part of town, she’d take a detour. Avoid the office. Now the stern slabs, the orderly windows loomed over her. The prospect of walking through the front door made her stumble – or it was just her shoelace, come undone. Too far to bend, to tie it, the effort impossible: it snaked alongside as they marched her in. Not the front door, after all. The deliveries entrance. The way she used to come when the main door was locked, starting work early or finishing late. Where she used to hide in those last months, when she’d turned up like the walking dead; where she’d find a corner behind a delivery waiting to be unpacked, spread her jacket on the concrete, curl behind the pallets, crash out for as long as she could get away with.
Lights flickering in the basement. White gloss reflection. The woman’s heels striking the bare floor, chisel on stone, echoing through the pillared space. Towards the lift, past cardboard boxes stacked high, each labelled in Chinese-style script then struck through with a thick slash of marker, a rushed scrawl: PULP.
Lift doors sliding open. Stepping into the office, carpet silencing her footsteps, exactly like a dream. She had come to work accidentally in her pyjamas – was late for a meeting, one she’d been dreading, where something awful was going to happen to her, some punishment or humiliation. The space rose high and open: nowhere to hide. They were leading her to her old department.
There was her desk. There was her chair.
‘Take a seat,’ the woman said. ‘Lachlan will bring you something – tea, coffee.’
The man smiled his banker’s smile, and Cassie knew him now, knew exactly who he was. Lachlan: he was someone’s nephew. A director’s nephew, or the chief exec’s. Had been here as an intern, had worked for a week in her own department, arranging numbers on spreadsheets. He’d worn a cheaper suit back then. His smile had been only half-formed.
That small piece of knowledge made her feel slightly more in control. But the woman still eluded her. The plain bobbed hair, glasses, trouser suit, all gave her an anonymous look, and Cassie couldn’t place her at all.
The chair was too low. She groped for the lever, adjusted it to the right height. Let herself slump across the desk, the fake woodgrain. Tried to force her clogged brain into action, to arrange some thoughts. They would be watching her – so she wouldn’t open the desk drawer, wouldn’t look inside. All she’d find anyway would be concealed chaos, the papers that were forbidden in this theoretically paperless office: knots of cables and chargers, emergency hankies, painkillers, biscuits. Hidden things. Nothing she needed.
What did she need? You’re thinking of how you can save him. She didn’t know what she should be looking for. Knew it would be highly confidential, miles above the pay grade of a marketing manager. She lifted her head, blinked at the screen, the only object permitted on the desktop. Any information on the network would be protected by passwords, encryption, biotouch lock-outs.
She turned the chair around. Stared up at the mezzanine level, where the senior management had their glass-walled offices, screened by slatted blinds. She turned the chair again, another forty-five degrees. The dream-feeling was fading into familiarity. They’d left her here on purpose, at her old desk. It was part of their strategy – of whatever they planned to do with her. Softening her up. Reminding her of what she’d lost. But why bother? They’d already taken it from her once. They couldn’t take it again.
She tilted her head back, remembering the brightness of this corner of the office. Windows ran the length of both walls, in high strips. You couldn’t see out, but light filled the double-height space. Too much light. It seemed to dim and brighten, concentrating in pixels that danced before her. Another biomolecular glitch. She blinked hard, opened her eyes wide, then narrowed them – trying to fix the world, to stop it shimmering, disintegrating. The pins and needles were back, nettling her right hand. A cold ache flowing up her arm, pooling in her elbow, her shoulder. She squeezed the seat of her chair, hard. Rough fabric, smooth plastic, textures dulled as if she were wearing latex gloves. Trying to find a sense she could trust. Something real to cling to.
‘Your tea.’
She heard Lachlan set it on the desk, saw him walk away again, a dark shrinking shape. She reached, touched the mug. Hot. Lifted it close to her face, bringing it into focus. Printed on the ceramic: The only limit is you. She sipped, let the liquid scald her mouth, felt it travel down her throat. He’d put in sugar. She didn’t take sugar, but maybe it would help. She gazed at the rising steam.
Later: dregs stone cold. Lachlan again, with an invitation to follow him. Not an invitation, not really. Climbing the stairs to the mezzanine, to the glass-walled offices. Dreamlike again, familiarity nudged askew by this new perspective.
Lachlan stopped, knocked, pushed a door open. Outstretched arm, gentlemanly: After you. And as soon as she’d stepped inside he was gone, closing the door behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The man behind the desk leapt up, offered his hand. ‘Cassandra,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we really encountered each other, did we, during your time here? I’m Tom, Tom Oswald – CTO.’
Cassie let her hand be clasped, released. She knew who Oswald was, of course. Chief technology officer: second in seniority,
right behind the CEO. An energetic man, tall and broad, his bulk lessened a touch by an impression of roundness about his corners, as though he’d been sanded down at the shoulders and elbows. In the three years she’d worked at Imagen, she had spoken to him perhaps twice; naturally he’d forgotten.
‘Sit, sit.’ He waved her to a waiting chair, the desk a reassuring slab between them.
The room was a bright cube. Oswald had raised the blinds so the glass wall to her right gave a bird’s-eye view of the open-plan office she’d just left. A lone figure in a blue tabard moved from one workstation to the next, tipping wastepaper into a black bin liner, spraying and wiping the surfaces. Cassie could see the mug she’d left on her desk – which the cleaner would now have to collect, making a special trip to the kitchen, throwing his schedule out; she should have carried it up here with her.
Oswald was studying her frankly. He leant back in his chair, hands loosely clasped across his middle, and like a reverse reflection Cassie hunched her shoulders, folded her arms and pressed her knees together. Tried to imagine herself not in trackies and T-shirt but a power suit, black silk, bare ankles and trainers replaced by studded leather boots with fuck-you heels.
When Oswald raised up from his seat, leant over the desk towards her, she tensed. Then she saw he’d hooked his jacket from the back of his chair, was tipping out its pockets – wallet, keys, fountain pen.
‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to her, and when she hesitated he flashed a brief, efficient smile. She reached for it – intensely grateful for its charcoal weight, and determined not to show it. Pulled the thick lined fabric round her like a shield, or a blanket. Inhaled its faint smell: tobacco, cologne.
‘So listen,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been brought here like this, so early in the morning. A bit heavy-handed, I know.’ His face twitched into something between a smile and a grimace, as if he were sharing a mild frustration at the incompetence of a subordinate. ‘Of course, you’ll be wondering what this is all about.’
She gave a slow shrug; the answer was obvious. ‘Because I broke the agreement. The legal stuff. I’m not meant to go back to Make-Believe.’
Oswald propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers. ‘Mmm, the legal stuff. Well, that is in breach of contract – along with a couple of other things.’ Almost regretfully, he began to list her misdemeanours. ‘Lying about your credentials to access our senior staff; trying to gain sensitive commercial information about our products; using a forged pass to enter a research facility – not quite in your line, I’d have thought, so – not a solo effort, perhaps? And then there’s maintaining contact with Imagen employees …’
Cassie felt her eyes widening, tried to freeze her expression. Harrie? Had Harrie been so suspicious she’d reported Cassie’s visit, the questions she’d asked? Was that when Imagen had started to watch her, to track everything she did? She could hardly believe it – that Harrie’s loyalty to the company would so far outweigh their friendship. They make you feel Imagen is your family, she’d said – but it’s not, it’s a job. It’s only a job.
Oswald was still talking. His focus had shifted, and she could tell he was checking the screen of his lens. It was always obvious, the same way you could tell when someone had stopped listening to you even while they continued to make eye contact. ‘Receiving stolen goods … using bioware that’s been illegally modified … unauthorised use of a Make-Believe account that doesn’t belong to you … But!’ His hands flew apart, an open gesture. ‘We needn’t worry too much about any of that. Not for the moment. No, you’re here, in fact, because there’s a proposition I’d like to put to you. Quite a simple way for you to help us, and naturally – quid pro quo – we would help you, in return.’
She frowned, struggling to follow the reversal: disappointed headmaster to enthusiastic negotiator. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘It’s pretty straightforward: what we’d like is for you to help us make a correction to Make-Believe.’
‘A connection to …? But – that’s exactly what I’m forbidden from doing.’
The mutual confusion lasted only a few seconds, before Oswald gave a sudden laugh. ‘No, no, not a connection. A correction. A small correction, to the functionality of Make-Believe.’
There were so many questions, she didn’t know where to start – and before she could, he held up his hand.
‘I know: you’re not a neuroscientist, you’re not a computer scientist, not a synthetic biologist – you’re thinking we’ve got the wrong person. We haven’t got the wrong person.’ He leant forward. ‘You and I, Cassandra, though we haven’t had dealings as such – well, I know rather a lot about you.’ It might have been a threat, but that wasn’t how it sounded. Instead, there was a note of admiration in his voice. ‘You were with Imagen for – three years, was it? For the first two of which, your performance was excellent. You had outstanding appraisals. You consistently achieved and exceeded your targets. You were awarded the maximum annual bonus.’
She watched him closely as he spoke, sure he must be reading from his lens again. But his eyes focused on hers, without a flicker. He knew this stuff about her, had memorised it; stuff no one else knew or cared about any more. He knew she had done a good job.
‘I don’t know if you’re aware that Imagen is poised to expand internationally? We hope to launch Make-Believe very shortly in the US; we’re at pre-launch stage in Japan, South Korea. We’re in the early stages of bringing new products to market in the UK. All of which means, we need good staff, as we continue to grow.’
She didn’t know why he was telling her this. Jumped on the detail she knew to be false. ‘But you’re not. You’re not growing. You’re shrinking.’
She expected him to roll out the line about a planned consolidation. Instead, he nodded, looked impressed by her challenge. ‘We’ll come back to that. But the point I’m making here is that employees of your calibre and commitment are few and far between. And while Imagen obviously does not – cannot – accept any liability for what happened, with regard to the issues that led to your being let go’ – he was choosing his words with care – ‘we do nevertheless acknowledge that it should not have happened at all.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’ She narrowed her eyes, trying to read his expression. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘What happened was not entirely your fault.’
Because she was tired. Because she’d gone straight from Make-Believe, and Alan, to this baffling conversation in a place she should never again have set foot in, without even twenty minutes of sleep. Because of the earnest expression on Oswald’s face, the unexpected softness of his tone. That was why she found herself closing her eyes, pressing her lips together.
He must have been waiting for her to speak, and if she’d trusted her voice she’d have asked him to spell it out, his offer. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her breath from wobbling.
‘We’ll have the lawyers draw up a new agreement,’ Oswald said, eventually, ‘sort out all that side of things. We’ll organise for you to receive an extra month’s salary straight away, and we’ll repay the bonus that was forfeit when you were dismissed. That’s enough, isn’t it, for you to move into a new flat, if you wanted to. Really, it will be almost as if the last year never happened. It’s erased.’ He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was softer than ever. ‘Look. Down there. That’s the cleaner polishing your desk, right now.’
She opened her eyes. Allowed herself to look.
‘You could be back here as quickly as you like. Back with your old colleagues. Part of the team. As soon as next week. It’s up to you.’
She stared down at the desk that used to be hers, and the desks where her old colleagues would be sitting a few hours from now. The early birds – Phil, Emily, Lotta – would be there at eight on the dot. Last to arrive would be Karolina, a fluster of coffee and excuses. They’d autopilot straight to their seats, would greet each other, complain about the day ahead, sympath
ise over meetings and deadlines and overflowing inboxes, none of them knowing how lucky they were to have a place to come, a job to do, a team to be a part of.
She coughed to clear her throat. ‘What about Make-Believe?’ There was no point trying to hide it; he knew how much she wanted it. The lengths she had gone to, for one more go.
‘Make-Believe, absolutely, we’ll get you back there. We can reactivate your account more or less immediately. I could do it myself, in fact.’
The offer he was making – it was too good to be true. If this wasn’t a dream … Cassie curled her toes inside her trainers, feeling the canvas rub against her skin. If it wasn’t a dream, or something else—
‘Listen, you must be tired. I’ll ask Lachlan to bring us some coffee,’ said Oswald, lifting his screen – and Cassie thought perhaps she’d made him say it. The things she always struggled with: how chocolate melts, how coffee smells.
‘Please,’ she said, and inside the sleeves of Oswald’s jacket she dug her fingers into her arms till it started to hurt. From her high-up perch she watched the cleaner at her desk, watched him spray, wipe, move on. Half-listened to Oswald, as he told her how soon she could come back to work, how she’d fit right in with the marketing team, a few new faces since her time but some old colleagues still there too …
If this was Make-Believe – this mix of flattery and bribery – then it was pathetic. She was pathetic, with her happy-ending fantasy.
When Lachlan stepped in to place two mugs on Oswald’s desk, Cassie reached for her coffee straight away. Held it close to her face. Eyes closed, concentrating. Breathe in, and in.
A User's Guide to Make-Believe Page 18
