Virtual Sabotage

by Julie Hyzy

  Damn it to hell. Patrick held that information. Trutenko hadn’t had a chance to thoroughly debrief his brother since the raid on the apartment. He needed something, anything, to convince Celia he was in still in control. “Russell may have had an accomplice.”

  “Oh?” Celia arched a brow.

  Emboldened, he flicked a glance up toward the attentive audience. Patrick’s face, in particular, seemed to register apprehension. “Shouldn’t we talk privately?” Trutenko asked.

  Celia considered it, and with a decisive click of her remote control, all six monitors went black. “I’m listening.”

  Trutenko squared his shoulders. “Her name,” he said, “is Kenna Ward.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Dr. Baxter didn’t say a word about Kenna’s tardiness, nor did she give her watch the exaggerated scrutiny Kenna expected she might.

  Instead, she welcomed Kenna into her office with a smile. “You’re very lucky,” she said, gesturing toward the same chair Kenna occupied before. “The appointment immediately after yours has canceled. That gives us extra time today to talk.”

  Kenna dropped into the seat. “Great.”

  Dr. Baxter maintained her tolerant expression but didn’t wait a beat before jumping right in.

  “Did you find what you were looking for in Charlie’s VR scene?”

  Kenna sat up. “You’ve got to be kidding. Who told you I went back in?”

  Dr. Baxter folded her hands atop the neat blotter. She wore a small but triumphant smile. “You just did.”

  When Kenna opened her mouth to retort, Dr. Baxter cut her off.

  “Call it an educated guess,” she said. “After our first meeting, I had little doubt that you’d return there as soon as you possibly could. What I’d like to talk about is why you felt the need to engage programs that simulated the scenario where Charlie died. Let’s start there.”

  Kenna’s mouth opened again. She wanted to tell this woman it was none of her damned business why she’d re-created the jungle scenario and sought out the werewolf. Before a single vituperative syllable flew from her lips, however, she caught herself and bit it all back.

  Starting slowly, she searched for the words that would satiate the doctor’s curiosity and provide what she wanted to hear. “Yes, I went there,” Kenna said, reminding herself to stick with the truth as much as possible. “I was looking for something.”

  Dr. Baxter’s head tilted slightly to her right. “Looking for something,” she repeated. “What were you looking for?”

  Staring down at her hands in her lap, Kenna let her thumbs play together for a couple of beats. “Closure,” she said.

  “And did you find it?”

  “I believe I did,” she said. “Going back in there helped me face the truth. I’m starting to see my way out.”

  Dr. Baxter was quiet for a very long time. So long that Kenna risked a curious glance her direction. From the woman’s amused expression, it seemed she’d been waiting for Kenna to look up. “Good. That’s very good,” Dr. Baxter said, as though there’d been no lapse in the conversation at all. “But do you think it’s helped you enough?”

  Kenna didn’t understand. “Enough?”

  “Would you be prepared to delete the scenario today if I determine it’s in your best interests to do so?”

  “What? No,” Kenna said, shocked by the suggestion. “Not yet.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because,” Kenna began. She thought fast, desperate to come up with a reason Baxter would accept.

  “Tell me if I’m wrong here,” Dr. Baxter said. “But the idea of losing access to certain elements of the program terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

  Kenna opened her mouth to protest—Dr. Baxter lifted a finger.

  “It terrifies you because of all the loss you’ve endured in your short life, already.” She narrowed her eyes again. “Right?”

  “If you mean my parents,” Kenna said, regretting that she’d even mentioned them at their last meeting, “I’ve come to terms with that.”

  “Have you?”

  Damn her. Kenna wanted to shove at the desk, to knock the woman’s prim arms off their restful perch and to watch her run from the room, sorry that she’d ever brought the subject up. “Yes,” she answered, her jaw tight. “I have.”

  “I found this, Kenna.” Dr. Baxter drew out a print copy of an internet news article from all those many years ago. She pointed to its final paragraph. “You were placed in a psychiatric ward.”

  “For two days. For observation.” Kenna practically spit her next words. “Of course I was taken in. I was fourteen when they died. A kid. They were killed in a fire at home when I was at a friend’s sleepover. I skipped away from my completely ordinary life one day and woke up to a nightmare the next. Does that article tell you how every little tiny precious bit of our lives—all our photographs, my mom’s journals, all their books—every single thing was destroyed? Gone. I had nothing of them anymore. Nothing.”

  Kenna words had come out fast, sharp, hot. The tragedy had happened such a long time ago, she’d convinced herself she’d made peace with it all. Apparently she hadn’t.

  She took a deep breath, let it out. “If I can survive that,” she said finally, “I can certainly survive this.”

  “But at what cost?”

  She sat forward, punctuating her words with her index finger on Dr. Baxter’s desk. “I’m here. I’m active. I have a job and a purpose in life. I’m good at what I do. What more do you want?”

  Dr. Baxter glanced down at Kenna’s insistent finger for a long moment. She placidly raised her gaze.

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “Then I’m happy. Can I go now?” Kenna worked her jaw.

  “No.” Dr. Baxter smiled. “Indulge me for just a minute, Kenna, and consider this: When you lost the two most important people in the world, you not only missed having them in your life to help shape yours, but you were robbed of every memento, every reminder of them, too.”

  Kenna patience waned. Hadn’t she just said all that?

  Dr. Baxter tilted her head, squinted those sad eyes again. “Now that Charlie’s gone, it’s natural for you to fight to keep hold of his memory. You’re convinced that’s all you have left, and so you’re re-creating Charlie’s death scenario as a link to him. But you don’t realize how much harm you’re doing to yourself. Rather than keep Charlie’s memory alive with reminders of the joy you shared together, you’re choosing to keep—at the forefront—a ‘souvenir’ of his death. I can’t begin to tell you how damaging that can be to you.”

  Kenna wondered what the psychiatrist would think if she knew the real reason she’d revisited the jungle was to begin a quest for vengeance. She didn’t expect Dr. Baxter would approve.

  Adopting an earnest expression, Kenna softened her voice. “Just a little more time, and then I’ll purge it. I just need to keep it for a while. That’s all.”

  Dr. Baxter seemed to study her for a long moment. She shook her head, speaking slowly. “No, Kenna. I can’t allow it.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t allow it?”

  Dr. Baxter turned to her computer monitor and tapped at the keys. “I’m prohibiting you from engaging in any VR activities until further notice.”

  “You can’t forbid me from VR,” Kenna said. “This is supposed to be an evaluation, not a sentencing.”

  Dr. Baxter resumed typing, still studying the display.

  Kenna persisted. “I’ll fight.”

  Without missing a beat at the keys, Dr. Baxter tilted her head again. “Do what you must,” she said. “You can go off and spend your life chasing ghosts in VR scenarios to your heart’s content.” Then she turned to fix Kenna with a no-nonsense stare. “But until I give authorization, you’ll never work as an envoy again.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  St
anding dead center in front of a blank screen, Glen clapped his hands together, commanding the small group’s attention. “Virtu-Tech is poised to strike,” he said. “And we”—he took a long moment to make eye contact with each audience member—“are poised for greatness.”

  Werner snaked a sideways glance at Celia, wondering why she’d chosen to sit next to him. The small conference room featured three tables and a dozen empty seats. Nick, Celia’s right-hand man, sat front and center, taking notes. Tall, trim, handsome, and handpicked by Celia to help her lead, Nick sat sideways in his chair, one arm draped across its back. Early thirties, dark hair, dark eyes, he wore casual, expensive clothing and an air of supercilious disdain.

  Werner had chosen a chair at the back of the room far from the door, certain that Celia would opt for a position at the head of the class, near golden boy Nick. Why hadn’t she?

  The five other Virtu-Tech directors from the earlier meeting were back—attending again via live-feed and the wonders of instant transmittable information. Werner wanted nothing more than to escape this stuffy meeting and get back to Chicago. Patrick was back via monitor, too, looking uncomfortable in the role of ersatz director.

  Celia leaned closer. “Pay attention,” she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Werner faced Glen. A big guy in his early fifties, he wore a shiny suit and a dull grin. His teeth, a bit too big to be real, accentuated the sibilants in his speech. Projecting an air of commiseration, he paced in front of the blank screen.

  “As you all know, our first three initiatives met with only limited success.”

  Celia raised her hand but didn’t wait to be called upon. “Glen, please”—her tone carried a reprimand—“let’s not be coy.”

  Glen’s frown softened. “Our first three initiatives,” he said with a sigh, “were undisputed failures. But I truly believe we are now on a path to victory. What we failed to take into account is that—as enthusiastic as people are to participate in VR scenarios—they aren’t always able to make time to visit a facility.”

  Celia nodded.

  Glen continued. “It goes without saying that if people aren’t regularly accessing their implants, they’re not able to respond to our messages. We needed to find a way to either encourage more VR participation or”—he paused long enough to flash his big teeth—“design an implant that accesses our subjects’ brains around the clock.”

  “Which is where we are now, yes?” Celia asked.

  “Very much yes,” he said. “The 5.0s were our first foray into the continuous-contact model. Two weeks ago, we initiated a trial directed toward those 5.0 users, and”—he paused, smiled again—“we hit our target. Then, last week, when we ran a second, more comprehensive test”—he paused again, beaming triumphantly—“results exceeded our expectations.”

  He pressed a button on a handheld control. The screen at the front of the room zinged alive. Glen directed their attention to a brown-and-white bar of soap atop a silver tray. “Two weeks ago,” Glen said, eyebrows arching, “people around the country began buying Clifft soap. A lot of Clifft soap. Why?”

  Everything about this man was manufactured. Werner knew it; they all knew it, but they were too deep into the initiative to resist hearing what he had to say.

  “Clifft is actually inferior to the top brands, and five percent more expensive,” Glen said. “It irritates the skin. And look at it. What marketing genius decided that soap should be brown? No one in their right mind would buy this soap. And yet, consumers did, in droves. Why?” Like a magician mesmerizing his audience, all eyes in the room and on-screen followed him. “Why did they buy so much Clifft soap?” he asked rhetorically.

  He waited a couple of beats. “Because we told them to.”

  Murmurs of admiration bubbled up.

  Glen clapped his hands. “People!” He paced again, his tone heralding the resumption of his power persona. “Clifft soap was just the beginning.” With a few deft clicks of his remote, the screen behind him sizzled then changed. “Last week, everyone in the country decided to stock their pockets with Flaxibars.” He pointed to the beige wrapper with the bright green letters. “They look like chocolate and smell like chocolate but they’re made with flaxseed.” Glen scrunched his face. “They taste terrible.” Grinning, he added, “But stores can’t keep them on the shelves.”

  Nick waved his pen to catch Glen’s attention.

  Glen clapped his hands again. “Question, Nick?”

  “This is all fascinating,” Nick said. “I can certainly sleep better at night knowing that people in the country are keeping themselves clean with itchy brown soap.” He caught Celia’s eye and sat up a little straighter. “But let’s face facts here, Glen. This is all child’s play. When are we going to see the real results? When are we going to get to the real payoff?”

  “Glad you asked,” Glen said, though Werner thought he looked rather annoyed. Arms outstretched, he encompassed the group. “We all know how price is determined, right?” He pointed at Werner. “Remind us. How is price determined?”

  Startled, Werner’s mouth opened.

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Supply and demand,” he said in a tone that suggested impatience. Heat pounded Werner’s face.

  “Exactly!” Unfazed, Glen turned back toward the rest of the group. “But Virtu-Tech’s new implants are skewing that principle. Our implants are responsible for sales that have nothing to do with supply or demand. We are changing the rules of economics. Do you have any idea the power we hold?”

  Directing his commentary to Nick now, Glen spoke animatedly, all big teeth and hissing spittle. “Clifft soap sold better during our one-week trial than it had in the past year—despite its high price, nasty color, and tendency to cause skin irritation. Flaxibars sold out almost everywhere—despite the fact that they’re awful. That’s precisely why we picked those products for our tests. We chose them because they’re substandard. And”—he waggled his eyebrows—“in a shrewd bit of optimism, we chose to invest in their parent companies the weeks before we ran our little experiments.”

  One corner of Glen’s mouth curled up as he faced the group. “What that means, folks, is that in addition to our unqualified successes, Virtu-Tech made a considerable profit. Even better, we’re making inroads on Canadian and European markets that give every indication of proving equally successful.”

  Nick interrupted, again waving the pen. “We’re not here to congratulate ourselves on some piddling investments. We’re here to talk about—”

  “Nick.” Celia’s voice was sharp.

  He leaned forward. “But—”

  “Later,” she said.

  Clearly confused, Glen leaned forward as though expecting an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he widened his smile and waited.

  Nick sat back, tapping his pen against his lips.

  Directing her comments to Glen now, Celia kept a cool, expressionless look on her face. “Have you followed all the protocols we set up at the start of this venture?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “You haven’t shared any of your findings with individuals outside Virtu-Tech?”

  “Why would I? What we’ve created here,” Glen said, “is light-years beyond what other marketing departments are even dreaming about. We’ve broken new ground with VR—we’re determining a new order in consumer control. This technology is beyond valuable.” He held out his hands in a helpless gesture, then grinned. “It’s also illegal.”

  “Yes,” Celia said. “We’re aware of that.”

  “Still,” Glen said, “I haven’t gotten where I am in the world by turning my back on opportunity. Virtu-Tech has the power to control consumer choices over everything from soap to candy bars to vacation spots. Armed with that capability, your company can direct worldwide trends while profiting from prognostication.” He shrugged. “I’m happy to be one small part of thi
s plan, and I’m looking forward to sharing in the company’s future earnings.”

  “Yes, well,” Celia said, “we’ll have to discuss that.”

  Glen’s cheerful look of anticipation fell. “It was my understanding—”

  Celia raised her hands. “Don’t get me wrong, we plan to take care of you, but I can’t act until we’re certain that we’ve covered everything.”

  “But isn’t that why we’re here today?” he asked. “The 5.0s have proved themselves—and without around-the-clock brain stimulation. Once we launch the 6.0s and consumers can’t escape Virtu-Tech’s influence, we’ll be unstoppable.”

  Nick sat forward, actively watching the interchange between Celia and Glen. “Only once we reach market saturation, right?” he asked. “When will that be?”

  Glen addressed the younger man. “Ask your directors,” he said. “They’re in control of distributing the upgrades.” He glanced up at the six screen attendees. “Our initial goal was to produce enough implants to outfit forty-five percent of the population. We’ve exceeded that, too. Which means,” Glen said, with an arrogant lilt to his voice, “that we can go live with the next program as early as today. Right now. The rest of the public will go crazy catching up when they see how popular the new 6.0s are.” He smiled up at his audience. “What are we waiting for? Are all your divisions ready?”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “If I may…” He shot an uneasy glance at his brother before continuing. “In theory, everything in Chicago is ready to go. Our experiences with 5.0 were exactly the same as in all the other locations across the country.” He nodded to the other directors. “And Chicago could have been ready to go live on time, except for one problem…”

  Werner broke into a cold sweat. Before he could open his mouth, Celia turned and spoke to him through clenched teeth. “What problem is this, Werner?”

  His mind raced. His mouth opened.

  She didn’t waver. “Werner?”

  “I…” Bile rose up at the back of his throat, hot and sour. “I don’t know,” he managed, hating the words he forced himself to say. He made eye contact with Patrick in a silent plea for help. “There were no problems when I left.”