The Goldfish in the Glass

The security footage showed everything: Arthur slipping the drive into his pocket at 2:14 AM, the flash of recognition when he realized the camera was blind in that corner, the way he'd smoothed his tie afterward like nothing happened. My friend. My boss. The man who'd toasted me at my wedding three years ago.

Now he sits in the orange leather chair across from me, explaining that my position has been "restructured" out of existence.

"It's not personal, Marcus. It's the market."

I watch his mouth move. I remember finding him that morning in his office, weeping over his dead goldfish—a ridiculous creature named Admiral Finbar that he'd inherited from his daughter. I'd patted his back. I'd bought him a replacement from the pet store around the corner, an orange fantail with a searching mouth.

"I'm so sorry," he'd said, pressing the plastic bag into my hands. "You're a real friend."

That was the same week he was selling our proprietary algorithms to a competitor. That was the week he'd opened the offshore account.

"Marcus? Are you listening?"

I am. I'm listening to the hum of the server room down the hall. I'm thinking about the encrypted folder on my home computer, copied from his network before he changed the passwords. A spy in the house of friendship.

"I understand," I say.

His shoulders relax. The tension in his expensive suit melts away. He thinks this is over. He thinks I'll pack my box and disappear like the others.

I watch the reflection of my computer screen in the darkened window behind him. The upload progress bar creeps forward: 78%, 79%. The SEC doesn't know it yet. The Department of Justice doesn't know. But by midnight, they will.

"Oh," I say, standing. "Before I go—I've been meaning to ask. How's the new goldfish?"

Arthur blinks. His smile falters. A crack appears in the polished surface.

"He's fine," he says slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," I say. "Just curious about how things survive in captivity."