By the time Virginia and her new British entourage make it to the roof, the party is already in full swing. The impossibly catchy synth riff of Daft Punk’s Da Funk blasts across the terrace. The French duo, iconic reflective helmets firmly in place, can be found in a DJ booth at the north end of the hired space. They hold the crowd in the palm of their hands.
Simmons somehow convinced Versa to foot the bill for the electronic music outfit after word reached him that their music had been playing in the Pit for months. If Fall Water’s Dev team relied on the contagious beats to get Otherscape 2 over the line then they deserve them in the flesh. Atlanta’s skyline sparkles in the distance as if it was shipped in just for the occasion. Additional flavour is provided by various music and movie execs; rumour has it that Tia Carrere and one of the Baldwin brothers – not Alec – are around here somewhere. Even the numerous developers who can be found milling around, looking more like excitable school kids on a field trip than industry movers and shakers, can’t diminish the fact that this little spot is spilling over with cool.
As the first half of Daft Punk’s set wraps up, James finds himself standing self-consciously at the bar with more cocktails in front of him than he knows what to do with. He glances around, trying to calculate which section of the crowd is most mingle-worthy.
“What’s happening, Pingu?!”
Hank pops up from nowhere and slaps his friend on the back with such force that James almost goes flying over the bar. The surprise of Hank’s ambush is outweighed by the relief of seeing a friendly face.
“Hank. Thank god.”
A quick look at Hank tells James this is, without doubt, the most drunk he’s ever seen him. True, they’ve both stayed up into the small hours sharing a bottle of whiskey numerous times of late. However, there’s a glaze now resting comfortably over Hank’s eyes that James has never seen before. The type of glaze that can only be removed by ten minutes under a cold shower or ten hours in a large bed. His facial hair, residing somewhere between clean shaven and full beard, would do well to pick a lane. Hank is not at all dressed to impress. Dr Martens boots, jeans, and a Master of Puppets Metallica t-shirt suggest that he has no time or interest for this type of event.
“Thank god?” Hank repeats. “What, you … you’re religious now?” His words are slurred. “I mean, it does look like you’re wearing your Sunday best.”
“That’s rich coming from a man who looks like he needs an exorcist. Jesus, Hank. It didn’t cross your mind to wear, oh, I don’t know, something else?!”
Hank smiles the kind of smile that doesn’t know why it’s here but knows it probably should be. He finishes his beer and grabs two amaretto sours from the tray of a passing waiter.
“Why would I dress up? It’s our party. Fuck the suits and the horses they rode in on.” Hank’s words are undercut with a potent strain of venom. “Here,” he says, forcing one of the drinks into James’ hand.
“What is it?”
“Alcohol. You know, the thing people pour down their necks at these industry circle-jerks. C’mon, Jim. Cut loose!” James plays along and takes a sip before shepherding Hank to a quiet corner.
“You good, Hank?”
“Oh, I’m peachy. Why?”
“Long day?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you look like shit.” James knows that Hank’s bullshit detector is second to none. The best way to get through to him is to simply tell it like it is. Hank shrugs. Resistance is futile.
“I may or may not have been on the sauce since lunch. Depends what time constitutes lunch.”
James’ concern for Hank rises. This despondency is out of character. Although he has a reputation for drinking, he never loses control. James now finds himself propping Hank up, checking that nobody of importance is in the vicinity.
“You weren’t at the awards show, man. You should have been on stage with us! Missed me make the speech of the decade. Where were you?” James observes a shadow descend over Hank’s face.
“Well, let’s see. I got called to a lunch meet downtown with the usual suspects. Virginia, a couple of Versa’s guys, Donovan.”
“Donovan’s in Boston, Hank.”
Hank chuckles and gives James a couple of light pats on the cheek.
“No, Jim. He ain’t.”
James absorbs this and accepts that it’s credible enough. Donovan wants to stay out of the limelight, but it figures that he’d be in Atlanta to take some important meetings. The hush-hush nature of the whole thing raises a couple of distant alarm bells, however.
“I assume you didn’t discuss chess,” James gently presses.
“Nah. Standard corporate BS. I tend to tap out the moment we sit down these days, honestly. I polished off a couple of drinks there then met some old pals at the bar downstairs to discuss war stories. Ten drinks led to ten more. Award shows are torture, Jim. Did nobody tell you?”
“I wish they had,” Jim mutters under his breath. Bouts of anxiety have been tapping him on the shoulder since he left the stage. He’s doing his best not to cast his mind back to what might be one of the biggest embarrassments of his adult life. For now, an arranged marriage of cortisol and booze are keeping the scale of his faux pas at bay. He’s sure it’ll all come flooding back in the morning with a tasty side of hangover.
“Then I had a quick nap in my room,” Hank continues, “And, er, here we are. Right. That’s us all up to speed.” Hank looks out at the city with defeat in his eyes. James notes his distress but isn’t well-versed enough in the complexities of Hank’s character to know how to handle it. Is he just drunk? Or one of those guys that enters a depression the moment a major undertaking is kicked over the line? Whatever is going on, direct questioning doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. Time for a softer approach.
“You flying back tomorrow with the team?”
“Not tomorrow,” Hank answers, staring into the middle distance. “I’m heading to North Carolina with Donovan. Orders from the man himself.”
“Oh yeah? What’s in NC?”
“Red Hat.”
James makes an effort to lower his eyebrows, conscious that they just raised so high, they may never return. He takes a tactical sip of his drink to hide his surprise. He’s as bad an actor as he is a public speaker.
“Red Hat? As in Linux Red Hat?”
Hank rolls his eyes in exacerbation.
“What do you think, we’ve got a sudden interest in fashion? Buy a copy of the game and get a free fedora? Yes, Linux Red Hat, you moron.”
James barely registers the insult as he’s too busy digesting the fact that Fall Water has set a parley with Linux.
“Cyberside is a Windows joint, Hank. Why switch to Torvalds’ system?”
“They say it’s security-related. I dunno.” Hank’s either trying to convince James of his indifference or himself. Either way, it’s as see-through as some of the female guests’ dresses. “Linux is ahead of the curve on security. You know that.”
“Security?” James scoffs. “We’re building a videogame! This isn’t the Manhattan Project. Who does Donovan think he is?”
“Robert Oppenheimer, apparently.” Although Hank’s joking, both he and James suspect the comparison may have a hint of truth.
“I said the same thing at lunch, trust me,” Hanks says. “From the way John and Dan have been talking, our new baby is looking beyond complex. Think long-term and go longer. It’ll carry the same strategic weight as Underside.”
James simply shakes his head and can’t help but smile. “Anything else you’re not telling me?”
Hank momentarily seems to sober up.
“I’ll probably have to build a separate data centre to support Cyberside’s level of demand. No big deal, but not how I’d handle it.”
“And you told them that?” James asks.
“Of course I did. They didn’t seem to listen. The phrase ‘pissing in the wind’ comes to mind.”
There it is. Hank is an undeniable authority at Fall Water. Any tech-related questions relating to future strategy have always gone through him. Seems that, recently, decisions are being made without his input.No wonder he’s pissed. This, combined with the headache of moving an entire project architecture to a new OS – expenses, projections, fresh hires, new code, operational support – who can blame the guy for sinking into temporary oblivion?
“Yeah. OK. Big news,” James says, realising he’s offering zero reassurance. “We’ll manage. Let me know how I can help when the dust settles.”
“Obviously,” Hank grunts with annoyance. He instantly checks himself. “Sorry, Jim. Just got a lot on my mind.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Jim grabs Hank’s face with his outstretched hands. “You’re a genius, Hank. I know that. You know that. That’s all that matters. Listen, I saw a bottle of Bulleit behind the bar. What do you say?”
With his cheeks squeezed between James’ hands, it’s hard for Hank to say anything. He tries, nonetheless.
“Sure thing, buddy. Can I have my cheeks back now?”
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