Mona

by Addie Lacoe

Illustration by Janet Aulisio Dannheiser

Mona ignored the presence she felt blocking the doorway to her office cubicle: a man, judging by the mass registering on her telemetry implant, with a step she didn’t recognize—a stranger, without an appointment.

A calling card clicked into her “incoming” box. The man should have backed off at that point, leaving her to decide whether she wanted anything to do with him. When he didn’t, she reached for the card and stuck it under her scanner. The simulator voice in her ear spoke the words, “Enrique Leon,” with his business and home addresses, phones, FAX, e-mail, and references—the standard stuff. A handwritten message, which she deciphered by touch on the projection pad, said only, “May I speak with you?”

She called up his file. Mr. Leon was on the payroll, all right, and this was a sample of his handwriting. But what did he want in Personnel, when he already worked here? His written message sounded like a pick-up line out of a politically-correct primer, making sure nobody could say he’d forced himself on her. His deliberate coldness and the unmistakable smell of fear on him piqued her interest.

She wrote on one of her own cards, “13:22,” thirty seconds away, stuck it in an envelope, and dropped it in her “outgoing” box.

Mona heard him pick up the envelope, open it, and then wait, shifting in his soft-soled shoes, his solid bulk still blocking the draft.

In the few seconds she had, she let his bio play out beneath her fingertips: age 27, single, I.Q. 155, degrees from some very impressive schools, nine years in the Engineering Department, now assigned to Special Projects.

She could feel him staring. If she were sighted, he wouldn’t have dared caress her with his eyes that way. His concentration was unnerving but also flattering.

In more than five months, since leaving the small college town she’d grown up in, she hadn’t had anything even close to what she’d call an actual date. Her supervisor had introduced her around the first day, but then she’d had to sit through a course in business etiquette before the company’s next weekend social. Management was supersensitive about avoiding liability for any sexual improprieties. No wonder even the other women in the department were standoffish.

At 13:22, Mona raised her face to her visitor and said, “Yes, Mr. Leon?”

She heard the polite click of his wrist video-recorder and made a show of turning on her own machine, though it was redundant in her case. This was part of the dance everybody did in self-defense against any trumped-up harassment charges.

“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Klein,” he said.

He impressed her, the way he didn’t avoid using the word “see.” Mona filed a sample voiceprint, but she already knew she wouldn’t need it. She loved his resonating baritone. “You don’t have to be formal. What can I do for you?”

“There’s an interdepartmental get-together set for tonight. When you didn’t R.S.V.P., I figured you might have missed the announcement.”

She had missed it. Few people realized how tedious it could be for her to listen to the entire network bulletin board every day. She liked his thoughtfulness and the way he spoke directly to her, not condescending, not raising his voice or using simple words or exaggerated enunciation. “Which departments?” His and hers, of course, or he wouldn’t have risked telling her in the first place.

“Personnel and Special Projects.”

“I don’t think I know anybody in Special Projects,” she said. “I’m sure I haven’t screened anybody for there. What’re you working on?”

“You’ll know some of us,” he said. “We were all taken from other departments.”

When he stopped short of answering her final question, Mona felt obliged to fill the conversational gap. “Where’s it going to be?”

“In Conference Room K, at the Holiday-Sheraton.” He slipped a glossy page onto her desk.

It registered as the hotel’s floor plan. “I appreciate you letting me know.” It was obvious that he’d come prepared. She wondered how far he’d go. If he mentioned a time, it’d be the equivalent of a pre-turn-of-the-century date, but with the reserved twenties practice of not asking for a firm commitment.

“It starts at eighteen hundred,” he said. “Black tie.”

A formal affair—even more enticing. Her feedback registered that Mr. Leon was tall and well proportioned, with a military bearing. She wished she could touch him, even just to shake hands, the way her parents’ generation used to, but that was out of the question. This was one of the rare times she wished her telemetry were a newer model—with a wider selection of wavelengths and slightly better resolution, so she could trace the outline of his profile—but for most of her needs, it wasn’t worth another operation to upgrade. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s an annual thing.”

Mona had heard the women talking about some big party coming up soon, but she’d given up on parties. “It sounds like fun,” she said. “I’ll check my calendar.” His last-minute notice made this stock answer sound more believable than usual. The phrase was his cue to make a quick exit, instead of waiting while she “checked.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you, then, Ms. Klein,” he said.

Presumptuous, or else very confident.

“Unless you really can read minds.” He clicked off his recorder and left.

Mona smiled. He was taunting her just a little, saying that he knew what people said about her. Nobody seriously believed the old stereotype about blind people, but she didn’t mind the joke. Any extra insight she could pretend to was a help in her work as a personnel screener, and she thought the myth added a little mystery to her character. Some men found that threatening; Mr. Leon seemed to find her a challenge. She liked that. She decided to go and check him out.

As she left work, Mona scanned the network. She was puzzled that there wasn’t any mention of Mr. Leon’s party, but then there weren’t any other announcements for that evening, either. Somebody must have cleaned off the board already. It wasn’t important.

At eighteen hundred hours, she paused outside Conference Room K, dressed in a brushed silk blouse and floor-length skirt that felt luscious against her skin and fell in drapes that wliispered when she moved. Elegant, but not suggestive for a first “date.”

Her telemetry was getting a little weak. When she became too excited, her artificial sense might fade out—something to do with the way adrenaline affected the balance of electrolytes that powered its organic battery. The bio-engineers were working on the problem, but for now, she preferred to live with the occasional annoyance, rather than undergo surgery to replace the battery every two years. After all, she’d managed well enough, growing up blind before the technology ever came along.

She calmed herself and restored focus by taking inventory of her posture, being careful not to lead with her ears, like a dog listening to barking on the radio. She reminded herself not to throw her head back, as if sniffing the air, inviting everybody to look up her nostrils. As a child, her parents had stopped her from chewing her lips or sitting slack-jawed. To her, these taboos made about as much sense as not being allowed to digest food in public or recite poetry in her head, acts that only some hyperspace alien could possibly detect and take offense at. Now, reviewing her training was a comforting mantra. She hoped her smile showed how excited she was, without looking too foolish.

Mona inserted a calling card in the slot outside the hotel room. The program recognized her, and the door opened.

Stepping inside, she was surprised to find only one other person in the spacious room. Was she too early? In the wrong place? Had she mistaken the day?

“Ms. Klein.” She recognized Enrique Leon’s voice, as he strode toward her.

“Where is everybody?” Caught off guard, she forgot her manners, forgot about turning on wrist recorders or presenting cards, all the protocols. She smelled gardenias and melting wax. They were alone. With soft music.

“It’s OK,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

Safe? The last thing she wanted was to be “safe” with him.

“I mean,” he said, “I’ve swept the room for bugs. You can say anything in here. If you’ll just let me explain.”

“Explain?”

“I had to talk to you first, before the actual party.”

All this to talk to her? “I’m not that hard to get to know.”

“If you don’t want to stay, I’ll understand.”

What was he saying? Of course she wanted to stay. She’d been stunned that he was such a reckless romantic, that was all. She knew how difficult it was for a man to make the first move these days, especially when she couldn’t encourage him with the usual flirtations: a cool appraising look, a coy averting of the eyes, an “accidental” touch. Enrique Leon had gone well beyond a deniable flirtation. He had put his entire reputation in her hands. “I’ll stay,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve gone to such lengths to tell me, Mr. Leon.”

“Please, call me Enrique.”

“Enrique?” The word felt crisp and juicy, sharp, like new pickles in her mouth, whetting her appetite. She’d practiced at home: rolling the R, not too overdone, so that it came naturally to her tongue. “Please. Call me Mona.”

“Mona.”

Her given name always surprised her with its sensuous murmur and longing “o.” Falling from his lips, she felt it reverberate through her very veins.

“The corsage is for you.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Enrique said, as he guided her fingers through the wristband attached to the flowers.

Forgive him? For touching her? For wanting to be alone with her? “For misleading me into coming?” She hadn’t expected such intimacy so soon. “Would you feel better if I signed a ‘no-offense’ form?” she offered. The standard contract covered most acts that could be performed in public. Mona wished she’d brought something more inclusive with her, just in case. Maybe he was better prepared.

“That’s for people who don’t trust each another.” He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “I want you to know that I trust you.”

It was almost easier to say “I love you” these days than “I trust you.” Had she ever completely trusted anybody outside her immediate family? It was one thing to have an affair, quite another to be left without evidence in the form of a tape or a sexual consent form to defend against a former lover’s angry charges. “I suppose I ought to tell you I have an implant that records sound.”

“I know,” he said. “Is it on now?”

“No.” But how could he be sure? On the other hand, he’d said the room was debugged, but she only had his word for it. Trust, again. “Go ahead and turn your recorder on, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Enrique said. “What I’m about to tell you—either you’ll believe me and want to help, or you won’t.” He let her hand drop. “There’s no time to waste.”

Mona wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. His words didn’t exactly sound like foreplay.

“Have you heard of Rodney Stone?”

The resident genius? “Of course, but what—?”

“I’ll get right to the point,” Enrique said. “It was Mr. Stone’s idea that you and I should meet tonight.”

“Mr. Stone’s?” She’d known the famous man worked for the company, but how did he know her? “Why would—?”

“Mr. Bartlett’s annual banquet is tonight in the ballroom down the hall. I rerouted your invitation.”

All kinds of bells went off in Mona’s head. He’d invaded her mail—her privacy. “How dare you!” She clutched her handbag, pressing her scanner’s record button through the fabric. “Who are you?” She recoiled as something brushed her hand. Her telemetry hadn’t picked up his movement on the fringe of her sensory field; it was beginning to lose definition. She groped behind her for the door.

“Please. Take it. It’s your invitation,” Enrique said. “I knew you’d be angry, but we mailed your R.S.V.P. and the party doesn’t start for another half hour.”

“What are you saying?” Mona was still backing up without coming to a wall. She hadn’t thought she’d taken more than a dozen steps into the room.

“Mr. Stone thought we should go together, but he didn’t want you to have time to think about it, and maybe get cold feet.”

Mona didn’t need time to think. She’d reached the exit.

But Enrique leaned over her, his palm against the door. “Just give me five minutes.”

Now she was frightened. He was so close, she could no longer “see” him, but she was drowning in his scent. “I’d like to leave now.” There was a noticeable quiver in her voice.

“Two minutes,” he begged.

He hadn’t hurt her, and the few words she’d recorded so far wouldn’t necessarily support her claim of a threat. “One minute,” she conceded. “After that, I’m paging the police.” She touched her hand to her watch.

“I apologize,” he said, standing away from the door. “I’m not the most tactful person in the world, which is part of why I got assigned to Special Projects in the first place, but I guess you already knew that.”

She breathed a little easier without him looming over her. “Fifty seconds.”

“We need your help,” he continued. “The department’s about to be phased out, and everybody in it’ll be laid off.”

So that was it. Enrique and Mr. Stone wanted her to plead for their jobs. They were no better than her eight-year-old classmates, who used to make her stand lookout with her hand held scanner, but called her The Bat among themselves.

How easily she’d convinced herself that Enrique’s invitation was a romantic prelude! She was ashamed to think she was so vulnerable. “I don’t see how I can help you,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“You promised me a minute.”

Mona shifted her weight and pulled the door open enough to reassure herself that she wasn’t locked in. “Forty seconds now.”

“I’m not asking just for my own sake,” Enrique said. “There are seventeen people. Most have families depending on them.”

With the door open, Mona felt less cornered. Maybe if Mr. Stone, himself, had asked her, she might have been more inclined to listen, but she had no way of knowing whether Mr. Stone was even working with Enrique, as he’d said. She hadn’t been able to access any files on the group, not even a single personnel roster. “OK. So what is it these people do?” she asked, in spite of herself.

“Nothing,” Enrique replied. “That’s part of the problem.”

Sitting across the candlelit table from Enrique, Mona’s natural sympathy had soothed her hurt pride enough so that she could listen. If she hadn’t been so new with the company, she’d probably have heard the story of these whistle-blowers, kept on the payroll but given nothing to do. This was their thanks for “making waves.”

Management had come up with a way to get rid of them. Special Projects was a dumping ground. Robotic tanks, of all things! When the group inevitably failed to land the contract, the department could be phased out or dissolved, and the workers fired without fear of repercussions. No wrongful dismissal suits, no claims of discrimination, no recourse at all. The company had done it less than a dozen years earlier.

“Why haven’t these people quit before now?” Mona asked.

“Too old, some of them,” Enrique said. “Most are too specialized. Even if they managed to outrun their reputations, it’s not easy to uproot a family and start over.”

“And you?”

“Too stubborn,” he said, “with too many years invested in the company to see it all destroyed by Al Tingley.”

The vice-president? “It’s a personal thing between the two of you?”

“Sort of. I showed a client how to save seven million dollars, but Tingley saw it as losing seven million for the company. He thought I should have kept my mouth shut; I thought I was generating good will. The fact that the client has since spent over nine hundred million with us and been one of our best word-of-mouth advertisers doesn’t impress him.”

“So you’ve been effectively retired.”

“And Tingley has either reassigned or scrapped all my projects and locked me out of the database.”

“Mr. Stone, too?”

Enrique nodded. “Mr. Stone underestimated Tingley’s power and his temper. The man went into a rage over some design flaw that Mr. Stone said had to be fixed for safety reasons. Tingley’s unstable.”

“You’re afraid of him?” Mona asked.

“I wouldn’t want to be caught alone with him in a dark alley.”

“And you’re expecting me to face him?” Mona didn’t see herself as the hero type.

“He’ll never know until it’s too late. Once you tell the president what’s going on, Tingley’ll be history.”

“Mr. Bartlett?” She could just imagine sending the president of the company a memo, “Dear Mr. Worthington, Your fair-haired boy, Al Tingley, has blackballed several of your best qualified engineers, and they’ve sent me to tattle on him.” Her message would be intercepted, and, even if Tingley didn’t have a vindictive temper, she’d be out on her ear before the ink was dry; she was still on probation, after all, until her first annual review. “Impossible,” she said.

“You’d have to do it discreetly, of course,” Enrique said. “We have a précis on fiche. You’ll need to get it to him in person, though. In private.”

“Nobody sees the president in private.” Who did Enrique think he was kidding? If she so much as sent Mr. Bartlett a calling card, everybody in the company would know about it within the hour.

“You were introduced to him, weren’t you?”

“Sure, the first day. It doesn’t mean a thing.” She felt sorry for Enrique and his people, but she had to think of her own career. “There are five managers between me and the president.”

“He’ll be at this party.”

“What, I’m supposed to drag him off to the cloak room?” At this level, she didn’t dare speak until spoken to, and then only in carefully-considered, politically-correct, value-neutral phrases until the recorders went off and the consent forms were signed in duplicate. “Why don’t you do it? Or Mr. Stone?”

“We’ve tried. If Mr. Bartlett knows anything at all, Tingley has probably convinced him that this is just an easy way to get rid of a few troublemakers without the union objecting too much. Even if Mr. Bartlett wanted to know all about it, he couldn’t afford to get involved. If he did, upper management would lose their shield of deniability. So Tingley has free rein. If anybody objects to Mr. Stone being axed, too, Tingley’ll just say he was trying to make the deal look more legitimate.”

“I can’t help you.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Enrique said.

“What do you mean?” Was he going to try to force her? “Does Tingley know I’m meeting with you?” She was ready to be furious again. “Is he going to transfer me into Special Projects, too?”

“He already has,” Enrique said.

“Without my knowing?”

“Check your personnel file.”

“But why?”

“You must have made him mad,” Enrique said. “He’s been bragging how you’re so in lust with him that he might have to file charges.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“We have a tape.”

Mona was so enraged that for the first time in her life her telemetry was virtually useless. She’d had to physically phone her computer to verify her file. It was slowly coming back, but her hands were still shaking so much Enrique had to insert her invitation into the slot.

It had taken her an entire year since graduation to land a decent job, to prove to some company that her physical limitations were no “handicap” in doing the work she’d trained for. Tomorrow she’d be eliminated with the rest of them. Being fired from her very first position ever wouldn’t exactly look great on her resume. She’d have to go back to living with her parents.

“Take my arm,” Enrique said.

She laid her hand on his forearm and felt his muscles flex inside the fabric of his jacket, as if her touch were electric. Don’t go jumping to conclusions again, she told herself. This rare exception to etiquette was a concession, the way they used to allow guide dogs in restaurants. But the warmth of his body radiated through to her. She felt giddy. It must be the heat of so many people in one place. The hum of a hundred conversations blended with the hum of a hundred recorders. “Where’s Mr. Bartlett?” she whispered to Enrique. “Let’s get this over with.”

“He’s with Tingley,” Enrique said. “We’ll have to wait.”

She felt Enrique turn away. “If we wait, I’ll lose what little nerve I’ve got,” she said, pulling him back. “I feel like a sacrificial lamb.”

Enrique paused. She could feel him staring again. “When the time comes, you’ll do fine. How could he reject you? You’re beautiful.”

She couldn’t believe he’d said that. People simply didn’t comment on physical attributes. Suits had been filed on flimsier grounds. Maybe he did trust her—and not just to save his job. “I don’t feel beautiful,” she said. In fact, she felt sullied after hearing what Tingley had said about her. She’d only spoken to the man half a dozen times. She thought they’d only talked about positions he wanted to fill, but now she realized she knew more about his marital problems than she should. Once he’d seemed irritated when she rescheduled a lunch meeting to the next morning. Did he have more in mind than lunch that day? “Is Tingley handsome?” she asked.

“Tingley?”

“Well, does he think he is?” Since she obviously couldn’t judge his physical assets the way other women could, he might have been doubly sensitive, assuming she’d rejected his personality, his basic ego.

“Forget Tingley.”

“I can’t. If he told one person, he told more.”

“Nobody believed him,” Enrique said. “Just stick to the script, and the problem with Tingley will take care of itself.”

Right. But she let Enrique drag her away from a premature confrontation and plunge her into a round of forced mingling. At last Enrique paused. “What is it?”

“Mr. Bartlett’s headed this way. I think he’s getting ready to leave. He’s passing the far end of the buffet. Can you pick him out?”

“Yes.” Her telemetry had finally regained full power. “And Tingley?”

“He’s still hanging on, but we’ll have to risk it. We won’t get another shot at Bartlett tonight.” He nudged her onto an intercept course with the president.

Large parties had their own set of rules. Just by being here, a person was announcing that he could be spoken to, although he wasn’t obliged to do more than nod in exchange. Mona tried to appear unaware of Mr. Bartlett’s progress, but by straining, she could hear bits and pieces of his greetings, as he made his way through the crowd. Then he was upon her.

“Mr. Bartlett.” She jerked her head in his direction. Too eager, too eager!

“Ms. Klein, isn’t it? From Personnel.”

“I’m surprised you remember me.” “But, of course. I’ve heard nothing but good things from your whole department.”

So far the plan was working. Enrique had assured her that the president would remember her. The company was making a vigorous effort to recruit among disadvantaged minorities. She was one of the few successes. “If I might have permission to speak with you in private, Mr. Bartlett.”

“Mr. Bartlett has an unexpected emergency at the Wilkinson, Ms. Klein,” Tingley put in. “He needs to take care of it quickly, so he can return to his guests.”

Mr. Bartlett waved Tingley off. “I’d be glad to see you anytime, Ms. Klein. Phone my secretary. I’ll tell him to expect your call.”

Suggesting that she could interrupt him by phone rather than passively mailing or faxing her request was very generous, but she couldn’t delay their meeting and give Tingley time to intervene. “I have some documents I’d like to show you tonight, if possible.” She pulled out Enrique’s fiche. The plan was that Mr. Bartlett would have to leave the party with her and go to where there was a reader.

“Of course.” He took the film from her before she could stop him. “I’ll be sure to go over this before our meeting.”

“These documents wouldn’t have anything to do with poor Enrique Leon, would they?” Tingley asked. “I saw him bending your ear this evening.”

That wasn’t part of the script. “Actually—” She fumbled for an answer. Enrique was listening in via her scanner telemetry. “I only met Mr. Leon today.”

Mr. Bartlett turned away from her. “Don’t let him involve you in his discontent, Ms. Klein.” She suspected that he’d handed off her fiche to Tingley. “In fact, if anybody like him bothers you, let me know immediately, and I’ll personally see to it that he’s discharged.”

“Don’t let Tingley get away with the fiche,” Enrique whispered inside her head, confirming her worst fears.

She was at a loss what to say. “That’s very gallant of you.” This was not working. She had to stop them from leaving. “I’d consider it a personal favor—”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Enrique hissed.

“We have to hurry, Mr. Bartlett,” Tingley said.

“I’m almost old enough to remember what a favor is,” Mr. Bartlett said. He had a smile in his voice. “But unfortunately, Al’s right. We have to hurry. I’ll make time for you when I get back, about midnight.”

Could Tingley’s claims regarding her have reached as far as the president’s ear?

“This is doing no good at all.” Enrique sounded exasperated.

Mona shook her head and tried to furrow her brow in what she’d learned was an expression of dismay. “I’m afraid I have to recharge my batteries before then.” She made a vague gesture toward her eyes, hoping neither of them would know better. “I might as well keep the fiche until our meeting.”

Mona held out her hand, but Tingley made no move to return the film. “This is the only copy? You didn’t make one for yourself?” he asked.

Whenever she scanned documents, the readout was stored on chip until she erased it. Tingley evidently didn’t know that about her, either. “I didn’t think I’d need one. I expected to take care of the matter tonight.”

“I’ll have a copy on your desk first thing Monday morning,” Tingley said.

“I could be doing further research until then,” Mona still had her hand out.

“You’re very conscientious, Ms. Klein,” Mr. Bartlett said.

“Tingley’s waving the fiche right in front of you,” Enrique fumed. “If I were there, I’d just reach out and snatch it.” He couldn’t, of course, not without getting himself locked up for assault, but his swashbuckling attitude seemed quixotic and somehow charming.

“I can copy it at the Wilkinson,” Tingley said, “and put a copy in your mailbox at home.”

At this point, speaking with the president alone seemed impossible. All she could think of was to ask Mr. Bartlett to take her with him to the Wilkinson. Even if he didn’t accuse her of coming on to him, at the very least, he’d have to question her discretion and integrity, ruining her career. But if she did nothing at all, she’d have no career to worry about anyway.

“My apartment’s between here and the Wilkinson,” she blurted. “If you’ll follow me, I can scan the film there and store it on my computer, and you can pick up the original on your way back.”

“You can’t do that,” Enrique burst in.

“It’ll just take a minute,” Mona said, “but I’ll have to page a cab first.”

“No need for a cab,” Mr. Bartlett said. “Al was going to ride along with me to my appointment. It’ll be entirely respectable for you to come along with the two of us.”

“Don’t go with Tingley,” Enrique said. “Who knows what he might do to stop us from wrecking his career. It’s not safe.”

All of a sudden he was worried about her safety? “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Bartlett,” she said.

“Of course you’ll have to sign a release,” Tingley said. “I think there’s one in my car.”

“If only I could read it,” she demurred.

“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, Al,” Mr. Bartlett said.

Tingley mumbled something unintelligible, but he had no choice but to sign the form Mona produced, promising that none of them would later file suit over any word or action that took place within the next three hours. She had packed the release with her, the way people used to pack condoms, as protection in case of intimacy. She’d left home hoping to be invited to know Enrique better, never imagining that she’d be sharing a form with the president of her company.

Still, even with the release signed and the recorders turned off, she couldn’t relax. Not with Enrique muttering, “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” in her ear every thirty seconds as he trailed behind in his car.

From her seat in back, she directed Mr. Bartlett to her apartment via a route past the University’s library, which was open until midnight. Tingley didn’t have to be reminded that the library had a copier that could handle fiche.

“It’ll save time if I can have a hard copy to go over for you during the meeting tonight,” he told Mr. Bartlett.

“I could go in and make one for you,” Mona offered. “I know my way around.”

“Mr. Bartlett and I can handle it,” Tingley said.

Mona held her breath.

“Al.” Mr. Bartlett shook his head. “Ms. Klein doesn’t want to wait here by herself.”

Tingley didn’t respond immediately, and Mona relished the turmoil that had to be raging in his mind.

“What’s going on?” Enrique asked, as if she should know more than he did, listening in. Sighted people could be so lost when they had to depend on just their hearing.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Tingley said, as if he expected Mona and Mr. Bartlett to behave like baby rabbits and not move a muscle until Daddy got back.

“So,” Mr. Bartlett began when they were alone. “I’ve enjoyed watching you match wits with Al to get to me.” He twisted around in the front seat. “It’s obvious you want something. I can’t wait to hear what it is.”

Mona had been so intent on maneuvering herself into Mr. Bartlett’s presence that she hadn’t thought about how to phrase her request, except that she didn’t intend using Enrique’s ridiculous “script.” “I hope you know that I’ve tried to be an asset to the company and that I’d like to keep my job.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, Ms. Klein,” Mr. Bartlett assured her. “So why all this conniving?”

“Because somebody had me transferred yesterday to the Special Projects Department, and everybody there is going to be fired tomorrow.”

“What makes you think that?” He sounded incredulous.

“Just look at the roster: a few misfits and troublemakers, but also several managers who’ve reached their level of incompetence but can’t be demoted, and all the protected whistle-blowers, plus some others—mostly moved onto the list within the last week—who’ve had unfortunate personal run-ins with certain people in power.”

“And how did you manage to get lumped in with them?”

“It’s complicated,” she said. “The point is, these are mostly loyal people. They don’t deserve this sort of treatment. That fiche shows how they’ve been working together, without any support, trying to land the job they were given to bid on, even though they knew management wanted it to fall through to justify their firing.”

“And have they succeeded?”

“We’ll know tomorrow,” Mona said, “but even if they do get the contract, the twelve million might still be forfeited, just to get rid of them.”

“I couldn’t allow that. If we win a bid, we always follow through.”

“Or they could still be fired for exceeding their job specifications.” Was she making any headway? She couldn’t tell. “I doubt you’d be able to find anybody with the same expertise as Mr. Stone to fulfill the contract.”

“Ah. Stone put you up to this.” He said the name with a chuckle, as if dismissing her story as trivial.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“And who does Stone say is behind this alleged plot?”

“Alleged?” Enrique sounded incensed. She was glad he was there, but she wished he wouldn’t keep barking comments in her ear.

“You signed the orders that created the department,” she said. “I assume Mr. Tingley drew them up?”

“He could have. I don’t remember. I sign so many things.”

“He’s the one who initiated the transfers, assigned the department this improbable job, and then denied them any funding or technical staff.”

“Stone’s done the preliminary studies with his own money?”

Was he starting to believe her? “I can document everything.”

“With that fiche?”

“I have another copy.”

There was a long pause. She hoped he was thinking about the twelve million. “What’s the project number?” he asked.

Mona took the scanner from her purse, punched in a few commands, and received the report from her computer’s voice simulator just as Enrique provided the same information. “JL79644,” she repeated aloud for Mr. Bartlett.

She could hear the scratch of his old-fashioned pen on paper. “I need to make a couple of calls to verify the facts before I can take any action.” He opened the door, and the car swayed as he stepped out. “I’m locking you in, Ms. Klein; you’ll be safe here.”

The last time somebody’d said she’d be safe, the roof caved in on her life. She heard the door slam and Mr. Bartlett’s footsteps retreat into the evening.

“What’s he doing?” Enrique asked.

“I expect he wants to phone his computer in private,” Mona said. Couldn’t Enrique guess that from what he’d heard?

“Not Mr. Bartlett. Tingley.”

“He’s back so soon?”

“He was headed your way before Mr. Bartlett got out of the car. Then he ducked into the shadow of the building.” Enrique sounded on edge. “I don’t like the way he looked. Check your doors, again.”

Mona checked. “Locked tight.” She felt a twinge of fear.

“I can see Mr. Bartlett from here, but I don’t think he can see you or Tingley.” Enrique’s voice took on an urgent note. “Tingley’s moving in your direction. Don’t let him in. I’m coming.”

She had already detected the movement. Why was he running? “Mr. Bartlett!” But the car’s soundproofing swallowed her cry.

Tingley pulled at the door, rocking the chassis. When it didn’t yield, he banged on the window.

Mona squeezed herself into the opposite corner. “Get away,” she ordered. She touched her watch, paging the police. He was starting to go out of focus.

Tingley’s insistent pounding rattled her bones.

“No!” she shouted. Her telemetry was fading away. The police would take too long to get there.

“Hold on. I’m coming.” Enrique’s voice was like a bugle sounding just over the hill.

She squeezed her scanner, her only contact with him, as if she were clutching his living flesh.

The rear window shattered, showering her with pebbles of glass.

Mona shrieked. Her telemetry had given her no warning at all. It was as if the sky had fallen in on her. She hadn’t felt this disconnected since she was a child.

Tingley’s lingers were tangled in her hair. She was being dragged out of her seat, her back raked by the debris. She screamed. “Enrique!” He didn’t answer. Her artificial senses were dead.

She locked her knees onto the car’s rear window casement and felt Tingley’s hot breath in her face, as he reached over her to pry her loose. She didn’t think twice; she struck when he least expected her to.

Tingley howled in pain and dropped her against the trunk, leaving her hanging by her knees from the car’s window. His animal cries rang in her ears, but she was free. She struggled to right herself, scrambling back to the car’s interior, not knowing whether she was safe now or trapped.

Then she heard Enrique shouting at Tingley, the grunts of men struggling, flesh pummeling flesh, the sickening crunch of a body hitting the pavement.

Mr. Bartlett was there, too, unlocking the door, calling her name. “Ms. Klein, are you all right? Ms. Klein.”

“Here,” she panted. “Here.” She groped for him, found a hand and let him help her out of the car.

“What did Al do to you?”

She took a deep breath. She was scratched and shaken, and her implant had malfunctioned, but she wasn’t seriously hurt.

“The question is, what did you do to Tingley?” It was Enrique, kneeling beside her in the open door.

Tingley groaned and Mona cringed.

“I hit him in the face with this.” Her hand was still frozen around her scanner, with its star-shaped knobs, now smashed and sticky with blood.

“Good for you,” Mr. Bartlett said, “and I’ll see to it that Al never works in engineering again.”

Enrique laid his jacket across Mona’s shoulders. “It’s all right.” He laid her hand on his arm.

The jacket was hot and damp with his sweat. She was ashamed to let him feel her shivering, and not from the chill night air.

The police arrived a few minutes later. They loaded Tingley into an ambulance, but Mona didn’t want to go to the hospital for the sake of a few scratches. She dreaded hospitals, which was why she’d avoided upgrading her equipment. But with her scanner clogged with Tingley’s clotting blood, she felt vulnerable and angry. “I depend on my implant to do my job,” she said. “I don’t know how soon I can arrange for repairs.”

“Please, Ms. Klein,” Mr. Bartlett said. “After what you’ve been through, take all the time you need. And I’ll see to it that you’re off probation.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bartlett.” That was good news. Why didn’t she feel happier?

“If you’ll allow me, sir,” Enrique offered, “I’ll drive Ms. Klein the rest of the way home.”

Mona sighed. So she was “Ms. Klein,” again. She thought of how Enrique had rushed to her defense and hadn’t left her side for a minute since. Then she reminded herself that the only reason he’d sought her out was so she could save his job. She removed her hand from his arm. She shouldn’t still be touching him when they weren’t walking. “I’m not such an invalid that I can’t page a cab.”

There was a long, disorienting silence, in which Mona felt isolated and rejected.

“If I might make an observation, Ms. Klein,” Mr. Bartlett said. “I don’t think Mr. Leon was making an idle gesture.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see what you mean.”

“You don’t need to see,” Enrique said. He lifted her hand from where it hung limp at her side and laid it on his cheek, leaning so close that she could hear the rustle of his shirt’s ruffles.

She felt his pulse pounding beneath his ear.

She shouldn’t be touching him like this. His skin was smooth and taut over his clenched jaw.

They hadn’t signed the proper papers. He was without the mustache that she’d imagined.

They were doing this right in front of Mr. Bartlett. Enrique’s nostrils flared as she brushed his nose.

She ran her fingertips along his widow’s peak and over the crease between his brows, lingering over his eyelids, feeling the orbs flit beneath the lids. Somehow she trusted him. “Is your hair black?” she whispered.

“Does it matter to you?”

“If it did, would you lie to me?”

“I would if you wanted me to,” he said.

He was nothing like she’d expected. The discovery made her tremble.

Content

Mona
by Addie Lacoe