“Who’s that?” he asks, but he knows, he knows, this is how his life goes, and he’s already sighing when Mr. Harris says, “Paul.”
Since he got Compliance Contracted to Mori at fifteen, Mason has come to terms with a lot of things.
He’s come to terms with the fact that, for the money he makes, he can’t make noise about his purpose. He worked for a year on an impact-sensor chip for Mori’s downmarket Prosthetic Division; you go where you’re told.
(He’s come to terms with the fact that the more Annual Stockholder Dinners you attend, the less time you spend in a cubicle in Prosthetics.)
He has come to terms with the fact that sometimes you will hate the people you work with, and there is nothing you can do.
(Mason suspects he hates everyone, and that the reasons why are the only things that change.)
The thing is, Mason doesn’t hate Paul because Paul is a Creative heading an R&D project. Mason will write what they tell him to, under whatever creative-team asshole they send him. He’s not picky.
Sure, he resents someone who introduces himself to other adults as, “Just Paul, don’t worry about it, good to meet you,” and he resents someone whose dad was a Creative Consultant and who’s never once gone hungry, and he resents the adoring looks from stockholders as Paul claims Mori is really Going Places This Year, but things like this don’t keep him up at night, either.
He’s pretty sure he starts to hate Paul the moment Paul introduces him to Nadia.
At Mori, we know you care.
We know you love your family. We know you worry about leaving them behind. And we know you’ve asked for more information about us, which means you’re thinking about giving your family the greatest gift of alclass="underline"
You.
Medical studies have shown the devastating impact grief has on family bonds and mental health. The departure of someone beloved is a tragedy without a proper name.
Could you let the people you love live without you?
A memorial doll from Mori maps the most important aspects of your memory, your speech patterns, and even your personality into a synthetic reproduction.
The process is painstaking—our technology is exceeded only by our artistry—and it leaves behind a version of you that, while it can never replace you, can comfort those who have lost you.
Imagine knowing your parents never have to say goodbye. Imagine knowing you can still read bedtime stories to your children, no matter what may happen.
A memorial doll from Mori is a gift you give to everyone who loves you.
Nadia holds perfectly still.
Her nametag reads “Aesthetic Consultant,” which means Paul brought his model girlfriend to the meeting.
She’s pretty, in a cat’s-eye way, but Mason doesn’t give her much thought. It takes a lot for Mason to really notice a woman, and she’s nowhere near the actresses Paul dates.
(Mason’s been reading up. He doesn’t think much of Paul, but the man can find a camera at a hundred paces.)
Paul brings Nadia to the first brainstorming meeting for the Vestige project. He introduces her to Mason and the two guys from Marketing (“Just Nadia, don’t worry about it”), and they’re ten minutes into the meeting before Mason realizes she had never said a word.
It takes Mason until then to realize how still she is. Only her eyes move—to him, with a hard expression like she can read his mind and doesn’t like what she sees.
Not that he cares. He just wonders where she came from, suddenly.
“So we have to think about a new market,” Paul is saying. “There’s a diminishing return on memorial dolls, unless we want to drop the price point to expand opportunities and popularize the brand—”
The two Marketing guys make appalled sounds at the idea of Mori going downmarket.
“—or, we develop something that will redefine the company,” Paul finishes. “Something new. Something we build in-house from the ground up.”
A Marketing guy says, “What do you have in mind?”
“A memorial that can conquer Death itself,” says Paul.
(Nadia’s eyes slide to Paul, never move.)
“How so?” asks the other marketing guy.
Paul grins, leans forward; Mason sees the switch flip.
Then Paul is magic.
He uses every catchphrase Mason’s ever heard in a pitch, and some phrases he swears are from Mori’s own pamphlets. Paul makes a lot of eye contact, frowns soulfully. The Marketing guys get glassy and slack-jawed, like they’re watching a swimming pool fill up with doubloons. Paul smiles, one fist clenched to keep his amazing ideas from flying away.
Mason waits for a single concept concrete enough to hang some code on. He waits a long time.
(The nice thing about programs is that you deal in absolutes—yes, or no.)
“We’ll be working together,” and Paul encompasses Mason in his gesture. “Andrew Mason has a reputation for out-thinking computers. Together, we’ll give the Vestige model a self-sustaining critical-thinking initiative no other developer has tried—and no consumer base has ever seen. It won’t be human, but it will be the nearest thing.”
The Marketing guys light up.
“Self-sustaining critical-thinking” triggers ideas about circuit maps and command-decision algorithms, and for a second Mason is absorbed in the idea.
He comes back when Paul says, “Oh, he definitely has ideas.” He flashes a smile at the Marketing guys—it wobbles when he looks at Nadia, but he recovers well enough that the smile is back by the time it gets to Mason.
“Mason, want to give us tech dummies a rundown of what you’ve been brainstorming?”
Mason glances back from Nadia to Paul, doesn’t answer.
Paul frowns. “Do you have questions about the project?”
Mason shrugs. “I just think maybe we shouldn’t be discussing confidential R&D with some stranger in the room.”
(Compliance sets up stings sometimes, just to make sure employees are serious about confidentiality. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t said a thing.)
Nadia actually turns her head to look at him (her eyes skittering past Paul), and Paul drops the act and snaps, “She’s not some stranger,” like she saved him from an assassination attempt.
It’s the wrong thing to say.
It makes Mason wonder what the relationship between Paul and Nadia really is.
That afternoon, Officer Wilcox from HR stops by Mason’s office.
“This is just a random check,” she says. “Your happiness is important to the company.”
What she means is, Paul ratted him out, and they’re making sure he’s not thinking of leaking information about the kind of project you build a market-wide stock repurchase on.
“I’m very happy here,” Mason says, and it’s what you always say to HR, but it’s true enough; they pulled him from that shitty school and gave him a future. Now he has more money than he knows what to do with, and the company dentist isn’t half bad.
He likes his work, and they leave him alone, and things have always been fine, until now.
(He imagines Paul, his face a mask of concern, saying, “It’s not that I think he’s up to anything, it’s just he seems so unhappy, and he wouldn’t answer me when I asked him something.”)
“Will Nadia be part of the development team?” Mason asks, for no real reason.
“Undetermined,” says Officer Wilcox. “Have a good weekend. Come back rested and ready to work on Vestige.”
She hands him a coupon for a social club where dinner costs a week’s pay and private hostesses are twice that.
She says, “The company really appreciates your work.”
He goes home, opens his personal program.
Most of it is still just illustrations from old maps, but places he’s been are recreated as close as he can get. Buildings, animals, dirt, people.
They’re customizable down to fingerprints; he recreated his home city with people he remembers, and calibrated their personality traits as much as possible. It’s a nice reminder of home, when he needs it.