Eileen Gunn - Questionable Practices

I understand my place in the corporate structure, and my importance to the Man update.

There’s always more code in the genome — always something to snip or interpolate. That’s why I was there in the middle of the night: a last round of corrections before the code freeze on Man 2.1.

I was taking a good long slurp of water when I noticed the cats. They weren’t making a big deal of it — just quietly going about their business — but there were cats in all the cubicles, in the exec offices, in the conference rooms. It looked like they were running a whole separate company in the middle of the night.

Who hired them? HR doesn’t hire cats for R&D. They’re not task oriented, or good at working within a hierarchy. They sleep all day. Better suited to industrial espionage.

Back on the farm, I was a watchdog, and I’ve still got a bit of that energy. Better keep an eye out, I think. So I’m lying there in the doorway to my office, nose on my paws, like I’m taking a break, when the alpha cat comes by. Big muscular Siamese mix. His flea collar says “Dominic” in red letters.

“Hey, Dominic,” I call. I feel like a character in The Sopranos . You ever see that show? No dogs to speak of, but lots of food. Great food show.

The cat stops. Stares. “You talking to me?”

“What’s the story here, Dominic?”

“No business of yours.” He narrows his weird cat eyes, then yawns ostentatiously. He turns away, shows me his butt, and walks slowly off, his loose belly-fur swaying. I notice that his ears are facing backwards, in case I rush him: he’s not as nonchalant as he appears.

Detective work is needed. I go down to the cafeteria, keeping my eyes open en route. Funny thing: I notice there are cats in and out of Susan Gossman’s office like she had a catnip rug. Gossman? Seen her in the hallways. We’d never spoken. More of a cat person.

I slip a few bucks in a vending machine for one of those big leather bones. I chew.

When I get back to my office a savvy-looking brunette in a well-cut suit is sitting on a corner of the desk. Gossman. “You’re wondering about the cats,” she says.

I wave my tail a bit. Not a wag, but it says I’m paying attention. Her hair has copper highlights. Or maybe she put drugs in my water dish.

“Project Felix,” she says, “is an undocumented feature of the new Man release.”

“Undocumented is right,” I say. “You’re doing some kind of super-tweaking with the human-cat chimeras, and I don’t think it’s for Man 2.1. Chimeric DNA ripping through the wild? Influenza vector?”

”You’re a smart pup,” she says.

My hackles raise. “Do Bill and Steve know what you’re doing?”

“Down, boy,” says Gossman. Instinctively, I sit back on my haunches. “Bill and Steve will find out soon enough. This is all for the better. Infected humans — and dogs too — will be smart and independent. The rest will just keep right on dipping seafood feast into plastic bowls.”

Woof. That’s straightforward.

She looks at me speculatively. “Right now, we need a top-flight coder.”

I’m alert: my nose is quivering.

But Gossman is relaxed. “Everybody knows dogs are the best. But, as a dog,” she says, “you have some loyalty issues. Am I right?”

I just stare at her.

“Loyalty is a gift, freely given,” says Gossman.

I give a half-hearted wag of my tail. Not for dogs, I think.

“But not for dogs,” says Gossman. “Wouldn’t you like the freedom to make your own decisions? A whiff of feline flu could make all the difference.” She pulls a tiny aerosol can out of her purse.

I’ve got reflexes humans can’t compete with. I could have it out of her hand in a split second. But do I owe my loyalty to the company, or to the great web of which all dogs, cats, and humans are part?

She sprays. I breathe deep. She’s right: dogs are the best coders.

Rudy Rucker and Eileen Gunn

Diane met Jeff at a karate dojo behind a Wienerschnitzel hot-dog stand in San Bernardino. Jeff was lithe and lightly muscled, with an ingratiating smile. Diane thought he was an instructor.

Jeff spent thirty minutes teaching Diane how to tilt, pivot, and kick a hypothetical assailant in the side — which was exactly what she’d wanted to learn how to do. She worked in a strip mall in Cucamonga, and she’d been noticing some mellow but edging-to-scary guys in the parking lot where she worked. The dividing line between mellow and scary in Cucamonga had a lot to do with the line between flush and broke, and Diane wanted to be ready when they crossed that line.

Diane was now feeling that she had a few skills that would at least surprise someone who thought she was a little dipshit officeworker who couldn’t fight her way out of a paper bag.

“I bet I could just add these to my yoga routine,” she said, smiling gratefully at Jeff.

“Bam,” said Jeff. “You’ve got it, Diane. You’re safe now. Why don’t you and I go out to eat?” He drew out his silvery smartphone and called up a map, then peered at Diane. “I’m visualizing you digging into some… falafel. With gelato for dessert. Yes? You know you want it. You gotta refuel after those killer kicks.”

“Sounds nice,” said Diane. “But don’t you have to stay here at the dojo?” This Jeff was cute, but maybe too needy and eager to please. And there was something else about him….

“I don’t actually work here,” said Jeff. “The boss lets me hang out if I work out with the clients. It’s like I work here, but I have my freedom, y’know? You go shower off, and I’ll meet you outside.”

Well, that was the something else. Did she want to get involved with another loser guy — a cute guy, okay? — but someone who had a smartphone, a lot of smooth talk, and still couldn’t even get hired by a dojo to chat up new customers?

“Oh, all right,” said Diane. It wasn’t like she had much of anything to do tonight. She’d broken up with her jerk of a boyfriend a couple days before.

Jeff was waiting in a slant of shade, tapping on his smartphone. It was the end of June, and the days were hot and long. Jeff looked at Diane and made a mystic pass with his hand. “You broke up with your boyfriend last week.”

She gave him a blank stare.

“And you’re pretty sure it was the right thing to do. The bastard.”

“You’re googling me?” said Diane. “And that stuff about Roger is public ?”

“There are steps you could take to make your posts more private,” said Jeff. “I can help you finesse your web presence if you like. I live in the web.”

“What’s your actual job?” asked Diane.

“I surf the trends,” said Jeff, cracking a wily smile. “Public relations, advertising, social networking, investing, like that.”

“Do you have a web site?”

“I keep a low profile,” said Jeff.

“And you get paid?”

“Sometimes. Like — today I bought three hundred vintage Goob Dolls. They’re dropping in price, but slower than before. It’s what we call a second-order trend? I figure the dolls are bottoming out, and in a couple of days I’ll flip them for a tidy profit.”

“I always hated Goob Dolls when I was a kid,” said Diane. “Their noses are too snub, and I don’t like the way they look at me. Or their cozy little voices.”

“Yeah, yeah. But they’re big-time retro for kids under ten. Seven-year-old girls are going to be mad for them next week. Their parents will be desperate.”

“You’re gonna store three hundred of them and ship them back out? Won’t that eat up most of your profit?”

“I’m not a flea-market vendor, Diane,” said Jeff, taking a lofty tone. “I’m buying and selling Goob Doll options .”