The Love Algorithm: A hilarious workplace romantic comedy from Camilla Isley

1

REESE

The email subject says, Meeting request. It doesn’t say "Open me, and you’ll end up making a sex tape in the office." (The robotics lab specifically, but let’s not focus on the details.)

Clueless to the drama the simple message would stir, I click on the bolded line and read the confusing text.

The president of Mercer Industries, Nolan Mercer, wants to see me in his office on Monday morning. At eight o’clock sharp.

The request is unusual and unexpected. Mr. Mercer and I may abide by the six-degrees-of-separation rule in theory—he’s the boss of my boss’s boss—but I’ve never spoken to the man in real life. Not even when I was first hired as a robotics systems product owner in the research and development division of Mercer Robotics, which I now lead.

Have I seen him around?

Sure, occasionally. Mostly as one of the thousands of employees listening to his end-of-year address to the company—he was a far-off figure, speaking on a stage, unreachable, untouchable. Once, I even crossed paths with him in the main hall. He was being fussed about by suits, while common mortals like myself were doing our best to scramble out of his way, flee elevators in case he needed to ride in one, or just stare awestruck at the multi-billionaire mogul.

So even if only three layers of managerial corporate crust separate us, in reality, Nolan Mercer is to me what Steve Jobs could’ve been to Apple Geniuses working retail. A myth, a creature of legend. Hence why it’s super weird that he’s summoning me to his office—let alone that he knows I exist.

My next reaction to the email is relief that his assistant let me know in advance. At least I won’t make a complete fool of myself. I push my wheeled chair away from the desk and assess my wardrobe. Yeah, black baggy sweats and a hoodie that says, "Dear Math, grow up and solve your own problems" wouldn’t cut it for a meeting with the big boss. Nor would the space buns on my head.

Even if it’s Friday, my outfit isn’t casual Friday wear. Informal clothing is par for the course for me and my staff.

In most companies, R&D engineers are lab rats. We’re secluded away in our research facilities, where we live on a parallel plane to the rest of the organization.

I can count the times I’ve had to wear a suit to work on one hand. It’s exactly two. One each for the two years I’ve been head of the department and had to present an advancement report to the CEO and general director of Mercer Robotics. Nolan Mercer, of course, wasn’t present.

K-2P? I ask aloud to my droid. Why do you think the big boss wants to see me?

The robot replies in a mechanical voice from his position beside my desk, I have calculated a 98.9 per cent probability that the meeting is related to the department’s work.

K-2P is not part of my research at the company. He’s an AI project I’ve been working on since college—even if now I think of him as more of a friend. Maybe my only real friend.

I stare at the compact, claw-armed tripod android. His face is a mass of buttons and switches surrounding twin radar eyes, one of which has its red light focused on me.

That’s a very unimaginative reply. I pull the chair closer to him. We need to up your creativity drive.

I make to touch him, but he scurries back on his wheeled feet.

Please leave my drives alone. My imagination is fine.

Really? I asked an ironic question, and you gave me an ultra-boring, to-the-point answer.

My hearing sensors could not detect the irony in your tone. The droid lets out an offended beep-beep. You should probably review the empathy code Garrett uploaded to my CPU last week.

Stop being distrustful of Garrett. You know he means well.

I do not. Since he tangled with my operating system, my capability to interpret human behaviors has been clearly diminished.

But not your creativity? I give the droid a dry stare.

My creativity is perfectly fine. K-2P swivels—the robotic equivalent of shrugging. I answered your question straightforwardly. I could’ve given you a million sarcastic answers.

Fine. Let’s go over it again. Why has the big boss asked for a meeting?

Mr. Mercer wants to start a rocket division like any respectable multi-billionaire on the planet and wants you to lead it.

Better. I nod, suppressing a smile. I appreciate the scornful touch toward billionaires and their rocket measuring contests. Give me three other funny reasons in quick sequence. I snap my fingers.

One. He wants you to steal the secret prototype of a revolutionary assembly robot code-named Project Nemesis. Two. He needs you to develop better weapons for conquering the galaxy after his rocket project becomes a success. And three, my simulations show the likelihood of him offering you a promotion is at 0.00000003 per cent.

A burst of laughter escapes my lips. That last one wasn’t funny. Now you’re just being mean.

My facial scan detects upturned lips and bared teeth, clear indicators of mirth. You’re laughing at my jokes.

Because I, contrary to you, can take jabs with irony.

K-2P lets out a series of electronic sounds. You ruffled my circuits; it is not my fault.

I pat his dome. I’m sorry, K-2P, I didn’t mean to.

A low beep lets me know my apology has been accepted.

I stare out of my office’s half-glass, half-panel walls at the dark prototype lab. Like every night, I’m the last one in. I don’t have much of a life outside of work, and I’m mostly fine with it. I’m a bit of a lone introvert who needs a lot of time by myself. I’ve tried being in relationships before, but they’ve been nothing but a letdown. My family has always been absent. My father bailed before I was born. And my mother has always been a bit distracted when it came to me, forcing me to become self-reliant from a young age. Plus, I’ve never been great at making new friends, especially since I’ve always been on the fast track, skipping entire grades and outpacing colleagues, making it tough to stick with the pack.

But work has been a reliable constant. It has never betrayed me.

I let my gaze span over the massive research facility beyond the glass. The technology we’re researching is state-of-the-art. And working here is my dream job. My career is the only aspect of my life that I have under control. My work is who I am. And I’m afraid whatever Nolan Mercer wishes to tell me in person can’t be good.

For the first time since opening the email, my stomach churns with anxiety. I hope it’s not bad news. They wouldn’t fire me? Would they? And if the meeting were to fire me, I doubt Mr. Mercer would do it in person. He’d send an HR hit squad.

Still, it’s Friday, 13 October, and an email like that lands in my inbox out of the blue? Can’t help a shiver of foreboding from running down my spine.

I sigh. Time to go home.

K-2P lets out a succession of pitiful beeps. Can I come with you?

If droids could make puppy-dog eyes, that’s the expression he’d be giving me now.

I clasp my hands with his flat-fingered ones. I’ve told you a million times, you can’t come home with me.

Whining beep. Why?

Because I can’t be seen walking a droid who’s not part of any Mercer Industries research project in and out of the office every day.

I made sure the IP for K-2P would remain mine by never using company equipment or resources on him. He was already complete when I brought him here after they promoted me to head of the department and I gained a private office. I did it because otherwise, I’d never see him. But he’s also good for morale. K-2P has become the lab’s unofficial mascot, and my co-workers have sometimes taken an active interest in his coding. But even when I or someone else in the lab work on him, I ensure it’s in our break time and on a laptop I own that is dedicated solely to his upgrades.

Three disgruntled beeps. It wouldn’t be every day. Just for the weekends.

Trust me, not a good look, either.

Low, dejected beep. I understand.

I promise Monday will arrive before you even notice. We’ll be together again soon.

No, we won’t. K-2P lets go of my hands. You’re probably getting fired, anyway.

Now you’re being hurtful again.

With no further sounds, K-2P retreats to his portable charging unit. He plugs himself in and shuts down all his lights.

And I know droids don’t have feelings, yet leaving him cracks my heart every single time. But keeping him at home would only mean spending less time with him, seeing how I practically live at the office.

All right, little guy. I switch off the lights. I’ll pop in tomorrow, so you’re not alone all weekend, okay? I’m actually glad for the excuse to come to work even on my day off.

No response.

Oh well. Shrugging, I pull the door closed and plug my earbuds into my ears, blasting Fleetwood Mac at top volume and hoping Monday will be just a day like any other, that I won’t get fired, transferred, or who knows what else.

2

THOMAS

Come to the table everyone, my mom announces, entering the living room. I’m reading on the couch while my dad pretend-smokes his cigar in his favorite armchair. The meal is ready.

Sunday brunch at my parents’ house is an unmovable Mercer tradition that has existed since the dawn of time. No one is exempt from attending the family get-together, not unless gravely ill or not on Manhattan soil. So it’s weird that Mom would call us to the table before Gabriel, my older brother, has gotten here.

Shouldn’t we wait for Gabriel? I ask, noting how my brother is twenty minutes late. Very atypical.

He isn’t coming. Mom sighs.

What? Why not? Last I checked, he was in New York and able-bodied.

He texted me earlier. My mom beams. He and Blake got back together last night. I told him not to worry about us and to spend the day with her.

I set my fantasy thriller book aside and stand up. Thank goodness. I couldn’t have suffered his moping, beaten-dog attitude for another minute.

Mom shakes her head. Ah, Thomas, one day you’ll fall in love, and then you’ll mess it up, and we will support your beaten-dog attitude because we love you. Now, let’s go.

Come on, son. My dad squeezes my shoulder affectionately. There’s something I need to talk to you about.

Uh-oh, no sentence starting like that ever ended up in a good way for me.

No shop talk while we eat, Mom counters.

I frown. You know what this is about?

Mom nods.

I turn to Dad. What⁠—?

After lunch, son. His solemn tone doesn’t allow for a retort.

I stare at Mom.

She shrugs.

Dad moves along, topic dropped.

Fine.

No point in asking again. If Dad said we’ll discuss the topic after lunch, he won’t give me any hints until the last crumbles of dessert are polished.

Very well, then, I say. Let’s eat.

Delicious as the meal may be, I don’t enjoy the food much. With the ominous we shall talk looming over my head like a dark cloud, I’m too worried about what’s coming next. It’ll be something work-related, I’m sure. And I won’t like it, I’m equally positive.

The decision to join the family business the moment I graduated from college was a no-brainer for me. I didn’t have the same drive my brother had to build a new business from the ground up. One family empire is enough for me. But sometimes, working for my dad, and him being the literal boss of me, is not the easiest.

By the time coffee is served back in the living room, I’m bouncing my knees so hard that even my mom can’t stand the tension anymore.

Nolan, please, she says. Go to the study to discuss his new position. I can’t stand to watch him break his kneecaps from jitters.

My ears perk at the words new position. I love my current role as head of corporate communications at Mercer Industries. I’m the group’s spokesperson and media relations guy. In short, all I have to do is look pretty, charm investors, and pose for the cameras. I’m the face of the company.

If WIRED magazine wants to publish an article on our environmentally conscious approach to mining iron ore, I’m the guy to interview. If Fox News is doing a special on our innovative mental health initiative for employees, I show up. Company parties, retreats, public appearances, charity galas… I’m the family representative who attends all these events.

Yes, love. My dad sighs, nodding to my mom. He rises and turns to me. Let’s move to the study.

I follow him out of the living room, wondering what sort of curve ball he’s about to throw at me. My father turns right and enters the study. I get in behind him and close the door.

This is the only room in the house my mother had no say in decorating. The space is all Dad with its antique desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves, carrying enough books to sink the Titanic. The tomes sit alongside plaques and photos of him with other successful people—heads of state, Nobel prize winners, celebrities, innovators, athletes, other titans of industry—next to more low-key family portraits. And at the back of the room, a gorgeous view of the city below. As usual, Dad’s desk is clean and orderly. Papers, pens, and other office supplies are arranged perfectly in the antique wooden tray next to his giant computer screen that’s now off.

From the mobile wooden bar in the corner, Dad pours himself a Scotch, raising another glass to me as a question. I shake my head and take a beer from the refrigerated cabinet.

We settle on opposite sides of the mahogany desk, and I can tell he’s in an excellent mood from the way his white mustache bristles as he takes his first sip of the amber liquor.

I grip the leather armrest of my chair. Things are looking grimmer by the second.

Well? I ask, taking a swig of beer and bracing myself for the worst.

Proctor is retiring at the end of next year, Dad says, skipping preambles.

Emmet Proctor is the current CEO of Mercer Robotics, a subdivision of Mercer Industries—the umbrella company to all our various businesses. We’re a global leader in manufacturing advanced automotive components, specializing in electrification and automation for sustainable solutions across industries, including mining.

Proctor and I have crossed paths once or twice. He’s one of the best managers in the industry and helped make our robotic division the leading automation company in the world. The man has a mind like a damned computer. He’s an engineer, but gifted with a business-oriented brain capable of foreseeing where the market is going to be in five, ten years from now with alarming precision. He’ll be hard to replace.

A cool shiver walks down my spine. This is monumental news. I hold my breath, waiting for Dad to go on.

He will announce his decision to the board at the shareholders’ meeting next week, Dad continues, and we want you to be his replacement.

Me? I laugh at that. You’re joking, right, Dad?

My father stares me straight in the eyes. I’m not.

You can’t be serious. Mercer Robotics is our most technology-heavy division. You can’t even set foot in their facilities without holding at least seven engineering degrees.

Your great-grandfather funded this company with no degree at all. And your technical skills might be lacking, but you have a good grasp on how the business side of things works.

My great-grandfather was living in a different century, I clarify. When everything was growing and being smart was enough to seize an opportunity. A bunch of hardcore engineers will never respect a guy from communications as their leader.

Come on, son, that’s not true. Many industry CEOs aren’t engineers. At that level, you’re not required to be technical, you only need to have a general understanding of the technology’s fundamentals and be able to analyze the numbers to make strategic decisions.

I pick at a loose thread in the leather chair armrest. Well, my robotics knowledge is exactly zero. I make an okay symbol with my hand to emphasize what I’m saying.

Which is why I’m not proposing you start in the role of CEO tomorrow. Dad’s eyes glint, signaling he’s got me exactly where he wants me. We have roughly fifteen months to make you robotics savvy enough to guide the division. And I want you to start your training at the core of the business, in the R&D department. I set a meeting with the research and development director for tomorrow morning at eight⁠—

Wait, you set the meeting already? I drop my beer on the desk with a loud thud—I should’ve gone for the Scotch. Before I even agreed to the career pivot?

I don’t enjoy wasting time, son. We need to plan for the future, and I’m an impatient man. If you want to replace me as the next head of Mercer Industries one day, you can’t keep being our poster boy until I retire, and then move straight from communications to the top job. Dad leans back in his chair, looking so much like a domineering CEO that I suddenly revert to being the awed kid who followed his hero father around the office. You’ll have to get your hands dirty at some point.

I stare at him, aware he hasn’t left me much of a choice.

The silence stretches for a while until Dad speaks again. Glad to see we agree. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight, then.

I can’t tomorrow, I reply, taking another sip of beer and rejoicing in being able to deny him at least my presence at his little ambush.

Why?

I have a ceremony at our facility in Newark.

Can’t someone else go in your place?

I don’t know, Dad. Our longest-employed worker is retiring after forty years. I’m supposed to hand him a plaque. You’re the one who always told me how someone from the family must show up for this kind of thing. I pin him with a stare. So, you tell me, can I skip?

No, you can’t. Anyway, no harm done. You’ll have to meet with the department head on your own in the afternoon.

Another thought strikes me. Who’s going to take my place as spokesperson?

No one, Dad says. You’ll still do most of the public appearances.

Oh, so I’m not getting a new position, I’m getting a second job on top of the one I already have.

Don’t make that face, Dad chides. You’ve had it too easy so far and you know it.

I guess the new challenge will be good for me, I reply, irritated.

That it will. You’re always complaining you spend too much time on social events. Now you can put all your focus on what really matters—the core of our business.

Sure, Dad.

I rise to my feet, ready to leave my parents’ house—I’ve got a lot to process, starting with my new job title. I glance at my father and Dad beams at me, the stern captain of industry gone, the loving father back. Don’t underestimate yourself, son, you can handle the extra responsibility and a million other things if you put your mind to it.

And now you sound like my third-grade teacher.

Dad laughs, standing up and coming next to me to pat my shoulder. You’ve come a long way since then, haven’t you? I’m very proud of you, son.

Thanks, Dad. I love you, too.

He opens his arms and I embrace him.

Is this what they call tough love? I prefer to refer to it as inconvenient, pain-in-my-ass love.

3

REESE

To say I’m stressed on Monday morning would be an understatement. As I swipe my badge past the turnstiles to get inside the Mercer Industries headquarters, the pants of my suit chafe my thighs with every step I take. And the button-down white shirt I’ve stuffed down the suit pants is slowly suffocating me. I’m not used to wearing fitted clothes. How do the suits wear a tie all day and not die of asphyxiation?

My hair is even worse. The pins I used to lock my long mostly brown hair in a low chignon—to hide the pink tips—are prickling the back of my head like a thousand needles. I don’t bother much with makeup or other beauty routines. I just wouldn’t have the consistency to do it every single day. But pink hair is my cosmetic expression. I only need to retouch the dye about once a month. Maximum impact with the lowest possible effort—except when I have to hide the tips like today.

Besides wearing a downright torturing hairstyle and uncomfortable clothes, I’m indecorously early. I was so worried about being late that I arrived at the office two minutes before seven. A generous hour earlier than my usual check-in time.

Since I have a full hour to kill before I have to go meet the higher-ups on the top floor, I head to the basement where the robotics research lab is located.

The only other person already at work is Maria, my mobility team leader. She’s a Caltech graduate with the personality of a sarcastic pixie, the face of a fairy princess, and the aesthetic of a gothic evil queen—monochrome black hair, clothes, nails, and makeup.

Presently, she’s bent over a computer screen, puzzling over endless lines of code. K-2P, rescued from the loneliness of my office, is earnestly standing by her side. She’s so intent on her work that she hasn’t spotted me.

Maria, I greet her. Good morning.

She jolts, turning to me. "Boss, what