* * *
The executive passcodes, his ‘keys’ as Ted had already coined them, worked from several locations. He didn’t have to be in Hamm's office to use them, he could access everything from his own terminal in his own office. My own office. The thought of it gave him a happy shiver.
Hamm had set it up that way on purpose, so he wouldn’t be underfoot. The passcodes were pedestrian, easily memorized, and insecure as hell. Hamm probably used them everywhere he went. The fact that some third-world country hadn’t hacked them already was a minor miracle. But that wasn’t Ted’s problem. He wasn’t to change them, only manage them, and hand them off according to executive order, which meant whenever Hamm felt like allowing others to know more about specific matters. He doled out information on a need-to-know basis, and it was Ted’s responsibility to key in on which codes needed to be unlocked for which purpose.
The personal passwords, which Hamm also entrusted to Ted, were even more ludicrous. Ted was surprised he didn’t find one-two-three-four-five in there someplace. He had a pretty good idea that ‘favorite pet’ and ‘childhood best friend’ were in the mix, assuming Hamm had any pets or friends to fall back on.
Although he found plenty of Sahara-related material in the personal files, he never integrated any of it. He did, however, amuse himself by skimming through for dirty little secrets. There were quite a few shockers in there, enough to satisfy his voyeuristic side for a while.
Forgotten stashes of porn, a compilation of racist jokes, and emails from three women—all in the same timeframe—he’d apparently had close relationships with. Ted wondered if the boss just didn’t care enough to protect this stuff, or if he’d just lost track of it over the years. He assumed the latter; nobody would want others to see such personal failings in black and white.
There was also a folder of bank statements that Ted noticed first for the eye-popping amounts involved, but the real kicker was that one of those women in the emails, Ms. Brandi Snow, was named as a co-beneficiary. Payoffs to a jealous ex? Or a working girl, perhaps? Juicy stuff, all, even if Ted didn’t really know what to make of half of it. The phrase more money, more problems flashed across his mind as he contemplated these deep dark secrets, but he didn’t dwell on it for long. Whatever issues Dennis Hamm had, he was faring a hell of a lot better than his employees, Ted included.
Careful to doctor the meta afterwards so the files appeared untouched, Ted put it back carefully and returned to his legitimate work. The system was all over the place, documents and folders a chaotic mess, so Ted spent a lot of time organizing. When that was done, he restructured the filing system in a more intuitive manner, using an organizational chart for reference. Just a few clicks down the chart brought the user into any segment of the corporation, and even Hamm wouldn’t have trouble finding anything.
At that point Ted had done just about all he was capable of. His resume claimed a great deal more expertise than he actually possessed, when it came to getting any real work done he was hopeless. Hamm probably expected him to update to the latest specs, throw in all the bells and whistles that Infotech would normally provide, but he didn't have the first clue how to do any of that.
~ 2 ~
Colleagues
To stave off boredom, or satisfy some sense of curiosity, or sometimes for no reason at all, Ted had started dialoguing with Sahara clients. This was something his computer was supposed to do. Nobody told him to do it, but nobody told him not to, either. No one was really around to tell him what to do at all. His supervisor worked in a different farm, too far away to bother with a stroll-by, and aside from text messages or the occasional phone call, they had nothing to do with each other. As for his neighbors around the farm, none of them had any idea what Ted was up to, nor he them, and not a single one of them made the slightest effort to rectify the oversight.
It all started, innocently enough, with honest answers to some of the tough questions the computers were garbling up. Ted would attempt to give thoughtful replies and well-considered suggestions, all in the guise of being an auto-responder himself. He enjoyed receiving grateful “thank you” messages to the entity on the other end they probably should have known was a machine. Except that in this case it wasn’t, it was just helpful old Ted.
Winter—notable within the building only for the fact that employees were sweating somewhat less profusely—was one of those times that Ted found himself aimless and restless. In mid-shift, as he fought off the urge to doze, an interesting response came in from someone he’d already twice doled out the seven day treatment to. He had set the case aside, never expecting to see any more of it, twice. But the vartist in question was persistent to a fault, and twice the machines sent the matter back to his terminal. He was ready to wash his hands of the matter entirely, send it back to the auto-responders an unprecedented third time, but this reply was far from mundane, and the persistent individual had finally captured his attention.
One of a cadre self-employed corporate servants, these so called ‘vartists’ toiled away in anonymity. At their own expense, both financially and in terms of time wasted, they worked to enrich Sahara. They dutifully contributed tiny deposits from friends and family, which added up to large streams of revenue pouring into the corporate coffers, while they themselves received only a fraction of a pittance for their efforts.
This one, a Ms. Lucinda Littleton, one of the half-million or so ‘exclusive’ Sahara vauthors, was demanding better answers to an all-too-familiar question. In fairness to Ted, he had no idea he was interfering in something the auto-responders were better equipped to handle. He didn’t know that this was supposed to be automated. The message was sent to him, so he took care of it. He honestly though it was something he was supposed to do.
To Whom It May Concern_vauthor inquiries_rankings
Dear Sir,
I’m writing today to inquire as to your policy in regards to sales rankings for your virtual “TinderCloud” bookstore, particularly for direct sales to your TinderCloud graphene flexipocket virtuabook series. As of the present time, my sales ranking on TinderCloud is #376,268 in the paid section. I have tried many suggestions for improving this ranking, including paid reviews, free reviews, blog spots, blog tours, virtual tours, free and reduced price days, book lists, tweet lists, vauthor lists, and paid advertising, but even so my ranking has never risen any higher than 23,576 for two days following my eighth free giveaway, before sinking back down again soon thereafter. I would appreciate any suggestions you may have.
Hopefully Yours,
Lucinda J. Littleton, author of Not On My Watch, an all-new suspense mystery
Ted was about to refer this one back to the computer for a canned answer. It would take a lot of effort, and the likely outcome was an angry reply. It hardly seemed worth the trouble, but something stopped him this time; the makings of a beneficial idea, something altruistic to make the effort worthwhile.
Dear Valued Vauthor Lucinda J. Littleton,
Congratulations on the publication of your novel, Not On My Watch, an admirable and noteworthy achievement! We look forward to a long and prosperous partnership with you and the Sahara family of content creators! (This part was canned. Ted recalled the auto-response from memory...)
As regards your inquiry, you have been selected to participate in our new membership club, gold level. Should you wish to improve your rankings in this manner, simply fill out the application form below and submit the processing fee of $100.
Ted re-read the note. A hundred dollars seemed rather paltry. Unbelievable, even, now that he saw it in print. $100 $300. Fixed. He figured the prank might produce an amusing application if nothing else. Something he could keep in the bottom drawer, show it off to co-worker friends if he ever made any. Or pull it out whenever he needed a boost, something to keep him amused.
That being the extent of his intentions, he hadn’t thought about what to do if the recipient actually tried to pay. He hadn’t bothered to provide a method for doing so, so he co
uld hardly have imagined someone would be so resourceful. If he’d given it more thought, he might have realized that desperate times demanded desperate measures, and the vartist community these days was very desperate. From the gold rush days of early, easy success, to the saturation point that had long since come and gone, still millions more jumped on every year. That was a lot of competition to overcome. If he’d given it more thought, he might have known someone like Lucinda Littleton would go to great lengths to give herself an edge.
* * *
Drones. Executive spite-code for the nameless, hapless, soul-crushed legion of pickers, packers, movers, and unloaders who perform all those robotic duties. They toiled at an impressive pace, thanks to the highly orchestrated ‘incentive’ program which was really just the opposite. ‘Move your ass or lose your job’ was the reality, as everyone knew
As Ted looked on without expression nor opinion, a herd of new recruits were stampeding their way through his section of the cubicle farm. The lead ‘teambuilder’ cheerily pointed out the nameplates of sections and departments without saying a word. The recorded voice spilling out of the flexi-plastic monitor attached to the back of her uniform did all the talking, in the form of good old, friendly neighborhood CEO Dennis Hamm.
Hamm spent half the time telling them to watch out for safety, while using the other half to explain why they’d better move as fast as humanly possible if they knew what was good for them. All on the fly, as the human resources folks had figured out that orientation rooms cost money to light and heat, not to mention taking up precious floor space. Desks and chairs, too, were added expenditures the company could live without. Since there was a safety-inspired walking tour to be completed anyway, might as well kill two birds with one stone. The tour/video session concluded, without missing a beat, at the entrance of the training sector. Mock shelves and bins stood ready to use for the practical training phase. The military forces of most countries could learn a thing or two about efficiency from Sahara.
* * *
Ted was perched in a rickety tall chair, styrofoam cup in one hand, stretching out his neck muscles and rotating his shoulders. The clock read 4:42pm, but it was always on the slow side. Break time was almost over. He drank the coffee-flavored muck and tried to ignore the drab surroundings. Food machines and peeling paint offered little to occupy the imagination. It was enough to drive a person straight into fantasy world, daydreaming to escape. It was preferable to a complete breakdown, anyway, which always seemed an outside possibility in this place. He resented the fact that this room was his ‘favorite’. All relative, of course, to the otherwise even more miserable edifice, inside of which he was forced to spend most of his life.
Finding little to hold his interest in the walls and fixtures, he turned his attention to the similarly drab appearance of his co-workers, all sitting in much the same fashion with a steaming weak drink or an unhealthy snack grasped in their care-work hands. Some, the floor workers mostly, had dirt under their fingernails and ugly scabs from daily abuse. Others, the keyboard jockeys for instance, were somewhat better groomed, but the drab outward effect was the same. Tired and weatherbeaten, this was quiet misery in poignant form.
With a sigh, Ted drained his drink and, opting out of any banal conversation the remaining six minutes might have offered, returned early to his cubby. There he found a message in his inbox, and not the run-of-the-mill kind either. The person he’d pranked was in touch again, having found a way to send the money without any instructions at all.
Ted debated sending a note back; dismiss the entire affair. He’d strung the guy out long enough. He was about to do just that, calling up a message form so he could dash off an apology for the ‘technical error’ that led to this unexpected chain of events, when a sudden impulse moved his cursor from the message center right over to the new release charts he always had opened on his desktop. For the fun of it, just to see what would happen, and in order to justify keeping the money, he pushed the vartist’s code up the chart. Only a notch or two at first, then slightly more, edging it higher without attracting attention. Then he waited.
It took less than ninety-seconds for a follow-up message, in all-caps no less, to hit his inbox. The guy must have been refreshing his browser ever since writing the first time. Ted had never seen so many different ways of saying ‘thank you’ in one message—an overly punctuated display of unabashed adoration. The sense of elation jumping off the page even gave him a charge, though the real excitement came from actually doing something useful for his money. He was shocked to realize this was the first time in his life he’d actually done so, and even more surprised at how great it felt.
* * *
Boasting an air quality index just a hair’s breadth under the legal limit, with dozens of nearby stacks belching out toxins all day long, it was difficult to breathe and impossible to enjoy the outdoors anywhere in the vicinity. As such, most of the employees stayed indoors during their breaks, venturing outside only to rush for the commuter train station or, for the lucky ones, for their cars. The only common exception was the smoking crowd, folks who cared little about air-quality to begin with.
Phil Caldorian was a different kind of exception, a contrarian without even knowing it. Unaffected by the stink of tobacco and heavy pollutants, he took lunches outdoors simply so he could be left alone. Tablet in hand to read over the latest high-tech reports, which is where Ted found him that day. Chomping large chunks off a pickle amid wisps of smoke drifting over from the cancer zone, he looked up in surprise when Ted’s shadow fell over him. This man was clearly unaccustomed to any sort of at-work companionship.
“Hello?” he began, even that single word a cold shoulder. ‘What’d you want?’ would have been more apt for conveying the sentiment.
“Heya Phil,” Ted swiped away some ash from the seat and gingerly sat down, “thought I might find you out here.”
“That’s right, you might...”— he pulled a can of Coke Zero away from Ted’s side, as if the intruder might drink it by mistake—“if you knew where to look.” He grinned at his own nonsensical banter, like he’d said something amusing. “What do you need from me?” It wasn’t ‘what’d you want?’ after all, but close enough.
The question, blunt though it was, didn’t surprise Ted. He knew Phil by reputation. “Yeah, actually I did have something I wanted to run by you. But it can wait, if you’re still on lunch break.”
“I’ll be done”—he inspected the can, as if to make sure Ted hadn’t contaminated it somehow, then took a careful sip—“in seven minutes.” Crinkling the can a few times with his fingers, he admired the dents. Looking around without a clear focus, it was obvious he wasn’t trying to take in the dull scenery. His eyes darted this way and that, an avoidance technique that made it look like he’d lost something. Ted wondered if he was observing some kind of mental illness. Asperger’s, maybe. Taking no comfort in his surroundings, and increasingly uncomfortable with Ted’s presence, he returned his attention to his portable screen. His body language was screaming leave me alone! with every twitch and tick.
Ted looked at his watch, then nodded at the tablet. “Anything interesting?” He didn’t care one way or the other, just trying to complete the requisite small-talk so he could excuse himself properly. But with someone so unsociable, it only made things worse.
“Interesting how?” He flicked his wrist so the screen was no longer visible, a gesture that came off as possessive if not downright childish. He cocked his head at Ted, not in an aggressive way, more like a puzzled bird. “Yes, I guess you’re right. It is interesting. Talk to you inside, then?” Along with the dismissive tone, his eyes were subconsciously gravitating to the backside of the tablet, as though reading it upside down and through metal were actually possible. He seemed torn between keeping up the petty behavior, and allowing himself to get back to his entertainment—a dilemma that seemed to be stressing him out to the point of distraction. The discomfort was palpable, for both of them.
; “Okay then!” Ted said in a friendly voice, finally taking the hint and getting up. He held his breath as he walked past the cancer lounge, taking a casual look back in the process. Phil was once more engrossed in the monitor, not bothering to watch his colleague off. Ted could only hope that Phil would remember the conversation, and swing by as indicated. He didn’t want to have to contact the Infotech department himself, or deal with any others like Phil. One of him was more than enough.
~ 3 ~
Assignments
The sting was a resource heavy, time consuming operation. An excessive number of man-hours were devoted to the task, prompting complaints about cost overruns. The invasive nature of the surveillance likewise lead to privacy concerns. The facility was monitored on a round-the-clock basis, draining their reserves for several weeks. But it paid off—they got their man.
“Straight from the hand that feeds you no less,” Hank Fangue said, his voice filling the room with menace. “Not too bright.”
The perpetrator sat stunned, eyes averted, trying to hold back the dread induced tears. The offending package of snack-bread sat on the desk in front of him, proof of wrongdoing plucked from his own hands. Just when he’d thought he was safe, too, in the hallway outside the cafeteria doors. That's where they'd grabbed him.
“I...I didn’t, I mean—”
“Go on,”—the agent leaned in, cocking an ear—“say what you've got to say.”
“It was an impulse, that’s all..I just thought to bring it home, for my kids. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Uh huh. Not a big deal.” Fangue nodded through his replies, making himself seem sympathetic.
The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller Page 2