by Alex Gabriel
“Dude.” Pat blinked at the screen. “What the actual fuck?”
Only, the thing was, the shape of what had happened was beginning to show itself more and more clearly, although it was so absurd his mind refused to wrap around it properly. It was a monstrously angular, unwieldy shape, in mindwrapping terms.
The AI was blinking an empty ‘contractor profile’ form at him, all fields unsubtly outlined in red. Pat’s hand hovered over the interface for a second before he could make himself tap away from the form; promptly, the AI shoved a list of previously engaged contractors under his fingertips, their names alphabetically sorted under headings like ‘Exclusive Companions’, ‘Roses Inc.’ and ‘Miller Enterprises’.
One of the names under ‘Miller Enterprises’ was highlighted, clearly preselected by an anal-compulsive AI anxious to get its data fix as quickly as possible when the dumb human was dragging his feet. Patrick Graham.
Tapping on the name opened a file topped by the smiling face of a model-handsome dude with scarily white teeth and skin so smooth and perfect it had to have been digitally remastered. The stats listed underneath the picture specified that the guy was 25, freakishly tall, and very athletic. There were also a bunch of details that Pat wasn’t entirely sure he ought to know about someone he hadn’t even been introduced to.
The Patrick Graham file was part of a data cluster labeled ‘companions’. Pat followed the data trail one step further down the rabbit-hole, to a list of guys who were, A: so far out of Pat’s league as to be ridiculous, and B: all pretty much clones of each other. Dark hair, dark eyes, practiced smile, generic good looks, and perfectly proportioned muscular build — lickable abs and all. Kinda like a bunch of underwear models for one of those designer brands Pat never bought. (Who could afford to spend a month’s pay on a pair of boxers? Especially when the only people who ever saw Pat’s underwear were Pat himself and the swim team. Before tonight, at least, and that had come way out of left field.)
So that’s what “send a guy up” had meant.
Out of morbid curiosity, Pat checked a couple of the other files. He was unsurprised to find that all of these dudes were freakishly tall. Also evidently seriously hung, but Pat was not yet reconciled with the notion that this particular piece of data was listed at all, so he wasn’t thinking about that. (Not much, anyway. Honest. Not like any of these dudes would have given Pat the time of day, so it wasn’t like it was relevant for him or anything.)
At some point — Pat wasn’t entirely certain when —, he’d started giggling. Part of it was nerves, but also, come on, this was pretty damn funny. This wasn’t the kind of thing that happened in real life; bizarre and unlikely misunderstandings like this were the stuff of straight-to-DVD romantic comedies. Plus, Pat? Pat of all people? Who on earth would mistake Pat for a hooker?
Silver Paladin, apparently.
Pat kinda lost it for a moment, but the AI was not amused, and clearly felt he had delayed for long enough. “Action is urgently required,” it admonished him sternly, starting up the throbbing warning tone again. “Please update all relevant files and complete all required paperwork.”
He wiped tears of semi-hysterical laughter from his eyes and quickly paged back to the form the AI was making such a fuss about. Maybe he should just tag Patrick Graham as the one who’d provided Nicholas with companionship tonight — the AI liked him for it, and all the data was already there. Except, of course, that Miller Enterprises might wonder why they were getting a payment they weren’t expecting. If they decided their business relationship was worth more than holding on to an undeserved one-time payment, they would check back with the Andersen Estate, and Pat would end up with a whole lot of questions and no answers.
No answers he felt like giving, at any rate. He couldn’t really see “no, no, I never meant to impersonate a prostitute, I only jumped at the chance to sleep with the principal” going over well.
So. Not Patrick Graham or one of his colleagues. Pat could just make someone up… except that he couldn’t make up a functional bank account, so there’d still be nowhere for the AI to send the money.
How much did a top tier male prostitute charge, anyway?
Idly, Pat tapped on the payment details, and almost swallowed his tongue.
Payment pending — authorized, the AI blinked at him, and underneath that was the sum of 3000 thalers.
What the fuck, that was totally ridiculous. These dudes raked in 3000 thalers a pop for having sex with Nicholas Andersen? Seriously? It wasn’t like the man was an ogre, sex talk fail or no. He was hot, and he hadn’t even tried any weird kinky stuff. Pat was pretty sure he wasn’t the only guy who’d be more than happy to do Silver Paladin for free. And 3000 thalers? That was more than Pat made in a month of night managing, and this was by far the best-paying job he’d ever had (he’d kinda sucked at waiting tables). With that much cash…
Thing was, Pat had a whole list of books he hadn’t been able to afford. He had the essential ones, sure, but there were so many really excellent ones besides, like Maurat’s Principles of Urban Architecture, and Hotaru’s monographs on remarkable cityscapes. Also, he needed a new computer. The old one was prone to suddenly turning itself off, and then usually wouldn’t turn on again for an hour or two. Plus, his monitor was too small for working on designs properly, which was super frustrating and had already cost him both time and grade points. Not to mention Pat could use a new winter coat. The nights were getting colder, and Pat was starting to feel it even through the several layers of sweatshirts he’d taken to putting on.
With 3000 thalers, Pat could buy all of that, and still have enough change left over for a decent haul of groceries or two.
Temptation beckoned, and Pat saw no reason to resist. Thing was, he had actually provided the service in question, even if he hadn’t realized he’d be getting paid for it. So it wasn’t even embezzlement, or whatever. If anyone was entitled to claim this companionship money, it was Pat.
He considered his options. Then, he texted his oldest sister, Helena. Hey, Hell. I need an untraceable bank account on short notice. By which I mean, right now.
Middle of the night or no, Hell was always ready for anything. ‘Be ready’ was practically her motto. Pat was counting on her to do exactly what she did: text back almost instantaneously. Patrick. Are you involved in anything illegal?
Good question. Pat didn’t have a license for prostitution, and he’d kind of conned himself into the job by accidentally impersonating a hooker. But it was more a matter of administrative technicalities than anything, really. Nah, not the way you mean. I just need a place for some money to go. Don’t tell Mom & Dad, okay. They’d misunderstand.
Pat’s parents were great, and also exceedingly cool (which was a different thing entirely), but there were some things they just didn’t get. Pat suspected the events of this night might fall into that category. Plus, what if they got their hopes up? The damned urban designer discussion might start up again, just when Pat thought they’d finally reconciled themselves to his choice of career.
They just want what’s best for you, baby brother. We all do. You give us a lot to worry about.
Not fair, and Hell knew it. Pat didn’t respond to this text, hoping that the sheer force of his brotherly disdain would echo through the data void.
It did, as it turned out. In another minute, he had another message from Hell, which was as much of an apology as he was going to get from her. Stop pouting, Patpat. So, what name do you need this account under?
A company. Make something up, something neutral and bland. Like I said, I just need a place for money to go, where I’ll be able to get at it after.
Hell’s next text contained a bank and account number, and the information that the account belonged to the fictional company Strider&Sons Ltd. As of now, Patrick West is the sole signatory for this account. The account level is business premium private, so info on signatories etc will not be available if someone comes asking. Lastly, it’s not new — it’s
been active for over twelve years, though nobody’s ever used it. Just a backup. Work for you?
Perfect, Hell. Thanks. I promise I’m not getting in over my head, okay. It’s not that big a deal. This might or might not have been a bald-faced lie. Pat wasn’t sure yet.
You owe me a big one, Patrick, and you are going to tell me what you need this for. First, though, finish what you started. Over and out.
Hell was amazingly cool, just like his other sisters, but yeah, she would be collecting on that one. In the end, she was still his older sister, and thus contractually obligated not to let Pat get away with anything. Not without making him pay through the nose for it, and mocking him until he turned 70.
Right, then! Show time.
Pat set up a new companion file under the name Padraig Ouesd. He was pretty proud of that brainwave, truth be told. It was too late to set up a real alias, seeing as he’d told Nicholas his name, but this spelling trick still let him avoid the immediately suspicious circumstance of having the newest hooker on the block coincidentally sharing a name with the totally uninvolved night manager.
After a moment of congratulating himself on his clever subterfuge, Pat went on to fill out Padraig’s file. The company and account info was easy, thanks to Hell. Less easy was the contact info, but Pat had another brainwave and used his old prepaid mobile number, which was both unregistered and technically still active, although he hadn’t used it since he’d gotten a smartphone and a proper data plan. As for the personal info, Pat made himself several centimeters taller just to minimize the gap between himself and those freakishly tall clones. He left the too intrusive measurements out, and the AI didn’t flag the omission, so that was good.
Less good was that he didn’t have a profile picture for Padraig; the AI was far less willing to let that one slide. In the end, Pat cheated by searching the infoweb with his phone until he found a pic of an actor he’d always thought he resembled (his sisters had laughed at him when he’d made the mistake of mentioning this, but Pat maintained that he and George Sand had a lot in common). He blurred the image until it was unrecognizable, transferred it to the mansion’s systems on a data uplink, and insisted that there was no better resolution available until the AI grudgingly accepted that not all data could be perfect.
Before too long, Pat had created Padraig the fictional prostitute, who stood out in the list of companions not only by a profile picture that was barely recognizable as a human being, but also by virtue of being the only normal-sized, blond and blue-eyed dude in a sea of dark-haired, dark-eyed underwear model clones.
Honestly, it was kinda creepy that Nicholas only fucked guys who looked like himself. Pat had done the guy a favor, really. High time he got over whatever narcissistic fixation that was.
Pat selected Padraig as the companion of the evening, and held his breath as the AI considered.
“Warning,” the AI announced immediately. “No non-disclosure form has been filed. Urgent action is required. I repeat: the mandatory non-disclosure form for companions has not been filed. Additionally, the companion report has also not been filed.”
A couple minutes later, the AI had printed out a non-disclosure form and Pat had signed it twice, once as himself, or rather the night manager, and once as Padraig, using his left hand to produce a blocky, swoopy scrawl that was about as legible as a graffiti tag. One scan later, and the AI had appended the form to the file and whooshed away the paper form to whatever automated archive it should be in. Easy peasy.
Less easy peasy and more disturbingly bonkers was the so-called ‘companion report’. This, as it turned out, was an exhaustive questionnaire on exactly what sexual acts Nicholas had enjoyed that evening, how satisfied he had been with the companion’s performance, what concrete feedback and/or criticism Nicholas had offered, what preferences and/or dislikes Nicholas had shown, and what comments and/or remarks of any kind Nicholas had given on basically anything at all. There was an extra section for the employee handling the admin to fill out, adding a bunch of info about the companion’s appearance, conduct, overall demeanor and probable veracity.
Wow. That wasn’t creepy at all.
“Dude,” Pat said, with the AI blooping at him as though to hurry him along. “Are you on crack? For a virtual creature you are disturbingly invested in this guy’s sex life, you know?”
Of course it couldn’t hear him, which was just as well. Maybe there was a reason nobody had ever thought to install audio pickup down here.
In the end, Pat compromised by bypassing all the creepily intrusive lists and going straight to the ‘other comments’ field at the very bottom, where he typed out “Mr. Andersen thinks way too highly of the survival skills of astronauts”.
The AI took longer to process this form than Pat thought was strictly necessary.
“The companion database has been updated,” it announced at long last. It was probably just Pat’s imagination that made its smooth tones sound ever so slightly long-suffering. “All required information is now available.”
One by one, the warnings and notifications thronging the interface blipped out. The unhappy throbbing noise stopped, and the AI put the night schedule back up, neatly annotated with the pizza (highlighted in blue for internal service) and companionship call (highlighted in yellow for external service). The AI even put €linore’s greatest hits back on without being told. Pat took this as an apology for making Pat ask a whole lot of horribly intrusive questions of a (fictional, but the AI didn’t know so it totally counted) hooker. Including the size of his dick.
Pat’s shift was almost over by now, and he had to scramble like mad to finish his work. He went on his second hike of the night through the mansion’s lower rooms to ensure nothing was obviously amiss, straightened up the kitchen, and wrote his nightly shift report (pizza and companion: another exciting night in the life of Nicholas Andersen, billionaire superhero, all-around weird dude and underwear model aficionado).
Last, Pat called in with the ranking security guy for a chat. Okay, in official terms, he was confirming that nothing had been happening on the grounds and everything was copacetic. It always ended up as a chat, though, because Bart was a cool dude who never got bent out of shape by being addressed with a snappy “whuzzap, bro”. Also, turned out Bart’s wife had promised to bake her special muffins as a snack for when he got home, and he promised to bring Pat a muffin the next evening, if there were any left over.
Marlies the baker arrived while Bart and Pat were still chatting, accompanied by two maids, a gardener and the house supervisor.
Pat was a bit distracted when he got to early morning swim training, meaning that he didn’t make very good times and Coach yelled at him for slacking off. Which, totally unfair — it wasn’t like he had a sports scholarship like the putzes with better times. If he could train all the time, he’d be faster, too.
Still, on the up side: Great sex + financial windfall = night of total awesome. And also, when Pat finally got home and was about to collapse into bed to catch a few hours of sleep before classes, he found another text from Hell on his phone: I’m proud of you, you know.
~~~~~
“Mr. West,” said Assistant House Manager Suze, in the tone of a manager who was very clearly not happy. Pat would have liked to search his mind for anything he could have done wrong, but the sad truth was that no searching was required.
“Uhm,” said Pat.
Suze wrinkled her brow at him, all managerial disapproval. “Mr. West, I am appalled at the inexcusable manner in which you mishandled last night’s companionship call. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“Uhm,” Pat stalled. He slumped a little as he exhaled, shoulders sagging. This shocking lack of proper posture caused Suze’s glare to sharpen, one perfectly plucked gray eyebrow inching infinitesimally upwards.
Unfortunately, Pat hadn’t prepared any kind of statement, and had simply been hoping the topic would not come up, ever. Looked like he should have planned ahead more, like Hell w
as always telling him he needed to.
Time to think fast. “What, uhm. How did I mishandle things, AHM Wainwright?” Okay, kind of a silly question, considering he was more or less asking ‘so what exactly do you object to — that I accidentally impersonated a prostitute, had sex with the principal, or forged a companion file?’ But yeah. Thinking fast was not Pat’s best skill.
“We have a list of approved business partners to call, Mr. West. There is an established protocol for external service requests. You chose to engage the services of an unknown, and in the process disregarded every bit of established protocol and dramatically exceeded your authority. Either is more than sufficient grounds for immediate, disgraceful dismissal.”
Pat opened his mouth. Then, he shut it again, because he couldn’t think of a thing to say, and he’d probably worn out the charm of ‘uhm’ a little bit at this point. So, instead of babbling in the hopes of sudden inspiration dropping from the heavens, he tried his best puppy dog look, staring at Suze with wide, pleading eyes. His sisters always claimed it didn’t work, but they were obviously lying, because they usually caved if he managed to hit the right balance of mute appeal and sad devotion.
Suze remained unmoved. She expelled air forcefully through the nose, huffing out her disgust before launching into a coldly scathing dissection of Pat’s character, deportment, intelligence and vocational skills, or rather the lack of all of the above.
Oh, thank the gods.
Pat tried not to let on how relieved he was, though it took some doing. He really needed this job — and it was a good job, too. Keeping company with the mansion’s crabby AI in the dead of night, just hanging out keeping an eye on things while getting a chance to study? It was golden. Sure, he was a little short on sleep some of the time, but he managed to catch enough naps during the day, and had never yet had to miss more classes than he could afford.
If Suze had been going to fire him, she would have done it already. Pat was getting off lightly, no doubt courtesy of the fact that reliable night managers were hard to find on short notice. It was the only reason Pat had gotten the job in the first place — that, and a set of well-forged references courtesy of Cassiopeia, an old friend and associate of Pat’s mom who’d been the one to alert Pat to the job opening. Networking was a big thing in the challenger business, and Pat had to admit that it came in useful a lot of the time.
