Undo by Joe Hutsko (first ebook reader .txt) đź“•
That this was my first attempt at writing a novel goes a long way toward explaining the earliest rejections of the work, then titled "Silicon Dreams," by editors unlucky enough to have had it land with a thud on their desks. Somehow I'd lost sight of Mr. Wolfe's excellent illustration and found myself mimicking, all at once, the likes of Sidney Sheldon, Arthur Hailey, Jackie Collins, and, believe it or not, Stephen King (who happens to be my favorite mainstream read). With so many influences at play in the already befuddled head of an aspiring young writer with dreams of hitting the number one spot on all of t
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“Mmm,” Byron hummed.
“What we need is a new paradigm. A bigger-picture metaphor that goes beyond what’s already out there, taking this whole business to not just the next possible step, but two or three steps ahead. Something that really get the juices flowing. I mean, this is all well and good, but is it good enough?” He knocked his fist gently on the flowchart and stared intently at Byron.
“I’m with you.”
Staring intensely at the drawing, Peter let out an exasperated sigh. “I just don’t know what it should be. And that’s the frustrating part.”
Grace appeared at the doorway with a tray in her hands, holding sandwiches, French fries, two glasses of milk. “Time for a break, boys.”
“Ah, relief,” Byron said, rubbing his hands together. “Honey, we got any vinegar for those fries?”
“Coming right up,” Grace said, handing the tray to her husband.
“Now, while we eat,” Byron said, blowing on a hot French fry, “you can give your head a rest for a few minutes, and I promise you, while your stomach is doing some work of its own, your brain’ll be busy too.”
“I’m not so sure,” Peter said. He took a sip of his milk.
The telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Grace said, returning from the kitchen with a bottle of cider vinegar. Byron made a beckoning gesture for the bottle.
“I got it,” Peter said. “Holmes residence,” he said, wiping his lips on his sleeve. “Hi, Peggy. What’s up? Wait, let me guess, a problem with my stock sale already,” Peter said with a smirk and a roll of his eyes at Byron.
“His secretary,” Byron said, identifying the caller to his wife.
“What?” Peter shouted, eyes suddenly wide with panic.
“What is it?” Byron asked, coming to Peter’s side.
“Hello?” a voice called softly, from inside the house.
“All right, yes,” Peter said. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.” He hung up the phone and stared at the handset.
“Hi,” Kate said, bounding cheerfully into the room. “I let myself in.” She froze in place when she took in Peter’s aghast expression as he turned away and faced the wall. He locked his hands behind his neck and looked up at the ceiling.
“What the hell’s wrong?” Byron said.
“What’s going on?” Kate asked Grace, who replied with upturned palms. “Peter?” Kate gripped his arm. “What is it?”
“Something back home,” Peter said, avoiding every set of staring eyes.
“Is it the stock sale, boy?”
He shook his head.
“Then what?” Kate asked, tugging his arm to make him face her.
He turned around and took her hands. “Something happened. I have to go home.” He studied their interlocked fingers. “I can’t tell you about it right now.” He looked her straight in the eye. It was the wine, he thought grimly.
He let go of her hands. “I need to get to the airport right away,” he said to Byron.
“Okay,” Kate said, “let’s go,” taking his arm.
Peter’s feet remained planted.
“Peter?”
“I have to go alone,” he said, leaving no room for disagreement.
Grace discreetly nudged her husband.
“Okay,” Byron said, settling his hands on both Kate’s and Peter’s shoulders. “Put your coat on. I’ll take you to the airport.” He gave Kate a reassuring look and a wink.
“Don’t you want to pack some things?” Kate said.
“There isn’t time,” Peter said. “I’ll call,” he said, unable to look her in the eye again, then turned and left the room.
“Be back in a bit,” Byron said, kissing his wife on the cheek. “Keep those fries in the oven please, dearest.” He turned to Kate and gently squeezed her arm. “It’s going to be okay.” Then he turned and went after Peter.
Hearing Byron’s words of reassurance as he waited outside the workroom, Peter felt the thing in his heart come fully awake. It had been hibernating all through the winter and he had forgotten about it. But now it was time to for it to reemerge.
A knot of contradiction swelled in his throat when he remembered back to the premonition he’d had on that fateful night, more than half a year ago, that he was going to lose everything close to his heart, everything that ever mattered. It was starting, he reasoned, and by the looks of it, Kate would be the first piece to fall away.
William Harrell flipped through the folder of reports his technical adviser had left him, a pleased expression on his face.
His plan was approaching its final stages. Yesterday’s strategic alliance announcement had been deemed an enormous success by the press, and in just a few short months the plan’s final phase would reach its climax.
He felt at ease and at peace now as he awaited the completion of his original plan. Though he had a real scare when Byron Holmes had called him four months earlier, asking for some of his notes and documentation, his former partner had ultimately assured him that what he and Peter Jones were working on would not become a “real” product anytime soon.
Even so, he still felt more than a little concern for what the two were up to, but after finishing his conversation with Byron, William realized he had initially overreacted to his old friend’s new hobby, as Byron himself had referred to it.
And now, with the strategic alliance phase complete, William felt for the first time like he could lift his feet from the pedals and coast through the final stretch as he advanced to the finish line.
With regard to the merger, the FTC would never allow ICP to acquire Wallaby under the two companies’ current modes of operation. To counter this regulation, ICP would halt production of its BP portable computer, thereby avoiding a monopoly by pulling its own entry from the market-the Joey line would become ICP’s new standard. In doing so, an even greater battle would cease. The clone makers, companies that manufactured computers that operated the same software as ICP’s, would be nearly shut down once ICP announced Joey as their new portable computing standard. Unlike the BP, which used a third-party source operating system, the Joey was built upon Wallaby’s proprietary hardware and software technologies, and was therefore illegal for other manufacturers to replicate it.
William’s desktop now proudly displayed his prototype Joey II system, which he used for all of his office work. He’d had his technical adviser move his “old” BP to a shelf against the wall. As far as he was concerned, he would no longer need it.
The irony of his plan was beginning to hit home. Here he sat, the chairman of the largest computer company in the world, with his “competitor’s” product on his desk. William’s dream was nearly reality. “I liked the product so much, I bought the company,” he quipped to himself as he activated the e-mail program.
The machine’s modem dialed the phone and connected to the host computer. There was only one message, and as it was being written to his screen, scrolling quickly from the bottom of the screen to the top, he saw that it was from Matthew Locke. The action was too quick for his eyes, so as he waited for the message to finish downloading, he pulled a tissue from his drawer and cleaned the computer’s monitor.
Matthew’s message was now unfolded on the display, complete, and as he wiped, the e-mail’s subject caught his eye. He quickly scanned the screen for the gist of the message-and he froze.
His throat constricted and his mind slammed on the brakes, chucking him from his exhilarating joyride. He felt his insides rumble as if he were about to lose control of his system, not unlike the feeling, the lack of feeling, that he had experienced as Martha’s hand let go of his when she had slipped away.
He forced his hands to be still on the desk and read the message from the beginning.
- - - - - - - - - -
TO: [email protected] FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: REVISED PLAN
William, I’ll get right to the point: Yesterday’s introduction of the Joey II was phenomenal.
Therefore, Wallaby and ICP will maintain a strategic alliance relationship, as we disclosed to the press: Wallaby will work with ICP to develop powerful Joey products which are compatible with ICP systems.
We will not go through with our private original plan of merging the two companies into one.
I am satisfied with my role at Wallaby as chairman, president, and CEO, and I look forward to our two companies working together.
—Matthew
- - - - - - - - - -
“No,” William declared breathlessly as he sank heavily into his chair. He raised the tissue to his brow, blotted the sweat that had instantly formed there.
In one fell swoop, Matthew Locke had just changed William’s entire plan-and the future of ICP. He felt his heart racing, and he began to hyperventilate. He wondered if he was experiencing the onset of a stroke. He held his palm over his heart and willed it to slow while he attempted to breathe evenly, all the while staring at the message spilled across his-no, Matthew’s!-screen.
When he eventually calmed down enough to think a little more clearly, his panic was replaced by shallow emptiness. Then, vaguely at first, a strange feeling of grief and mourning numbed his senses, resurfacing for the first time since he had begun his plan to acquire Wallaby.
His mind started racing, and his immediate reaction was to quickly counter Matthew’s scheme by unveiling ICP’s own competitive product, showing him that no one pushed the number-one computer maker around. Thinking this through, however, William could hardly bring himself to ask the question, What can I do? He already knew the answer. Nothing. Hadn’t he himself halted any new designs of ICP’s BP series, or for that matter, any new portable design, after reaching the “Jones” phase of the original plan, when Matthew had moved into power?
No backup plan, he thought and shook his head sadly. The funeral…the rebound to Wallaby…through these events he had lost the foresight to build a backup plan in case something like this should happen. And, he realized, taking the final blow, there could be no going back. While he could simply pick up the phone and call his development heads in and put together a team to begin accelerated development of his technical and market advisors’ proposed concepts, a real product would not surface for at least twelve to eighteen months, probably more. He had no immediate backup plan, no product of his own to augment ICP’s new strategic dependence and commitment to Wallaby and the Joey. He could not cancel the strategic alliance.
His gaze lingered painfully over the Joey II stationed before him. Its beautiful compact design, its crisp high-resolution screen, its ergonomic keyboard, its slick trackpad. Gently, William touched the trackpad, slid his fingertip across its smooth black surface.
Suddenly, strangely, his thoughts turned sympathetically to Peter Jones. Matthew Locke had just pulled on William the same surprise he had inflicted on Peter Jones.
Then all at once he felt charged as if by a synaptic tingle, a stirring in his fingertip that shot up to his brain. At first he feared he was completely losing control, but then he let out a little laugh, realizing, yes, he had crossed a fine line, and suddenly it all made complete and wonderfully perfect sense to him.
The call. Of course. It had been there all along, a hibernating backup plan, but William had simply ignored it. There had been no reason to notice it. His
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