| |
Thea swore under her breath as she looked around the increasingly quarrelsome theater troupe. They’d warmed up with a set of three one-act plays, and now the group was ready for a meatier challenge. But the newest members were more interested in writing plays than acting in them, so the possibilities were expanding to the point of chaos.
Some of the original members clearly disliked the idea of a brand new production. “It’ll take, what, weeks to write even a draft, won’t it?” grumbled the woman Thea had privately labeled The Diva. “That’s time tacked on to what we’ll need for rehearsals. If we go too long without another performance, people will forget we exist!”
One of the would-be dramatists actually bared his teeth. “Are you kidding? You’re worrying about time? What do we all have more of?”
Someone needed to come up with a compromise. Someone like Thea. But what? Ah—“How about this? Let’s take an existing story, maybe even a film, and adapt it. That will give one or more of our writers the task of adapting the work, without taking as long as starting a play from scratch.”
Of course, not everyone liked the idea, and those who did now had something else to argue about. Which movie? Whose favorite?
One of their newer members, a soft-spoken gentleman with long white hair, put up a tentative hand. (Thea noted with approval that he hadn’t thought it necessary to turn his hair a more youthful color.) “Why don’t we see what our founding member recommends? After all, this troupe might not even exist if he hadn’t taken the trouble to start it.”
Jim lost no time in speaking up. “Thank you for that very kind suggestion. As it happens, I’ve just been watching an old favorite of mine, and I think it could make a truly riveting stage production. Have any of you seen The Manchurian Candidate? I’m talking about the original, from the 1960s, not that crappy remake a few decades later.”
A couple of people nodded, some vigorously, while the rest looked expectantly at the lawyer or blankly at each other.
Thea had heard the name, but had never seen the film. As the lawyer described the story, with its coalition of Communists brainwashing captured soldiers, she grew increasingly alarmed. Did the lawyer know, or suspect, the same thing she and Max suspected? Or did his choice of story show just the opposite? Surely, if he shared their suspicions, he would have been more circumspect.
But coincidence or lack of discretion, this could be trouble.
Thea quickly ran through the story as Jim had summarized it. She needed to find some disadvantages. Maybe—“There don’t seem to be many female roles.”
The lawyer waved his hand dismissively. “Back then, soldiers were mainly male, but we don’t have to stick to the Korean War context. It could be a modern war, with soldiers of all genders.” He looked toward The Diva. “And the mother, the worst of the conspirators—now there’s a real plum of a role. You could do something great with that.”
The Diva, to Thea’s dismay, glowed with satisfaction. This play might be happening. She could only hope it was her own sensitivity to the topic that made it seem so dangerous.
The movie made a hell of a play. Well, that wasn’t quite right. The troupe’s dramatists had made the movie into a hell of a play. And while the acting quality varied, The Diva chewed the scenery most effectively as the female villain. Jim was almost as good as her brainwashed homicidal son. After all the years of performing for judge and (especially) jury, and then the months of forced retirement, getting to indulge his theatrical streak so fully must be gratifying.
Their makeup and costume coordinator did have some unusual challenges with which to cope, due to the limitations of certain software.
The Diva sashayed into the rehearsal with longer, fuller hair, in a fiery red shade that Thea thought unfortunate with her complexion, and with her already substantial chest now narrowing to a dramatically slim waist. The director stared, then shrugged. “I guess it’ll do. But your costume will be loose in the middle.”
The Diva waved imperiously toward the assembled cast. “I’m sure someone can fetch me a belt to cinch it up. Something spangly.”
While The Diva changed into her costume, Thea rummaged through the accessories the troupe had assembled and saw nothing sequined or bejeweled, but did unearth a black patent leather belt. The Diva sniffed qualified acceptance and donned it, the director tapping his foot while she adjusted the fit for maximum snugness. Finally she vouchsafed him a regal nod, and he smiled tightly and flourished the script. “Act Two, Scene 1! Places, everyone!”
They had made it halfway through the scene when The Diva suddenly gasped, her hands fumbling frantically with the belt. The Diva’s waist had abruptly regained its original girth, while her hair, now falling out of its hairdo as she struggled, had resumed its previous bottle-blonde color.
Appearances continued to revert at unpredictable intervals, removing makeup and causing costumes to fit poorly or even disappear. The members of the troupe coped as best they could, standing ready to serve as emergency makeup and costume assistants; the dramatists wrote several short bridge scenes to throw in as necessary while any repairs took place backstage.
And now opening night was almost upon them, with just one more tech rehearsal this morning and the dress rehearsal tomorrow. They’d be recording the dress rehearsal and all the performances, so they could choose the one to distribute to friends and family “outside” (the most popular euphemism for the corporeally living). Or rather, they’d be intentionally recording, along with whatever monitoring was always going on, going on right now. . . .
By the time Thea showed up, almost everyone else had arrived. (The Diva, of course, had not. She would be at least a little late.) Jim stood by the costume racks, handling—almost caressing—the uniform he would wear. He noticed Thea noticing him, and chuckled. “Yeah, I can’t wait. Don’t you think we need an extra dress rehearsal, like today?” Thea couldn’t help but laugh along, even as she shook her head.
Ah, here came The Diva. She made an entrance, of course: no simple opening a door and walking through for her! Thea refrained from raising an eyebrow, then turned back to Jim.
Jim disappeared.
The Diva screamed. Thea flinched at the sound and stared at the spot near the costume rack. She looked rapidly around the room, in case she had had a momentary fugue and he had moved in the meantime (but then why would The Diva have screamed?). She saw a room full of startled and, even as she watched, frightened people. But no Jim anywhere.
About half the people turned toward someone else and began jabbering questions and exclamations. The others simply stared at each other, or straight ahead, in shock.
And then the door opened once more, and a stranger came in, a nondescript man of indeterminate age, medium height, unremarkable coloring.
“Excuse me. May I have your attention, all of you?”
The room slowly grew quiet. The man waited, shifting around a bit as if suppressing discomfort, until all the talk and exclamations ceased, then went on.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what just happened here. I’m very sorry to tell you that we’ve experienced a serious technical event. Your friend’s digital profile has somehow been deleted.”
More exclamations, some frightened, some furious. About a quarter of the actors started to cry.
Thea waited for him to say something about backups. They must all have backups. It would be inconceivable negligence not to back up everyone’s files. But the man made no mention of restoring Jim from existing files, or even of some additional calamity having affected those files.
The man was still talking, but Thea could not bring herself to listen. Instead she replayed in her mind the moment when Jim had disappeared. She had read, in fiction and in various articles, about what happened when people died. The fiction rarely dwelt on some of the details, like the opening of the sphincter at the moment of death. (Brain death, or something else? She had never inquired . . . . This must be a form of shock, this sudden obsession with minor details.) And most ways of dying took a good deal longer than the one-shot-and-gone portrayal in many a movie.
But there had been no prolonged agony, no pungent odors. And no warning. Just a vibrant, almost larger than life personality, an apparent body full of apparent life; and then, an empty space.
Thea sat down heavily on the nearest chair, shivering, hugging herself, feeling herself shiver. Could she get up? Could she control her limbs? Because all she wanted, as much as she had ever wanted anything, was to get out of this room. Yes, and to run to Max. She needed his arms around her, not her own.
She could never have that. (Not unless . . . but that must not happen, not for many years. She must not even think of yearning for it.) But she could run to her room and call him. And she would tell him what happened, unless something prevented her.
As Jim had been prevented from taking the stage. . . .
She must get control of herself. The man had not left yet. She must ask him whether she could tell anyone about Jim’s death. And if not, she would have to wait until the next private call, impossible as waiting seemed now. Her life might depend upon discretion.
* * * * *
Max had just gotten the strangest call from Thea.
It wasn’t so much the timing. While they had their rituals about phone calls, either of them would sometimes call the other to share an anecdote, ask a question, or just say hello or I Love You.
But when Thea called him only an hour after their morning chat, all she had to say was that she’d call him again later. Which he already knew. That later call would be one of their precious private sessions, and he always waited impatiently for those.
And she’d sounded shaky. Scared, even. It took a hell of a lot to scare Thea. What could have happened?
* * * * *
The COO had been able to vent some of his anger on the Human Resources manager. Even if the man hadn’t directly hired the moron who’d endangered the company, he was in charge of employee supervision. But the COO still had anger to spare.
There came the knock. He barked an order to enter, and the door opened to admit a scrawny woman in (per her file) her mid-thirties. She must know why she was here, but she showed no signs of nervousness, let alone remorse.
“Sit.”
She sat down and crossed her legs, apparently quite at her ease. Damn the woman.
“I’ve already heard about this incident from others, but I wanted to hear your explanation directly.” He bit back the rest of what he wanted to say. He must not lose his temper. Despite the COO’s prompt attention to damage control, the woman could open up a can of worms—no, of venomous snakes—if she began thinking of the company as her enemy.
The woman tapped her wristband and scanned a screen full of notes. The COO used his own wristband to send a quick email ordering that the woman’s band be impounded—no, “replaced with the latest version.” He had hit “send” before she actually started talking.
“It’s my job to review reports summarizing the activities of the digits —”
The COO clenched his teeth, then caught himself and desisted. The slang told him all he needed to know. Personnel who referred to the clients as “digits” tended to view them as nothing more than copies, copies produced as part of a scam to profit from a credulous population of pampered rich folks. “Digits,” to such employees, weren’t people, though they could interact with actual people and even cause trouble by doing so.
Of course, according to that viewpoint, the troublesome could and should be eliminated.
He’d missed some of her explanation. He’d be damned if he’d apologize. “Say that again, if you please.”
The woman scowled. “As I said, my responsibilities include checking whether any of the digits are endangering trade secrets. There have been some rumors going around that come a little too close to actual projects. I checked into this one digit who seemed likely to be part of the problem. He was an attorney, so he liked to hear himself talk. He actually practiced in intellectual property some of the time, so he’d have a nose for sniffing out confidential information. And his drama troupe was about to perform a play that could give people ideas.”
The COO drummed his fingers on his desk, noticed it, and kept doing it. “So you thought it’d be a good idea to delete the fellow.”
The woman shrugged. “It seemed efficient, at least as a first step.”
The COO leaned forward, forcing his expression to remain composed. “Did you get around to any second or third steps?”
“Not yet. I was just writing my report when you told me to show up.”
He needed to get her out of here before he said anything his PR people would chastise him for. “I’d like you to go directly from here to Personnel. We’ve determined that this position is not as good a fit for you as we had initially believed. But we have every intention of taking care of you.” (If only that could have its occasional more sinister meaning. . . .) “We’ve selected several openings for you to examine, all at or above your current pay grade. Or if you prefer, you could leave with an appropriate severance package.” Finally, he could unleash just a little of what he was feeling. He looked directly in the woman’s eyes. “Although I would advise you to review the noncompete clause in your contract. You might find it quite restricting. Your future will be much more promising if you remain with us.”
The woman shrank back just a bit, then got up and scurried out the door. Not so nonchalant now, was she? Good.
At last he could take a moment to think about the woman’s reasons for taking action. The idiocy of that action did not mean her concerns lacked validity. The new software they were testing might take care of the problem, but the programmers kept warning him against relying on software still at the testing stage. Best to use the existing cruder methods as well. The supposed technical glitch could be blamed.
He buzzed his secretary. “Send in my next appointment.”
The young man who slipped through the still-open door could have posed for an illustrated dictionary definition of the word “geek.” In an era when so many programmers looked like supermodels or grannies, it was reassuring that a few still conformed to the stereotypes of the COO’s youth.
The man sat down without any introductory chatter, holoscreen already active and stylus in hand.
“We have to activate the backup of this client as soon as possible. But there are some precautions you’ll be taking first.” The COO ticked them off on his fingers. “We don’t know whether this client actually was involved in anything problematic. We’ve found and preserved the deleted files, and will be inspecting them at our leisure—but that’s not your current assignment. What I need you to do immediately is edit out the client’s memories of, hmmm, let’s say the last eight weeks. While you’re at it, do a quick check of his earlier files and weed out any conspicuous changes we didn’t initiate. And apply that new protocol, the one that’s still in testing, to reduce rebellious tendencies. This can serve as a trial run of that software.”
The young man went still for a moment. “Should I make a copy of the backup file and store it, before I do these edits on the file that’s going active?”
“Do that.” After all, the new software might blow up somehow, and they’d need to try again.
The young man resumed scribbling. When his stylus slowed to a stop, the COO waited another moment, then said, “That’s all. Keep me updated on your progress. We want this client back in place by the end of the day. Can you do that?”
The young man nodded as he extracted himself from his chair and hurried out the door.
Yes, the client would be back in place soon. Though the memory alterations would include the lines the fellow had memorized. Someone else would have to step in if the play were to continue. But from what the COO understood, the troupe had not bothered with understudies. The play would probably have to be canceled.
So much the better.
* * * * *
“Jim! Oh, thank heaven!”
The Diva rushed across the dining hall and enveloped the attorney in an embrace, then reluctantly released him as a host of others, members of the theater troupe and other friends, followed and surrounded him.
The attorney looked around, appearing somewhat befuddled. “Thank you. Thanks very much. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been told something happened to me, some sort of glitch; and while I can’t remember it, I’m certainly glad to be here and feeling fine! I appreciate your warm welcome, even though I haven’t had the pleasure of actually meeting all of you.” He looked around the crowd as a whole; The Diva, though he did not appear to be addressing her, stepped back, bumping three other people, and clasped her hands over her heart as he went on. “But . . . why are you calling me Jim?”
* * * * *
Max’s private conversation with Thea would have to end soon, and still she kept repeating the same details. It took extreme stress to bring out that quirk. The last time he could remember it happening had been when her father suddenly took ill on a trip abroad, and she couldn’t find a flight to take her to him.
“He doesn’t remember his lines from the play. He doesn’t remember suggesting the play. He doesn’t remember the people who joined the troupe recently. And he seems to have no clue that he changed his name, or why he would ever have wanted to.”
Max did sometimes have intuitive leaps, and now the word that popped into his head was “scapegoat.” Had this attorney somehow come under suspicion because of things that Dane or Esther had done? Or that Thea had done, or Max himself?
And would Thea be next?
He had to talk to Esther right away.
