“Did you have to come along?” I hissed.

  “Would you rather have me get bored by myself?” Barbara cooed.

  “Erm, do you have to drive so fast?” said Mark.

  I dropped a gear on purpose. The roar of the engine silenced both child and snake in an instant. Barbara’s knuckles went white as I floored it around the bend. The intern repainted my carpet in puke.

  Scratch that, I might kill the intern first.

  “You’ve got one hour until the deadline,” Barbara snapped, teeth clenched as she gripped the door handle. “The directors won’t be pleased if you screw this up.”

  I hit a bump on the left side; her makeup streaked across my dashboard.

  “Whoops,” I said, trying not to grin. She looked like a clown.

  “Mr Grayson!” Mark yelled. “Turn left, entrance past the second warehouse!”

  I smiled and trusted my mechanical companion—ten years in finance and two hundred ten horsepower. I’d make it if my life depended on it.

  Sliding into the disabled spot, surely Barbara’s face qualified as total bitch disorder. I hopped out and raced to the reception.

  The supplier's floor smelled like oil, old cardboard, and the kind of perfume designed to slap you in the face. The lights were out. Our autonomous bot army was slacking; their little LED eyes were dead and as lifeless as company culture.

  "Systems offline," sputtered the intercom, "Feed disabled. No dispatch. Client delay: CRITICAL."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I cracked my neck, feeling the cost of all those layoffs. Machines were coming to replace us, they said. Yet the cleaning bot at my feet pissed oil and jittered upside down.

  "Helpless and stupid." I sighed.

  I glared at the panel, thinking that if I called Steve, it would take at least a week to get it fixed. But I didn't have a week; shit, I didn't even have an hour for that matter.

  I pressed my shoe against the little bot, my heel slowly crushing plastic as I racked my mind for another solution. There had to be a way to fix this; an alternative, a failsafe.

  Then Mark, face still foaming from the car ride, wobbled over to the terminal.

  "No point," I said, "I would take an entire team to—"

  The boy dropped his bag and inserted a cartoon-shaped floppy disk into the slot. It made a strange sound, flickered a bit, and then the lights turned back on.

  "Why is all this software legacy?" the boy grunted, oddly competent as he clicked the dusty keyboard. "My grandma's dial-up had better security."

  He hit enter, and the terminal sighed. LEDs flickered back to life; supplier nodes pinged awake like office vultures called to dinner. Meanwhile, a single LCD screen displayed 'Supplier Network Online, system output: default_camera_control.exe: FALSE"

  And shortly after, emails from IT and my team began to flood in.

  The report has been published. The project has been greenlit. And bonus calculations have been adjusted.

  Relief spread over Mark’s face the way cheap cologne does, sudden and choking. “All finished,” he said. Fingers trembling as he pushed the keyboard away.

  I paused for a moment to observe the logicist warehouse in action, running smoothly like clockwork. Packages, papers, and deliveries moved swiftly on conveyor belts, while lights and flaps automatically sorted items by address and department.

  He had done it. My neck was no longer on the line.

  “You’re a little thick,” Barbara interjected, “But guess you’re handy.”

  She patted him, like some little pup, the boy's metaphorical tail wagging from the praise.

  Mark smiled and wiggled like he’d won something small. And for a second, a different memory blinked; me, years back, proud and useless in a cheap suit.

  I shook the idea away.

  That was when my hands were clean.

  However, watching those two, an intern and the senior manager, I sighed.

  I may let them live.

  For now, at least.