The Pedestal

by Daniel Wimberley

  He annoys the daylights out of me. And I love him all the more for it; he’s one of a dying handful who cares enough about me to bother.

  Heading home, I’m so immersed in my thoughts—worrying about Stewart, wondering what I’ll ever do without him around, now that I’ve learned to fear death—that I almost don’t notice the stranger loitering at the front of Stewart’s building. I only notice at all because he’s trying so hard to be unnoticed—at my approach, he seems determined to avoid eye contact, yet I could swear he’s watching me from the corners of his eyes as I wait for a tram.

  Huh.

  After three long days of vigilant analysis, I’ve come to one solid conclusion regarding Arthur’s files: if I’m truly our last hope to get things back in order at IDS, we’d all better start revamping our résumés. I’m brain-fried and frustrated beyond measure, and I have absolutely nothing to show for my considerable time and energy.

  There’s no point in delaying the inevitable. I’m simply not the man for the job; no amount of staring at Arthur’s files is going to change that. So I corner Keith in her—dang it, his—office, prepared to officially throw in the towel.

  “I can’t do this, Keith.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, eyes widening innocently, like he honestly doesn’t know the difference between one of his junior program analysts and his former A-game security administrator.

  “Arthur’s files; I can’t make heads or tails of them. You’re gonna have to find someone else to work with them. Maybe hire a consultant or something.”

  “Huh,” he grunts. “That’s surprising. They’re that cryptic, huh?”

  “And then some.”

  Keith leans back in his chair, which screeches as if it might buckle under his considerable form—and trains a reptilian gaze on me. “No change logs or read-mes? Nothing like that?”

  I feel my blood slow, my eyes narrow.

  “I kind of thought Arthur was highQ enough to leave a breadcrumb, or something we could use. Something in a language the rest of us could understand.”

  Okay, this is getting weird—the way he said that last part? It’s like he’s trying to steer me—like he already knows. “What, you mean like a text file?” I ask, my voice filling with gravel and steel.

  Keith smiles slightly and shrugs, tapping his desk with a fat, hot pink-nailed hand. “Sure, why not?”

  Angrily, I turn to leave, but he calls after me. “Wait a second, Wil. Just hold your horses.” With a great creak, he heaves out of his chair and steps toward the door. Squeezing past me, he peeks through the open door and then shuts it.

  Suddenly, I can feel my heart racing. It’s been doing that a lot lately, with everything that’s been going on; I wonder if in some high-rise, Nike analysts have taken notice of the trend as well, deducing that I’ve finally gotten into exercise and am now a worthy cause for marketing.

  “What is this, Keith?” I demand. He smiles—it’s all in his mouth, though; nothing at all friendly in the eyes—and returns to his desk with slow, deliberate steps and hands clasped, as if he’s on a stroll through the park.

  “Why don’t we just settle down for a minute, Wil? I can tell you’re upset, losing your buddy and all.”

  “It’s Wilson.”

  “Fine. Wilson. I know you like to think you have a monopoly on caring about this company, but I can assure you that IDS is just as important to the rest of us. And a few of us have a heavier burden here than you can imagine.” He pauses to make sure I don’t have anything wise to crack. I do, naturally, but now isn’t the time. “The problem we face as a company,” he continues, now with a professorial air, “is making money when everybody out there has a hand out, looking for his piece of the action. If it were easy to make a profit in that kind of climate, everyone would be doing it.”

  I feel him taking me down a path and, though I can’t quite see where it leads, it smells a little fishy to me. “Last I heard we were turning a nice profit, Keith. So I’m still waiting for the part where you justify accepting illegal kickbacks. We don’t need to make money on those terms.”

  Keith blinks. “Kickbacks?” He scoffs, covering his mouth to absorb the force of a magnificent guffaw. “Jeez, Wil,” he laughs. “You got your head on upside down and backwards, kid.”

  Wait for it ... here comes my trademark dumb expression. “Uh, what do you mean, upside down?” Backwards I hear on occasion, so maybe there’s something to it. Upside down is a new one.

  Keith plops back into his chair and sighs. “Nobody’s on the take here, okay? It’s the other way around. Listen, Wil—”

  “It’s Wilson!”

  Keith sighs and taps his desk with a pen. “Wilson. It wasn’t always like this. There used to be a time when we could all just come to work, bust our butts and keep the world running. Everybody was happy—we all got a nice paycheck, our shareholders made some fat coin. But then something happened.” Keith sighs and begins chewing thoughtfully at the inside of a cheek, forming a makeup-spackled, pocked, dimple on the outer surface. “You ever hear of Palmer Gunn?”

  The air around me seems to smack me in the forehead. Whoa. Didn’t see that coming. At the invocation of that name, I feel the blood drain from my face. “Who hasn’t?”

  “Exactly. Only, when he first started sniffing around this place, none of us had. Didn’t take long to figure out what the score was, though. That’s for sure. Told old Pinrose he had to pay the toll—you remember Pinrose? Way before your time.”

  He was before my time, but among programmers around here, the guy’s still a legend—he and Arthur practically built this company from the ground up.

  “Anyway, if you know anything about Pinrose, you know he didn’t take any circuit scrap from anyone. So when Gunn came in here, throwing his weight around like he owned the place, you can imagine it didn’t sit well with Mr. Pinrose. Way I hear it, he had Gunn tossed out like a piece of trash.”

  My eyes must be bugging.

  “Crazy, huh? These days, Gunn’d probably wipe a guy’s entire family off the map over an undercooked steak. But those were different times—I guess he was still cutting teeth. Anyway, green or not, Gunn didn’t give up there. Sure, Pinrose had some spine, but there were plenty of others who didn’t. So he got in their pockets instead.”

  “So, what are you telling me? Those people are just passing the expense on to us?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yeah. Cost of doing business these days.”

  “But it’s illegal, Keith. Surely that crossed your mind!”

  “Listen, Wilson, let’s make one thing real clear. This wasn’t my doing; you got a problem with the way things are done around here, look no further than your pal Arthur. He set the standard long before I came up the ranks. When a guy like Arthur tells you to look the other way like your career’s on the line, you look the other way.”

  “Is that what you’re asking me to do, Keith? Look the other way?” I feel my NanoPrint at work, trying to calm me down with some hormonal concoction, but my indignation is too concentrated to be reasoned with. “Why didn’t you just clear the file off the drive to begin? I can’t believe you dragged me into this.”

  Keith plaintively shows me his palms. “I didn’t know what else to do, all right? If someone doesn’t step up to the plate, we’re all gonna go down in flames. And I thought I knew you well enough to know you wouldn’t let that happen. Guess that was my mistake, huh?”

  “Let me tell you something, Keisha—”

  “It’s Keith.” Ding! Score one to Wilson Abby.

  “Whatever! You don’t know anything about me. You think I’m just gonna pretend nothing’s happening? Jeez, how’d you think this was gonna play out? If Arthur went along with this, it’s because you or some other scumbag had something on him. Good luck finding anything on me.”

  Oh my God, that felt good.

  Yeah, I know I’m seriously burning my bridges with Keith; any chance I had of walking out of here with a better understanding of wha
t’s going on poofed out of existence the moment I opened my stupid mouth. Keith’s face twitches, his cheeks darkening a few notches right through his makeup, and it occurs to me that I’ve probably just torched my job. Watching that painted troll rise slowly from his chair, I realize that losing my job may be the very least of my concerns—because man or woman, this crank can take me, hands down.

  I don’t give him the chance; in one fluid motion, I swivel in place and yank the door open, bolting for freedom with a surge of adrenaline. Keith stomps after me. “You’re making a mistake, Wil!” he bellows. “You’re gonna wish you could take this all back, but it’ll be too late.”

  Fat chance, Keisha.

  I find a hole-in-the-wall pub and seat myself near the back, where the lights are low and the air is stale with the humidity of electronic cigarettes. I run my finger along the table menu and swipe my finger twice next to some kind of Scotch, ordering a double on ice. Six credits. I’m not exactly an expert on the subject—this may be my fifth bar excursion ever, actually—but six credits seems close to giving it away. A soft drink costs twice that, in fact. I can’t imagine how these guys manage to stay in business.

  Minutes later, a filthy bot delivers my drink tableside. I take a careless sip and it all makes sense. Never before have I wondered what a mixture of spoiled butterscotch and pig urine might taste like. Now I know. I’m beginning to question the sanity of whatever urge brought me here when something extraordinary happens.

  The most stunning woman I’ve ever seen sits at a nearby table and, looking directly at me, smiles.

  I honestly can’t explain just how things progress from there. One minute I’m grimacing at the tang of bad Scotch, the next I’m dropping bad lines—the sort that might normally buy a man a kick to the diodes—on this spectacular lady, and somehow they’re working. It’s like I can’t say anything wrong. I buy her drinks, she laughs at my stupid jokes. She spouts wit like old faithful, and I laugh with genuine abandon. Deep down, I know she’s just looking for a few free drinks, though a woman of her caliber really ought to set her sights on a classier place than this.

  The thing is, though—the way she looks at me? I’ve seen that look before, just never trained at me. As bizarre as it sounds, there’s little doubt that she has an interest in me. There’s a connection happening here, and despite all logic, it isn’t completely one-sided.

  Her name’s Adrian Stone. Pretty, huh? She’s exceptionally beautiful—way too hot to be wasting her time on a loser like me, but I’m too enamored by her presence—and more than a little inebriated—to question my luck. As we walk outside and a tram pivots against the curb to envelop us—where we’re headed isn’t even a concern, just that we’re headed somewhere together—the sports store next door begins to spam my NanoPrint, causing it to spew a barrage of Nike signage. I laugh. Long and hard, like I’m trying to dislodge something within, and I don’t stop until Adrian kisses me.

  I’m really not sure what to expect from work today—my belongings waiting unceremoniously in a box at the lobby desk, perhaps? A lengthy, unpaid suspension? As it turns out, it’s neither. Rather, it’s like nothing ever happened. Keith stops by my office and, to my shock and relief, trades Arthur’s project drive for a set of unrelated project specs. It’s as if yesterday was a figment of my imagination, except that as Keith walks off, he gives me this weird conspiratorial wink—like we’re sharing an inside joke now.

  Fantastic.

  Around noon, I eat some kind of health wrap in the cafeteria and watch the news on the Viseon wall. I’m feeling warm and fuzzy, ruminating over last night and wondering if Adrian is really just a dream—I guess I’ll know if she ever calls like she promised. At some point, the news begins to compete for my attention. Vice President Leah Carlisle is onscreen. With a quick adjustment to my NanoPrint, Carlisle’s voice is streaming directly to my auditory nerves. She’s proudly tooting her own horn in a way that only pandering presidential candidates can do without blushing.

  “My company, Miritech, spends billions every year toward the development of new medical advances. As well, we’re active participants in the War On Drugs. We fund the operation of multiple rehabilitation centers and law enforcement task forces to put a stop to illegal drug use. Why do we do this? We do it because we care about the people of this great nation. With my help, we can—” she blathers on and on. It makes me a little sick to hear her voice, especially knowing what I’ve learned. I mute her with a scowl. I can’t help but notice she’s wearing huge olivine earrings. Somehow—however irrational—I feel certain they’re the real thing, carved from the core of some fantastic chondrite meteor. And there’s little doubt in my mind that these superfluities were paid for with credits scraped from IDS pockets. And, of course, she’s bolstering her stupid campaign at the expense of my company.

  Yeah, I’m probably being a little unreasonable. She was bleeding blue long before IDS came along to fatten her credit accounts, after all. Acknowledging this doesn’t help, though; in a way, it actually makes things worse. She doesn’t even need our money—she just saw a wounded victim and thought she’d get her pound of flesh along with everybody else.

  In disgust, I toss the rest of my lunch into the nearest bin, ignoring its shrill beep of protest that my plastic fork hasn’t been separated from the biodegradables. As I storm out, my NanoPrint tingles, alerting me that I’ve just been fined for this indiscretion.

  Dang it.

  It’s very late and pleasantly dark with just a sliver of moonlight seeping between my drapes. Despite two glasses of Merlot and a rather slow mystery on my retinal display, I can’t sleep. I could remedy this easily, if I really wanted to. I have several sleep-aid add-ons at my disposal, any of which could have me sawing logs almost instantly. The truth is, I think I’m enjoying the struggle, dwelling on Adrian like a teenage boy who’s just seen his first bra.

  Did I mention she called this evening? I guess she isn’t just a dream after all.

  Arthur was a master storyteller, when the mood struck him—a cool glass of wine on a warm night generally got him going, in the right company. The man could conjure fiction from thin air like some sort of magician. Most of his tales stemmed from life before he was even born, the era he affectionately called the good old days—when a man carried his fortune in a billfold and anyone of sound mind could manually operate a motorized vehicle. These nostalgic accounts, while wildly entertaining, were too terrific to believe. Even more fascinating than the stories themselves was the excitement with which Arthur talked about life before the nexus—his mannerisms, the way his eyes would lose focus as he lapsed into a state of pure longing—it’s as if he had fallen in love with a time he never knew. Though he never spoke the words, I sometimes got the impression he believed the nexus has ultimately caused more harm than good, which is ridiculous, of course—downright blasphemous.

  Nevertheless, Arthur’s stories have foddered my daydreams since I was a kid. I don’t fantasize about a futuristic society where my every whim is catered to, where a NanoPrint add-on can flavor the blandest gruel, or perhaps make me irresistible to women—well, that last one comes and goes. I dream of a land where vegetation still grows according to nature’s design, where people still know how to cook and engineer contraptions in their workshops. Where being a neighbor meant more than physically residing next door to a stranger. I dream of a world in which people are prized in part for their roots. Surely there’s really nothing wrong with having cultural differences; dismissing our ethnicity doesn’t make it any less a part of us, even if our entire global society is ostensibly devoted to quashing the concept of heritage—in the name of peace, of course.

  Anyway, dreams are just dreams. Thanks to the nexus, though, I have access to an endless supply of old movies in which these fantasies are repeatedly lived out vicariously across the backs of my retinas—or on my Viseon walls, when I have company.

  Incidentally, I know I’ve finally found my soul mate when Adrian one day confesses that her
guiltiest pleasure also happens to be old movies. I mean, seriously—what are the odds? I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve met in my life that have seen a single movie released before 2050. I feel like I’ve just won the lottery or something!

  Together, Adrian and I admire the antiques of cinema, enjoying the palpability of real people on film, projecting from a single wall—long before 4D processing dragged us into a movie when the movie was too weak to pull itself off on its own, even before film stardom made the shift from live personalities to digital avatars—until I fall asleep in her arms.

  Generally speaking, I don’t normally wake up with the urge to seek out my dead best friend’s ex-wife. There was a time when I really liked Mitzy, when I cared for her a great deal, in fact. But when she left Arthur high and dry, I quickly grew to despise her, dismissing each fond memory of her when I could, characterizing the rest as moments of normative fiction. It wasn’t just that she and Arthur could no longer see eye to eye—that sort of thing happens to the best of us—it’s that she made such a gratuitous show of exercising her newfound freedom.

  I know how much Arthur must’ve hurt, yet he kept it all to himself. He was like a citadel standing tall amidst the rubble of a sacked city. So stoic, so forgiving. After all she’d done to wound him, he still wouldn’t permit a single ill-spoken word against Mitzy in his presence.

  Like it or not, I have to find her. Otherwise, Arthur will be unceremoniously recycled, the flesh of his former essence ground into the landscape alongside a multitude of this super-city’s unclaimed vagrants.