was all straight out of Henry Denkmann’s magnum opus,
Connect ’Em Till They Bleed: Pimp-Style Management™ for a New Century
, which hadn’t so much revolutionized corporate life as confirmed and blessed what had already been going on. This particular theory being an extension of the old New Orleans whore-hustling motto, that they weren’t completely under your control if they still thought they had names of their own: if employees didn’t have a place to call their own all during the day—if they didn’t scent-mark familiar walls and desks with their family photos and funny plastic figures stuck on top of their computer monitors—then it was that much easier to ream out their heads and stick in whatever behavior patterns the human-resource departments wanted. The only problem being that the employees still went home, to the same home over and over, defeating all the psychs’ good work, keeping bad attitudes high, as indicated in the standard measurements of workplace sabotage, absenteeism and pay agitation, and theft of office supplies. The cubapts solved all that, or at least most of it.
Better a freelancer
, McNihil had decided a long time ago. The Collection Agency might’ve wound up connecting him over as well, but it’d at least left most of the contents of his head intact. Shabby as this place was—and he’d had better, back when the agency gigs had been lining his pockets—at least he’d never had to shuffle every evening from one company-assigned anonymous living-space to another, with his clothes and a little box of irreducible personal belongings packed and waiting for him when he got home to the next one. That’d be a stone drag, even at the relatively luxurious levels that an up-and-coming junior exec gotshuffled in and out of. The corpse, which McNihil had looked at a little while ago, had been like that. The poor bastard had died on the company farm.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” The cube bunny was still looking intently into McNihil’s eyes. “I can tell that, too.”
“Yeah, I suppose you can.” The little ways that cube bunnies and others in their low-rent quadrant of the sexual-services industry had. Which drove the corporations’ psychs up the wall. How could you reduce your company’s employees to perfect productive zeroes, with no hindering attachments to things or places, if cube bunnies and the like kept showing up at their doors, or even worse, inside their cubapts, sailing right past all the locks and security devices? And the same cube bunny, or the gender-preferenced equivalent, for each employee. When that goes on, the erosion of nonproductive personality structures—the human-resources goal that management had taken over from the previous century’s old-line drug-rehab programs—and all the other good things that come from a randomized living environment, all that gets kicked out on the street. Or some of it, at least.
The cube bunny smiled at him. “I’m good at what I do.”
“You must be.” There had been a hint in the girl’s voice, about her other job skills. He decided to let that pass for the time being. “You know,” said McNihil, “I see you just fine. I see you the way I’d rather.”
She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “You had that operation, didn’t you?”
“I’ve had several.” McNihil shrugged. “I’ve led a rough life. Or maybe just an unlucky one.”
“No, silly; you know what I mean.
That
operation. That thing …” The cube bunny hesitated, then pointed to her own face. “With the eyes and stuff. Where they cut ’em open and … put things in ’em.”
“‘Things?’”
“Things you see.”
“Well, sweetheart …” McNihil took another draw on the brackish liquid in the cup. “That’s what they do, all right. They stuff whole worlds in there.” He returned a fragment of the smile she’d given him. “They even put
you
in there.”
The rest of the smile had faded away. “I
Connect ’Em Till They Bleed: Pimp-Style Management™ for a New Century
, which hadn’t so much revolutionized corporate life as confirmed and blessed what had already been going on. This particular theory being an extension of the old New Orleans whore-hustling motto, that they weren’t completely under your control if they still thought they had names of their own: if employees didn’t have a place to call their own all during the day—if they didn’t scent-mark familiar walls and desks with their family photos and funny plastic figures stuck on top of their computer monitors—then it was that much easier to ream out their heads and stick in whatever behavior patterns the human-resource departments wanted. The only problem being that the employees still went home, to the same home over and over, defeating all the psychs’ good work, keeping bad attitudes high, as indicated in the standard measurements of workplace sabotage, absenteeism and pay agitation, and theft of office supplies. The cubapts solved all that, or at least most of it.
Better a freelancer
, McNihil had decided a long time ago. The Collection Agency might’ve wound up connecting him over as well, but it’d at least left most of the contents of his head intact. Shabby as this place was—and he’d had better, back when the agency gigs had been lining his pockets—at least he’d never had to shuffle every evening from one company-assigned anonymous living-space to another, with his clothes and a little box of irreducible personal belongings packed and waiting for him when he got home to the next one. That’d be a stone drag, even at the relatively luxurious levels that an up-and-coming junior exec gotshuffled in and out of. The corpse, which McNihil had looked at a little while ago, had been like that. The poor bastard had died on the company farm.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” The cube bunny was still looking intently into McNihil’s eyes. “I can tell that, too.”
“Yeah, I suppose you can.” The little ways that cube bunnies and others in their low-rent quadrant of the sexual-services industry had. Which drove the corporations’ psychs up the wall. How could you reduce your company’s employees to perfect productive zeroes, with no hindering attachments to things or places, if cube bunnies and the like kept showing up at their doors, or even worse, inside their cubapts, sailing right past all the locks and security devices? And the same cube bunny, or the gender-preferenced equivalent, for each employee. When that goes on, the erosion of nonproductive personality structures—the human-resources goal that management had taken over from the previous century’s old-line drug-rehab programs—and all the other good things that come from a randomized living environment, all that gets kicked out on the street. Or some of it, at least.
The cube bunny smiled at him. “I’m good at what I do.”
“You must be.” There had been a hint in the girl’s voice, about her other job skills. He decided to let that pass for the time being. “You know,” said McNihil, “I see you just fine. I see you the way I’d rather.”
She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “You had that operation, didn’t you?”
“I’ve had several.” McNihil shrugged. “I’ve led a rough life. Or maybe just an unlucky one.”
“No, silly; you know what I mean.
That
operation. That thing …” The cube bunny hesitated, then pointed to her own face. “With the eyes and stuff. Where they cut ’em open and … put things in ’em.”
“‘Things?’”
“Things you see.”
“Well, sweetheart …” McNihil took another draw on the brackish liquid in the cup. “That’s what they do, all right. They stuff whole worlds in there.” He returned a fragment of the smile she’d given him. “They even put
you
in there.”
The rest of the smile had faded away. “I
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