Kill Switch: Chapter 55
Boardroom
A sense of glitch and gloom hangs over the boardroom as the sliding panel opens. I’m led by a security guard to my seat, which is in front of a long plastic rail. The security guard removes my handcuffs. In front of me sits the board of Vonn Industries. At the center is the Chief Compliance Officer, CCO for short, a man named Icon 75, his sponsor none other than the venerable Icon Games. Next to me sits Zed, who refuses gaze contact. I’m glassed, naturally, which means that, throughout the proceedings, ads for pharmas and cryptos skirt down my feed. Behind the board is a large screen with a livestream of the boardroom, which is absolutely packed, as if the entire Within has shown up for the hearing. Some people are in the pews on the ground floor, others up in the balcony, and still others stand in the aisles. I spot Ginger and Taco, who are seated among the rest of The Top 100 Influencers in a loge that hovers between the ground floor and the balcony like a floating ship. Ginger and Taco wave at me, as if we’re close colleagues. I look back to the screen. According to the ticket, thousands of Withiners are livestreaming the hearing, their chat comments rushing down the sidepanel.
I hope they beam him straight to Inefficiency, one message says.
Inefficiency would be too good for this vibekill, another says. He deserves to be straightup cancelled.
Out of habit, I try to check my Beehive email, but I’ve lost access. In fact, I’ve lost access to everything – my feed profile, my personal email, my crypto wallet, my arcade. Everything. A total content ban. The worst punishment imaginable for a Withiner. I might as well be dead.
Icon 75 announces that the hearing is sponsored by a new pharma called Trance (side effects include death, suicidal thoughts, malaria, gangrene, swollen testicles, scurvy, and acne) and after an advertisement for Trance plays on the screen, Icon 75 sounds his synth again.
“Vonn 19,” he announces, “you stand tonight before your colleagues, charged with the most heinous of crimes. The accusations brought against you are of a capital nature, and the punishment, if found guilty, is that of death.”
The crowd gasps. I turn around. All the avatars bounce in their seats, like spectators at a sporting match, their sponsored banners waving above their heads, advertising discounts for everything from a new pharma called Odium to a sexSuit that glows in the dark. I feel sorry for my colleagues, but I don’t know why. Really I should feel sorry for myself. After all, I’m the one on trial. At the end of this, my colleagues will be free to return to their persyPods, whereas I will almost certainly be curled up on a hard, cold bench on Deathbeam Row, awaiting my imminent execution. Somehow, though, despite everything, I’d rather be me than them.
I turn back to Icon 75.
“In my thirty years serving on this board,” the CCO says, an advertisement for Derrick 9 blinking above his head, “I have yet to see crimes as heinous as the ones you’ve committed – or, shall I say, have been charged with committing – and I can personally say that I’ve been disgusted looking over the evidence brought against you.” Icon 75 gestures toward a beeping data processor. “I don’t mind saying that your supervisor, the venerable Zed, has his work cut out for him if he intends to defend your performance.” Zed shifts in his seat, swiping. “Regardless,” Icon 75 continues, “I do hope to see you exhibit a great deal of shame during this hearing, because otherwise you don’t stand a chance at winning over the sympathy of your colleagues. Do I make myself clear?”
I nod, my avatar projected onto the big screen behind the Chief Compliance Officer. I look unremarkable sitting there all alone, thin and pale, like a poorly-drawn stick figure, and I realize that my skin has been photoshopped, bled of color and shape, by the dNet admins.
“Alrighty then.” Icon 75 swipes. “I will now read the charges brought against you.” He clears his synth, scrolls, and crinkles his nose. “Vonn 19, your parent company, Vonn Industries, charges you with thirty-three counts of vibekilling, which, I don’t mind saying, is an astronomical amount. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” I say.
A collective gasp envelopes the court.
Icon 75 lowers his heartshaped glasses and leans forward. “Do you mean to suggest, Vonn 19, that you have been framed for these vibekills?”
“Not at all,” I say. “What I mean to suggest, sir, is that I don’t believe that what I did was wrong, and I don’t believe that I should die for it.”
A man in the crowd slings a slew of rotten tomato goo, hitting me directly in the back of the head. I crouch for cover. The courtroom bursts into a standing O. Even Icon 75 and Zed applaud the accuracy of the throw, and by the time the courtroom settles down, it’s time for another Trance advertisement.
It’s the same commercial as before, the typical montage of colleague laughter and coin gathering. And meanwhile, a pop star sings the jingle:
Trance will make you dance
will make you dance, oh yeah
So take a chance and have a dance
and take your Trance today
After the advert (terminal cancer has been added to the list of common side effects) Icon 75 announces that he’s changing the charges from thirty-three counts of vibekilling to thirty-three counts of vibekilling without remorse, which is a more serious charge, even if the punishment is the same.
I’m then told by the CCO to “stand up and sit down,” for I’ve remained crouched during the entire Trance advertisement, afraid that another rotten tomato might be chucked in my direction.
After I do as I’m told, the back of my head still covered in juicy rotten tomato goo, Icon 75 gestures toward Zed.
“Supervisor Zed, you may deliver your performance review of Vonn 19 at this time.”
Supervisor Zed moves to the middle of the court, thanks Icon 75, and then turns to face the crowd.
“Dear colleagues,” he says, “I’ve had the pleasure of serving as Vonn 19’s supervisor at Beehive Inc. for several months, and during that time, I’ve observed what I would consider to be a troubling pattern: he frequently fails to confirm receipt to his emails” – gasp from the crowd – “he is often late, sometimes by as much as a minute, to meetings” – another gasp – “he has a habit of missing his deadlines” – gasp – “and, perhaps worst of all, I’ve seen performance in his accounts drop over the last 7 days.” This last admonishment draws the largest gasp. “I know, I know,” Zed says, gesturing for the crowd to quiet down. “But that’s not the worst of it –” Zed lowers his head, as if to gather himself, and then raises his gaze to the crowd. “Last week, I asked him to complete a Performance Improvement Plan, and if it pleases The Board, I’d like to screenshare his PIP.”
“As you wish,” Icon 75 says.
Supervisor Zed flicks a wrist. My PIP appears on the screen behind The Board. Supervisor Zed reads the email word for word:
Dear Supervisor Zed,
My performance improvement plan is as follows: go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
Vonn 19
The gasp from the crowd is so loud this time that Icon 75 has to mute everybody’s synth.
“Order!” Icon 75 yells, even though, now that everyone is muted, there’s no sound other than his own synth. “Everybody needs to calm down!” He turns back to Zed. “Am I to understand, Supervisor Zed, that you are submitting a poor performance review for Vonn 19?”
Zed nods gravely. “Yes sir, very poor, in my opinion. I have already recommended to the Beehive brass that Vonn 19 be fired, effective immediately, without severance, and that, if asked by another company, we would not recommend his services, given his poor track record at Beehive Inc.”
This alone is a death sentence. It’s one thing to be laid off. It’s another to be fired. And it’s yet another to not get a recommendation. If it weren’t for the deathbeam, I’d die a slow and grueling death on The Outskirts.
Icon 75 swings his gaze toward me. “Vonn 19, do you have any rebuttal to this poor performance review?”
I stand. “No, sir,” I say. “All of it is true. I guess, if I’m being honest, I never cared about my work at Beehive Inc. It’s all bullshit, if you ask me.”
Icon 75 blinks slowly. “Well, I think we’ve heard enough from you, Vonn 19. Let’s move to the closing dance. As is custom, the defendant goes first.”
I move from behind the table, passing Supervisor Zed on the way, and stand in the center of the boardroom. Icon 75 unmutes the crowd. I wait for the music to drop.
It’s “Goo Me, Goo Me” by Juggo.
I spin this way and that, but it’s clear from the grey faces that the dance I chose – The Goo Roll – is not appealing to the masses. My precise execution of the dance nevertheless earns me a modest applause.
I return to my seat.
Next up, Supervisor Zed.
It’s a song I’ve never heard before. Something called “Hunt Without, Without The Hunter,” which sounds kind of like gibberish to me. The beat is nevertheless fire, and the autotune is on point. Supervisor Zed takes a step forward, throws his arms in the air, spins, and straightens his jacket. He then proceeds to flawlessly execute the machine gun, a viral dance that’s taken dNet by storm over the past couple days. The applause, after Zed finishes, is enormous.