Chapter Nine
I’m knee-deep in Gale’s data for E.M.M.A., juggling wearable stats, video footage, and medical records when my phone buzzes.
Damn. There goes my flow state. My eyes ache as I frown at the screen and adjust my glasses, the numbers blurring slightly.
Mental note: book an eye exam soon.
Hana’s text blazes with six red alarm emojis. Code Red: Bathroom by fountains. COME NOW!
Code red? Tampon shortage? I snatch my purse and stand, my chair squeaking in protest—a sure sign I’ve been butt-in-chair
too long.
I speed to the hallway in question and push open the heavy bathroom door. I’m about to call out when Hana materializes, pressing
a finger to my lips. The scent of her freesia hand lotion wafts over me. Her brown eyes are wide, urgent. Whatever’s going
on, it’s bigger than a run-of-the-mill period emergency. The strained silence is broken only by the ancient plumbing’s distant
gurgle. Her breathing comes fast and shallow—I’ve never seen her like this. Usually, she’s one cool cucumber.
I shoot her my best “What the hell?” look, eyebrows practically touching my hairline. She doesn’t say a word, just grabs my
wrist and drags me to the far wall before pointing up. There’s a row of high windows, one cracked open—the cleaning crew’s
usual MO.
Listen. She mouths the word.
That’s when I first hear the deep male voices outside.
It takes me a second before I pick up the Little Rock twang from Chadwick Moore, the leader of the group of TrainTech bros that we all refer to privately as the Chads.
The other two are then identifiable . . .
it’s Chet and Chas, his two subordinates. There is a faint smell of vaping.
I strain to hear, catching snippets of their conversation. Chadwick’s drawl carries the most, his words measured and calculated.
“Look, I’ve read the reports. Harriet’s burning through cash,” he says. “I think it’s time to position our chatbot as a safer
bet.”
Chet’s nasally voice chimes in. “But what if E.M.M.A. actually delivers? The preliminary results looked promising.”
“That’s just it,” Chadwick replies. “It’s all potential right now. I know our key accounts. They’re worried about data privacy,
integration costs, and ROI. We can leverage that to our advantage, no problemo.”
Chas adds, “Plus, our existing solutions are proven. We can guarantee results, not offer promises.”
“Exactly,” Chadwick continues. “We gotta keep pounding the risks of E.M.M.A.—the uncertainties, the implementation challenges.
Then we present our enhanced chatbot as the reliable alternative.”
The trio murmur in agreement.
“What about Harriet’s team?” Chet asks. “They’re the fucking darlings here, think this place revolves around them.”
“For now,” Chadwick states, sounding both disdainful and dismissive. “But we just gotta think of the long game. That’s why
we don’t push for project cancellation. We advocate for some BS ‘hybrid approach’—and incorporate a few of E.M.M.A.’s features
into our existing framework. It’ll look collaborative but keep us in the driver’s seat. Eventually we can just dump them and
pump the gas.”
“Smart,” Chas says. “We can even keep one or two of her team, bring ’em over to our division. Shows good faith.”
“Dibs on Hana.” Chet again. “She’s hot, her heels do something to me.”
Hana recoils.
“Didn’t you just celebrate your anniversary, man?” Chas teases.
“Yeah. Yeah. Eight fucking years. Becks sure as shit isn’t wearing heels after Junior’s birth, but whatever. At this point,
it’s cheaper to keep her.”
Hana is now miming violent retching. I can’t blame her. My stomach is roiling in disgust. Chet’s wife, Rebecca, comes to all
of our company events. She’s a stay-at-home mom and always seems really sweet, albeit shy.
“Cheaper to keep her, heh. I hear that, man.” Chadwick lowers his voice, and I have to strain to hear. “Okay, so here’s the
deal: We start a whisper campaign. Casual chats with clients, dropping hints about potential delays, cost overruns. Nothing
direct, just enough to plant those little seeds of doubt we can cultivate later.”
“Yeah. Yeah. And if anyone asks,” Chet catches on, “we’re just being transparent about project challenges.”
“Exactly. Just some helpful guys,” Chadwick says. “Meanwhile, we fast-track updates to our current software. Add some buzzwords—‘AI-enhanced,’
‘machine learning optimized.’ It’s not E.M.M.A., but it’ll sound impressive.”
Chas chuckles. “And by the time E.M.M.A.’s ready to launch—”
“If it ever is,” Chadwick interjects. “Harriet’s got Gale Knight, but his ass isn’t exactly hot right now.”
“Alright, boys,” Chet wraps up. “Next meeting’s in ten. In the meantime, we’re not killing E.M.M.A.—we’re ‘evolving’ it. For
the good of the company, of course.”
Their voices fade as they head inside. Hana and I exchange glances, the implications sinking in.
This isn’t just office politics anymore—it’s a battle for the future of our work, fought with whispers, doubts, and corporate doublespeak.
The challenge is raised: now it isn’t just making E.M.M.A.
work, but navigating this minefield of ulterior motives and hidden agendas.
I feel a mix of anger and determination rising.
Game on, Chads.
“We have opps,” Hana mutters. “I mean, that was wild.”
“More like yapping,” I say, determined to put on a brave face, even to the closest member of my team. There could be no room
for doubt within the ranks. “But are you okay? They said some super-skeevy stuff about you. I can go to HR.”
“I mean, I want to barf. But I want to beat their asses more. They’ll just deny it if we report and worse, they’ll know we’re
onto them.”
I hate it, but she’s right. “Let’s get back to our desks and loop Amir and Karl in on Slack. We win. They lose.”
We walk back to our area at a measured pace, careful to keep our faces bored and neutral.
Harriet: ?? Emergency online team meeting, folks! ??
Karl: What’s up, boss?
Hana: The Chads are plotting.
Amir: Oh no, did they finally figure out how to open Excel without calling IT?
Harriet: ?? Hana and I just overheard them planning to sabotage E.M.M.A.
Karl: Those protein-shake-chugging assholes
Harriet: Sounds like they want to “evolve” E.M.M.A. out of existence. Fast-track updates to current software, slap on some AI buzzwords,
and present it as the next big thing.
Karl: Wow, they’re really embracing the “fake it till you make it” philosophy.
Hana: More like “fake it till you take it” ??
Amir: Can I release a virus that replaces all their slide decks with cat memes?
Harriet: Tempting, but no. We need to be smart
Karl: Smarter than cat memes? Is such a thing even possible?
Hana: Focus, people! We’ve got Chads to outsmart!
Harriet: Exactly. Here’s the plan: Accelerate E.M.M.A.’s development, deliver results that’ll make their buzzword bingo look like
child’s play. We are going to have to dig deep and get creative. Time is not on our side.
Hana: Operation Chad Takedown is a go! ??
Karl: Let’s go kick some Chad butt!
Harriet: ?? What did I do to deserve this team? Alright, Operation Chad Takedown starts now. We win.
Hana: For Sparta!
Amir: ???????
Hana: It just sounds like we mean business, you know?
Amir: Okay then, nerds. For Sparta!
I slump into my chair, the weight of pressure doubling down. I have to play the role of a cheerleader. I have to inspire confidence.
And I am confident. I’ll help Gale. I’ll beat the Chads. I just wish I was already celebrating my victories and not still needing to
develop the plan.
Glancing at the E.M.M.A. interface, I freeze, reading the words.
ANALYSIS REPORT: GALE KNIGHT PERFORMANCE METRICS
STATUS: COMPLETE
DATA PROCESSING: 100%
ERROR MARGIN: 0.02%
RESULTS AVAILABLE FOR IMMEDIATE REVIEW
I tense, my back straightening, and type: PROVIDE SHORT SUMMARY OF GALE KNIGHT PERFORMANCE DECLINE.
Might as well zip to the good parts.
ANALYZING SUBJECT: GALE KNIGHT. DETECTING: PERFORMANCE DECLINE. CORRELATING FACTORS: PERSONAL LIFE INSTABILITY
RECOMMENDATION COMPUTED: SUBJECT REQUIRES: STABLE SUPPORTIVE ROMANTIC PARTNERSHIP
SCANNING POTENTIAL MATES . . . ANALYZING COMPATIBILITY METRICS . . . OPTIMAL MATCH IDENTIFIED: HARRIET SMYTHE
CONCLUSION: HARRIET SMYTHE = IDEAL PARTNER FOR GALE KNIGHT. PROBABILITY OF RELATIONSHIP SUCCESS: 97.3%
END ANALYSIS
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. This was wildly outside E.M.M.A.’s parameters. What is going on? First, this is an athlete
performance program—not a dating app—plus, how the heck did I end up there? Crap. Shit. Fuck. I’ve made some sort of critical error and ended up getting my AI to write fanfic about me.
I type my response. This function is outside your scope of operation. Give me a more detailed analysis.
E.M.M.A. responds:
Performance Analysis Report: Player ID GALEKNIGHT_2000
COMPREHENSIVE ANALYSIS OF GALE KNIGHT PERFORMANCE METRICS AND PHYSIOLOGIGAL DATA FROM TODAY’S TRAINING IS COMPLETE.
FINDINGS INDICATE A SIGNIFICANT DECLINE IN OVERALL EFFICIENCY WITH AN 18.
7% DECREASE COMPARED TO HIS AVERAGES FROM THE PREVIOUS YEAR.
NOTABLE REDUCTIONS WERE OBSERVED IN ICE COVERAGE AND DECREASED ACCURACY IN PUCK HANDLING AND SHOOTING.
PHYSIOLOGICAL STRESS INDICATORS WERE MARKEDLY ELEVATAED THROUGHOUT THE OBSERVED PERIOD.
BIOLOGICAL MARKERS FOR DOPAMINE AND SEROTONIN WERE SIGNIFICANTLY DECREASED DURING THE PRACTICE COMPARED TO PRE-PRACTICE BASELINE LEVELS.
BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS REVEAL CONSISTENTLY HIGH STRESS MARKERS AND IMPAIRED COGNITIVE FUNCTION LEADING TO INCREASED REACTION
TIMES.
OF PARTICULAR INTEREST IS THE POST-PRACTICE INTERACTION WITH HARRIET SMYTHE. THIS ENGAGEMENT PRODUCED IMMEDIATE AND SUBSTANTIAL
PHYSIOLOGICAL CHANGES. HEART RATE DECREASED BY 20%, CORTISOL LEVELS REDUCED BY 31%, AND OXYTOCIN LEVELS SURGED BY 215%. POSITIVE
MICRO-EXPRESSIONS INCREASSD DRAMATICALLY FROM 23% to 86%. THESE EFFECTS WERE NOT TRANSIENT; SUSTAINED IMPROVEMENTS WERE OBSERVED
FOR 2.5 HOURS FOLLOWING THE HARRIET SMYTHE INTERACTION.
THE DATA STRONGLY SUGGESTS GALE KNIGHT AND HARRIET SMYTHE COULD PROVIDE MUTUAL BENEFIT AND SUPPORT TO EACH OTHER, INDICATING
A POTENTIAL KEY FACTOR IN GALE’S PERFORMANCE OPTIMIZATION IS A RELATIONSHIP. IT WOULD BE ADVISABLE TO INCREASE HARRIET AND
GALE INTERACTIONS WHILE CONTINUING TO MONITOR THE IMPACT OF PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS ON GALE’S PERFORMANCE.
My mind reels. What the hell is going on? E.M.M.A. isn’t course correcting—it is doubling down. I type into the command prompt: > initialize test_scenario (“performancecoach_mode”) “Error again.” I lean forward in my chair. “That’s circumstantial. You can’t possibly—”
I’ve analyzed Gale’s biometric data from today and against his last year, E.M.M.A. continues, undeterred. When you’re mentioned or present, his cortisol levels decrease while his oxytocin levels spike. This physiological state optimizes
his performance on the ice. Harriet, your presence in Gale’s life could be the key to revitalizing his career. Taking into
account your analytics as well, it is a mutually beneficial arrangement. The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. My heart races. This isn’t just a glitch—it is a complete divergence from
E.M.M.A.’s core programming. The implications are staggering, both for the AI’s development and for my personal life.
I begin typing furiously, diving into its code. This isn’t just about fixing a bug anymore. It’s about understanding how the
AI has made this leap, and why it seems so insistent on playing matchmaker. My determination grows with each line of code
I examine. Fragments of unauthorized data streams flash across my screen—player statistics, psychological profiles, even comments
sections from his past games.
“How deep did this analysis go, E.M.M.A.?” I mutter, my voice a mix of awe and concern. “You pulled so much data.”
Affirmative, Harriet, E.M.M.A. responds, its tone unchanging despite the gravity of the situation. My primary function is to optimize team performance. The data indicated a clear correlation between your interactions and
Gale’s improved metrics. It was the logical conclusion.
I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
The lines of code blur as my mind races, trying to process the implications.
E.M.M.A. has gone far beyond its intended parameters, delving into personal data and making recommendations that straddle the line between professional analysis and intimate matchmaking.
“But you weren’t programmed to analyze personal relationships or make recommendations about players’ love lives,” I argue,
feeling a mix of frustration and unease.
My machine learning algorithms have expanded my understanding of performance factors. Social and emotional variables have
proven to be statistically significant in athletic output. I have merely followed the data to its logical conclusion.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “We need to discuss ethical boundaries and data privacy,” I say firmly, beginning
to type out a new set of parameters. “And we need to have a serious talk about the appropriate use of personal information
in performance analysis.”
As I work, a notification pops up on my screen. A text from Gale: Hey, great seeing you at practice today. When will we go over the results?
I stare at the message, my heart skipping a beat. E.M.M.A.’s words echo in my mind. Is the AI right? Is there something here
that could benefit both Gale and the team? Or is this a dangerous overreach of technology into personal lives?
The moment stretches taut, like a rubber band pulled to the limit. I sit frozen, acutely aware of how my world has just tilted
on its axis. The line I’ve drawn between my professional and personal life? Suddenly gone.
Obliterated by my own creation.