Tell the Machine Goodnight

by Katie Williams

  When Carter came home from work, he spun Angie around, her hair whirling. “Carter!” she squawked. He took the baby and threw her in the air, catching her back giggling. “Not so high!” Angie called out. Both of them, him and the baby, shaking with giggles.

  * * *

  —

  THOMAS INVITED CARTER to Lab 7A again the following Thursday, where the dented Apricity announced the new tactic Carter would use.

  TELL YOUR EMPLOYEES WHAT COLOR THEY’RE WEARING.

  “Like their shirt color?” Carter said.

  “Hmmm,” Faux-hawk’s lips buzzed.

  Thomas Igniss nodded thoughtfully.

  Carter surveyed the faces around the table. Blank. Watchful.

  “Look. The chair thing has been great. Surprisingly effective.”

  “Has it?” Thomas sounded pleased.

  “What were people’s reactions?” one of the coders asked, swapping a glance with his twin.

  Carter explained how instead of being upset, like you’d think, the office workers had become deferential, apologetic, obedient. “It was like they wanted it,” he said. “Needed a little spanking. But this?” He gestured at the screen. “This—I’m sorry—I just don’t get.”

  “Apricity’s recommendations may seem strange at first—” Faux-hawk began, and the others all booed him down.

  “We told you,” one of the coders said, “don’t quote your own copy at us.”

  Faux-hawk shrugged comically, like, Hey, I tried! Carter realized he didn’t know the man’s name, any of their names, actually, except for Thomas’s. Though they all seemed to know his.

  “Hey,” Thomas said, “Apricity has had me do some strange things, too.”

  “You’re doing it, too?” Carter asked.

  “Carter! Of course!” He paused, then leaned in and whispered, “How do you think I got the Santa Clara position?”

  “Really?”

  Thomas winked.

  “Can I . . . can I see?”

  “See what?”

  “Your Apricity.” Carter indicated the dented machine. “See you do it.”

  “I can just tell you.”

  “Sure. I know. But I feel like if I could see . . .”

  “Let him see!” the custodian shouted.

  Thomas shot the custodian a look, then raised his eyebrows at one of the twins, who nodded slightly in return.

  “Okay, Carter. Sure. You can see me do it.”

  “But we have to reset the machine,” the other twin said.

  It didn’t take long. A minute of silent negotiation between the twins, conducted entirely in screen taps, and they handed the machine back to Thomas. The custodian produced the cotton, and Thomas swabbed and swiped. When the screen lit up, he read it swiftly, glanced at the twins, but passed it to Carter first.

  GIVE UNCOMFORTABLY LONG HUGS TO EVERYONE YOU MEET.

  “Uncomfortable is right,” Thomas said with a chuckle. “You think your color thing is wacky. See what I have to endure?”

  Carter’s first thought had been that Thomas hadn’t given him a hug when he’d come in the room, hadn’t even given him a handshake. For a moment he imagined Thomas’s hug, a brotherly hug, the arms around him strong from the years of hay-bucking, protective, approving. Carter sank into the imaginary embrace.

  “Seriously, Carter, all this damn hugging! I think I may be on the verge of a sexual harassment complaint.”

  “Should you maybe scale back, then?”

  “Scale back? I only know how to push forward! Give the color thing a try,” he said. “Who knows? You may find yourself surprised.”

  And once again, and as ever, Thomas Igniss was right. The color directive turned out to be even more effective than removing the chairs. Carter did exactly what the machine instructed. When an employee entered his office, he told them what color they were wearing, delivering his line with an even tone and expression.

  “You’re wearing purple.”

  “You’re wearing black.”

  “You’re wearing turquoise.”

  The employees’ reactions were invariable. They looked down at their clothes, as if they’d forgotten what they’d put on that morning, then they looked back up at Carter, waiting for the inevitable compliment, a “You look good in that!” or an “It brings out your eyes!” When no compliment was forthcoming, the statement curdled. Carter wouldn’t have predicted that they’d all react with the same startled look, their mouths quivering in weak laughter, their eyes blinking at him vulnerably, like a child’s. Most interesting of all, once he’d commented on an employee’s clothing color, Carter noticed, the employee never wore that color again.

  This time even Pearl seemed discomfited when Carter observed that her blouse was orange.

  Like the others, she looked down, fingering the collar self-consciously, murmuring, “I got it on sale.”

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT THURSDAY, Carter told Angie that he was going to his weekly poker game, that he’d joined a league.

  “Aren’t leagues for bowling?” she said absently.

  “A whatever . . . a cabal then.”

  “Aren’t cabals for plotting government overthrow?”

  “A circle then,” he said, peeved. “Call it a circle. And don’t say what it’s for. The purpose is to play a game.”

  “Sure, sure. A circle. A game. Like ring-around-the-rosy,” she said, smiling down at the baby and beginning to sing the song. The thought rose into Carter’s mind, like it did sometimes, coiling bitterly: You wouldn’t have loved me if we’d met when I was fat. This time, though, the thought was answered by a chill response: But you love me well enough now, don’t you.

  At the “poker game,” Carter recounted the results of the color directive to the table, smiling humbly as the men congratulated him.

  “We’ve started hearing about you over here,” Faux-hawk said.

  “You have?” Carter’s exhilaration faltered along with his voice. “Is that . . . I mean, what have you heard?”

  “That there’s a real ballbuster over in the SF office!” Thomas said.

  “Yeah,” one of the coders echoed. “A ballbuster.”

  “Well,” Carter said, shrugging, “technically, they don’t all have balls.”

  “No, they don’t,” Thomas said. “You do.”

  Next, Apricity told Carter to randomize employee lunch breaks. And it told Thomas to come to work dressed in velvet loungewear, the poor fucker.

  Though Carter’s screen had a randomizing app, he didn’t bother with it. Rather, he preferred to walk through the office and tap someone’s shoulder decorously, announcing, “Eat!” Soon Carter was getting murmurs of the “ballbuster” rumors that Graying Faux-hawk had alluded to. He heard the whispers, saw the glances, noted the hush when he entered a room. Carter felt the power course through him. He woke with a smile. He woke with a growl.

  “These days, you’re so . . .” Angie searched for the word.

  “Virile?” Carter said.

  “Loud,” she decided upon.

  The baby squealed.

  “Both of you,” she amended. “Both loud.”

  * * *

  —

  WHERE, EXACTLY, does one locate the beginning of the end? Was it the day Carter made Pearl stand in his office for over an hour delivering her monthly report? Toward the end of the meeting, her hands had begun to shake and her voice, too. She dropped her screen, came up with accusing eyes.

  “What did I ever do to you?” she said.

  And she had done something to him, hadn’t she? He felt that she had, that she’d wounded him, but he couldn’t remember precisely how.

  “At this level, you should be able to handle different types of managerial styles,” he told her as she fled the room.

  The next
day, the call came from Skrull’s office. Carter’s screen was on the blink, so he got the message an hour after it was left. VP Molly Danner needed to talk with him about some concerns with his managerial style.

  Carter strode over to Pearl’s workpod, grabbed her by the shoulder, and spun her chair around. He held up his screen as if it were Exhibit A. “Are you going to say it wasn’t you?”

  Her voice didn’t shake this time. “I’ll say it wasn’t just me.”

  Carter looked up across the landscape of workpods and became aware of all the eyes upon him.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN CARTER ARRIVED AT SANTA CLARA, the offices were empty, even though it was still early on a Wednesday afternoon. He found everyone eventually. They were all packed into a lounge, with hurrahs and plastic glasses of wine. Carter spied Thomas at the center of the scrum; Carter waved, trying and failing to get his attention.

  “What’s the celebration?” he asked the man next to him.

  “Mr. Igniss has been named VP! We just heard.”

  “Oh,” Carter fumbled, wondering if he should go. He didn’t want to ruin Thomas’s good news. “Congrats.”

  “Of course, we all knew it was coming,” the man added smugly.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. It was between him and some other manager. But come on! Who could best Igniss? Here.” He pressed something into Carter’s hand. A glass of wine. “Have some. It’s the good stuff.”

  Carter brought the cup to his lips. The rich flavor cut through his numbness. Yes. An achingly good ferment.

  He backed out of the lounge and wandered the corridors until he found Thomas’s office, in the same location as Carter’s own actually. He decided to settle in and wait for his friend. The party wouldn’t last forever, and when it was over, Thomas would come back here and help Carter, tell him where he’d gone wrong. It was then that Carter saw it, the dented Apricity on a shelf near Thomas’s desk. And, well, it could tell Carter, couldn’t it?

  He fumbled in Thomas’s drawers until he found a sample kit. Then he swabbed and swiped and, with shaking hands, fitted the chip into the machine.

  A voice interrupted him. “What are you doing in here?”

  It was one of the coding twins.

  “Hi . . . there!” Carter said awkwardly. How did he still not know the man’s name?

  “Carter. Hey.” The coder forced a smile. His eyes darted to the machine. “Does Thomas know you’re in here?”

  “He’s celebrating,” Carter said. “Did you hear? About his promotion?”

  “I . . . yeah, I heard.”

  “There’s a party in the lounge. Wine. The good stuff.” Carter still had his glass, he realized; he raised it in a little mock toast. “I just need a minute in here. Thomas won’t mind.”

  The coder was backing away, hands raised. “I’ll just get him, man. You just wait here.” His eyes darted again to the Apricity. Carter saw that the screen had lit up with its report.

  “You stay right there and wait,” the coder said. “Just don’t . . . don’t . . .” He didn’t finish, turning and heading in the direction of the celebration at a jog.

  Carter looked at the screen.

  COME TO WORK DRESSED IN VELVET LOUNGEWEAR.

  It was the directive Thomas had gotten at the end of their last meet-up. Maybe the machine hadn’t registered the new chip. Carter unwrapped another chip and swabbed and swiped again. The same sentence lit the screen. He stared at it, suddenly tasting rotten grapes at the back of his tongue. He could feel the imaginary finger tapping him on the shoulder. Yes. You. But it wasn’t choosing him after all. It was trying to get his attention, trying to get him to see. But Carter didn’t want to turn around and look. He touched the little dent in the corner of the machine, ran his finger across it, and felt it was himself. He was the dent.

  “Carter.” Thomas stood in the doorway. His lips were stained pink with wine. He wore a different smile now, a new one; it didn’t fit right. “You didn’t . . . ?” He gestured at the machine.

  “It told me to do what you did,” Carter said.

  “Did it?” Thomas ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. See. The thing’s been on the fritz.”

  “I tried it twice. The same directive. Both times.” There was—he heard it only as he spoke—a pleading note in his voice.

  “I’m gonna have the guys look at it. Nascent technology and all that.”

  Carter opened his mouth. He had come here to tell Thomas about the call from Skrull’s office, about Pearl’s betrayal, about the goddamn fuckery of it all. Betrayal: the word stayed stuck in Carter’s mind, a thumbtack affixed to his chest. Thomas Igniss licked his wine-stained lips, looking like a vampire from a low-budget TV show. He was wearing his usual tailored gray suit, not, Carter noticed, velvet loungewear. Betrayal.

  “Congrats on the VP thing,” Carter said weakly.

  “Thanks,” Thomas breathed. He looked again at the Apricity, his lips screwing to one side. “Hey, look, man, I’m sorry.” When Carter didn’t answer, Thomas tried again, extending his arm for a handshake, or maybe a hug.

  Carter pushed past him out the door.

  * * *

  —

  CARTER RETURNED HOME TO FIND ANGIE deep in one of her midday naps, not-so-gently snoring. The baby, however, was wide awake, on her back in the side-along, staring up at him. Carter lifted her gently, then, on impulse, extended his arms, holding her above his head. Her eyes gleamed, dark and depthless, whole galaxies stretching out behind them. She pounded her fists in the air as she always did when she was airborne. Carter lowered her, pressing her fat belly to his face, then he lowered both of them until he was curled over her in the middle of his bedroom carpet.

  “What do I do now?” he murmured, his shoulders starting to shake.

  Her tiny fists battered the sides of his head. She let him have it.

  4

  Such a Nice and Polite Young Man

  Pearl waited until Rhett wasn’t looking; then she lifted the cup and freed the spider. A breath. Rhett leaned back in his chair, feet up on the table, eyes fixed on his screen. The upside-down cup tilted under Pearl’s hand, the crescent of space between its lip and the tabletop just enough room for the spider to escape. Pearl imagined how the spider must have seen it: The dark circle of the world shifting. The horizon unfastening. Light. Another breath and the spider skittered out from under the cup and across the kitchen table, but it moved in the wrong direction, circling away from Rhett and back toward Pearl. Her shriek was only partly feigned.

  Rhett’s eyes ticked up from his screen. “That’s a big one.”

  It was a big one. It was a big one because Pearl had waited for a big one, for weeks tipping smaller specimens into the flower box outside the kitchen window. The other spiders had been whispers of gray and motes of dust compared to this one: a spider so large you could distinguish the joints of its legs, poised at delicate angles.

  Pearl had found the spider that morning as she was stepping into the shower. It was worse, finding it while naked. She’d felt the thing crawling all over her bare skin, even as she could see it sitting there motionless in the bottom of the tub, even as she lowered the cup over it, trapping it. Strangely, this was when she felt its touch the most, when she knew it couldn’t get to her.

  “Get it!” Pearl urged.

  “You get it. It’s over by you.”

  By now the spider had made it to the edge of the table. Pearl shuffled back, hands raised helplessly. The creature disappeared over the edge of the table and drew its descent, an invisible line from tabletop to floor.

  “There it goes!” Pearl pointed. “Right there!”

  Rhett watched her with curiosity.

  “Rhett! Please!”

  He sighed, scraped back his chair, and took two long strides, the last of which landed square on the
unfortunate spider. They both stared at Rhett’s sneaker, the truth of the matter beneath it. He lifted his foot and inspected the underside, making a face. The tile bore a dark smear.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Happy now?”

  It felt wrong to say yes.

  “I’ll clean off your sneaker.”

  Rhett made a noncommittal noise and pried the shoe from his foot, letting it drop over the stain. He limped back to the table. “I didn’t know you were scared of spiders.”

  Pearl’s exhalation became, halfway through, a shudder. “I just couldn’t stand it.”

  * * *

  —

  IT HAD BEEN FIVE WEEKS since Pearl had drugged her son and stolen a sample of his cells to run through the Apricity machine. What exactly had she expected the machine to tell her? To buy him a puppy? To make sure he ate his vegetables and played outdoors every once in a while? The platitudes of motherhood crowded her head, bangs trimmed, sweaters knotted at their waists, smiles benign. Fucking useless, the lot of them. When Rhett’s contentment report came back, Pearl thought, at first, that it was blank. That he, like his father, was one of the rare few that Apricity couldn’t test. Then she saw it crouching there, small and black at the edge of the screen: an asterisk.

  The asterisks were one of the reasons Apricity was so tightly controlled, the tests delivered by trained contentment technicians, such as Pearl, to highly vetted, high-end clients, and the machines kept out of the hands of the general public. Bradley Skrull had been adamant that Apricity would be a pure technology, that it would invite joy, not malice, into the world. And so the Apricity machine had been designed with safeguards in place—“angels in the programming” was the in-house term for it—that redacted any violent or illegal actions from a person’s contentment plan. These bad ideas were blanked out and replaced on the list with asterisks, with stars. About one out of ten plans Pearl ran for work would include, couched among its recommendations, a star. Every once in a great while, a person’s list would contain multiple stars, and Pearl would have to look up from her screen and smile at the recipient as if nothing were amiss.