The Prince and the Program, page 17
<@alan> I’m glad you asked. You see, my original statement of the bacteria problem was very inelegant, and well, I went back and looked at some of your other work.
Oh, oh.
<@alan> Do you remember your 3SAT approach?
<@alan> Please don’t! It’s actually turned out to be very useful.
<@alan> Your interpretation of the 3SAT conditional statements as vectors gave me an idea. Our bacterial rulesets were conditional in the first place, so why not model them as basis-vectors? Of course, they’re shapes in 2.33 dimensional space, which makes it difficult to visualize, but still.
<@alan> Now we can parameterize the starting conditions in such a way that the evolution of the rulesets becomes conditionally dependant on how we initiate the problem. It does, however, make the system far more fragile than Conway’s life-like automatons.
<@alan> And therein lies the rub.
<@alan> I thought you might. Would you?
LUNCH came and went without Ramasundarm, which was rather strange. I tried to remind myself that I was a fifteen-hundred-year-old Mage in symbiosis with a primordial virus, and missing one single meal was hardly going to kill me.
Alan wasn’t available either. But Samurai were blooming all over my computer with a machine-regular pop-pop-pop; I had work to do.
SO GREAT was my concentration that the slamming of the Think Tank door barely made me twitch. But then I heard something I honestly never expected—Ramasundarm’s voice, raised in anger.
Leaning out of my cubicle, I saw other heads doing the same, and from the looks, they too were confused and not a little scared. The words were indistinct behind the closed door, at the far edge of even my hearing.
“… sell out?” That was Ramasundarm, accusatory.
“October… hard.” Another voice, male. “… belly up….”
“… not a damn house… investment. This was never… if you sell…” Indignation colored every word out of my mild-mannered Boss’s mouth. “… them?”
“… all to shit.”
“Get out of my office! Out!”
The door was pulled open, and all of us turned back to our screens. Pixels had never been more interesting.
“My shares are worth shit! They’re the only ones that’ll pay,” said the unfamiliar voice, as it crossed Cubicle Land.
“Out!” shouted Ramasundarm. A rustle of fabric, and then we heard the click-clack of heels as Gen-Mai raced out of the Think Tank.
“Sergei! Mr. Vladislav, stop! Can I—” Her words were cut off as the man left through the library doors, Gen-Mai at his heels.
The door to the Think Tank slammed shut again, soul-jarringly loud amid the first floor’s stunned silence.
IT TOOK a while, but at 16:28, Josephine was the first to move, followed by me, before the exodus to the espresso machine started. Dodging gossip, I ended up back at my desk, cup in hand, waiting for Alan to become available.
* m:-0)(~m.penn@electrickindren.com) has joined CoconutsGoCoconutsGo
<@alan> Yes. No. Maybe.
<@alan> It’s all right—everyone must be rather confused? Gen-Mai tells me it was quite the scene.
<@alan> Ramasundarm was *angry*? Gen-Mai didn’t say that. But she misses the clues sometimes.
<@alan> Oh dear. An e-mail to Sergei is in order, then. He wants to sell his shares—JCN made a very attractive offer.
<@alan> Indeed. Gen-Mai got him to hold off till the end of October. We might have raised enough capital between us to buy him out ourselves by then.
<@alan> Financially, yes. Algorithmically, we are doing better than we ever have.
<@alan> He cares very deeply.
<@alan> Try not to take it to heart—things could be worse.
<@alan> Come now, dear Mordred, what on earth would *I* do with the money?
<@alan> The days of well-tanned young men are far in the past, I’m afraid.
<@alan> Truthfully? Cultivating intellectual affection.
<@alan> Roses? I’m afraid not. Daisies, if anything.
<@alan> Have you ever looked—really looked—at the heart of a daisy?
.
.
.
A SUDDEN, sharp urgency jolted me awake. I fell asleep at work? My disorientation was not helped at all by Crazy-Eyes hovering over me, far too close for comfort.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, leaning away from her. “Late night working.” Truth, but really, was the Symbiot so starved that it couldn’t keep me awake for a mere thirty-one hours? Deceitful virus—it had been more than eager to run for a three day bender just a couple of weeks ago with Tom.
“Are you sure you should be at work?” she asked.
“Yeah, just had a nap, I’m good to go.”
“Everyone else has gone home for the weekend,” she said.
“Guess I should too,” I replied. My tongue hurt; had I bitten it? I couldn’t remember.
Crazy-Eyes narrowed her eyes and reached to poke at my forehead.
“Um… can I help you?” A headache was starting, right at the point she had poked me.
“No, I thought I should help you,” she said.
“My side channels are all clear,” I said, as politely as I could.
She gave me a look, as if to imply that I was the crazy one. “Alrighty then,” she said. “You keep it that way.”
MY COUSIN texted, late at night: Have you met him yet? Imp and I turned on flight mode to save me the embarrassment of an answer. Then we took out the phone’s battery and stashed it inside the fridge. The paranoia was justified–even Titania uses cold iron to keep Tom from using those truth-seeking capabilities of his.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BIOCHEMICAL ATTRACTORS
/join TheSensSuck
* Now talking in TheSensSuck
* alan (~cto@electrickindren.com) has joined TheSensSuck
*** Mode change “+o alan” for channel TheSensSuck by @m:-)
<@alan> Good Morning
<@m:-)> Very Good Morning Alan
<@alan> Be careful today—Gen-Mai’s on the warpath. I believe Justin is going to have another breakdown soon.
<@m:-)> It’s far too early for *her* to be here…
<@alan> You’re in unusually early as well
<@alan> How wonderful! May I?
.
.
.
<@alan> How *are* you finding these?
<@alan> Try me
A pseudo-conversation over IRC was far too impersonal to discuss the mathematics of reproductive spells.
<@alan> You’re being rather mysterious.
<@alan> Really? I thought your charm lay in your fascination with Electric Kindren’s unsolvable problems
And its CTO.
<@alan> Interesting folder name.
<@alan> No doubt.
.
.
.
<@alan> We’ve had it now—the bacteria are going to start demanding privacy, and unionized labor, and statutory holidays.
<@alan> But that’s just a predator. See that puffer you’ve got going in the top right there? It’ll stop the set-square in its tracks.
<@alan> Why on earth would you interfere like that? The annihilator is a perfectly valid result.
<@alan> and there you go again, ascribing moral qualities to chaos and coincidence
<@alan> Tell me, does the annihilator always start off in that set-square configuration?
<@alan> Then I’ve got one too.
<@alan> I’m afraid so. It’s managed to camouflage itself beside more benign patterns, but it’s still there.
<@alan> So hasty!
* gen-mai|taur (~g.taur@electrickindren.com) has joined TheSensSuck
*** Mode change “+o gen-mai|taur” for channel TheSensSuck by ChanServ
<@gen-mai|taur> Alan is being paid to program. I don’t know what I’m paying you for Mordred—it sure as hell is not for interfering with Alan’s productivity.
*** @alan has been kicked by @gen-mai|taur (GET BACK TO WORK)
*** m:-)has been kicked by @gen-mai|taur (GET BACK TO WORK)
“MORDRED, there you are,” said Ramasundarm as I stooped to pull the Imp-made sandwiches from the fridge. Then he caught sight of the foil-wrapped bundle in my hands. “You didn’t forget lunch!”
“Poor repayment if I had,” I said, but wondered if that was true; Imp’s sandwich-making skills were still rudimentary.
Only one way to find out.
The outside of the bread was slathered with peanut butter, and strawberry jam was oozing from the inside. Ramasundarm looked down at the sandwiches, then up at me, then back at the sandwiches again. Finally, with a philosophical shrug, he went to grab dishes and napkins.
MY VALIANT attempts to keep the peanut butter away from my face and fingers was unsuccessful. Absolutely everything was sticky. Goddamn Imp. Ramasundarm was faring slightly better, but not by much.
“By the way,” he said, the gluelike consistency of our lunch making it hard for him to talk, “Gen-Mai fixed it so we can do direct deposit again.”
“Excellent,” I said, and it was; checks were about as convenient as a blunderbuss.
A large dollop of jam managed to find its way out between my fingers and onto my T-Shirt.
By the time we finished, Ramasundarm and I looked like two kindergartners left without supervision for far too long. An entire roll of paper towel and a drawn-out handwashing session took care of that, at least.
“Good lunch,” said Ramasundarm. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. But I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
ONCE Ramasundarm left, a quick rinse and the peanut-butter covered utensils were safely concealed underneath other dishes in the sink. Just in time because Gen-Mai click-clacked her way to the kitchenette a moment later.
“Mordred, do you know anything about iPads?”
“Nothing, sorry. Justin has one at home, though.”
“No,” said Gen-Mai, “he’s the last person I’d want touching this.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s been glitching—dropping connections, random power problems.”
“Maybe it’s got a Demon in it,” I said.
“Do. Not. Joke. About. Demons.”
“Sorry.” While a part of me was rather certain she has a sense of humor somewhere in her silicone-padded breast, to go digging for it was a task best left to professionals. “Warranty?” I asked.
“Irrelevant,” she replied. “This thing is my life. I’m not about to hand it off to schmucks in Apple uniforms.”
“Can I help you with anything?” I asked.
“Maybe—I’m trying to put together a purchase order for the Popcorn Samurai sandbox, but Ramasundarm’s disappeared so I have no idea what specs he’s looking for.”
Ramasundarm was probably hiding somewhere in the labyrinth downstairs, but I was certainly not going to expose him to Gen-Mai’s bullying a mere half hour after the superglue sandwiches.
“No problem,” I said. “We discussed it yesterday; I know what he has in mind.”
Gen-Mai’s eyes narrowed, and her right foot began to tap at the floor. Perhaps my acquiescence had been too quick.
“You’re in a good mood,” she said. “What’s going on?”
To share, or not to share? Sharing implies some limited amount of reciprocity, and she was the only one who had met Alan. “Progress, of sorts, on a personal project,” I said.
“Is that why all your system e-mails had emoticons all over them?” she asked.
They did? “Um. I didn’t notice. Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
“You’ve got a crush on someone. Who is it?”
The tone of her words made me re-think this disclosure business; I wouldn’t put it past the Bitch Queen to cut off IRC access. Or worse, make Alan and me use Microsoft Project to map out our hypothetical relationship so she could arrange her work packages accordingly. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Not a big deal.”
There was silence as we walked up the stairwell, but by the time we got to the top, the curiosity was too much to bear.
“Um. Do you know when Alan will be coming into Toronto?”
“Alan?” she asked, “You’re getting goofy over Alan?”
Shit. “Never mind.”
“This has been going on over IRC?”
“Um….”
“That’s it. Starting tomorrow—”
“None of your business. None. Understand? Do you want those specs or not?”
I watched her struggle to choose between work and micromanagement. It looked quite painful. Work won, of course, as I knew it would—she stopped spluttering and started on the purchase order as if the whole Alan-and-Me data had never been transmitted.
Close call.
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From: Gen-Mai Taur
Date: Mon, Aug 06, 2012 at 14:01 PM
Subject: You two
To: alan@electrickindren.com
Cc: m.penn@electrickindren.com
Alan,
I’m cc’ing Mordred on this e-mail as per Protocol. You and Mordred have used over twenty hours of company time to chat over IRC. I have to formally ask you to submit a breakdown of the time spent.
Kind regards,
Gen-Mai Taur
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Gen-Mai Taur
CEO
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From:
Date: Mon, Aug 06, 2012 at 14:04 PM
Subject: Re: You two
To: ceo@electrickindren.com
Dear Gen-Mai,
The majority of the chats have taken place before the start of the workday, or during lunch hour. Furthermore, the ratio of time spent on work versus the time spent on interpersonal development is perfectly acceptable, and well within company guidelines.
No other justification or breakdown will be forthcoming, from myself or Mordred.
-Alan
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From: M Penn
Date: Mon, Aug 06, 2012 at 15:09 PM
Subject: Re: You two
To: ceo@electrickindren.com
Dear Gen-Mai
Kindly fuck off.
Sincerely,
Mordred
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SQUIRMING on the green beanbag I had chosen, I was just about to settle down with a textbook at 19:15 when I heard the tell-tale click-clack upstairs indicating Gen-Mai’s descent to the first floor. My shoulders relaxed; she would just head to the kitchenette for coffee and then upstairs again.
But lo! The click-clack was coming closer! I wished for a discreet all-alert alarm, as they have in banks, so I could warn the hapless souls in the adjacent rooms.
“Mordred.”
I nodded to her, as if our simultaneous presence in the basement was normal. “Boss.”
“Get to work.”
“Alan gave me a task. I’m reading up on it.”
She moved past me, toward the door to Cubicle Land. That should have been that, but then she paused.
