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“That’s
nice and humble,” I said, but he waved me to silence.

“If
we say yes, everyone keeps their job. We might even need to do some hiring. We
get steady work for at least another ten months and at least one SKU on a
project that they’re going to be devoting a lot of time and money to, not to
mention a major marketing push. We’re talking TV, print ads, serious viral
stuff online—something they weren’t going to give Blue Lightning.”

“Because
they didn’t own the IP,” I said softly. Eric’s voice had the strangled sound of
a man trying to convince himself it would be better for everyone if he murdered
his wife. Including, I might add, the wife in question. “And in exchange….”

He
sighed. “You know what the exchange is.” He stopped and turned to face me. “We
kill Blue Lightning, at least for the duration of this project, and with the
way the tech is going, that effectively means forever. That’s why you’re in here
and we’re having this talk.”

“Is
it?” I couldn’t meet his eyes. There was a very interesting patch of carpet
near his left foot, however, and I studied it intently. “You’re the boss, Eric.
If you say we’re doing Salvador on an Etch-a-Sketch, I’ll go make it happen.
You know that.”

“Yeah.
But that’s not the point. You know exactly what’s going to happen when I
announce this.”

“If,”
I corrected him. We both sat there in silence for a second. “OK, when. You’re
right. Your job is to make sure everyone else has a job, and that means you
have to take the deal.”

He
nodded. “But it’s going to be ugly. We’re going to have people at least think
about quitting. We’re going to have a lot of yelling and screaming and anger,
and we’re going to have a lot of resentment toward whatever project comes next.
And depending on what you do, it could be bad, or it could be bloody awful.”

I
blinked. “Me?”

“You.
You’re the creative director on the project, the leader of the team. A lot of
people around here, for whatever reason, regard Blue Lightning as your baby. If
you put up a fuss, they’re going to rally behind that and make the next year or
so miserable. Even if you just drag your feet on the new project, a lot of
people are going to be following your example.”

My
throat, I decided, had done enough involuntary tightening for one day. It
needed to relax and let me breathe. That was all I really wanted from it.

“On
the other hand,” Eric continued, “if you dive into the new project with
something approaching enthusiasm, anyone who dogs it is going to look like a
bit of a tool, which is going to make getting up to speed on Salvador a whole
lot easier.”

Suddenly,
my chair felt too confining. I stood, fighting the urge to put something solid
behind my back as a psychosomatic itch popped up between my shoulder blades.
“So let me get this straight. You’re asking me to smile and play nice when you
tell everyone out there that the project we’ve been sweating blood over for the
last two years is in the crapper? What happens if I don’t? Do I get fired? Or
do you just make my life miserable enough that I quit and you can bring someone
else in? Wait, is there a bonus if I play along? Because I think I see where
this is going, and I don’t like it.”

“Knock
it off, Ryan,” he said, sounding tired. “I’m not making any offers, and I’m not
making any threats. You can do whatever the hell you like. I’m just telling you
what I see and where I think you fit into this, because I need your help to
ride this one out without someone getting damaged. Like you said, my job is to
make sure everyone else has a job, and taking the deal seems like the best way
to ensure that. If I try to fight this, God knows when we’ll see the money from
the kill fee and we’ve got no line on the next gig. If we try to do Blue
Lightning in the meantime, we’ll run out of cash in under three months. Any other
publisher we talk to will know we’re over a barrel and will screw us that much
harder.”

I
wanted to get angry, to get indignant on behalf of our work and our integrity,
but all I got was a hollow feeling. “I know,” I said, and it came out like I’d
been gut-punched. “It’s just….”

“It
sucks.” He took a few steps closer and put a hand tentatively on my shoulder.
“It sucks a lot, and I know this is a lot to ask. But, if you understand why I
have to make this decision, you can help make it easier for everyone. I don’t
want people hurting themselves, Ryan. I don’t want anyone cutting their own
throats because at the end of the day, this is a job. It’s a job we all love,
but it’s still a job, and the paycheck is what covers the rent, not artistic
integrity or anything else. If you want, I can see if I can find something to
tuck into your envelope to make the medicine go down a little easier, but I
don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Cheap
bastard,” I said weakly.

He
shook his head. “No. I just think that if I do that, in about two months you’ll
decide that you were bought off and will work yourself up to doing something
really stupid, like quitting, in order to make your conscience feel better. I’d
rather have you here, without any more self-inflicted holes in your stomach
lining, and feeling all right about what you’re doing. If this works out the
way I hope it will, there’s going to be plenty on the back end for everyone,
anyway.” Abruptly the pressure of his hand left my shoulder, and Eric turned to
look away, a tired scarecrow who knew the big black birds were coming. “So make
up your mind,” he said. “I’d appreciate your help with this, if you want to
give it. If not, I understand. You’ve put in a lot of time on that project, and
put a lot of yourself into it.”

I
put my hand on the doorknob. “I’ll think about it,” I said thickly. “That’s all
I can promise.”

“I
know,” he said. “That’s all I can ask for. Now get out of here, and I’d
appreciate it if you didn’t talk to anyone else about this. I'll be making the
announcement today, but I have a few other folks I need to sit down with before
the shit officially hits the fan.”

Pithy
comebacks came to mind, “It already has,” maybe, or “I’ll go get an umbrella.”
None seemed worthy, and instead I just let myself the hell out, I left the door
slightly ajar. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to be the last one in that
office this morning, not by a long shot.

Chapter 5

My email app pinged. Eric’s
note announcing the unscheduled company meeting had just come in, setting a
time down to the minute when he’d be forced to lower the boom.

It was a nice
piece of business writing, clearly designed to foster the impression of honesty
and open communication while mitigating the knee-jerk panic that always
accompanied something like this. I wasn’t sure how much good it was going to
do, but the attempt, at least, was praiseworthy.

I remembered
the first time I’d been laid off. The company president had sent an email
calling a company meeting in the parking lot outside the office. The last time
he’d done that, there had been an ice cream truck waiting as a reward for our
hitting a milestone. This time, he told us that we were all fired, and the VP
of marketing locked the doors while he was making his speech. It was two weeks
before we were allowed back inside to get our stuff.

Out in the
hallway, I could hear the rising buzz as people reacted. At some companies, I
knew, they’d preface something like this by cutting net access or taking down
the mail server, pulling the plug on the phone system, and maybe locking the
doors, never mind that it was a fire hazard, all to keep word from getting out
a half-second faster than it might otherwise. Eric didn’t bother. Enough people
had net access through their phones that trying to shut down the lines of
communication was just going to look stupid and out of control.

So I applauded
Eric for playing it straight, even as I checked the clock. The meeting was
scheduled for eleven; it was a few minutes after ten now. There was plenty of
time to prep for whatever I intended to do, as soon as I figured out whatever
the hell that was.

The cell phone
fell into my hand as if by reflex. Yeah, I thought. Calling Sarah would be a
good start.

She was at her
desk when I called her, the phone ringing precisely twice before she picked it
up. “Sarah Bogdan.” It was an announcement. By calling her, I'd come into her
place of authority, seeking an audience. Or at the very least, that's what it
felt like.

“Hi,” I said.
“Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Ryan,” She
sounded exasperated. “I thought if you were going to call me during the day,
you'd use the landline so we didn't use up minutes.”

“Sorry. I just
hit the first number I had for you.”

She paused for
a second. “Are you all right? You sound funny.”

I pulled the
phone away from my face for a moment, so the explosive sigh I'd been holding in
didn't deafen her. “No, I'm not all right,” I said. “Remember that offer you made
last night?”

“Yes?” She
drew the word out until it was begging for a few more syllables. “Why?”

I pressed on.
“Remember how we said there was going to be plenty of time before I needed to
make a decision?”

“What are you
getting at, Ryan? I'm kind of busy, and I’m sorry, honey, but I don’t have time
for guessing games.”

The urge to
hang up came and went, just like that. Calm, I told myself. Be calm. She
doesn't know. “You said when my project's done, right? Well, that's going to be
in about an hour.”

There was a
pause which I put down to either confusion or elation. “I don't understand. I
thought you weren't at alpha yet. How can you be done...oh. Oh, I'm sorry,
honey. That’s terrible news.”

“Yeah.” I
kicked the floor experimentally, sending my chair spinning slowly
counterclockwise. “So, anyway, I, um, I just wanted to let you know. That
maybe, there'd be a change coming sooner instead of later. Or maybe not. I
don't know. It all depends. I just wanted to let you know, if that makes any
sense.”

“Of course it
does.” Her voice was calm now, soothing. “Look, sweetheart, I really have to
go. First day in the new position, and they're watching me like a hawk. But we
can talk about it tonight, OK? Just don't worry and know that whatever happens,
I love you.”

“Love you
too,” I said and broke the connection. My office felt stifling and dim, the
tasteful light from the wall sconce barely enough to illuminate the papers on
my desk. I looked at them. Design specs for Blue Lightning, sample promotional
material, a list of basic interview questions from BlackStone PR that they'd
been planning on feeding to magazines and websites once the game got a little
more play—all of it worthless. I stacked them next to my monitor and headed to
the conference room. As far as I knew, there was still a version of Blue
Lightning set up in there, minding its own business. In under an hour, it would
get shut down. The debug kit, a sample version of the finished console
hardware, would get its hard drive wiped, and the equipment would get assigned
to another project. The television would get something else jacked into it, the
controllers would go back in a box somewhere, and the code that made up Blue
Lightning would get backed up and hidden away.

If I was going
to play, this was going to be my last chance.

I stalked down
the hallway, nodding and smiling and minimally waving to the folks who said
hello as I passed. A couple shouted out questions—had I seen Eric's email, did
I know what was going on, did I have time to talk? I gave a shrug for an
answer, or a “Dunno” or “I'll catch you after the meeting, OK?” Stopping seemed
like a bad idea; I'd get swamped and never get started again. No one was
working. Everyone was talking, huddled into clumps or jabbering excitedly into
smartphones. A couple of the younger kids just sat there, staring at their
monitors with looks of dread on their faces. They hadn't been through it before
and probably thought that they might never get another job in gamedev. Someone
else would set them straight, I was sure. Someone always did.

The clock on
the wall of the conference room read 10:30 by the time I made it there. Half an
hour, then, to get in my last licks. I shut the door, debated going back out
for coffee, and decided against it. Instead, I booted up the debug kit and
killed the lights. The room went dark for a minute, then went electric blue as
the game's load screen flared out from the television. The placeholder logo was
there, bright and jagged, and next to it…her.

She was
crouched, predatory, one hand cradling a smooth, streamlined pistol, the other
held up so that electricity could drip off her fingers like water. Sparks
flowed down and puddled at her feet, while the blankness where her face ought
to be was turned to the camera, its challenge implicit. She was almost too
bright to look at, the sheer intensity of her coloration illuminating the room
even as it faded everything else onscreen to insignificance. Below her, the
words “PRESS START TO PLAY” throbbed slowly, fading in and out in time with what
might have been her imaginary heartbeat.

I picked up
the controller. It was warm, as if someone had just been playing it. Thumbing
it on, I walked over in front of the television and braced myself. There was a
chair behind me, but I gave it a little kick and it skidded off. Standing would
show respect for the game, and I was too wired to sit in any case. As an
afterthought, I found the remote for the TV and thumbed up the volume. Let her
go out with a bang, I thought. A bang, and a crash, and a couple of big-ass
explosions.

A couple more
button presses and the action screen faded in. I recognized the space, a
futuristic library. Multi-leveled and chopped into innumerable small rooms, it
was a claustrophobic nightmare generously stocked with hunter-killer robots,
alien nasties, and human commandos intent on wiping the player avatar out.
There were no bookshelves here, just gleaming rows of data banks and helmets
that users could jack into. These were conduits the player avatar could
disappear into or pop out of, giving the player one advantage over the insane
numbers being brought to bear against him. Her. Us.

I considered
it an almost fair fight. In the single-player game, the plan was for this to be
the penultimate level, where the player would face off against an evil version
of their character. The evil twin could also go circuit-riding, negating that
player advantage, but we hadn't even gotten to the point of designing the AI
necessary for that. It was, and would remain, a dream.

This, on the
other hand, was just pure hunter-killer mode. There were lots of bad guys, one
me, and a time limit, nothing more.

I checked my
weapon. It was the basic blaster pistol, blessed with unlimited ammunition but
not much else. That was fine. Other weapons would be coming available shortly.

Sighting down
the barrel of the pistol, I put one round into the floor to blaze my trail. In
front of me was a closed door. I opened it and started running.

*   *   *

It wasn't the
shouting that got me out of the game, it was the heavy pounding on the door,
which only slowly distinguished itself from the sounds of onscreen carnage and
destruction. Then and only then did the words become clear.

“Come on,
Ryan. Open up. The meeting's starting. Get out here, man.” The voice was
Leon's. I checked the clock, which read 11:04. For gamer time, that was pretty
punctual.

“Coming!” I
shouted, then turned down the volume and repeated myself. Onscreen, Blue
Lightning stood frozen, paused mid-kill with an explosion blossoming behind
her. Dead bodies, broken robots, and shattered crates were everywhere, a more
spectacular method of marking progress through the level than shooting the
floor. A blaster bolt hung, suspended in midair. It would never reach its
target.

I tossed the
controller onto the table but didn't shut off the console. Let someone else do
that. I wasn't going to be the one to pull the plug on my baby.

The common
area was full when I stepped out of the conference room. People stood or sat,
clustered by department or temperament. Leon stood by the door, fist raised to
knock again, but most of the rest of the engineers were huddled at the back,
arms folded across their chests and looks of disbelief on their faces. Alex,
the guy I'd beaten for the last coffee cup the day before, was pontificating
about something; three or four other engineers stood in a circle around him and
nodded enthusiastically.

“Hey, Leon,” I
said. “Thanks for getting me out of there. I just got sucked into the game.”

He nodded. “I
know how it is, man. Even without the real polish, she's a beauty, huh? Just
wait until we get a chance to really make her sing.”

I bit the
inside of my cheek, hard, to avoid saying something, and instead found a spot
strategically located near the rear. It was close enough to the engineers that
I wasn't isolated, far enough away that I didn't actually have to listen to
them. Leon looked around for a minute, then decided to stick with me.

“So what's
this about? You know?”

I shook my
head. “It's Eric's show. Let him tell you.”

“OK.” He
sounded dubious. “I just thought since you were in there this morning….”

“It’s Eric’s
show,” I said firmly. “Let him tell you.”

A
quick look around the room told me whom Eric had already spoken to. Those were
the guilty faces, the ones with eyes pointed at the floor and mouths kept
resolutely shut. I counted four in the room. Eric had been keeping this one
close to the vest all right, not that it would matter now.

And
he had in fact been waiting for me, because as soon as he saw Leon and me at
the back of the crowd, he started waving his hands and shouting for quiet.
“People, people,” he said, and the hubbub cut off like it had been sliced.
Faces turned to the front of the room. Silence fell. Someone coughed
expectantly. Somewhere up in the rafters, the HVAC thrummed to life, then
thought better of it and shuddered to stillness.

Eric
scanned the space, hands held out like an orchestra conductor trying to put
down a mutiny from a well-armed brass section. For a long moment, he said
nothing, and as he didn’t, neither did we. Here and there, you could see heads
turning, people looking away as if doing so would somehow prevent Eric from
saying something bad.

I
just stared at him.

“I
want to thank everyone for coming,” he said, then coughed into his hand. “No.
That’s not right. I want to thank everyone for listening, and for not jumping
to any conclusions before I had a chance to talk to you.” He scanned the room,
locking eyes for a moment or two with those who’d look at him, passing over
those who wouldn’t. “And before this goes any further, let me state one thing
right off the bat: Everyone’s still got a job. We are not closing, we are not
laying anyone off, and we are not going out of business.”

Eric
paused to see if what he’d said had produced the desired effect, but there was
no need to. There was a rush of air as half the company let out the breath it
didn’t know it was holding, conversational flotsam like “I told you so” and
“Thank God” bobbing to the surface of a sudden buzz of discussion.

Again,
Eric held up his hands for quiet. This time, it took him a few seconds to get
it. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep what we discuss next in-house until
everything is said and done. I’ve always tried to be open with you about the
business side of things, and that means trusting you to keep information inside
the building. Again, I’m sorry if it seems like there’s a lack of trust on this
one, but I just learned most of this myself this morning, and what we’re
talking about is so big that I couldn’t take any chances.”