Brave New Worlds

the Tiptree Award, and the British Science Fiction Award. He is also the editor of the recent anthology When It Changed . Another story of his appears elsewhere in this volume.

    The 1990s gave birth to books like Microserfs and movies like Office Space —creations that sank their teeth into American corporate culture to reveal the hollow interior of a life spent in a cubicle. There may have been stock options up for grabs and IRAs growing in the bank, but nothing could make up for soulless grind of bad bosses and constant scrutiny.

    Our next story could have been written for Dom Portwood, Office Space's detestably droning middle management icon. If Dom had access to the kind of technology our next protagonist uses to dig into his underlings, the film would have gone from darkly funny to deeply depressing.

    This is a working world not much different from our own, a dystopian society just a few notches up the corporate ladder.

    J onathan was going to have to fire Simon. It was a big moment in Jonathan's day, a solid achievement from the point of view of the company. Jonathan knew that his handling of the whole procedure had been model—so far. He had warned Simon a month ago that termination was a possibility and that plans should be made. Jonathan knew that he had felt all the appropriate feelings—sympathy, regret, and an echoing in himself of the sick, sad panic of redundancy.
    Well, if you have sincere emotion, hang onto it. Use it. Hell, there had even been a sting of tears around the bottom of his eyes as he told Simon. Jonathan's score for that session had been 9. 839 out of 10, a personal best for a counseling episode.
    Now he had to be even better. The entire Team's average had nose-dived. So had Jonathan's own scores. He, the Team, needed a good score. Next month's printouts were at stake.
    So Jonathan waited in the meeting room with a sign up on the door that said IN USE. On his eyes were contact lenses that were marked for accurate measurement, and which flickered and swerved as his eyes moved. There was a bright pattern of stripes and squares and circles on his shirt, to highlight breathing patterns. Galvanic skin resistance was monitored by his watch strap. It was, of course, a voluntary program, designed to give managers and staff alike feedback on their performance.
    There was a knock on the door and Simon came in, handsome, neat, running a bit to fat, fifty-two years old.
    It would be the benches for Simon, the park benches in summer with the civic chess board with the missing pieces. Then the leaves and seasonal chill in autumn. Winter would be the packed and steamy public library with the unwashed bodies, and the waiting for a chance to read the job ads, check the terminals, scan the benefits information. It would be bye-bye to clean shirts, ties without food stains, a desk, the odd bottle of wine, pride. For just a moment, Jonathan saw it all clearly in his mind.
    Either you were a performer or you weren't.
    "Hi, Simon, have a good weekend?"
    "Yes, thank you," said Simon, as he sat down, his face impassive, his movements contained and neat.
    Jonathan sighed. "I wanted to give you this now, before I sent it to anyone else. I wanted you to be the first to know I'm very sorry. "
    Jonathan held out a sealed, white, blank envelope. Simon primed for a month, simply nodded.
    "I hope you know there's nothing personal in this. I've tried to explain why it's necessary, but just to be clear, there has been a severe drop in our performance and we simply must up our averages, and be seen to be taking some positive action. In terms of more staff training, that sort of thing. "
    Already this was not going well. The opening line about the weekend could not be less appropriate, and nobody was going to think that being fired was a positive step or care two hoots about the training other people were going to get. Inwardly, Jonathan winced. "Anyway," he shrugged with regret, still holding out the envelope that Simon had not taken. Jonathan tossed it across the table and it spun on a cushion of air across the wood-patterned surface.
    Simon made no move to pick it up. "We all get old," he said. "You will, too. "
    "And when my scores slip," said Jonathan, trying to generate some fellow feeling, "I expect the same thing will happen to me. "
    "I hope so," said Simon.
    Right, counseling mode. Jonathan remembered his training. Unfortunately, so did Simon—they had been on the same courses.
    "Are you angry, would you