The Crimson Chip

by Chris Tallant

  Robbie flipped the patient on his left side, making the small incision site where the chip implanted stick out like a bad repair for a fresh gun shot wound on a battlefield.  

  Waving the hand scanner over the incision site, the computer let out a shrill beep.  I turned and looked at the monitor, the numbers from the chip were all in the tens of thousands - much too high for a chip this new, recently inserted, and worse: not activated yet.  The last time this happened, one of the surgeons took a chip removed from another patient and accidentally put it in someone else.  That didn’t end well.

  I looked up at Robbie, who looked at the monitor and over at me, noticing the fear in my eyes and shrugging.  I scanned the chip again, the same numbers jumping up on the monochrome screen.

  Grabbing the phone, I called the nurses office on the first floor, “This is Matt Becker, lower-level, in Microchip verification, and we have an emergency, bring a crash cart and a doctor - possibly a surgeon, STAT!”

  I don’t know why I said stat.  I saw it on television once, maybe that is why.

  Within a few minutes, my cramped little glass room filled with people to the point where I had to stand and look from the hallway window.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder.  Dr. Roma stood next to me looking in on everything going on.  “Like I said,” he grinned at me, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”  

  I swear I saw the bastard’s smile widen at me before he said, “Why don’t you go home for the rest of the day while we fix this mess you made.”

  “But,” I stammered, “I didn’t do anything, ask Robbie!”

  “Robbie told me he saw you do something to the chip before you scanned it.”

  “How?”  We got here at the same time!”

  “Time to go home, Matt.”

  “This is bullshit!”

  “Watch your mouth, son!”

  “Bite me!”

  With that, I slammed through the stairs door and marched up the stairs into the locker room - crying the entire way.

  Ever have those “Roller Coaster days?”  Yeah, I’d like to get off this ride, please.

  Chapter 2

  Jason sat on the couch-watching Sports Center on television when a rapid and frantic knock comes from the door.

  He opened the door to see an upset frizzy orange-haired woman with her arms crossed standing on the porch staring back at him.

  “Where’s Matt?” Her dark eyes burned through Jason.

  “Umm..”  Jason was lost for words, looking down the hallway.  “I thought he out with you.”

  “He stood me up.”

  “What?  That’s impossible.”

  “It’s true.”  She said, looking past Jason into the small Royal Oak condo at the bookcases lining the walls, “Is he here?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since lunch,” Jason opened the door, “please, come in.”

  “Thanks,” She rubbed her bare arms walking through the door, “I forgot how chilly it gets at night once the sun goes down.”

  “Would you like some tea or coffee or something?”  Jason offered.

  “No thanks,” she said, “Just bring me Matt’s head on a platter.”

  “By the way, I’m Jason.”

  “Becky.”  She kept staring at the books on the wall.

  “Right, Becky,” Jason turned around and walked down the hallway. “I’ll see if he’s in his room.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Jason walked down the hallway towards Matt’s room, Becky walked across the wooden floor to look at the books.  “Quite the collection,” she thought to herself.  “Everything from Bukowski to Alan Moore, my kind of people.”

  “Matt, are you in there?”  Jason knocked on the door.

  “Go away.”

  “Becky’s here.”

  “What?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yes,” Jason said, “and pissed you stood her up.”

  I sniffed and wiped the tears away from my face and patted my hair down from hiding under my pillow all afternoon.  I guess I nodded off without realizing any time passed.

  Becky forced open the door and stood in my room, glaring at me with a fierce admonition a drill Sargent gives to the writhing maggots trying to struggle through boot camp after years of living a life of luxury in the Hollywood Hills.

  “No one stands me up.  No one.  Got it?”  She pointed a painted fingernail at my pupil, mere feet from my face.

  “I’m..  I’m sorry.”  I tried not to cry in front of her, however I could feel my tear ducts welling up again, “I had a bad day at work.  A patient almost died and they blamed me for it, so they sent me home.”

  “How can you almost kill a patient?”  Jason asked, “All you do is scan a microchip after the surgeons put it in…it’s impossible.”

  “That’s what I tried telling Dr. Roma!”  I said, putting my head back in my hands.

  “Matt,” Becky said, sitting next to me on my bed, “you have to snap out of it,” she put her cold hands on my shoulders. “If you know it wasn’t your fault, why are you so upset?”

  “Because Dr. Roma told me others were complaining about me tampering with their chips, “I took a breath, “and I haven’t been turning in my time-sheets, so I’m not going to get my intern credit for college.” I looked at the two of them staring at me trying to catch my breath. “So I’ll have to do all this over again, and Dr. Roma thinks I hacked into the computer system to gain access to some codes from other hospitals.”

  “So,” Jason said, lost in thought, “you think he’s trying to pin all this on you.”

  “Sure as hell seems like it, doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds like it to me,” Becky said, rubbing my shoulders, “come on, let me buy you a drink.”

  “I don’t drink,” I said.

  “Now’s a good time to start,” Becky added, “I still want to know how you know so much about me.”

  “You haven’t told her?”  Jason added.

  “Told me what?”  Becky stopped rubbing my shoulders.

  “I don’t know shit about you,” I turned toward her, looking into her eyes, “I think you’re gorgeous and brilliant and… just the perfect woman, but the Paula Abdul thing was a shot in the dark.”

  “It was?”

  “Yes,” I added, “I like Paula Abdul.  Jason and I used to watch her on American Idol, and afterwards we grabbed all her MP3’s and became fans.  It’s not because of you, it’s just because we’re fans too.”

  “So you don’t know anything about me?”  Becky looked dumbfounded.

  “I didn’t know your name until you introduced yourself five minutes ago.”

  “Well,” Becky said, standing up, “I still want to know more about you, and I still think you need a drink.”  She held out her hand, “It took balls to tell me all this right to my face, so I’ll give you that, let’s go.”

  I grabbed her hand, smiled a weak smile up at Jason who shook his head either at my stupidity or my dumb luck, either way, I’m the one walking out with a pretty girl.

  * * * * *

  At Fifth-Avenue Ballroom on Main Street in Royal Oak, I showed the bouncer my fake ID to get in since my real driver’s license would have us eating at the Coney Island down the street.  I followed Becky around to a small-secluded tall table near the back wall where she could see everyone in the room and no one could sit behind her.  I remember a scene similar in Grosse Pointe Blank where the hit men would look for seats like this so people couldn’t shoot them in the back.  When I tried to ask if this was why she picked this seat, she mentioned something about “not wanting anyone else to hear what we said.”

  I don’t think I believe her, but it’s not my place to question someone giving me a second chance.

  “What are you drinking?”  The waitress looked at me.

  “Gin, neat.  And a tall water with ice, please.”  I kept my eyes locked on Becky, who gave me a confused glan
ce.

  “Maker’s Mark, double, on the rocks.”

  The waitress took quick notes and said, “Got it, be right back.”

  “I thought you didn’t drink,” Becky slapped my hand.

  “I don’t,” I said, “You haven’t seen me drink yet, have you?”

  “Well, no,” Becky said, “do you water the hell out of it or something?”

  “In a sense, yes.”

  “This I gotta see.”

  “So,” I said, trying to change the subject, “you know where I live?”

  “Well, as I proved earlier today,” Becky said, “unlike you, I do know a bit about you.”

  “Which would include my address….”

  “I know your address, your birthdate, your social security number, the number of credit cards you have, how much you owe on them, your college history, how many times you’ve been sick in the hospital, how many cars you’ve had, when your parents passed,” Becky paused and put her hand on mine, “which I’m sorry to hear, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” I said.”

  “I know a good amount,” Becky admitted, “but what I don’t know is what is up here.”  She poked my forehead.

  “What would you like to know?”

  Her eyes shrunk into small slits, as if trying to see something far away and trying to squint.  “I want to know what makes Matt Becker tick.”

  “Well,” I started to unbutton my shirt in a cocky way, “I have this clock inside of me…”

  She smacked my arm, “Seriously, what makes you…ya’know, you?”

  “I love computers,” I shrugged, “well, not in a prison way.  More of a ‘I need to learn everything I can about this operating system or technology while it’s interesting’ type of way, which is why I love to read and study new advances in research and breakthroughs.”

  “Not just the security side?”

  “Security is one part of the puzzle, yes,” I admitted, “but think of it like this: a computer system, or a computer network is more along the lines of a fine gemstone or polished diamond. It is multi-faceted and when taken care of and perfected is more precious than anything else around and more coveted by those who don’t understand how it became that way.”

  “I understand,” Becky said, “but no one thinks like that about computers.  Gems, coins, collectibles, things like that, yes.”

  “Those are tangible items sold for monetary value,” I say, “a perfect network is something unheard of in today’s technological environment.”

  “Not true,” Becky said, “we have a very stable…”

  “Stable is not perfect.” I interrupt, “Sorry, but perfect would not allow viruses and malware to procreate inside or outside the network.”

  “That’s…”

  “…Impossible?”  I finish her thought, “Not at all.  I’ve built one in the past.  Two of them, actually.”

  “Then why do you use the most rudimentary hacks to get into our network?”

  “To get your attention.”

  “Just mine?”  Becky blushed.  She’s even cuter when she blushes.

  “At first, it was your boss since I thought he did the hiring,” I admitted, “but when you showed up and started talking, everything from then on was trying to get your attention.”

  “Well,” she put her hand on mine, “you have my attention.  And I think our drinks are here.”

  The waitress put our drinks on coasters, I handed her two $20 bills, “Please keep the change, and if Becky wishes for another drink, please give her one.”

  “Thanks!”  The waitress hurried away with the huge tip.

  “You know these drinks were maybe $10 total, right?”  Becky asked, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “You’ve never been to a bar?”  I asked.  “The more you tip the waitress at the beginning, the more she’ll come by when she notices your drink is close to empty and offer refills.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I’m not a drinker,” I said, grabbing my glass of water and holding it up, “and I know the rules in bars.”

  “Why aren’t you a drinker?  Aren’t all college kids?”

  “Two reasons,” I said after taking long drag of water, “one, it messes up my medication for depression.  As you may have noticed from earlier, I get a bit manic when things spiral out of my control.”

  “I did notice you became unwound pretty quick, however having someone’s death blamed on you when you had nothing to do with it is a bad day no matter how you look at it.”

  “And second, I have a gluten allergy.  Most alcohol comes from barley or wheat.”  I said, holding up the gin and taking a sniff, “cheap stuff, probably made from run-off malt from another batch of mash.  I’d have stomach cramps for a week and diarrhea for two.”

  “Sounds like hell.  I’ve heard of gluten allergy before,” Becky said after taking a deep pull from her glass of bourbon, “but I’ll admit I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Gluten is an enzyme found in wheat and foods mixed with wheat products,” I said, “Just about all sauces, soups, breads, pasta, breading, deep fryers, and anything cross-contaminated with items mixed with wheat rips my stomach up something rough.”  I pulled my sleeve back and exposed three deep scars crisscrossing my wrists, “these were before I found out I was allergic to gluten, back in high school and right after my parents died.”

  “I’m sorry, Matt.” Becky took another swig of her bourbon and the waitress came back to our table as I pulled my sleeve back to cover the scars.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” the waitress bent down, “are you ready for another one?”

  Becky gave me an evil smile and looked at her glass, “Sure, why not?”

  “Very good!  I’ll be right back.”  

  “Told you.”

  “You learn something new every day.”  Becky smiled and sat back, taking another swig from her glass.

  A sharp pain jabbed me in the lower back, I leaned forward and let out a groan.

  “Are you okay?”  Becky asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “can you do me a favor and describe the women who just walked through the door?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Becky craned her neck and looked toward the door, “two twenty-something girls, tarted up like they’re in a rap-music video, sleeveless blouses with glitter or sparkles on their arms…”

  “One a brunette with a tattoo of a Vargas Girl holding a rebel flag?”

  “What’s a Vargas Girl?”

  “Like an old 1940’s pin-up model, those old Playboy paintings or cartoons?”

  “Oh,” Becky said, “Yeah, I think so, they’re walking this way, but we’re by the bathroom.  What’s the matter?”

  “Give me a minute and I’ll explain.”  I put my head on the table and grabbed my lower back as a sharp pain sent waves of electronic pulses up the rear of my ribcage.  The bathroom doors did not move, locked and in use since this is a bar, so they turned around and walked back towards the front of the ballroom.

  “Okay,” Becky said, grabbing my hair and picking up my head, “explain.”

  “Promise you won’t get mad?”

  “Today is a roller coaster of emotions,” she looked at me as I tried to straighten myself up. “It’s a rough day to understand, I can’t promise anything.”

  “I took a chip from work, an unused one, not programmed with anything on it.”  I said.

  “You took a medical microchip from work?”

  “I wanted to see if I could make it work for me and my ailments,” I said. “Depression medicine, gluten allergies, anything I could do to improve the manufacture’s original intent.”

  “Go on.”

  “My ex-girlfriend has a chip in her,” I pointed with my thumb behind me, “and I got the CID off the chip she has in her.”

  “So,” Becky said, “When the two chips get close, they cause pain?  But I didn’t see her in pain.”

  “It’s something I designed mine to do, so I know when she’s ar
ound.”

  “Why…”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “After everything going on today,” Becky crossed her arms, “humor me.”

  “She…umm, likes it rough,” I felt my face turning red as I focused my attention to the glass of water in front of me, “after a broken nose, three broken ribs and many holes in my walls, I broke it off with her.”

  “Wise move.”

  “Then it got worse.”

  “Stalking?”  Becky asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, still holding my lower right back, “she would hit my car at a stop lights to get out and talk with her.”

  “Could you get a restraining order?”

  “She told the judge I raped her.”

  “What?”  Becky’s eyes turned black in rage, “I hate it when women use controlling crap to try to get their way.”

  “She’s also type-1 diabetic,” I said, patting Becky’s arm and motioning her to calm down, “so I sent her parents some ‘anonymous’ paperwork offering free trials for this new automatic plastic pancreas pump in the form of a microchip where she wouldn’t have to take blood samples and inject herself with insulin.”

  “Which the little pain freak probably loved to do.”  Becky kept her eyes fixed on her. “Go on.”

  “When she had the chip installed, I found her CID and programmed a routine on my borrowed chip to shock me when her chip came within a few hundred feet of mine.  I installed mine and it works like a charm.”  I looked over at Becky who had a new look in her eyes.  I wasn’t sure if was sympathy or if she was looking at a psychopath.

  “You installed a custom-programmed chip in yourself that you made give you pain when she comes around you?  Why not have hers shock her when you come around?”

  “Because,” I looked up at Becky, “she’s into pain, remember?  It would get out of control and make her wish for me even more.”

  “I have to ask,” Becky said, “How long ago was this?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “You’ve been dealing with this pain on purpose for three years?”

  “No,” I said, “I broke up with her three years ago, I put the chip in about a month ago so she’ll stop bumping into me on accident.”

  “Have you seen her since?”