Fatal Exception Page 7

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  “OH, MY NEW SONG! IT'S on right now!”

  Racing across her living room, 21-year-old Sandy Monaco nearly tripped and fell on her face to get to the stereo and push record.

  “I just love this song!” Clapping and hopping up and down with joy, she started dancing as the stereo's recording head captured a rough analog approximation of the song being broadcast on the radio — “To Be a Saint” by pop sensation Fifth Column.

  To be a saint

  And is it worth imagining?

  What I want is what I do

  And when I need the things I do

  I close my eyes and watch it all come true . . .

  “This is great - I heard it the other day and just knew I had to work it into my routine! Listen to the bass line!”

  “Uh huh.” Sandy's mother was somewhat less than supportive of Sandy's choice in careers.

  At 21 years old, Sandy wasn't the youngest girl who worked at the Meat Market Gentleman's Cabaret, but she was certainly the youngest at heart. For her, it was all about the dancing, about moving to the music. The whole “taking off her clothes” thing was just a formality, and didn't have any sort of sexual connection in her brain.

  Even now, she danced around the living room in a sports bra and gym shorts, without a care in the world. It was the same when she was at work. The drooling horny guys with their sweaty dollar bills didn't exist to her. She even had a deal worked out with the management that she didn't have to give lap or table dances. She just worked the stage. She'd had plenty of offers from men; on just about a nightly basis, someone would offer her fifty, a hundred, two hundred bucks for a private dance, but Sandy never went for it.

  Some of the other girls thought she was nuts for always giving up the money. Often, they would fight over who would get to take Sandy's “rebounds” and offer lap dances to the men she'd rejected.

  The song ended, and Sandy applauded herself and ejected the tape.

  “I gotta take this to my room and work out a routine.”

  “Sandy, you're not six years old anymore, and you aren't doing a dance recital.” Mom was already drunk at eleven o'clock. “You're a goddamn stripper, for Chrissakes.”

  “I am an exotic dancer!” she said for what felt like the 9000th time that week.

  Ding dong.

  “I'll get it!” Sandy dashed toward the front door before her mother could even grumble about it.

  She flung the door open swiftly.

  “Hello there,” Phinnaeus stammered. “We're from Storm Computers and we're here to install your sports bra, I mean, Argos.”

  Sandy giggled. Phin turned bright red.

  “Come on in. Mom! Computer guys are here!”

  Mike took a look at Sandy, smiled, and then gave Phin a jab in the ribs with his elbow.

  “Hey Phil, watch this.” Mike was about to do something stupid. “Hi there, I'm Mike. Where do you want me to put it?”

  Sandy looked at him as if he'd just fallen off a flying saucer. “Where do I want you to put what?”

  Phinnaeus jumped in to save both of their jobs. “The computer, ma'am.”

  Sandy giggled. “You just called me ma'am. That's funny. Over there is fine.” She pointed to the kitchen counter.

  Feeling defeated, Mike lugged the Argos box into the kitchen and then went outside to hook up the PBX. Phinnaeus, still slightly blushing from his earlier gaffe, put on his mental blinders and went to work unpacking the box and hooking up the Argos.

  “So what does that thing do, anyway?” Sandy asked.

  “Basically, you plug it into a phone jack and it lets you get on the Internet. Go to websites, send e-mail, all that stuff.”

  “Is that going to tie up the line?”

  Phinneaus shook his head. “No ma'am. It uses a sort of line-splitting setup, like having a second line just for the Argo. Mike is outside hooking up the splitter on the PBX box now.”

  “I have no idea what you just said,” Sandy responded.

  Phinnaeus looked over and saw Sandy's mom already unconscious on the couch with a box of wine tipped over on the floor next to her. “So who is this for?”

  “For me, I guess. I got the — what do you call it — pilot invitation as a tip at work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  Sandy, feeling playful, lifted up her bra and unleashed her perky nipple fruit. “Guess!”

  Phinnaeus averted his eyes as a reflex. Sandy giggled again.

  “Come on now, it's just titties. Nothing you've never seen before.”

  “True, but I'm kind of working right now.”

  “Ah, got it.”

  “Anyway, I don't usually do this field work . . . I mean, this on-site work. I actually do tech support in the call center.”

  “So, when I have trouble with this thing, I just call you?”

  “Absolutely. Phone number is on a sticker on the side of the machine. Just ask for Phin.”

  “Fin? As in, part of a fish?”

  “No, short for Phinnaeus.”

  “Oh.”

  Feeling quite uncomfortable, Phin finished packing up and started toward the door.

  “My name's Sandy, by the way.”

  “Oh — nice to meet you.”

  “Bye, Phin.”

  Phinnaeus closed the door behind himself and walked out to the van, not sure exactly what had just happened in the house.

  “Alright Phil. Two houses down, six to go.”

  Chapter 13

  Concerning the History of a Certain Dr. Klaus Reinhart

  THE FOLLOWING IS A TOP-SECRET document painstakingly reconstructed from shredded paper recovered from a dumpster at the Pentagon following the passage of the Freedom of Information Act.

  Field Report — Col. James Randolph Erwin

  June 1945 — Kurzweil, Germany

  Upon entering the camp at Kurzweil, it was immediately apparent that this was nothing like any of the other camps we'd liberated before. There was no crowd of prisoners here — it was practically empty.

  After sweeping the buildings, we found evidence that the camp was occupied by as many as three thousand captives as recently as two weeks ago, but they had all mysteriously disappeared. There were no rail lines heading to this camp, so there was no way they were removed via train, and the truck transportation of that many prisoners after Allied forces had already taken control of the skies was very unlikely.

  The laboratory building was in total disarray. There was nothing of strategic value left unbroken or unburned. All we found were the same scraps as before. There were scattered bones seemingly connected to mechanics like artificial arms and legs, but nothing left intact. All of it suggested the presence of the invisible doctor. We have come to call him Dr. Death, since no prisoners seem to survive when he is in charge.

  A sweep of the outlying areas revealed a mass grave. Initial conclusion is that the remaining prisoners were made to dig the grave, and were then shot. The whole grave was covered over by soldiers who seem to have left on foot or by light ground transport. No weapons, uniforms, or other military equipment was left behind anywhere on the site.

  Allied forces attempted to follow the tracks into the outlying areas, but with a three-day head start through heavy rainfall, even the dogs were unable to maintain a strong trail past a mile or two. No enemy encounters and no casualties, only one sprained ankle among the scout company.

  When we returned to the camp, K-9 alerted on a site inside a barn on the outskirts of the complex. Under a pile of hay, soldiers discovered a trapdoor leading to a small underground hiding place. Inside, a man in dirty overalls had apparently suffered a gunshot wound to the head, but was still alive.

  The man was transported out via truck to a nearby Allied field hospital. He had no identifying papers. Evidence in the barn where he was found indicated that he may have been an aircraft technician who was left behind by fleeing German troops.

  Laboratory analysis of the various remnants discovered at the site
is inconclusive at best. Intelligence indicated that the S.S. was attempting to create a half-man, half-machine, but they were apparently unsuccessful. There were, however, several bodies recovered from the mass grave that appeared to have firearms fused with their musculature and skeletal structures. These samples have been sent to the S.A.S. in London for further research.

  No conclusions have been made at this time.

  Chapter 14

  The Only Thing You Can Count on Is Change

  THE DAY AFTER HIS TRIP out in “the field,” Phinnaeus returned to the office to find that everything was being turned upside down. As was customary, the largest changes to company policy and structure were announced via e-mail:

  Due to the new pilot program currently underway for the Argos, and the dramatic shift in our business model, we are instituting some restructuring in the call center for the tech support department. First, we are now a 24-hour support center. This means we will now have an overnight shift to handle the calls that roll in between 11:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m., and the daytime shift will operate from 8:00 to 11:00.

  The following technicians have been selected to join the new overnight shift:

  Reuben DeLeon

  Dale Wallis

  Anthony Sullivan

  Grant Chapman

  The overnight shift supervisor will be Steve Zook.

  Everyone who has been here more than a year (and a few select others) will be responsible for continuing to support our computer products as well as performing advanced troubleshooting for the Argos and the Storm Network.

  Those of you who have been here for less than a year will provide computer and Argos support. Anything you diagnose to be a Storm Network issue, you will escalate directly to Tier 3. You will have the opportunity for promotion to Tier 3 as time passes.

  The most basic calls will be handled by a new group of Tier 1 technicians, who we will be hiring mainly on a temporary basis and housing in the room that was previously the company work-out area. The new Tier 1 technicians will be working largely from scripts and automated decision trees in order to resolve the most basic problems first, and will escalate issues to Tier 2 or 3 as necessary.

  We are going through some exciting changes right now, and I hope you're as pleased as I am to be on board!

  Regards,

  Elliot Storm, President

  Zook walked by and tossed a sealed envelope at Phin a few minutes later, detailing his specific role. Due to his skill, Phin was chosen for Tier 3 in spite of only having been with the company for a few weeks. This was a completely lateral move, however; there was no increase in pay for Phin, just an increase in responsibility.

  Phin crumpled up the “promotion letter” and tossed it at the nearest trashcan. Not being anywhere near a professional basketball player, however, he scored an air ball that rolled across the floor and into a black vinyl boot.

  Phin looked up and saw the boot's owner: the girl from the party with the naughty red pigtails.

  Holy shit.

  She was there, in the flesh. She was looking slightly more respectable than she had at the party — no exposed cleavage, a longer skirt, hair pulled back in a lazy ponytail.

  “Don't quit your day job,” she said as she kicked the paper ball back over to Phin.

  “You work here?” Smooth, Phin thought. Very smooth.

  “No, I just hang out here for the free coffee.” She may have been on her way somewhere, but she stopped for a minute to see where this conversation would lead — she remembered him from the party too.

  “You should try the contractor's entrance at Home Depot. The coffee there is much better, and they have real creamer, not that powdered crap.”

  “Another connoisseur of free coffee I see . . . ”

  “Phinnaeus — call me Phin.”

  “Tiffany. Say, is that your promotion letter?”

  Phin scooped up the crumpled paper and pulled it out to a shape somewhat resembling flat. “Yeah — Tier 3. I was thinking about hanging it on my fridge next to my report cards and finger paintings.”

  “You just started though, right? Like just a few weeks ago? You must've made friends with somebody. Are you sleeping your way to the top already, Phin?”

  “No, but if it'll get me more money, maybe I should start.”

  “I don't think you'll find too many people in line to hop in the sack with Zook, so you have fun with that.”

  As if he was summoned from the ether, Zook came swinging around the corner. Phin bit his tongue and looked away, hoping he hadn't overheard Tiffany's last little bit.

  “Only if you're at the front of the line, honey.”

  Apparently he heard everything. Tiffany just smacked him in the shoulder.

  “That's sexual harassment, buddy, and I don't have to take it.”

  “Get back to work, monkeys.” Zook cackled and sauntered off, probably to take one of his thrice-hourly smoke breaks.

  “See you around, Phin.” Tiffany's gaze lingered just a hair as she turned to walk away.

  “Hey, wait! Where do you sit? Usually, that is.”

  Tiffany pointed over Phin's shoulder. “You know where Stinky Dale usually sits?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The opposite corner of the call center.”

  “That's a pretty sound plan.”

  “You can come join us if you want. It's a pretty exclusive club, but I have connections with the membership committee.”

  “Be right there.”

  Phin scooped up his stuff (making sure to grab the crumpled promotion letter) and followed Tiffany over to the call center equivalent of the back of the school bus where the cool kids sat.

  “Hey Phin!”

  “Justin! So this is where you've been hiding.”

  Tiffany stepped back. “I see you two already know each other.”

  “Course - I invited Phin here to the party at Rowdytown a couple of weeks ago. You know — the one I missed.”

  “Right.”

  “And this is Brian,” Tiffany continued with the introductions.

  Brian Carter, Phin's old buddy from his first days of employment at Storm, was already on a phone call, but he managed to tap his Mute button long enough to toss out a “Hi Phin!” before continuing with the customer.

  “You know him too?”

  “You seem surprised. I get around.” Phin smiled.

  “I'll bet you do.”

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  * * *

  PHIN RUSHED THROUGH THE CENTRAL corridor of the Storm Computer Corporation campus — he was running late coming back from lunch. Rounding a corner, he had a near-miss with a girl with brown eyes and shoulder-length brown hair.

  “Sorry,” he muttered as he dodged her.

  “Phinnaeus?” the girl said.

  Phin stopped. He knew that voice.

  “Holly?” he said as he turned around.

  “Hi — it's been a while.”

  It certainly had — the last time Phin had seen Holly was when he went to their formerly shared apartment to pick up the last few boxes of his stuff. That had been six months ago.

  “It sure has,” Phin said. “You work here now?”

  Holly stiffened up. “Yeah, but it's just a temp gig. I'm trying to get into the sales department.”

  “Funny — I never really took you for the tech support type.” Phin knew he'd made a mistake as soon as the words rolled out of his mouth.

  “What does that mean?”

  Phin got a chill — his Ex-Girlfriend Drama Sense was tingling.

  “Nothing.” Time to get out of there. “Listen, I have to get back to work — I'm running late. See you around.”

  “Yeah, bye,” Holly snorted.

  After entering the call center, Phin found the desk farthest away from the temp annex.

  Great, Phin thought, yet another thing to worry about — bumping into his ex every single day.

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bsp; * * *

  AFTER WORK, PHIN SAT IN his living room in contemplative silence. The encounter with Holly had dredged up some odd questions for Phin: Was she following him? Did he want her to be? Was he really better off now?

  He was almost happy he'd seen her, but only in a “look how well I'm doing now without you” kind of ex-encounter way. And now that that was over with, he hoped to avoid her as best he could. So Phin turned to the computer to let his fingers do the walking.

  After scarfing down a couple of burritos and chugging a liter of highly caffeinated soda, Phin went to work. He knew that if he got into the scheduling system for the office, he could find out exactly when Holly was working, and make plans to steer clear. Possibly a vulgar display of Phin's powers, but what good was being a computer whiz if he couldn't do little things like that?

  To start, Phin broke out his secret laptop. It was a lower-power machine that he'd bought second hand, paid in cash, equipped with a high speed modem, which he'd also purchased second hand in cash. Neither piece of equipment could ever be traced back to him if someone managed to pull a back-trace and retrieve the unique ID numbers from the computer or the modem. In case there was trouble, he could just yank the modem and destroy it — he had a stack of them hidden in a hollowed-out copy of Neuromancer on his bookshelf.

  One of the reasons Phin had chosen this particular apartment on third floor at the back of the apartment complex was its proximity to the phone company's switching station. By leaning out of his bedroom window, Phin had immediate access to a myriad of phone cables. All he had to do was scrape off the rubber insulation, hook up a couple of alligator clips, and he had a direct line into the telephone network. It wasn't tied to a particular phone number, so it was, like Phin's laptop, completely untraceable.

  To complete the setup, Phin broke out something he'd kept under lock and key for nearly a year: his collection of unlimited dial-up accounts from Internet in the Mall. It took a few tries, but he found an account that was still active. Phin was in business.

  Like many technology companies, Storm had a Virtual Private Network to allow employees to connect from home. It was mainly designed for executives and IT personnel, but through careful eavesdropping, Phin had found out that the call center supervisors also had their own VPN node for monitoring call stats and pulling recordings from home.