The Intelligent System - Story 10 - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Short Story Book by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Three hundred? You reckon?, said Mark, my boss, the bank manager. Three hundred? You reckon? said Mark, my boss, the bank manager.

Straight up, I told him. Three hundred. I showed him the final chart of my presentation, the one that summed up all the benefits of the program I'd just developed, a system built on an artificial intelligence engine that I'd created and fed line by line myself.

Seeing the satisfied look on the boss's face was everything to me; and, wanting his expression to last and get even more intense, I let him in on one of the most extraordinary qualities of my creation: By next month, we'll be able to sack another six hundred employees.

What?

I didn't need to repeat a thing. Mark had heard me perfectly and my finger was pointing to the number and the evidence on his laptop screen.

So that's three hundred in the first month and six hundred in the second month? Nine hundred in three months of your program being up and running?

 

 The number of people getting the sack follows a simple arithmetic progression; each month, the number goes up by three hundred employees compared to the previous month, I added with apparent disinterest, as if it was a minor detail.

The boss's face was a simultaneous parade of joy and disbelief. Those emotions wouldn't leave him for a good while. The avalanche of good news was overwhelming him; looked like it might crack his skin.

I want you to present this tomorrow to the directors. It'll be an achievement for both of us: yours for creating such a revolutionary program, and mine for hiring you a couple of years back. When I did that, I saw potential in you that hasn't let me down. And now you've proven it in spades. With what we save the company by sacking those three hundred, and then the six hundred, and so on until we're left with only the necessary staff, I'm dead certain they'll give me triple pay plus shares in the bank, some long and well-deserved holidays, and to you, of course, the bank's star, a generous bonus, he announced, without taking his eyes off the promising results on his computer screen.

 I don't care about the money, I thought, while Mark pictured himself sprawled on some Caribbean beach, running the bank from there, sipping a piña colada, getting a massage from some local sheila, hygienically away from his wife and kids for whom he was just another one of the many ATMs the bank he worked for had scattered all over Australia. I'd created that revolutionary program just to see him this happy and chuffed. And I'd done it.

Here, he handed me three hundred dollars he pulled from his wallet. It's a little advance I wanna give you from my own pocket as a first nod to such a magnificent job, dear Patrick.

***

A month and a half after we presented the Intelligent System to the bank's directors, Mark had already reaped juicy salary benefits thanks to the success of cutting three hundred strategically eliminated positions. He was also enjoying long holidays in Aruba, one of his favourite getaways. He'd left me, with the directors' approval and blessing, in charge of the bank's general management.

*** 

Mark is tanned. It's Tuesday and he's just arrived on the tenth floor of the bank's main building, where his office and the cubicles of the people who work under him are located.

He knows he won't do anything important today; just have a squiz at some of the thousands of emails that have piled up over the more than sixty days he took as holidays, a well-deserved break, mind you, for having generated significant income for the bank by removing three hundred workers from the payroll. Nah, what am I on about, three hundred, he says to himself, while searching for his access card to the floor. As always, he's arrived early. Through the glass walls of the office, he can see, with a certain childish pride, that no one's shown up yet. He likes being first at everything, whatever it is.

What am I on about, three hundred?, he corrects himself again, savouring the correction. We're nearly two months in; now it must be six hundred sacked.

He's about to laugh, but holds back. He swipes the electronic key past the sensor next to the door and it stays shut. Did I grab the wrong card?, he thinks. He checks it and yeah, it's his key. Bloody hell. He wipes it on his shirt and swipes it again. The door stays shut.

 

 Then he lifts his hand like a visor and leans towards the glass of the door, trying to see inside with renewed urgency. His eyes no longer scan the place with the calm they had before, but with growing anxiety, almost a silent plea for someone, anyone, to have arrived before him. After a few tense seconds, he makes out the figure of Patrick, his assistant, in the manager's office, in his office.

Patrick? What's he doing at my desk? He doesn't bother giving himself an immediate answer because the most urgent thing is to get the door open.

He moderates his initial desperation so his subordinate doesn't see him vulnerable. With an almost casual gesture, he knocks on the glass to catch his eye. When he sees him, he mouths silently: Open up, please. Patrick stops what he's doing and comes straight over, as obliging as ever.

Hey, d'you know what's up with these sensors? I swiped my card a few times and the door never opened, says Mark with the same arrogant tone as always, as if Patrick ought to be across every single one of his problems, even the most trivial, like why the traffic's a nightmare in the mornings or why the midday sun's a proper curse.

 

Patrick, however, doesn't take long to clear it up for him. Thing is, you're not the manager anymore, Mark. Check your email. The Intelligent System must've sent you your new position within the company, one that fits better with your knowledge and skills, and no doubt that new position is on another floor of the bank or at some branch.

What? Mark stammers, dumbfounded.

Check your email, says Patrick. The System's infallible.

And what position has the System put you in?

I'm the new manager. The System appointed me a month ago. It evaluated my knowledge and capabilities and, based on that, figured I brought more value to the company by running management.

Mark dives into the chaos of his email inbox, overflowing with unread messages, while Patrick's unbelievable words ring in his ears. If they've made Patrick manager, then they must've moved him to the board. That's the logical thing. Desperately, his eyes search for some message sent by the Intelligent System.

Here it is, he says at last, triumphant.

But as he reads the lines of the message, his face crumbles.

So now I'm your assistant?, he manages to say, his voice caught between disgust and disbelief, as if the very idea tasted like rust.

Nah, says Patrick, with a patient voice, like talking to a distracted kid. Have a proper look. That email must be from two months ago. Look for the most recent message.

Mark finds it and reads it out loud: Following the optimisation of the company's competitive structure, your position as management assistant is no longer necessary. Your duties will be taken over, with greater accuracy and no absences, by us, the Intelligent System. So you are sacked with gratitude and courtesy. We present you with a lovely virtual floral arrangement in recognition of your twenty years of dedicated service. Please vacate your office before midday. He can barely get the end of the message out.

Patrick, with a smile that seems polite, points to the box with his belongings. They were gonna chuck your stuff out, he says, but I, as the new manager, asked them to leave it in that corner until you arrived.

A buzzing sound wakes Mark from his mental stupor. It's Patrick's mobile. He takes it out of his pants pocket and, after checking it, hands it to Mark.

I just got a message from the Intelligent System. Would you do me the honour?

Mark takes the phone with hands that no longer seem to obey him. The characters of the text appear sharp, inexorable. The Intelligent System has just appointed Patrick as director of the bank, sacking three inefficient directors.

Disbelief settles in with all its weight inside Mark.

 Here in my wallet, I've got three hundred dollars spare, says Patrick. They could be yours if you put all my stuff in a box and take it upstairs to my new director's office.

If there's one thing Mark has learned in the corporate world, it's that opportunities, whatever they are, have to be taken. Moving his ex-subordinate, ex-boss and then ex-colleague's gear took him half a day.