Fatal Exception

by Derek M. Dukes

  Chris Skeans, with a fresh pink slip in his pocket, had downed four beers after martini number one, and was halfway through the encore martini when he noticed someone in the bar even drunker than he was.

  The rough-shaven business type in the corner was stumbling around behind a couple of twenty-somethings with miles of cleavage between them, hurling come-on after failed come-on. When it finally became obvious that their not-so-secret admirer wasn't going to take no for an answer, the D-cup duo paid their tab and headed for the downstairs bar, where the bouncers were far more likely to do their jobs.

  Defeated and alone, the sweaty businessman staggered up to the bar and took the stool next to Chris, who had witnessed the whole awful affair.

  As drunken men sometimes do, especially drunken men in despair, the two struck up a conversation. The businessman, it seemed, was quite a talker, which suited Chris just fine.

  “Man, my company is so rich. I don't want to say where I work — somebody might hear — but it rhymes with ‘Torm Tomputer Torporation.’”

  Chris, freshly unemployed and desperate, took mental notes.

  “Yeah, there's a computer at every desk, brand new phones, TVs and microwaves everywhere. All that stuff. And the executive lounge — it has all kinds of crazy artwork and sculptures and — what do you call 'em — old stuff — antiques, artifacts everywhere. I bet if you went in there at night, you could clear a hundred grand worth of stuff easy.”

  Chris wasn't a thief anymore, but desperate times, etc. etc.

  “And they don't even have any night guard — they only wanna pay 'em while the employees are there workin', so the security guard leaves at 10 when the place closes.

  “All you need to get in is one of these.”

  The businessman flopped his security badge onto the bar, knocking over a beer in the process. The bartender — who had been tolerating the businessman's antics for hours, finally had probable cause. He nodded at a bouncer, who in turn walked over and placed a hand on the businessman's shoulder.

  “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “But . . . but . . . ”

  Chris watched as the businessman was led down the stairs by the bouncer and walked out the door. The girls from earlier also watched their former suitor's exit and blew him kisses and giggled.

  How embarrassing, Chris thought.

  As he picked up his martini shaker to try to get the few last drops, Chris spotted something on the floor — the businessman's security badge.

  Right and wrong are far from being a black-and-white issue sometimes. At this moment, for instance, a flood of possibilities entered Chris's mind, most of which the average person would call “wrong.”

  Now, think this through. You already did two years in Huntsville for armed robbery. But this is different. No weapon involved. There wouldn't even be any “breaking” — just entering. And taking. And leaving.

  Chris took the ID badge and left the restaurant to return to his empty apartment — the kids stayed with their mom during the week.

  “God, the kids. Christmas.” Four days away and here he was, jobless, broke, and drunk.

  Chris made up his mind right there and then — the next night, he'd take Brandon Foster's security badge to the big office building. He'd pull his car up, pop the trunk, and just take everything he could get his hands on.

  No guns, no guards, no risk.

  * * *

  495453415452415000

  * * *

  DESPITE HIS NERVES, CHRIS FOUND it just as easy as promised to get into the Storm Computer Corporation campus that Wednesday night. The place was as quiet as a buried tomb in the middle of a forest where nobody was around.

  After loading a half dozen computers from the first and second floors into his car, Chris decided to go after the big loot supposedly stashed in the executive lounge.

  Sure enough, the tasteless self-indulgence on the third floor was more than Chris had anticipated. Little statues, probably thousands of years old, original paintings, the only thing missing was a genie's lamp.

  After grabbing a few expensive-looking items, Chris made his way back toward the door, only to find it locked. From the outside.

  Panic set in. Chris dropped everything and pulled at the door, but the deadbolt held fast.

  A voice boomed from unseen speakers.

  “Who are you?”

  “Chris Skeans.” He was too scared to lie.

  “I won't ask you why you're stealing from my company, because frankly I don't care. What I do care about is this — does anyone else know you're here?”

  “Of . . . of course not. Listen, I don't want any trouble . . . ”

  But the speakers went silent.

  If Chris's heartbeat hadn't been pounding in his ears, he might have heard the hiss of the gas entering the airtight room. But, as it happened, he didn't hear a thing.

  Chapter 7

  Social Networking

  PHINNAEUS WAS IN A STRANGE place socially around the time he started working at Storm. Having just split up with Holly, it was like a fog lifted, and he was suddenly a whole person again- one who didn't have any friends to himself.

  Most of the friends he'd had in school had gone off to big colleges, and his more recent friends were also Holly's friends. There had been some sort of unspoken blame placed on Phin for the breakup, so naturally Holly got custody.

  And so Phinnaeus Webb found himself friendless at a new job. He'd met Brian Carter during training, but the two of them had little in common other than sharing the same employer. Brian was a few years older than Phin (which makes a difference, with Phin still in his early 20s) for starters, plus Brian had aspirations to climb the corporate ladder with Storm, while Phin just wanted steady work with a steady paycheck. Besides, Phin and Brian worked different shifts, so they rarely got to see each other during the work day.

  The tech support department at Storm Computer Corporation was vast — about 75 techs occupying row after row of six-foot-high cubicles. Their schedules were all staggered, so no more than 30 or so would be working at any one time. The call center had to be manned from 8am — 10pm, 7 days a week, and as much as it would simplify matters to have the same techs just work all the time without time off or breaks, it wasn't exactly legal.

  With a few exceptions, most of the techs were around Phin's age, most shared his interests, and most were at least aspiring social alcoholics. Statistically speaking, all he really would have to do to make friends was put names on a wall and toss some darts to see who was hit. But statistics don't account for all the little things — for example, no amount of shared interest can overcome someone who smells like a used diaper full of Indian food.

  The seating arrangement in the call center was nonexistent — nobody had their own cubicle, so it was part planning and part luck to get a decent spot near one's friends. For the first few days on his own, neither luck nor planning were on Phin's side — he always got stuck sitting next to Dale Wallis.

  To call Dale “the office pariah” would be an insult to the true pariahs out there. No, Dale was simply repulsive in just about every way imaginable. He often smelled like burnt feces, and seemed to have goo that would perpetually seep from his pores, coating everything he touched. He was actually sent home on multiple occasions to take a shower (one day he was sent home twice).

  And if this wasn't bad enough, Dale's personality was so vile and disgusting, that conversation with him was the mental and emotional equivalent of a kick to the groin.

  For example, Dale had a bad habit of announcing his bathroom trips. “I'm going to go give birth to a brown baby boy,” he'd proudly call out for anyone within earshot. He would also occasionally give a report upon his return (e.g., “That was a corny one.”).

  And that was just with the other techs. Getting him on the phone with a customer was a complete crap shoot. There was a 50/50 chance on any given call that the customer would either call back or the problem would end up worse than when the customer fir
st called.

  Knowing that Dale was disliked, if not downright loathed, by everyone else made Phin's decision to assume Dale's identity for nefarious purposes that much easier. The office network wasn't terribly well protected, but it did require a user login. By watching Dale's fingers for a few days, Phin managed to pick up Dale's.

  Once Phin had Dale's password (“ilovetitties”), he waited until a day when Dale was out of the office and then put his plan into action. Phin took Dale's workstation for the day, knowing that nobody else would want to use the same computer as that foul little troll.

  By swapping the keyboard with another unoccupied station, Phin protected his hands from the sticky grease from Dale's fingertips. He logged into the workstation and network using Dale's password and then set up the workstation as his central control server. Phin was then able to remotely slap a keystroke logger and network packet sniffer onto every other system, all of which would report back to Dale's computer without anyone's knowledge. The server would then send all the logs (encrypted, of course) to an off-site server — actually a hidden facet of the Republican Party's website installed by Phin through an unpatched hole.

  * * *

  54524F4A414E484F52534500

  * * *

  AFTER SETTING UP HIS LITTLE information-gathering operation, Phin stuck around the desks near Dale to make sure he didn't notice all the background processes running on his machine. He didn't. But one of the other techs took notice of Phin always sitting near Dale and sent him an instant message one Friday night.

  Justin: Hey, it's me Justin from the end of the row.

  Phin: Hey what's up?

  Justin: Sorry you keep ending up next to Dale. He's a shitbag. I've heard some of your calls. You're pretty good.

  Phin: Thanks. I just started a little while ago, but I've been playing with computers for a long time.

  Justin: The trick to getting a good desk is showing up at least 15 minutes early.

  Phin: Good tip. Hey, what's there to do around here after work?

  Justin: Some of us are heading a party tonight actually. Sort of a keg party, down by campus. Want to come?

  Phin: Absolutely.

  Justin: Cool. Meet me in the parking lot after 10 — but make sure you aren't followed by Dale. He'll try to tag along if you're not discreet.

  Phin: Got it.

  * * *

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  * * *

  T WEST CAMPUS known as Rowdytown was an infamous party location. It had a huge outside patio, big interconnected central rooms, and upstairs bedrooms isolated with a door at the top of the stairs.

  Built sometime in the 1950s, the house had been passed down from student to debauched student for decades. Often the inhabitants weren't necessarily the owners — and sometimes they didn't even know who owned the place.

  When Phinnaeus arrived at the house, Rowdytown already looked like a party bomb had been detonated in the center of the building, scattering a mess of drunkards in every direction. The crowd spilled out of every door like the floppy tits of a fat girl wearing a corset at the Renaissance Festival.

  Just as the doors did little to keep people in or out, the walls did little to contain the music. As he broke his way through the crowd, Phin spied the source. It wasn't a stereo; it was a live three-piece rockabilly band — complete with a stand-up bass player with a 10-gauge septum ring.

  Phin looked around inside, but didn't see his co-worker Justin anywhere. He'd given Phin the directions to get here, and was unfortunately the only person Phin expected to know.

  Once again, Phin was out of his element. There was only one thing to do — head to the keg out back.

  Having never been to a proper college and therefore having never been to a real live keg party, Phin didn't have any understanding of the subtle song-and-dance, the ceremony associated with the keg — but he was a quick study:

  Wait behind the crowd.

  If someone approaches you from inside the crowd holding a beer, step aside to let him or her out.

  When you get close to the keg, start pumping.

  Allow 2-3 people to use the nozzle to fill their cups while you continue to pump (as necessary).

  Eventually, someone will hand you the spigot.

  Quickly fill your cup.

  Hand the spigot to someone else (preferably the nearest hot chick, or the person currently pumping).

  Get back.

  Drink your beer.

  Go to Step 1.

  The plus side to having a live band at a party is that if you're there alone, you can always just stand there and watch the band. So that's what Phin did for a few beers, occasionally scanning the crowd with his eyes to look for Justin. While it seemed that he was a no-show, Phin did manage to spot someone else of interest.

  She stood about 5'2", with a slender but not anorexic build, dark red hair (almost certainly dyed) in pig tails, and a scandalous school girl type outfit that took on a sense of weightlessness as its wearer bounced to the music. She didn't appear to have a drink, but she did have some sort of a tattoo on her lower back that peeked out every time she hopped up and down.

  Phin watched the girl for quite a while. She didn't appear to be with a guy — there was no way any man with a girlfriend that hot would let her loose dressed like that in a place like this without an escort. She seemed to enjoy every song the band played, but she wasn't overly friendly with any of the band members, nor did she sing along like a zombie, so she probably wasn't a groupie.

  She had magical eyes, with just a little too much makeup — just enough to still be hot, but without looking like a 14-year-old mallrat.

  As Phin watched the mystery girl, he felt a fire ignite somewhere in the primitive part of his brain. He knew he had to meet her.

  Talk to her, dipshit. Club her and drag her back to your cave by those naughty red pigtails.

  And Phin might have succeeded, at least with the first part, if only the Austin Police Department hadn't chosen that moment to make their nightly visit to send everyone running.

  Chapter 8

  For Science

  “OH GOOD, YOU'RE AWAKE.”

  Failed thief Chris Skeans faded into consciousness to find himself strapped to an operating table. His hands were each bound at the wrist, his feet at the ankles, and a cold steel band held his head firmly in place.

  Unable to move his body, Chris darted his eyes around looking for the person who owned the voice that had awakened him.

  “Where am I? Who's there?”

  Elliot Storm, clad in a white, blood-spattered lab coat, noisy rubber gloves, and safety goggles, stood in the shadows just outside Chris's peripheral vision.

  “Come now, Mr. Skeans — it doesn't really matter who I am. And, as for where you are, you're obviously on a table.”

  “Let me go!” Christ started to realize that he wasn't in a jail cell or interrogation room, that he was somewhere else — and that his life was very much in danger.

  The walls around the brightly lit operating table were lined with banks of computer monitors and highly sensitive equipment covered in colored lights and buttons and knobs and switches. Chris had a very limited view due to being held in place on the table; the white hot spotlight shining in his face did not help matters, either.

  “Listen, whatever you're planning on doing to me . . . ”

  “Is none of your business,” Elliot cut him off. “Besides, to be honest, I already did it. I just had to wake you up to find out if you survived the procedure without significant brain damage.”

  Chris came to realize that he was numb from the neck up. Panic. Cold sweat, white knuckles, hyperventilation.

  Somewhere outside Chris's field of vision, an alarm sounded, and another voice started barking out orders in German. Elliot stepped forward.

  “Mr. Skeans, I'm going to need you to settle down now.”

  Elliot held up a control pad with wires running across the floor and directly into Chris's scalp. As Elliot pressed a
single button, Chris felt all his panic wash away, replaced by total tranquility and peace.

  “There. Is that better?”

  Chris smiled sweetly as the peace gave way to a wave of total euphoria that coated his whole body.

  “I'll just leave you alone for a minute.”

  Elliot set down the control pad and walked into the nearby monitoring room, where a half-paralyzed old man sat in an electric wheelchair.

  “Doctor, you have really outdone yourself. You have literally done in two weeks what medical science has been attempting to do for decades.”

  “Ah yes,” the doctor replied in a thick German accent, “But it is alvays easier vith test subjects and not just mice and theories.”

  “How much time do you need to get the two-way interface working?”

  “At least two more days for ze initial phase with zis subject. I will need another subject for the final prototype. Zis one is . . . too stupid.”

  “Do not worry, Dr. Reinhart. You'll have your ‘subject’ when the time comes. As for this one — when you're through with him, refrigerate the valuable tissue and then dispose of the rest, just like all of the others.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Sturm.”

  Elliot approached the elevator.

  “And Dr. Reinhart — great work. It would have been a shame to lose a mind like yours in Nuremberg.”

  The shriveled doctor nodded.

  “I have an errand to run, but I'll be back shortly. Please see that Room 6 is prepped and ready.”

  As the elevator doors closed, Dr. Reinhart wheeled his chair into the operating room, where Chris Skeans was still strapped to the table, completely lost in all-encompassing bliss.

  “Guten Tag. It is time to begin.”

  The doctor picked up the control panel and started pressing buttons, shattering Chris's nirvana.

  “How does zat feel?”