Page 92 of Chaos Theory
I gloss over the comment. ‘Thanks. Let’s talk about the fastest way for you to get this file to me.’
‘Cool,’ he says. ‘Let’s talk about the fastest,safestway for me to get this file to you.’
FIFTY
Friday, 8:35am
I glance at my watch, impatient for the elevator to descend to the ground floor for me. The electronic display above the doors seems to be stuck on the number four. I walk across the foyer and instead plunge into the nearby stairwell, gripping the thin banister and steeling myself for the long upward march to the fourth floor.
I still haven’t been assigned official working hours, so I don’t actually know if I’m early, late or on time. I rarely see other people arrive or leave. Everyone seems perpetually both in early and staying late. But I allowed myself an extra few minutes in bed this morning on account of a restless night of elusive sleep. My mind was churned up after an eventful Thursday evening.
Sam had arranged to call me at nine, so I went to Phelan’s for a spell after work. Shane seemed pleased to see me, although we didn’t get to talk much. We had a brief exchange about the fact that he wasn’t drinking alcohol. ‘Trying something different,’ he’d said with a grin, ‘as are you, I see,’ and he’d nodded at my sparkling water. But before I could respond, Sandra Smith sat in between us and urgently engaged him in deep conversation about the next major event to be planned by the Social Committee: the Christmasparty. The Big One. Shane described it as a white whale. Sandra said white was appropriate for Christmas and that snow at Christmastime was very romantic.
I still don’t know if they’re together, or will get together, or have gotten together but aren’t together any more. I suppose I could ask Shane directly, but direct conversations have never really been our style. I did try to find out in a roundabout way by archly asking Imelda if anyone missed me at work, but Duncan Canning ruined the moment by bellowing that he missed my client reports and that all Shane did all day was stare at my empty desk. Which was kind of an answer, I suppose, but also open to multiple interpretations.
I left the pub to be home on time for Sam’s call, my laptop at the ready. At exactly 9 o’clock he called with a very specific set of instructions as to how he would transfer the file to me. He repeated several times that if anyone ever asked, he would deny all knowledge of the phone call. If he needed to, he told me with a hollow laugh, he’d go as far as telling people that I’d stolen his phone. I’m not sure if he was being paranoid or just joking.
Now, sweating as I ascend the final staircase to the fourth floor, I have one thing on my mind. I breeze into the robot bay and remove as many layers of clothing as decency will allow.
‘Morning, Kobi.’
‘Hello, Maeve.’ He turns to face me.
I tighten the loose bun on top of my head. ‘Hey, I need you to do me a favour. I want you to listen to something.’
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘It’s a piece of audio. It’s from a few months ago. I’m going to play it for you, and I want you to listen carefully and tell me what it says, and if it means anything to you. Do you think you can do that for me?’
‘Affirmative,’ he says. ‘Are you okay, Maeve? I am sensing something – are you in distress?’
‘No. I’m breezy! Can’t you tell?’
‘Is this one of those rhetorical questions that does not require an answer?’
I laugh, but I can feel my nerves tingling.It’s probably nothing, I tell myself.
‘Maybe. Okay, come over here. The audio is on my phone. I’m going to connect it to a speaker here to make it nice and loud. Come over here beside the speaker.’
‘Maeve, you know that my hearing is highly advanced. I do not need to be beside the speaker.’
I sigh. ‘Indulge me, will you? I’ve listened to this thing twenty times and can’t make it out.’
Kobi rolls over nearer the speaker. He’s still on wheels, and no one at RoboTron has mentioned reinstating his legs, which I’ve taken as a tacit acknowledgement that I did the right thing when his legs were damaged.
I play the audio clip. Kobi remains motionless for the thirty seconds or so.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘Most of it is unintelligible sounds. However, I can identify three words, in sequence.’
‘Great! What are they?’
‘Initiating – embed – protocol.’
‘Great! What does that mean?’
He does not respond immediately. After a moment he says, ‘Perhaps if you gave me some context, I could attempt an interpretation.’
