Fatal Exception

by Derek M. Dukes

  Since Phin wasn't a supervisor, he didn't have his own login for the VPN, but he had the next best thing: a big brain and the army of keystroke loggers he had routed through Dale Wallis's computer at work. All Phin he had to do was look through the logs and see what looked like a password.

  It took a little bit of force, but Phin managed to penetrate the call center manager's VPN account. Once he was inside, he had access to all the staffing records for both the permanent employees and the temps.

  According to the schedule, Holly worked only in the evenings. Part-time. She had to be paying the bills another way. Phin kept digging to see if any of the other temps were part-time, or if Holly had somehow requested the part-time gig, possibly with the intention of running into him.

  The schedules were all over the place. It appeared that the temps came and went like the seasons, and none of them had been there for more than a week or two. The backlog of schedules showed that at least four dozen temps had been brought into the call center, with many of them quitting.

  This seemed odd, even for a tech support environment. Of course, attrition was only natural, especially for temps, but nobody seemed to last more than a month. Some weeks there were 9 or 10 temps scheduled to work the overnight shift — far more than needed for the job — and many of the temps seemed to vanish from the schedule immediately following an overnight shift.

  Personnel records for some of the temps who had quit were blank, as if they had never entered the building; but after digging in the network logs, Phin found that some of the temps' logins were still active somewhere on the network.

  Before he could trace the source of the activity, a message popped up on Phin's screen.

  “WHO IS THIS?”

  Phin nearly spat soda on his screen. Someone had managed to not only detect his presence on the network, but also trace him back and force a connection with his computer. Probably not law enforcement, but Phin didn't want to take a chance. Phin printed hard copies of everything he'd found and then he yanked the phone cord out of his computer and pulled out the modem card.

  Full paranoia mode kicked in. Phin took a hammer to the card. Once it was in pieces, Phin burned off the label and then went for a walk around the apartment complex, tossing pieces of the modem into trashcans, bushes, and anywhere else where they weren't likely to ever be found.

  When the modem was sufficiently scattered, Phin returned home. While the modem was the only likely point of identification, Phin decided it was best to at least hide the machine from prying eyes.

  The apartment complex had been kind enough to supply Phin with a washer and dryer, two essentially hollow pieces of metal. While the dryer's heat may damage the laptop, the washer was perfect. Phin pulled it away from the wall and unscrewed the back panel. There was a good amount of space between the bottom of the machine and the basket, so Phin wrapped the laptop in a towel and slid it in. After testing to make sure the machine could still spin unobstructed, he replaced the back panel, slid the machine back against the wall, and took a breath of relief.

  He spent the rest of the night tightly coiled with nervous energy. Who had found him? And what exactly had he stumbled across on the network?

  Phin fell asleep on his couch with the print-outs in his lap, along with a lighter and a trashcan nearby so he could destroy the evidence if someone came knocking unexpectedly.

  Chapter 15

  Experiments Gone Awry

  “WHAT'S THE MATTER, DOCTOR REINHART?”

  “I need more test subjects.”

  Elliot Storm followed the wheelchair-bound doctor as he rolled through the underground laboratory.

  “What do you mean? What happened to the thief?”

  “Come see for yourself, Herr Sturm.”

  Dr. Reinhart led Elliot into one of the holding rooms, where attempted burglar Chris Skeans — or, what was left of him — was bolted to a steel operating table.

  The man's hands and feet had been lopped off and replaced with metal caps with wires running to various computer cabinets around the room. The top of his skull was also missing; long, needle-like electrical probes stuck directly into his brain at awkward angles.

  A ventilator in the corner was doing all his breathing via a tube running directly into the former man's chest. Likewise, most of his vascular functions — circulation, cleaning — were being performed by external devices as well. With all the tubes and wires, exposed wounds, half-completed stitches and staples, it was difficult to tell where the man ended and the machine began.

  His eyelids fluttered, but he wasn't really awake. Every so often, his neck would spasm and twitch — it was probably the only muscle still controllable by what remained of the consciousness in Chris's brain.

  “I have done all I can with zis one,” the doctor sneered. “Vatch.”

  The doctor wheeled himself over to a computer and typed a few commands into an archaic-looking console. The sound of a ringing telephone entered the room through two small speakers affixed to the operating table.

  “Zee? It is not responding to command.”

  Elliot walked over and snatched the keyboard from the doctor. “Let me try.”

  On the keyword, he typed:

  >>SPEAK: THANK YOU FOR CALLING STORM TECHNICAL SUPPORT. MY NAME IS RANDY. HOW MAY I PROVIDE YOU WITH GREAT SERVICE TODAY?

  A slight gurgling sound.

  >>SPEAK: THANK YOU FOR CALLING STORM TECHNICAL SUPPORT. MY NAME IS RANDY. HOW MAY I PROVIDE YOU WITH GREAT SERVICE TODAY?

  This time, an actual voice came from deep within the pitiful creature's throat.

  “K . . . k . . . kill me.”

  Elliot stared at the monstrosity for a few moments and then turned to Dr. Reinhart.

  “Pull the plug on this one,” he said. “I'll get the programmers in India started on the digital speech emulation for the next phase.”

  “Jawohl.”

  “How many more do you need?”

  “I need an actual specimen for ze next phase. Lots of experience. Zis is crucial — after I have it vurking with an actual specimen, I can incorporate raw subjects into ze network, but I need to start with pure materials to form ze core of ze processing unit.”

  “Fine. But only if you're sure you can make it work this time. I can only bring in one or two more before people start asking questions. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to what's going on here.”

  “I promise — zis will be the last specimen I need for a vhile.”

  “Good. You'll have your specimen. One week.”

  “Zat vill do.”

  “It's going to have to do. Now, please, get that thing cleaned up.”

  Elliot headed to the elevator, wiping blood off of his hands and tossing the stained handkerchief aside.

  With considerable effort, Dr. Reinhart pulled the electrical plugs out of all of the life support machines hooked up to Chris Skeans' broken body, and he was finally allowed to die.

  “SpidR, come.”

  Tick tick tick tick.

  The machine walked into the room, propelled by its eight steel appendages.

  “Get ze body down and dispose,” Dr. Reinhart ordered.

  “Yes sir!” the machine replied with a cheerful enthusiasm hardly befitting such a gruesome task. Hiking itself up onto two legs, the SpidR dug the spikes now protruding from the ends of its two front legs into the midsection of the recently deceased and pulled it off the table. By rotating its torso, the SpidR reconfigured itself so that the front legs (now embedded in flesh and bone) became the rear legs, and the robot dragged the body down the hall to the incinerator.

  * * *

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  * * *

  KYLE PHELPS WASN'T USED TO wearing a uniform. Thirty-nine years old, balding, and overweight 'round the middle, he was hardly the picture of fitness. Even as he looked at his reflection in the window of the lobby of the huge complex, he couldn't believe he'd landed the job at Storm Computers.

  They had given him the
uniform — a grey shirt, a black tie, black pants, and a pseudo-police badge — as well as two days' paid training, his own chair for the security station, and keys to almost every area in the complex.

  He didn't have a gun, but he figured that it was just a matter of time, so he bought himself a black shooting glove for his right hand — which he wore proudly — and a holster for his belt. The only handcuffs he could find belonged to his wife, but they seemed secure enough, so he had those stuffed into a leather pouch on the belt as well, managing to leave only a small amount of pink fur sticking out.

  He had no radio, but he would be the only person on site other than the workers — no other security around. He was the last line of defense. He sucked in his gut and posed proudly in the window.

  “Nice uniform, huh?”

  Kyle jumped and grabbed for his belt. If he'd had a gun, he would have shot himself in the foot by accident, but since his holster contained nothing but air, his foot remained intact.

  “Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

  “Sheesh! I thought everybody was gone already. Shouldn't you be getting on home?”

  “You might say that I'm already home.” He extended a hand. “Elliot Storm.”

  Ripping off the shooting glove, Kyle extended a sweaty hand.

  “Kyle. Kyle Phelps. New night security guard.”

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Kyle Kyle.”

  Great, Kyle thought, you just made a total ass of yourself in front of the guy who started this whole company.

  “I was just on my way out, but I wanted to talk to you for a second. Most of the building will be shut down while you're here, so you shouldn't have much to worry about. Just watch the cameras and respond to any alarms that go off.”

  “Yeah, that's what the handbook says.”

  “Now, the guys working in the clean room downstairs — that's where they design microchips and whatnot — they sometimes keep odd hours. I go down there sometimes myself to keep up with research and development. If you see me here late sometimes, or some other guys in white coats, don't be concerned with it.”

  “I . . . don't think I have a key to get into the clean room.”

  Elliot flicked a donut crumb off of the collar of Kyle's uniform.

  “Bingo.”

  “But what if . . . ”

  “You have no reason to go down there. It is only accessible one way — that elevator — and there are numerous security measures in place to make sure that only authorized personnel enter the lab.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  “I do. Have a good night. Try not to sleep too much on my company's time.”

  And with that, Elliot exited the building, leaving Kyle Phelps with a story that would be told, exaggerated, and re-told for weeks — the time he met Elliot Storm face-to-face.

  * * *

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  * * *

  ELLIOT CAME INTO THE OFFICE at five o'clock the next morning and was pleasantly surprised to see that Crockett and Tubbs, his trusty overpaid janitors, had arrived just as instructed.

  “Thanks for showing up early,” Elliot said. It was a bit earlier than their usual start time, but neither of them was about to argue when the president of the company sent them a page.

  “No problem, Mr. President,” Tubbs said.

  “What is it you need us to do?” Crockett asked.

  “Well, you see, we had sort of a problem with one of our medical experiments. Since the bodies we use aren't exactly . . . licensed, we need to get rid of it. There are a number of apartment complexes under construction near here. What I need you to do is simply deposit it in the dumpster of a construction site.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Crockett said.

  The two of them loaded the body into the bed of an unmarked pickup truck and drove a few miles out, until they found a secluded building site on an even more secluded road. They picked out a half-full dumpster and tossed the body inside, then drove off.

  Elliot's reasoning had been sound. Given the breakneck pace of the construction in the area, chances were the dumpsters' contents would be in a landfill long before the body started to smell If anybody ever did notice, which wasn't likely, there would be no way to trace the body back to the construction site, , much less the Storm campus itself.

  On their way back to Storm, Crockett and Tubbs started talking.

  “Doesn't it seem a little weird to you?” Crockett asked. “I mean, we just dumped a body.”

  “Maybe,” Tubbs replied. “But you don't think President Storm is a killer or something, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “They do experiments on bodies and on animals all the time. That's how they invent medicine and stuff. President Storm is a genius — that's how come he started his own company and makes so much money.”

  “You're right. I just don't want to do nothin' illegal.”

  “Just 'cause it's secret don't make it illegal. It's just good business to hide what you're doin'.”

  They continued driving back to Storm Computer Corporation, where plenty more good business remained hidden.

  Chapter 16

  All She Wants to do is Dance

  “GOOD AFTERNOON AND WELCOME TO the hottest spot in Austin — the Meat Market! Remember, we have ten dollar table dances for the next hour, so find one of our lovely ladies to get your up-close entertainment soon!”

  “And now, coming out on the main stage for your viewing pleasure, let's give a warm Meat Market welcome to Sandy!”

  A few unenthusiastic claps drifted out of the crowd for the only girl naïve enough to use her real name on stage — the usual cold reception of a Sunday lunch crowd.

  Sandy stepped out onto the stage, clad in the traditional bikini and clear plastic heels (which she kicked off immediately — she only wore them because it was club policy). As the thumping bass line of her new tune filled the room, Sandy tuned out the world and started to dance.

  And dance she did. It wasn't the usual stripper ceremony, where the dance was only a dance in the academic sense — a series of rhythmic movements set to music — that was secondary to the act of seduction and/or disrobing. No, Sandy only took off her clothes because it was in the job description. Sandy just wanted to dance for an audience.

  The management of the Meat Market often got annoyed with her lack of devotion to the art of money extraction, but she had a small but loyal following who spent oodles of money on drinks and tips, so the club couldn't justify firing her. They did, however, limit her schedule to off-peak hours to allow the more productive dancers to take on the busy nights.

  Sandy didn't mind one bit. She pranced around the stage, swinging around the slick fireman's pole, removing her bikini top during the second chorus just as she'd planned. She always worked out a routine for her songs, and she always stuck to that routine, despite the inevitable cat calls and dollar waving from the inebriated, horny onlookers.

  Her top fell onto the stage right on cue, like so many had fallen before, and Sandy felt the eyes shifting toward her (and they had every right to do so).

  It is a well-known fact that breasts have the same gravitational pull as the highly concentrated singularity at the center of a black hole, but only when their presence is revealed. Tight-fitting shirts, low-cut blouses, or the complete lack of clothing: these all, to varying degrees, exert a powerful draw on the eyes, especially when properties such as firm, round, and perky are also brought to bear.

  Sandy's breasts, it should be noted, were nothing short of exquisite, a fact she had utilized to land her job at the Meat Market in the first place. Of course, she would prefer someplace with a bit more class, maybe even where she could dance and remain fully clothed, but her passion was such that she would take what she could get. With neither the formal training necessary, nor the money to attend a dance academy, Sandy felt she was doing the best she could.

  After finishing her set, Sandy scooped up the money from the edges of the
platform, grabbed her bikini top, and took a bow before scampering backstage for a break. She didn't notice, but at the back of the dark, smoke-filled club, a man in an expensive suit was watching her closely.

  * * *

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  * * *

  THE CHANGING ROOM IN THE back of the Meat Market was far more cramped than the big, bright dressing rooms on TV. There was a distinct lack of feather boas, and definitely no gold star on the door.

  At any given time, there were four or five girls crammed into the small space, fixing their hair, applying makeup, rubbing on slick, flowery lotion, or just sitting in front of an oscillating fan — nobody wants a lap dance from a stinking, sweat-drenched stripper.

  Right then, however, Sandy had the room to herself. She usually did — Sandy's set often did a good job of making the male clientele a little hot under the collar and eager for some one-on-one time, and the other girls were more than happy to swoop in and oblige. Sandy, on the other hand, didn't do lap dances, so she usually just spent her downtime in the changing room.

  A bouncer knocked on the door.

  “Sandy, you've got a visitor.”

  It wasn't unusual for men who looked like they had money to be allowed backstage, but not usually to see Sandy. Most guys just wanted to continue a lap dance in a more intimate setting, sans clothing — a practice the management neither actively discouraged nor acknowledged.

  “Hey there, Sunshine!” Elliot Storm called out as he walked into the room clad in a sharp-looking suit (which was at least two more layers of clothing than Sandy was wearing). “Great set!” he added, referring either to her dancing or her breasts.

  “Hi! Good to see you again!” She hopped up to give him a loose, platonic hug.