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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Greta grabbed the older woman’s raincoat sleeve and roughly spun her around, screaming: “What do you mean he’s gone?”
Jennifer leaped back with astonishment. “He’s gone. He left, Mrs. Locke. For France.”
“No! That’s wrong,” Greta cried. That’s not possible, I’m going with him! Do you hear me? He can’t be gone!”
Jennifer was mortified and hastily tried to explain. “Mrs. Locke, I gave him a ride to the airport myself. Last night. He informed me at the very last moment, yesterday afternoon, that he was returning to France. With her.”
“Her? Her who?”
“Why, his fiancee, Ms. Maupin.”
Dear God, she thought, suddenly comprehending what Jennifer was saying. He was gone. Gone without her. He had lied to her. Had tricked her. It had all been a game. A scam. The girl had probably been in on it all along. A double seduction. And they had gotten away with the money. And with more than the money. They had gotten away with the only happiness she had known in a very long time. It was all coming too quickly, and she felt suddenly faint.
Jennifer caught her by the arm just before she collapsed. “Mrs. Locke, come inside with me. You’re trembling. I’ll make you some tea and - “
“No!” Greta cried, shaking free. She stumbled in the dirt, landing on her gloved hands. She unsteadily got to her feet and fled from the barn. The driver leaped out of the car and rushed to open her door. She had soiled her dress, and her face was wild.
She dove into the back of the car and stumbled to the floor. She managed to struggle up onto the seat and the driver closed the door and climbed in up front.
“Ma’am?” he called gently through the open partition. She did not reply, and he turned around in his seat to look at her.
She sat huddled with her knees drawn up, elbows pressed into her stomach. Her face was hidden behind muddy gloves, and she made noises like she was injured.
He started the car. “To the airport, ma’am?”
She began rocking back and forth against the door, facing away from the ranch.
“Ma’am?” the driver asked again, braking as he came to the end of the ranch driveway.
“Home,” she whispered, and burst into tears.
*
William shouted into the microphone again, “Wait! Please! Listen, please!”
The cacophony of protest continued. A pen flew by dangerously close to his head. It was useless. There was no way he could get them to settle down so he could explain the announcement. After ducking another flying object, William turned and made for the curtains. In just a moment the thing would fix itself.
The house lights went out and then a spotlight illuminated center stage. The curtains parted.
And Peter Jones emerged.
The audience went wild.
Peter took a few steps to the edge of the stage, grinning from ear to ear. The crowd whistled and cheered and rose all at once, welcoming their champion with a standing ovation that lasted and lasted, earsplitting in its intensity.
“Thank you,” Peter said fanning his hands at the audience. “And thank you, William,” he said, looking offstage.
The audience returned to their seats, some still applauding, but low enough so that he could be heard.
“It’s good to be back,” he said. This lifted the applauding audience from their seats once more. He strolled to the podium, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and waited. When the audience settled down he continued.
“Today,” he said, his voice a little shaky, “I’ve become ICP’s newest employee, in their new subsidiary, Wallaby. I have to admit,” he said with a laugh, “it’s kind of weird being re-hired by the company you started!”
There was quick laughter, then rapt attention.
“When I left Wallaby, I had a lot of time to do some thinking. I found a new friend, and we started working on a new portable computer, one that stretched our imaginations to the limits. Then, a few months ago, we were contacted by William Harrell. He had heard that we were up to something really neat. We decided to let him have a look at what we had come up with, and he loved it.
“At that point ICP became a silent investor in our computer, which is called ISLE. We finalized our design and developed a prototype. Now I’d like to show you your newest computer.”
Peter stepped into the middle of the stage. A large, shrouded table rolled before him, controlled remotely from backstage.
The lights intensified and the tabletop was projected on the overhead screen, for all to see.
“This,” said Peter, whisking the shroud from the bumpy shapes on the table, “is ISLE.” The prototype model was sleek and black, as thin as a notebook.
The audience applauded wildly, then hushed when the computer’s screen came to life.
“Now I’d like to let ISLE show you what she’s made of,” he said.
The auditorium darkened. Two large projection screens, mirroring the ISLE’s screen on stage, lowered from the ceiling. Peter picked up the prototype and gave a demonstration like the one he had given to William several months ago. When the demonstration was over the audience stood and cheered with thunderous applause.
“Thank you,” Peter said. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m very happy about this merger of Wallaby and ICP,” he said. “I’ll be working in the engineering and development labs, finalizing the ISLE design, and overseeing its integration with the Joey and BP systems.
“Earlier I mentioned a new friend, my partner, the man who helped design the ISLE computer. Some of you may recognize his name because he is the father of ICP’s first mainframe computer. I’ve also made two other very important friends. One is the inventor of ISLE, and the other is its future.
“Please give a warm welcome to my friends Byron Holmes and Ivy Green.” Peter stepped away from the podium, and Byron and a beaming Ivy emerged, cradling the baby Isle in her arms. Peter shook Byron’s hand and kissed Ivy on the cheek.
Byron took the microphone and greeted the audience. A chart appeared on the overhead screen, and Byron explained the new organization. When he finished, William Harrell returned to the stage and conducted the remainder of the session - he also announced Matthew Locke’s decision to resign, for personal reasons.
Backstage, Byron hugged his wife and Peter and Ivy and Isle all in one cluster. “We did it!”
Isle yawned.
“You can say that again,” Ivy said with a chuckle and kissed her baby on the nose.
“Come on,” Peter laughed. “Let’s go home.”
The cyanide pill.
It was all Matthew could think of as he sat at the breakfast table with his head in his hands. It was over. His work. His love. His life. All gone.
Everything had been going according to plan. Or so he had thought.
But in the final plan, Matthew had not been included. Once more he replayed the scene that had taken place just an hour before.
Pulling into the Good Earth restaurant’s parking lot, Matthew was surprised to see an exact duplicate of his own car. Of course it could be anyone’s, but Matthew could not help but think that it was Peter’s black BMW coupe parked beside the limousine. What were the chances of Peter happening to be here at the same time? One in a thousand. And Peter Jones was the last person he needed to see today. Matthew would simply ask the host to find William’s table, and ask him to come outside. They would take their breakfast meeting elsewhere.
He parked his car at the other end of the lot and walked around the back of the building. He went inside, looking around cautiously. At first he had not really noticed the two Wallaby security guards standing near the hostess station. Seeing him, guards left the station and went into the restaurant.
Positioning himself out of sight of the dining room, he motioned for the hostess
“I’d like to ask a favor, please,” he said. “There’s a man I’m meeting here. His name is Mr. Harrell, and he’s - “
Just then William appeared, the two guards flanking him on either side.
“We can’t stay here,” Matthew said. “Peter Jones is in there somewhere.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But I’d rather not see him. Today especially. I haven’t seen him since he left the company.”
“Matthew,” William said calmly, “please come inside.”
Bewildered, Matthew followed.
“William, I’d much rather we go elsewhere,” he said, then halted abruptly when he saw Peter, dressed in an oxford shirt and jeans and sitting in one of the booths. Seated beside him was an older man wearing dark slacks and a tie.
William pressed him onward, directing him right toward Peter.
Peter looked up, and for the first time since the boardroom showdown, their eyes met. His face bore no surprise, no expression whatsoever.
To Matthew’s astonishment, William led him right up to the booth that Peter occupied. The older man rose and seated himself on the other side of the table.
“Matthew, sit down please,” William said, indicating the vacant seat beside Byron.
Matthew looked at Peter uneasily, but Peter said nothing, he just sat there quietly and watched Matthew.
Adding yet another element to Matthew’s confusion, Hank Towers materialized and joined the surprise party. Positively astonished, Matthew turned to William for an explanation. “What’s going on? What the hell is the meaning of all this?”
“I’ll get right to the point,” William said. “Matthew, the Wallaby board and the executive staff decided to vote on whether you are suited to maintain your position at Wallaby.”
Matthew struggled to keep his voice down. “What? This is absurd. How could you do this?”
“Matthew, I did it,” Hank said.
Matthew stared at Hank with disbelieving eyes.
“I initiated the vote,” Hank said, “after several of the executives and board members came to me with their concerns.”
“Why?” Matthew said breathlessly.
“Because in your effort to make the company successful, you acted with negligence and selfishness. What’s more, you have no long-term strategy for our product line. And in order for us to survive and continue innovating our company must have a plan.”
Instantly, Matthew put the pieces together in his mind. He turned his blanched face to Peter and met the dark, unwavering eyes of his nemesis with hateful resignation.
“So that’s it. Now, after I’ve turned the company around, you come back to run the show?”
Peter kept quiet.
“Not exactly,” William said. “Byron Holmes here,” he said, indicating the man seated beside Matthew, “will temporarily take over as Wallaby’s president.”
Matthew was deeply shocked.
William said, “Peter has decided to rejoin Wallaby in an at-large position, working on our future products. However he’ll only come back if you leave.” William produced a folded document from his coat pocket. “I’m sorry, Matthew, but I have to ask you to resign.”
“I will not,” Matthew protested loudly.
Several diners, most of them Wallaby employees, turned their heads in the group’s direction.
“Matthew,” William said, his voice empathetic now, “I’m afraid you have no choice.” He unfolded the document and placed it before Matthew. “We’ve put together a first-rate severance package for you.”
For what felt like a long time, Matthew was unable to do anything but sit there and stare down at the document that spelled out the rewards of his terrific failure. His brain sizzled as he attempted to focus on the details. He saw numbers and lots of parenthesized paragraphs. There was a long line at the bottom, with his name printed beneath it.
He raised his head and looked
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