5. Wallace
Wallace
Monday flew by in a cloud of bliss. Wandering through the park and making out under an enchanting willow tree.
Snacking on treats from a cluster of food vendors while Volt stole kisses from him in between bites.
Purchasing two glorious paintings from the street artists that he couldn’t wait to hang on his walls.
Visiting Magnolia, who demanded that they order dinner from her favorite restaurant so that Wallace could share it with her and rave over all the dishes that were too spicy for her now.
It had been like something out of a fairy tale.
But he couldn’t flee from his job forever.
Wallace clenched his tablet in his hand. “Hey, Marquita,” he greeted his father’s office assistant, hoping that his voice sounded even.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wollencroft.” Was there a little less respect in her voice than there had been a few weeks ago?
Well, at least she was keeping it professional.
If his father was fucking her—which he had to be—she already knew what he thought of Wallace.
His new status was kind of inevitable. “Your father will see you now.”
Yeah, that your father thing was definitely a dig. Wallace would bet that she didn’t speak like that to his brother, Rick.
It was Tuesday afternoon. Time for Wallace’s regularly scheduled bullying session.
He opened the door to his father’s office. “Hello, Sir.”
His father, Charles Wollencroft, continued to peer at his screen, giving no appearance of having heard him.
Wallace knew better than to repeat himself, though. This was one of those power plays. Always make it look like you’re doing them a favor or something like that. One of those people-y things that Wallace could never pull off himself.
So Wallace just stood there, until his father finally deigned to look up.
When he did, he looked Wallace over with a sneer.
“You don’t look sick,” was his first comment.
“Oh, uh…” was Wallace’s useless response. His mind was racing, skittering in all directions. What had he told his colleagues yesterday? Nothing, actually. Just that he was taking a sick day. “I think it was a twenty-four hour stomach bug.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t need to say the words for Wallace to hear them. Wollencrofts don’t get sick.
Somehow, as a child, Wallace had been susceptible to every little illness while Rick never seemed to catch anything.
It had taken Wallace being sent to school multiple times and then being sent back home because it was against regulations for him to be there while feverish or vomiting before he’d been allowed sick days.
But his father hadn’t been pleased about it.
He’d learned as a kid, no matter how sick he felt, to put on his school uniform and show up at breakfast, then politely inform the nannybot that it ought to test his temperature to see if he could legally attend that day.
You’re just like your mother, was always the next phrase out of his father’s mouth. Wallace didn’t need to hear it again to interpret his father’s snicker, as if he could see the illness and laziness lurking there.
Of course, Wallace hadn’t been sick yesterday, but he still felt like a child under his father’s piercing glare. “I didn’t want to spread it around the office,” he defended, voice thin and reedy. “We could have lost a lot of productivity if everyone else caught it.”
His father sighed, disappointed and disgusted. “Just like your mother,” he murmured, right on cue.
Was it really so wrong to take a sick day, though?
Whether it was fake or not?
God, why did he even care what his father thought?
He shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care.
He was pretty sure that his mother had actually become a better mom when she got her new husband, too. He got Christmas cards from them every year, and they all looked happy, doing cute family things.
Too bad she hadn’t taken Wallace with her.
He was starting to realize that his father was a real asshole.
He’d kind of always known that was true, but after eating dinner last night with Magnolia at the battered wooden table, he was starting to rethink a lot of things.
Angel had lovingly carried her downstairs while two of the other bots carried her oxygen tank and IV stand.
Angel and Volt had both cooed over her when she managed to eat half a bowl of a thin lentil soup and some bread, taking turns manning the front desk so they could watch over her.
She’d pushed them off with a laugh and a wave, telling them she was too old to be told what to eat, but all he could see was love.
She’d asked all three of them about things that they cared about. Angel was apparently a bit of a photographer. Magnolia asked about Volt’s plants, which Wallace had never expected him to go on about, even leaving the room to get a cute little pot overflowing with leaves to show off to her.
She was more than invested in all of the places that Volt could take Wallace on dates. She had a whole agenda with locations she’d loved to visit when she was healthy. Wallace had even promised to bring her pictures.
She’d brought Wallace into the conversation so easily he’d hardly realized it was happening.
She wanted to know what books he read. What movies he liked.
What he thought of her favorite poet, who he had to admit to not having heard of.
But then she promised to listen to some of his favorite music in return.
What would it have been like growing up with a parent like that? With brothers who bickered and teased, but ultimately supported each other?
Wallace didn’t want to take pictures like Angel or grow plants like Volt, but how different would his life have been if he’d been encouraged in his interests instead of told that none of them were manly enough?
“Wallace,” his father snapped, bringing him back to the present.
He cringed before he remembered to force his shoulders down. “Sorry, fa— sir. I think I’m still a little under the weather.”
“Well, don’t come any closer,” his father sneered. “Give me your reports.”
“They’re already on your computer, sir,” Wallace told him, though of course they both knew that.
Wallace always brought his tablet, and sometimes print outs, because his father couldn’t be bothered some days to open the files himself.
There was a perfectly good screen on his wall that Wallace could project to from his watch, but for some reason his father didn’t like that either.
Why did his father hate him that much? Was he that unlovable?
“I told you I wanted the nursebot project launch ready for May.”
Wallace drew in a steadying breath. This was one of the projects that he was most excited about.
“As I’ve mentioned before, that timeline isn’t feasible.
We might have the software complete, but it won’t have the features we need to wow the customer, and we won’t have time for QA.
It’ll be buggy and we’re talking about a line of robots that can do double the number of emergency response procedures as our previous line, plus all of the routine nursing duties, at a lower cost. But if we put them out too early, even minor errors could put someone’s life at risk. ”
“But you’re in clinical trials,” his father argued.
“We’re in clinical trials with one round of developments, but these things take time. The medical staff on my team are all recommending at least another year.” As he’d explained at least a dozen times.
“Well, they’re not the ones in charge, are they? Prioritize.”
Wallace clenched his fists, unwilling to let his expression show.
He was so proud of this project. It wasn’t glamorous like the surgeon bots that could do open-heart surgeries, or lucrative like the military contracts, but his dream was to make nursebots affordable enough that every school, camp, and office in the country could have one, to handle everything from vision screening and temperature taking to emergency medicine and resuscitation until professionals could step in.
The next steps after that would be taking the same design, streamlining it, and making a less attractive but equally functional version available for a third the cost in low-income communities around the world.
“How’s Project Fido coming?”
Wallace shook his head. That was one of the shiny, lucrative contracts, dog-like robots that could traverse any terrain.
They were well designed for things like emergency rescues after natural disasters, but were more commonly strapped with guns to infiltrate and kill whoever was on the other side of the highest paying country’s war.
“Still on track for November.” Just like it had been last week and the week before.
“I said I wanted it sooner. The Air Force doesn’t just fuck around.”
No, the Air Force understood development timelines. He’d already talked to their people.
“They already know the timelines, and they’ve agreed.
If you want any of our projects to move faster, you either need to provide the budget to hire more staff, which I don’t recommend because of the onboarding time, or make a decision to delay something else.
You can see the workflow tracker if you want to check. ”
“An inspiring director could have this ready. None of this wallowing in your office.”
Jesus. What did his father think he did all day? His office was where his computer was. Maybe he wasn’t inspiring, but he worked hard.
“I’ll talk with Ms. Yin about the schedule,” he replied dutifully.
She was his product manager, and she ran the production timeline with an iron fist. If it could be done faster, she’d already be on it.
“Maybe she can see something that I can’t.
” Or at least tell his father the same damned thing he’d just said and be listened to.
His father sighed. “Thank God for Ms. Yin.”
Wallace happened to agree, but the implication was clear. Why wasn’t he as talented?
He sent her a short text, just to get it out of the way. Any way we can speed up the production timeline? Charles wants a report.