Chapter 3

To say I'm stressed on Monday morning would be an understatement. As I swipe my badge past the turnstiles to get inside the Mercer Industries headquarters, the pants of my suit chafe my thighs with every step I take. And the button-down white shirt I've stuffed down the suit pants is slowly suffocating me. I'm not used to wearing fitted clothes. How do the suits wear a tie all day and not die of asphyxiation?

My hair is even worse. The pins I used to lock my long mostly brown hair in a low chignon—to hide the pink tips—are prickling the back of my head like a thousand needles. I don't bother much with makeup or other beauty routines. I just wouldn't have the consistency to do it every single day. But pink hair is my cosmetic expression. I only need to retouch the dye about once a month. Maximum impact with the lowest possible effort—except when I have to hide the tips like today.

Besides wearing a downright torturing hairstyle and uncomfortable clothes, I'm indecorously early. I was so worried about being late that I arrived at the office two minutes before seven. A generous hour earlier than my usual check-in time.

Since I have a full hour to kill before I have to go meet the higher-ups on the top floor, I head to the basement where the robotics research lab is located.

The only other person already at work is Maria, my mobility team leader. She's a Caltech graduate with the personality of a sarcastic pixie, the face of a fairy princess, and the aesthetic of a gothic evil queen—monochrome black hair, clothes, nails, and makeup.

Presently, she's bent over a computer screen, puzzling over endless lines of code. K-2P, rescued from the loneliness of my office, is earnestly standing by her side. She's so intent on her work that she hasn't spotted me.

"Maria," I greet her. "Good morning."

She jolts, turning to me. "Boss, what are you doing here so early?" Then she does a double take and low whistles at my fancy clothes. "Did someone die?"

"No one died." I shrug. "The big boss has asked to see me at eight in his office."

"Proctor?"

See? When I say "big boss," Nolan Mercer is so far above us, we don't even compute him.

"No, bigger boss. Nolan Mercer himself."

Maria's Snow-White eyes widen. "Do you know why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"You think it's a promotion?"

"K-2P calculated the chances of that are very, very low." I look down at the robot now. "Morning, little guy."

The droid gyrates, presenting me with his back. If his mechanical arms could cross, they would now.

I raise my eyes to the ceiling. "Whoever programmed his capability of getting offended should be iced."

Maria raises a sarcastic eyebrow at that. "You know it was probably you, right?" Then she turns and stamps a kiss on the droid's dome, leaving a black mouth imprint on it. "You're a grump, boss, and he's your little minion shadow self."

I knock on the plexiglass. "Hello?"

No response.

"The bitter-bot attitude doesn't look good on you. Throwing a tantrum won't get you anywhere," I complain.

"He can throw tantrums only because his programming is flawless," Maria cues, caressing his dome. "Plus, he won't stay offended forever," she adds. "He's just a little moody, and we love him for it."

Still, K-2P refuses to speak to me, so I concentrate on Maria.

"What are you working on?" I ask, dropping my messenger bag on the chair next to hers.

"Control theory for our autonomous vehicles line."

"To do what?"

"Improve throttle. I'm tweaking the transfer function of the PID control."

I stare at the formulas on her screen. "The error signal?"

"Yep."

I sit next to her, trying to study her work while in reality, the equations on her screen blur as I keep wondering what Nolan Mercer wants with me.

"Gosh," Maria says after a while. "You're thinking so hard it's distracting."

I stare at the computer clock: seven thirty-five. "I should go anyway. How long does it take to ride up fifty floors in an elevator?"

"Four seconds per floor," K-2P replies. "Which would add up to three point three minutes if you were to ride without stops. Considering an average stop time of eight seconds per floor, the total travel time could add up to eleven minutes if the elevator stopped at every floor." He emits a still-offended beep. "You should probably leave."

That conclusion doesn't sound properly mathematical. He's still being a sour puss—or a sour neural net.

"Thank you, K-2P, I'll go."

"I'd say break a leg," the robot replies. "But since luck is a supernatural belief for simple minds, I'll abstain."

"Thank you also for the philosophy lecture."

I drop my bag in my office, replace the battery in K-2P's portable charging station with the one I charged at home, and head back out toward the elevators.

For the first time since I started at Mercer Industries, I push the top-floor button. Even if the elevator doesn't stop at every floor, the ride still seems infinite. And when the doors finally open on my destination, the space is eerily quiet.

So much so that when a woman in her mid-forties greets me with a loud, "Dr. Campbell." I jump.

"Sorry," the woman says. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Monica, Mr. Mercer's personal assistant."

How did she know I was arriving at this precise moment?

As if reading my mind, she answers the question I haven't asked. "We get an alert whenever someone pushes the button to this floor."

Sure they do.

"Come with me." She smiles. "Mr. Mercer is waiting for you."

I discreetly stare at my watch as I follow her. I'm ten minutes early. No one could accuse me of having left the president of the group waiting for me.

"This way." The woman shows me inside a huge corner office with glass walls all around. The furniture inside is less modern, though, more English country. But I don't have much time to ponder on the décor as my gaze gravitates toward the white-haired man seated behind the gigantic desk at the back of the room.

Judging from his looks, Nolan Mercer must be in his late fifties or early sixties with a bushy, snow-white mustache and a strong jaw line. Even sitting down, he has an imposing presence. Dressed in an impeccable gray suit and wearing a watch that could cost more than my yearly salary, he carries himself with an air of authority and a firm, no-nonsense demeanor.

"Dr. Campbell," he welcomes me. "Please have a seat."

I take a step forward while the woman who guided me here says, "Call me if you need anything, sir."

I hear her retreating footsteps behind me, then the click of the door as she shuts it, leaving me alone with the tycoon.

Why am I so nervous? My department is one of the best in the country. I run a tight ship and I'm a competent, hard-working team leader. The performance of my floor is consistent, solid, and unreproachable. I should have no reason to be intimidated in front of a man whose only merit was to inherit a fortune as his birthright.

Still, that blue gaze of steel is unsettling.

I cross the room, keeping my chin held high.

"Good morning, Mr. Mercer." I take the seat across from him.

He scrutinizes me for a long moment before he speaks—probably thinking I'm younger than he expected. That's what everyone thinks the first time they meet me.

"Good Morning, Dr. Campbell." Nerve-jolting pause. "You're probably wondering why I've called you here this morning."

I make a non-committal grimace, acting as if I hadn't obsessed over it for every minute of the weekend.

And apparently, the wait isn't over because, instead of telling me what I'm doing here, Nolan Mercer pierces me with another significant stare and asks me a question. "It says in your file that you're not interested in developing your career to a more powerful managerial position?"

I blink, unsure of what he's asking.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers in a bridge-like shape. "In simpler words, you don't aspire to become the general director or CEO of Mercer Robotics."

"Correct, sir," I confirm, hoping he's not considering offering me either position.

"Why is that?" he asks instead.

"I love what I do. To design new products, to solve issues that seem impossible to solve, to build the future. Having to deal with the financial, commercial, and client support side of things would be a figurative nightmare for me."

Nolan Mercer nods in understanding, then leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He's still observing me intently as if trying to read my thoughts. Is this some sort of test?

"What would a promotion look like to you, then?"

My first thought is that I'm going to stick it to K-2P and his 0.00000003per cent probability of me being promoted.

Next, I give a concrete answer. "An expanded research budget, more independence on the projects my department may implement, more engineers on the floor." Then, as if it's an afterthought, I add, "A raise?"

Mr. Mercer chuckles. "That's quite the list, Dr. Campbell. It's good to have ambition."

I stare at him, still unsure about the topic we're circling.

"Proctor is retiring at the end of next year," Mr. Mercer finally cuts to the chase.

Dang.

A change in leadership is always a potential disaster. Especially when the guy leaving is a half-genius like Emmet Proctor. My brain is still shuffling through all the terrible repercussions his retirement could have—financial, technical, and human ones—when I hone in on the real issue: why is Nolan Mercer telling me this?

"Have you already picked a replacement?" My question comes out in a too-small voice.

"Yes." The big boss levels me with another of his penetrating stares. Please, please let him not offer the job to me. I mean, he wouldn't. We've established I'm not interested.

I'm still praying in my head when he drops news way worse than a job offer. "I want my son Thomas to take up the position."

I frown, trying to remember what the son does. Isn't he in some marginal department like communications? Is he even an engineer?

The president must read the consternation on my face because he asks, "Surprised?"

More appalled. I'm a fan of nepotism just as much as I appreciate balance sheets.

"I-I'm…" I honestly don't know how to answer.

"You're skeptical, as it's your right to be."

"I, sir, have no?—"

"Please, Dr. Campbell, I know you must have reservations. I could take a good guess at what they are, too."

"Sir?"

"Thomas isn't an engineer. He doesn't understand the product or the technology. He can't possibly run the company as well as Emmet did…"

Hiswords, not mine.

"All valid objections, but not ones I share."

Of course, it's his son.

At this point, I keep quiet while he explains to me why a guy with no engineering background would be an excellent choice to lead the robotics division.

"At the end of the day, what a great CEO needs to do is to make sensible business decisions. Look at the numbers you despise so much and steer the company in the most profitable direction, have a vision, a strategy."

I abstain from saying that to have a vision, one should at least know what he's visioning about. What the technology boundaries are. Or he could expect us to design a Terminator-like cyborg with a self-healing, flesh-bound endoskeleton in three to five years.

"But I agree with you that before he takes up the position, Thomas should gain a deeper understanding of the technology."

Did I say that last part aloud? I don't think I did.

"Sir, I never said?—"

He raises a hand to silence me. "You didn't have to. I could read the objection on your face."

I blush. I'm going to have to work on my poker face.

"Anyway, the reason I've asked you here is that in the next fifteen months, I want Thomas to rotate through all the different departments at Mercer Robotics, starting with yours."

I swallow. "Why?" I didn't mean to blurt out the question so blatantly, but it just burst out of me.

"I want him to get a grip on the different products, assembly lines?—"

"No, why start in my department?" Now that I've asked, I might as well obtain a legitimate answer.

"Oh, that. The moment Proctor makes the announcement of his retirement at the board meeting later this week, every other department head will start gunning to be his replacement seeing how the general director is also close to retirement. You're the exception, Dr. Campbell. I need to give the others a few months to adjust to the decision that Thomas will take over. Were I to send my son to production first, I'm afraid Briggs would try to stab a knife into his back and ridicule him if he makes a mistake, whereas I'm confident you'll give him a fair shot at learning the ropes without too much prejudice or resentment."

It sounds more as if my job will be to keep hand-feeding the family prince from his silver spoon.

I can't say what I think, so I just nod politely. "Of course, sir."

"Great. I'm sorry Thomas couldn't be here with us this morning, but he had a previous engagement. He'll drop by your office later in the afternoon."

I know when I'm being dismissed. "If there isn't anything else?"

"No, you're free to go."

I stand up. "I'll go back to work, then."

"You do that," Nolan Mercer says with a benevolent smile. "Oh, and Dr. Campbell?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sure it needn't be said, but I'm trusting you to keep this conversation to yourself."

I frown. "How am I to explain your son's presence in the lab, then?"

"Not that part, the part about my lack of complete trust in the other department heads. Their feathers will be ruffled already once we announce Thomas will take over. We don't need to stir up more trouble."

"Very well, sir. Have a good day."

I'm sure I won't.