by Vern Buzarde
Byron responded with a blistering email to Satoshi, copying the combined teams, including Tess.
10:15 AM
To: Anton Satoshi
Subject: Prajna Project Management
From:Byron D. Lethcoe
Sir,
I have today received your disappointing notification regarding my status as Project Deputy Manager in spite of my qualifications and superior level of expertise, which clearly validate that I am the obvious choice to lead the Prajna Project. Since my accomplishments and education are matters of record, I will resist the urge to attach my CV to this email.
However, I would be remiss if I failed to point out Dr. Carrillo’s glaring inexperience. In addition, her performance deficiencies at NASA with regard to the Essex disaster clearly show she’s not ready or qualified to lead a project of this magnitude.
Please reconsider this rare but obvious lack of judgment and rectify the current untenable situation. I am, of course, available to discuss this further at your convenience.
Dedicated always,
Byron D. Lethcoe
Project (status unknown)
10:17 AM
To: Byron D. Lethcoe
Subject: Prajna Project Management
From: Anton Satoshi
Dear Byron,
Thank you for your dedication to, and concern for, the success of the Prajna Project. I will consider this your formal resignation.
Please note, per the contract terms, the five-year noncompete agreement will commence today.
I wish you luck on your future endeavors.
Best regards,
Anton Satoshi
10:21 AM
To:Anton Satoshi
Subject:Prajna Project Management
From:Byron D. Lethcoe
Dear Sir,
After considerable deliberation, I have determined that leaving the project at this critical juncture would be inappropriate. Since I value professional integrity above all, I am happy to inform you I am compelled to remain with the project.
I have decided my considerable skills can best be utilized to support the very talented Dr. Carrillo in an effort to ensure her success, as well as the overall success of the project. I will therefore make it my mission to mentor her, to anchor myself like a deeply rooted oak, and to offer support in every way possible.
As always, I am available to discuss and welcome any insights you may have regarding how I may better accomplish this goal.
Dedicated always,
Byron D. Lethcoe
Deputy Project Manager (and Mentor)
After what became known among the team as the Let-Go Lethcoe Affair, Byron took a more passive attitude and stayed fairly quiet, although he still had an annoying habit of grimacing or swiveling his head from side to side when Tess spoke during project meetings. Several started calling him Doc Let-Go, sometimes to his face, either accidentally or on purpose, something that reinforced his neutered status. By then, Tess had been able to assess the talents and strengths of those on the team, making Byron mostly dispensable in her eyes. She knew his role would diminish rapidly, and in her mind, she relegated him to irrelevance. Tess quickly realized Byron’s real skill was surrounding himself with highly talented personnel and taking credit for their efforts. His technical grasp was shockingly deficient.
The first time the newly combined teams assembled, Angus McKinney was livid. He spoke with a thick Scottish brogue that became somewhat unintelligible when he was upset.
“Tess, I specifically stipulated my title as lead software engineer was a critical requirement. It is imperative I be given this designation. I canna accept anything less. I will not work under intolerable conditions. When I agreed to leave—”
“I am always lead software engineer,” Sandeep Patel countered. “Are you not aware of who I am? This is not negotiable. Tess, I demand you clarify this immediately. I will not answer to anyone but you.”
Jeannie Harrison chimed in. “And just what qualifies either of you for that position? A simple comparison of credentials shows I’m the logical choice. Sexist assholes!”
“Crack whoor!” Angus sputtered. “We all know what happened on the Pyrenees Project. They had to put your bony arse into rehab!”
“I demand you confirm my title immediately, Tess,” Sandeep said emotionally, looking like he might cry. “I am uniquely qualified in a way—”
“I want to see Satoshi!” Angus sputtered.
“Yes!” Sandeep piped up. “Satoshi will certainly see—”
Tess had raised her hand and closed her eyes, as if signaling an orchestra to stop due to some overly sharp note. “I want you all to listen to my next words very carefully. Dr. Satoshi doesn’t care who fills your roles. He doesn’t know you exist. He trusts my judgment to fulfill the project’s goal and has put his confidence in me. If this bickering continues, I’ll be forced to find alternatives. I will not jeopardize this project due to petty egos. Your names were on a list of many. Do you understand?”
There were similar problems on the hardware side. Tensions had been elevated for quite some time due to Byron’s volcanic temper and erratic behavior. Turnover had been high, and although that group had been at work for over two years, only a few of the original team members were left. Morale was low among those who remained, their only bond appearing to be a common disdain for their former boss.
In all, the combined team consisted of eleven men and thirteen women, after some of the now-redundant personnel had been let go. The diverse mix of personalities, ages, backgrounds, and ethnicities created a unique and complex stew that would not be duplicated in a natural setting. Their strange alliance would never exist outside Satoshi’s world—the world of Prajna. Each day revealed sporadic displays of such brilliance Tess was sometimes thrown off balance, only to be countered by petty acts of one-upmanship more suitable for grade-school children.
Small things ordinary people would never care about became reasons for nuclear-level meltdowns. Everything from the numbers on their designated workstations to the order in which their temporary quarters were assigned relative to each other in some perceived nonexistent hierarchy. There seemed to be eruptions on a daily basis the first few weeks. Eventually the combustible group fell into a semi-comfortable natural order, happy to cling to their particular project niches, respectful of each other’s territory and careful not to trespass on their neighbors’ turf.
Tess began visiting the coffee kiosk in the main terminal lobby every morning at nine a.m., a brief break from the daily chaos. The first day, she noticed a woman there who appeared to be in her early sixties, reading a book. She recognized the title. It was Middlemarch by George Eliot, one of her favorites. The lady appeared to be speed-reading, flipping the pages every few seconds.
Tess thought of the passage from the book she had memorized. Live faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. It still moved her. As she watched the woman sail through the pages of Middlemarch, she wondered what kind of a mind could absorb the emotional density of such a book at that velocity.
The woman wore Levi jeans, old-school sneakers, and a navy buttoned shirt that looked like a team uniform for a bowling league. The name Dora was stitched above the left pocket in silver cursive. Her thick white hair revolted against any attempts to conform in one specific shape or direction, making her look like an aging, gray Medusa.
One morning Tess decided to introduce herself. “Excuse me, I see you here every morning and thought I’d say hello. My name is Tess Carrillo.”
The lady looked up from her book as if she’d been inconveniently forced to slam on the brakes of a speeding car in order to avoid a wayward squirrel. She stared at Tess for several seconds, eyes searching, like she vaguely recognized something in her. Finally, she said, “Very nice to meet you. But just so you know,
personnel from different projects don’t normally fraternize. It’s not really supposed to happen here. Sort of an unspoken rule. I hope you don’t think I’m being rude or standoffish, but it’s probably best we don’t talk. They’re kind of paranoid about various projects cross-pollinating.”
Tess just stood there. She remembered Garrett mentioning the need for confidentiality, but it had never occurred to her having a casual conversation with someone from another project was a breach of the rules. Really?
The lady smiled with a weary face and put the book down. “But fuck it! I say we talk to whoever we damn well please. How ’bout you, Tess Carrillo?”
Tess beamed, much relieved and thinking she might have found a kindred spirit.
“I’m Dora Hahn. I’ve been here for a little over two years. You’re new.”
Tess recognized the name but couldn’t place it. “Yes, I’ve been here for a little over three months. My project is—”
“Whoops, going to stop you there, honey. We really will catch a flying bucket of shit if we start talking shop. Let’s keep things general. What brings you here? Fuck! Forget I asked that. What did you do before? No, don’t answer that either. Let me see. Tell you what. It’s time for me to go back to the dungeon now, but how ’bout you and I think about some topics big brother will deem appropriate and have ourselves some girl talk tomorrow. Same time?”
Tess smiled. “That sounds great, Dora.”
Dora’s phone rang as she stood. Tess heard her say, “Anton, I can’t work with this fucking Hun you’ve sent me. I don’t trust him. He’s—” Dora’s voice faded into the noise of the lobby.
Over the next several weeks, the project began to gel. Tess had carefully assessed the strengths and weaknesses of her team. They had completed a comprehensive basis of design document for the software and hardware sides and had developed a detailed project schedule, leaving plenty of safety margin to meet Satoshi’s rigid delivery date. She felt good about their progress. Good but not comfortable…never comfortable. Byron appeared to accept her as the leader, and his former team seemed enthusiastic about the fact that he no longer had final authority. Most had been full of ideas on ways to optimize Prajna’s systems and anxious to express their previously ignored suggestions.
She and Dora met regularly at nine in the morning, seven days a week. The recurring ritual was something Tess looked forward to, and she always developed a mental list of topics prior, carefully culling any questions or information that could be interpreted as compromising project confidentiality in any way. Tess learned about Dora’s kids and grandkids, her four failed marriages, and the fact that she’d quit smoking but now wished she hadn’t.
“Smokers are just more interesting to me,” Dora said. “They’re edgier. Hell, when I was at Berkley, we’d smoke in the classroom. Hell, we’d smoke pot in the classroom. Now if you light up on the sidewalk outside they’ll have you thrown into a liberal concentration camp. Fucking waterboard you. Try to get you to drink diet soda and eat yogurt. Pussies! I know. I went back there for an award once and—” She caught herself. “Better not go there.”
“Yeah,” Tess said, “I had a short phase where I almost tried smoking. I wanted to copy my dad. He smoked his whole life. Camel non-filters. When I was a little girl, I could sense when he was going to reach for the pack, and I’d grab his silver Zippo lighter and fire it up for him. That lighter seemed magical to me. I can still see him, out in the yard, working on his car with a Camel hanging out of the corner of his mouth like it was part of his body. I thought he looked like a movie star. I still have his lighter.”
Tess reached into her pocket and pulled out the battered Zippo. “He said he had a dream once where he was walking in the desert and heard a phone ringing. He looked over and saw an old pay phone booth. Nothing else around. When he went in, the ringing stopped but the lighter was sitting on top of the phone. He picked it up and saw his name inscribed. When he woke up, the lighter was sitting on the kitchen table.”
Dora looked skeptical. “Honey, tell me he didn’t actually believe that…well never mind. We’re all a little nuts. And where is your dad now? Are you close?”
“No. He’s dead.” She didn’t bother to tell Dora her father’s death had never been confirmed.
“Lucky bastard. I mean him, not you. I mean, we’re all gonna die. I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right. My filter doesn’t work well on a good day, but that was inappropriate, even for me.”
“Ha! No worries, Dora. It was a long time ago.”
“My first husband died when I was twenty-nine. He was forty-three. Heart attack. His mother said I caused it. She was a smart old bitch.” Dora cackled, her hoarse laugh the tone of high-grit sandpaper on a rusty pipe. “What did your father do for a living?”
“He was a mechanic. Well, at least after I was born. I think he had a lot of jobs before that. But he didn’t talk about it much.”
Dora leaned closer, focusing on the name Harlan engraved on the lighter. She looked dumbfounded, taking her glasses off and staring at Tess as though she were a ghost. “Harlan Carrillo? Harlan Carrillo was your dad? Oh, crap, I see it now.”
“Yes, but why do you ask it like that? Like you knew him.”
“Because I did, honey. We were at Berkley together. Your dad, if it’s the same Harlan Carrillo, was someone you don’t forget. He was brilliant. And good looking. A combination of smokin’ looks and intellect. Way, way ahead of the curve. In fact—”
“My dad was a mechanic in a small desert town in Nevada. He never went to college. He was just a loving—”
“But he was pretty good at math, I’m guessing.”
The words surprised her. “Well…yes, he did have a knack for math. He had me solving quadratic equations when I was thirteen years old. We practiced for two hours every evening after school.”
“That sounds a lot like the boy I knew at Berkley. Tell me about your mom.”
“I never knew her. He didn’t talk about her much. She died before I was a year old.”
Dora put her glasses back on and stared at Tess. Something flickered in her eyes, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “Honey, back then we were all pretty naive. Everyone was convinced they’d go out and change the world. But your dad, he was something special. Lord, if my lady parts still worked, I’d be—no, sorry. Filter. My curse.
“So…where was… Oh yeah, your dad, he was almost a savant, and I mean that in a good way. He was an academic superstar but seemed tuned in to something he couldn’t quite catch. God, I remember how we all tried to keep up, and I’m talking about some real intellectual firepower. Lots of brilliance concentrated in a small group. But Harlan. Every time I’d try to follow him, my head felt like it had just gone through a sausage grinder. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t keep up. I think he may have been the most brilliant man I’ve ever known. And you’re telling me he made a living as a mechanic? That he worked on cars?”
“That’s the only thing I know about him, really. He loved working on cars. He’d work all day, then concentrate on me. I knew he was really good at math, but it never occurred to me he had any real education. It seemed to come naturally.
“Every night before I went to bed, he’d tell me to look at a chalkboard filled with equations. He’d tell me over and over to remember. I’d tell him that I couldn’t follow. That it was too complex. He just kept telling me to remember, not try to solve it, just remember it. But he kept changing them. There were so many numbers, equations that seemed to go nowhere. Dead ends. It was stressful. And sometimes it scared me. As soon as he saw I was afraid, he’d stop, like it was some kind of a joke. He never wanted me to feel any anxiety or fear. But he seemed so—”
Dora jumped in. “Desperate. Like the consequences were serious. I remember him being that way too. There’s a whole lot more I want to learn about you and your dad, Tess. But for now,
I’ve got to get back before those dickheads stumble onto something that opens up the gates of hell. But let me leave you with a question. Do you remember any of the equations?”
“Bits and pieces. Sometimes in my dreams I can see the board, but it’s not always clear. The numbers fade in and out. He seemed obsessed with octonion numbers. I couldn’t follow.”
“Octonions! Yes, I remember! So complex I still couldn’t explain to someone exactly what they are.Your dad’s specialty—he was a mechanic all right. But not cars back then. He was a quantum mechanic. Specifically string theory, but not quite. Something he was working on, something new. He was obsessed. I think it nearly drove him—” She was quiet, seemingly hesitant to say what was on her mind now. Dora looked at her watch and said, “I have to go. See you tomorrow.”
Tess wanted more, but didn’t push.
Dora started to leave, then turned back around, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite commit. She smiled, then left.
Tess sat for a minute, absorbing everything Dora had told her about her father. It made sense. But she wasn’t quite sold. If what Dora said was true, it meant he hid a whole other part of his life from her and that would, on some level, feel like a betrayal. She speculated what his motivation might have been. She decided there was only one conclusion.
He did it to protect her.
9
Milo checked into a dingy motel room in the Block M section of south Jakarta, Indonesia. A chorus of noise from partiers, car horns, and staccato clicks and sputters from swarms of mopeds resonated through the paper-thin walls. A worn-out air conditioner with loose bearings rattled in spurts as its failing compressor offered one last attempt to suck the equatorial heat from the steamy evening air, but with minimal success.
The stench of the toilet choked the air. It was little more than a concrete hole open directly to the sewer below. An Indonesian television show blared in one of the other rooms. It sounded like a live-audience comedy in Bahasa Indonesian.
