Under New Management

As soon as Diego heard the opening refrain of “Happy Birthday,” he knew his carelessness had put him in a dire situation. His instinct was to blame Deandra who, according to the monthly calendar of office events, meetings, and celebrations, was observing the fifty-fourth anniversary of her birth.

And here he was, still in his cubicle, staring at a screen filled with numbers that hadn’t made sense ever since the takeover.

Diego quickly logged out (“No employee shall leave unattended a computer terminal in active mode,” guidelines mandated) and slid his chair back under the desk, center to the keyboard (“Vacant cubicles must be maintained per schematics as detailed in Section Forty-Two, Instruction Four of Human Resources Manual, Fifth Edition”).

Even as he made the final adjustment to ensure his chair was in place, Diego peered over the sea of desks and low, fabric-covered walls to the glass-enclosed breakroom where employees were packed around its centralized rectangular table. Through the open door, Diego listened to a harmony worthy of a professional acapella group. His dismay resulted in the fact the song was near its conclusion.

“Damn,” he muttered, knowing the consequences of missing a social gathering, especially one as imperative as a birthday. Only baby showers and retirement parties were more important, and there had been only a few since the merger and/or acquisition (details remained hazy).

Half-crouched, Diego shuffled as quickly as he could without triggering the motion sensors that scanned for those walking at “an inappropriate pace for the work environment.” He wouldn’t have worried if such infractions were the “a note will be placed in your personal file” type. These days, however, rules were enforced by the wheeled robots that arrived with the new owners. Those defying the norms were zapped with an electric charge, bringing to Diego’s mind historic images of people being “tased” by police, back when there was still a need for people to enforce the law.

Diego also was pretty sure most people survived such shocks. That wasn’t the case on the seventh floor of Prognostech, so the goal was to get to the breakroom quickly without attracting undue attention of patrolling Sentinels and their zappers. He was about to pick up his pace, and the risk, when he spotted Paul from Reactivity Conditioning. The two shared eye-contact from across the room. They had the same thought: “If I beat that guy, I won’t have to cut the cake.”

Diego was hopelessly behind but still had one chance. He took a quick step, feigning a dash. Paul bit on it, ratcheting up his gait to a brisk walk.

Gotcha, Diego thought, watching the two Sentinels humming toward his adversary.

“No, hold on!” Paul yelled, sealing his fate as a Sentinel closed in, its single red eye pulsing atop an imposing six-foot-tall and featureless metallic cylinder. The air between Paul and the closest Sentinel flashed with a plasma bolt. A scream and then silence.

Diego was about to gloat when he realized he’d sealed his fate. With Paul likely unconscious, Diego was going to be the party’s last arrival.

Which meant the honor of divvying up Deandra’s cake.

Even as he slowed, Diego’s heart rate rose as it often did since the new owners installed their exacting business philosophy based on their well-known motto, “Redefining the Future.” Prior to the change, high morale was voluntary and five-minute conversations by the water cooler were spontaneous rather than required.

Most Prognostech employees shrugged their shoulders when they heard of the merger (thought more of a takeover). It was a logical next step, given the current business environment, and their company was hardly the first or last to be swallowed by the trend. Everyone took it far more seriously when the new employee handbook landed on desks. The three-hundred-and-seven-page tome, titled “Your Guide to a Successful Transition and Why You Matter, Especially at This Point in Time,” was both a mandatory and difficult read, given the awkward wording hinted at by the title.

Orientations were more indoctrination than introduction, the emphasis on routines and proper office conduct. Diego was particularly struck by the phrase, “Nothing will change and everything will change,” found in the “Looking Forward Not Back, This is Human Resources” section. He joked with colleagues, “That makes no sense and total sense,” until he was overheard by a Sentinel, its eye glowing menacingly.

 By then, everyone knew about the shocks, having been administered for such lapses as nonessential use of copy machines, eating a lunch not your own, and not refilling the coffee pot after pouring the last cup.

The worst gaffe was missing any of the dozens of social gatherings conducted each month. Whether it was a work anniversary or promotion, attendance was mandatory. Diego paid particular attention to that most predictable of occasions, the birthday party. You missed that at your own risk, which was why he found himself at a loss when it came to explaining his current predicament.

Diego walked into the breakroom as casually as he could for a condemned man, adding a few claps to the dying applause (“to be between twelve and fifteen seconds, appreciative by but excessive,” according to the guidelines). All eyes drifted to Diego as he knew they would. Shortly, he would be summoned and presented the knife for the cutting of the cake.

Deandra offered her thanks (remarks were to be “sincere rather than effusive,” policy dictated) to the packed house. Diego recalled how just a few years ago, he was not among the few who gathered to wish Deandra well on her special day. Attendance was dictated not by employee handbook, but the guest of honor’s popularity as well as the quality of the cake. Even if you were roundly despised by colleagues, a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting overcame interpersonal problems. On the other hand, not even the most popular person could attract a crowd with homemade cupcakes.

Now? All were to be celebrated equally regardless of cake or social standing.

“Again, thank you all for being here, you make a person feel…” Deandra’s eyes darted up and to the right where the countdown clock showed the time remaining. “Anyway, thank you. I, uh, appreciate it. You. I mean I appreciate you.”

Others were more conscious of the red dot above, heads nodding appreciatively.

“It’s so great we work at a company that values each and every employee.” Deandra added with the speed of an auctioneer as the clock ticked to zero.

It quickly flipped to three minute and began another countdown. If knife had not touched frosting by the time zeroes flashed, there would be dire consequences for whoever might be responsible.

“Looks like I’m up,” Diego muttered as he made his way through the crowd. He nudged past unfamiliar coworkers and their expressions that blended “Good luck” with “Better you than me.”

He eased past Jaquelyn, one of the few friendly faces. She worked two cubicles away and thus in his “zone of encouraged interaction” (which extended four cubicles in all directions, according to company rules).

“Slow and steady,” she said. “Deep breaths. You got this.”

Diego nodded, even though he definitely did not have this. He knew to start in the middle and work in halves until he had seventy-two identical slices of the standard-issue cake. But he couldn’t focus because he was still angry how the party slipped below his radar, as if a fault in his self-programming. He was about to pay for that glitch in two minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

Ten feet from his destination, Diego sensed a shift in the mood. He was no longer the center of attention, following everyone’s gaze to a figure right behind Deandra. It was Tim, Chief Superintendent of Celebratory Occasions, who plucked the gleaming, ten-inch-long knife from Deandra’s hand.

“I’d like to invite…hold on,” Tim said. He withdrew from his back pocket a device that appeared to be a phone, though all in the room knew it wasn’t a phone at all. It was the device that put Tim in direct contact with the bosses. The room’s collective breath was held as Tim tapped the screen, scrolled, tapped again, and returned it to his pocket. Pointing to his left, he announced, “Honors of cutting the cake go to Russ from Developmental Strategies and Logistics.”

Diego had never heard of Russ but picked him out of the crowd right away. It was the guy whose expression was one of utter dismay, as if having arrived home to find his apartment ransacked and his cats gone.

“I, well, didn’t expect this to say the least,” Russ said, his voice low and teetering on the ledge. Diego could almost feel the glowing red eye tilting in Russ’s direction.

“But, wow, what an honor,” Russ recovered. “I never thought…never dreamed I’d be the one to wield the knife. What a very special day this is, and I am…” He paused, precious seconds ticking away. It reminded Ross of award shows when people were allowed to stand out. Loud music interrupted lengthy thank-you speeches, a far less lethal way to bring things to a conclusion.

The timer hit sixteen seconds. “To wield the knife is, well, just icing on the cake,” Russ said, believing the pun was worth the time. “I am a lucky man indeed. What else can I say but thank you?”

What else indeed, Diego thought, envisioning the bullet he just dodged, one close enough to crease his hair if he had any.

Three seconds remained when Russ sank the knife into cake, smearing the frosting with an uneven cut. It wasn’t slicing so much as butchering, a disastrous first gash. He continued to carve as if everything was fine, dishing out one lopsided piece after another. Attendees shifted uneasily, knowing the “celebration” was about to take the kind of turn that would put a damper on the day. Russ was, after all, in his mid-fifties and slightly overweight, his diet likely based on the comfort-food pyramid. His was the type of body that would perform poorly under stress, particularly the electrical kind.

A wary Deandra backed away from the cake, her expression that of a mourner at a closed-casket funeral.

Diego picked out a voice next to him, one that rose above nervous murmurs. “I warned him,” it said. “Doesn’t matter if Deandra reported him for unauthorized use of office supplies. You follow the birthday rules. Always.”

It was making sense to Diego. Infractions incurred within social gatherings (such as talking out of turn, refusing to clap when applause clearly was indicated, and arriving late or not at all) lead to consequences. Whatever Russ’s violation had been, it led to the “honor” of cutting the cake and producing seventy-two slices of equal length and width from the standard-sized cake. Exactness was so important, Diego had even practiced at home, ready if circumstances (or inattention) landed him in front of the cake, ten-inch knife in hand. Russ, however, was wholly unprepared, as cake remnants proved.

As Russ approached the halfway mark, Diego tuned into a short conversation behind him.

“He is really messing this up,” one voice said.

“Odd, because he should have been prepared,” another said.

“Why, what did he do? Don’t tell me he didn’t sign the card.”

“He signed, alright, but didn’t add a personalization. Not even a ‘Have a happy.’”

There it is, Diego thought. Russ brought this on himself. Not only did Diego make sure to personalize his greeting on a birthday, get-well, or any number of cards that circulated through the office, he often threw in five dollars to stay off the radar.

“If that’s the case,” the person behind Diego said, “I have no sympathy for—”

ZZZZAAAAAP! Russ went down like a crushed soda can.

Two members of the seventh-floor clean-up crew stepped forward to cut the rest of the cake, carefully stepping over Russ’s spasming body. As the second half of the cake disappeared plate by plate, the birthday girl wedged herself between the refrigerator and healthy-snack machine trying to stifle sobs unbecoming of a celebratory event.

Three hours later, Russ joined four of the usual colleagues for their break around watercooler 8NW. They spoke of the weather, the upcoming weekend, and other predictable and meaningless subjects that comprised small talk. When Cindy in Social Logistics came by with Russ’s get-well card, each signed it with a flourish while adding their own message. Diego inserted five dollars in clear view of the nearest Sentinel.

Diego spent the rest of his day at his desk, the clicking keyboard a sign of his productive nature. As Sentinels approached, Diego’s fingers flew as if playing a Bach symphony, though, as usual, his heart was not into it. Not that it mattered, as long as his work remained predictable.

When the bell sounded at precisely the same time as the day before and the day before that, Diego shut down his station and joined the huddled masses waiting at the bank of elevators. Number Four chimed and he followed the usual eleven people inside, the woman at the front punching the button for the first floor. The box rumbled to life and arrived at its destination thirty-eight seconds later, disgorging it contents in a vast lobby of marble, steel, and glass.

All that stood between Diego and another few hours of company-free time was the bank of security gates. He lined up behind Station Ten, shuffling amid the familiar faces assigned to the portal. Green lights and chimes went off as the day shift headed to the exits and into the fresh night air.

Diego was strolling toward the gate when he heard a low buzz, noting a flash of red blinking in the corner of his eye. Then another hum, and another. He focused straight ahead, familiar with the sound and knowing some employees were not making it home tonight, their bodies quickly removed by security.

Diego inhaled deeply and entered the gate, his body tensing for the worst. With a chime and green light, Diego stepped through, guaranteeing as least one more day of employment. He wasn’t sure that was good news.

He felt a nudge to his elbow. “I didn’t know there were layoffs today,” Melissa said. “Did you get am email?”

Diego shook his head. Every now and then, the new owners did something surprising, going against its long-established corporate philosophy based on routines. Not that employees paid much mind to how business was done, continuing as predictably as ever.

That thought struck Diego in such a way that he almost smiled — his colleagues were acting more like the artificial-intelligence apps that were now their bosses. Maybe that’s been the goal all along, Diego realized. He was fine with that.

His pace quickened toward the front door, cherishing the best time of day, that moment when he had the most time off before reporting for work. He followed the throng into the night and looked skyward, a full moon glowing brightly and telling the Earth’s new story. Diego marveled again at the words etched into its radiant surface.

“Under New Management.”